An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Additional Tags: Trans Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Trans Male Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Named Inquisitor (Dragon Age), gender-affirming sex, Gay Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Genitals Referred to with Feminine Anatomical Words
Summary:
Ferris Lavellen loves Dorian, but he's been worried that when they're having sex, that it isn't like the sex most men have with other men because Ferris is trans. He talks to Dorian about it, and Dorian promises to fix that problem. It's during a stressful time that Dorian decides to take Ferris up on that promise, and shows him a good time.
Written for Trans Thedas Fest 2026
Awaari did a whole bunch of comics for a Modern AU of her Galathan and Dorian that I really loved, and so I got permission to finish the story in writing.
Closing shift at the Spoiled Prince was never glamorous on a Tuesday. Most people still harbored memories of the weekend's hangover more glumly than they regarded the remaining work days until their next weekend. Galathan didn't have the same schedule anymore, but he could understand it. When he'd been studying he'd buried himself in the school work with no time for anything else, especially drinking. It might be ironic, then, that he was the college drop out serving drinks to some of those people he dimly remembered as having invited him once or twice to parties that no one could actually remember the next day. The elf made a point not to be bitter about it, whisking back and forth to take orders and mix drinks. When it came down to it paying for a roof over his head had come before paying for text books, and if it stung that some of the required books cost more than his monthly rent Galathan was good at pretending that it didn't.
He could still go back, if he saved enough money. Some nights, when those customers who'd had a few too many were complimenting the dimples in the blushing bartender's smile, he thought he might make enough in the tips alone to cover his 'someday' return. Other times, like when he worked close on a drowsy Tuesday evening, the little jar sat with a handful of change and a crumpled dollar bill and he wondered if he'd be able to pay for groceries. Galathan didn't dwell on it, a friendly, attentive expression was just as much a part of the bar's atmosphere as the polished wooden tables and the smart vest Galathan wore over his dress shirt. He hung up the wishes and dreams when he walked in, rolled up his sleeves to work, and then picked up those hopes along with his coat when he headed home.
He liked his job, he enjoyed making people happy even if it wasn't quite as significant as working as a veterinarian would have been. It was a nice place to be. The atmosphere was inviting and the people were usually happy to see him, though Galathan was sure that anyone pouring them a drink would have been equally well received. If it weren't for his boss, he would certainly have had a perfect second-pick career.
Tonight started out no different from any other quiet weeknight. The Spoiled Prince had a pretty good crowd for a Tuesday. There were few regulars that Galathan recognized, including the well-dressed man who Galathan had nicknamed 'mustache' in his head. Galathan brought him his order, on the rocks, and wondered how exactly someone managed to make their hair stick in place so perfectly but never said more than “Anything else?”
Galathan came back to Mustache several times, a graceful hand waving him over to refill, mix something else, and, once with a flirty wink that made Galathan blush and hide behind his glasses as he refreshed the man's drink, 'top me' as he went back and forth along the bar answering. It wasn't until much later, when the customers had trickled out and Galathan was sweeping up the peanut shells that he realized he might have said 'anything else' a few too many times. He hesitated, glancing around the empty bar for a moment as though the answer might pop out at him, then he leaned the broom against one of the tables and headed over to the bar.
“Excuse me sir, but the bar is closing in about five minutes. You're going to have to make your way out.” The man didn't move. Galathan stared at him, surprised and bemused to notice that whatever he'd done to his hair had apparently held up, there was barely a strand out of place even now. “Sir?” Galathan tried, hesitantly tapped his shoulder.
The man didn't stir.
“Sir?” Galathan reached to touch his shoulder again, but a shout startled him into snatching his hand back.
“Galathan! Hurry up with the floor! And why aren't the chairs all put up yet?!” His boss was a dwarf with a thick black beard, a voice that could carry across a football field, and deep marks between his dark eyes from the temperament scowl he wore. “I got somewhere to go and you are making me late!”
Galathan tensed, his eyes widening behind his glasses before he gathered himself with a deep breath. “Sorry boss, but there's a man passed out on the counter.” Galathan probably should have cut Mustache off but he'd seemed fine every time he passed by. “He doesn't seem to be waking up.”
“Passed out, eh?” His boss looked at Mustache with a disdainful flip of his hand. “Well, you could just leave him outside.
“Leave him outside?” Galathan gaped at him. “We can't do that!” The poor man was unconscious, anything could happen to him laying on the street.
“By 'we' I mean 'you',” his boss said and jabbed a finger at Galathan's chest. Galathan stumbled back, more from the snap than from the finger. He tripped over one of the chairs he hadn't stacked yet as his boss added, “It's your responsibility now.”
“But-”
“I'm gonna head out. Just get this guy outta this place, all right? I don't care how you do it.”
“But, wait, boss!” Galathan cried, trying to disentangle himself from the chair, but it was too late. He stared at the shut door, then looked miserably back at the bar. Despite the raised voices, Mustache hadn't even stirred. Galathan groaned, holding his face in his hands for a moment. Then with a steadying breath he straightened and walked back over to the bar.
“Please, sir! You have to wake up!” Galathan shouted, shaking him more urgently. He took a moment to anxiously check that the man was still breathing. He was, just out like a stone. Trying to wake him up was apparently out of the question. But maybe Galathan could call him a cab, he'd just need to find the man's I.D. “Sorry, I'm just going to check through here...” Galathan mumbled. He was pretty sure that Mustache couldn't hear him, but he felt awkward rummaging in someone else's pockets. All Mustache had in his pockets was a money clip. Galathan squirmed, realizing he probably should have checked for ID even if he was used to seeing Mustache in the bar. He started to put the money back into Mustache's pocket when the man stirred.
“N-no...”
Galathan froze, but before he could try to explain or apologize, Mustache's sleepy protest continued.
“You're not taking me back!” For a man who had appeared to be sleeping like a rock, he was surprisingly clear in his words.
“S-sir? I'm not taking you anywhere, I just want to know where you live-”
“Not again...” This time the protest was weaker and Mustache slumped back towards the bar. Galathan managed to hold onto him enough that he didn't actually collapse and hit his head.
“Sir?” Galathan tried meekly. He wasn't sure if Mustache were actually awake or not, but he didn't seem to be following the situation very well. Not surprising given how much he'd had to drink, but it was very confusing and not at all helpful.
“Maybe... maybe he'll wake up in a little while,” Galathan said reassuringly. He didn't know if he believed himself, but he didn't know what else to do besides finish cleaning. Eventually, with the tables wiped down, the chairs stacked, glasses washed, and the floor swept all that remained was Mustache. He was still passed out, hair still almost perfect, and Galathan didn't know what else to do. All he knew for sure was that he couldn't leave Mustache in here, and he definitely wasn't going to leave him on the sidewalk.
“Sir, wake up!” he pleaded, gently shaking Mustache's shoulder one more time. He barely moved, just whimpered a pitiful little protest that made Galathan feel briefly bad for disturbing him. But he couldn't sleep on the bar. “What can do I do?” Galathan asked. He was tired, he just wanted to go home-
“Oh Maker...” Galathan bit his lip and then drummed his fingers on the bar. “Nope, no, this is such a bad idea...”
But he didn't have any other ideas.
“You don't know anything about him,” he whispered, but even as he said it his thoughts jumped. Always well groomed, charming smirk, never with anyone else, occasionally flirtatious, playful compliments, great tipper, sad eyes. Galathan swallowed. Sad eyes. He'd never really thought about it, but it seemed like he was filling in a few blanks that he'd been too busy to notice while the bar was full. “Or you're making that up to guilt trip yourself into doing something stupid,” Galathan chided, then sighed. It was hopeless, he couldn't talk himself out of the only decent course of action. It would be the right thing to do, he'd just have to be careful.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Mustache was heavy. Galathan struggled to peel the man off the counter and nearly dropped him when he first got the full weight of him in his arms. Gritting his teeth, he got Mustache onto his back more through force of will than actual muscle. It was hard to walk with him there, but his apartment wasn't too far away. He only realized he'd forgotten to get his jacket when he was locking the door. It was too late, the alarm was already set. Besides, he was actually pretty warm with Mustache draped over him like this.
The walk home seemed impossibly long with the extra weight, and getting the doors open took all of Galathan's limited skills of balance and strength. It also took him three tries with the keypad code, and he was afraid of setting off some kind of alarm. As the door swung shut behind him, Galathan turned to find the stout dwarven woman who handled security issues staring at him.
“Uh,” Galathan said eloquently.
“Is everything okay?” she asked, frowning slightly. There were shadows under her chocolate brown eyes, she looked as tired as Galathan felt.
“Yes! All fine, everything's fine!” Galathan said quickly. “My friend, uh, had too much of drinks that’s all. I'm just taking him back to my place to sleep it off.”
“Oh. Well, okay then. Have a good night,” she said, covering a yawn and giving him a small wave.
“Good night!” Galathan said, turning and trying to quickly walk away. He wobbled instead, nearly tripping and dumping both of them to the plastic tile floor, but he managed to catch himself even with the extra weight of Mustache sliding around on his back. Mustache made a small noise in his sleep and Galathan held his breath for a moment, thinking he was going to wake, but all Mustache did was snuffle and press his face into the side of Galathan's head. Galathan choked on a giggle when that mustache tickled his ear and jiggled his shoulder until Mustache's head was safely away from any ticklish spots.
He didn't remember the trip in the elevator being so long, but he'd never done it with so much extra weight before. Everything seemed to be taking longer. On his own floor at last, he made his way to his apartment and, after a brief struggle with his keys, managed to get inside. He accidentally bumped Mustache’s head against the door frame in the process, but only a little bit and the man didn't wake up so Galathan assumed he was okay. He trudged across his apartment to the couch and slid Mustache off his back with a huge sigh of relief.
Mustache fit awkwardly on the couch. Galathan tried to arrange him to be more comfortable. He stuffed a pillow under his head and, after a few moment's thought, fumbled him out of his jacket since it didn't look comfortable. He left the jacket over the back of the couch and went to find a blanket to put over him. Mustache's toes stuck out from the end of the blanket, no matter how Galathan tried to arrange it, so he just left the man's shoes on. At least his feet wouldn't get cold.
Satisfied that he'd at least done his best, Galathan set about getting ready for bed himself. But he couldn't relax. Mustache could be anyone, and Galathan couldn't stop wondering what sort of person he really was. “No,” he ordered himself, but he didn't listen. “Better safe than sorry,” he mumbled, slipping out of bed to find the baseball bat he'd used ages ago when he played with friends. It was a little small for any professional adult games, but it was still hefty and solid in his hands. Galathan only felt slightly better with it tucked into bed with him. He was too keyed up to sleep, and too nervous about the person in his apartment. The total stranger with the perfect hair and piles of cash and no ID.
“Because this never goes badly in the movies,” he muttered to himself. He spent most of the night staring at his bedroom door.
Dorian's mouth felt like he'd been sucking on cotton balls that had been used to clean algae out of the filthiest pond in the world, somehow dry and slimy and utterly disgusting all at once. Groaning, Dorian gingerly placed a hand against his forehead. He felt wary of moving with the low, buzzing feeling of a headache, but he tried to sit up all the same. His foot slipped off the surface it was resting on, and the short fall jolted Dorian awake before his heel landed safely on the floor with a soft thump. He grudgingly pried his eyes open, wincing at the feel of sleep grit mixed with the make up he preferred. It never looked as good the second day, all smeared and clumped around his eyes and in his lashes. He usually took the time to wash his face and his hair before bed so he could apply the proper creams and cleansing products, maintaining a beauty like his took work, but Dorian could only remember pieces of last night. He hadn't even made it to his bed, and his shoes were still on, and...
...and this wasn't his apartment.
Dorian rubbed his eyes, smearing his eye makeup even more, and slowly looked around his surroundings. He squinted, shielding his eyes from the lights to try to keep from making his headache worse. It was difficult to see through the fuzz of his hangover, but what little he could make out he did not recognize.
“Oh thank goodness, you are awake!”
Dorian craned to look over his shoulder for the source of the relieved voice, his eyes widening when his gaze landed on that cute bartender he often saw at the Spoiled Prince. Not that Dorian would admit he preferred the bar for its cute server. Or at least, Dorian winced, at least he hoped he would not admit it but given how little of last night he remembered...
“Ah, b-before you start to panic, let me explain the whole story just to make everything clear,” the bartender stammered with a swift defense gesture, then yipped as the force of the movement nearly spilled his coffee. Galathan had been relieved when he woke to find Mustache still on the couch, sound asleep with no hint of mischief having occurred during the fitful sleep Galathan had managed. He spent the early hours trying to figure out how to explain the situation without awkwardness, but he’d carried the bat around the kitchen while he made coffee. Just in case.
Dorian listened to Galathan’s stumbling words with cloudy expression. Most of the haze was from his hangover, but some of it was distraction. Half-listening, he squinted at the man standing in front of him, studying his favorite bartender while he talked. The bartender looked wretched this morning. Dorian eyed the scruffy brown hair that spilled over his long ears, grown out of its original cut and into a terrible case of split ends, then looked at those beautiful green eyes. They were bloodshot and ringed purple with exhaustion. Dorian wondered if that was his fault. He also wondered how much a mess his hair was.
It felt like an hour before Dorian managed to soak in the information the bartender was trying to give him. The hangover was wearing off, his head and vision both clearing up enough for him to be humiliated. He'd passed out in public. He'd gotten drunk and passed out in public. He'd gotten drunk and passed out in public and a stranger had to cart him back to his apartment. So much for his public image. Dorian rubbed his head. He could usually handle his liquor. He knew where the line was between pleasantly buzzed and hammered.
He'd been too upset.
Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to organize his thoughts. He'd let his emotions cloud his judgment and had too much to drink. Way, way too much to drink. With the hangover clearing he could still feel it, the great empty space in his chest threatened to swallow him whole and leave nothing of him. At least when he was drunk he didn't think about it. Apparently when he was really drunk he didn't think about very much at all, which is how he wound up in this situation.
“Oooh Maker, what an embarrassment,” Dorian mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut as he rubbed his temples. He didn't know how to recover from this situation gracefully, it seemed things had already gone too far for that.
Galathan didn't know what to say. He fidgeted with his mug and glanced nervously at Mustache now and again as he waited for Mustache to process the situation. He didn't seem aggressive or hostile, that was even more reassuring than the baseball bat still tucked cautiously nearby against a chair. Just in case.
“I am terribly sorry,” the man said, the suddenness of his words startling Galathan. “It seems my stubbornness has landed me here in your... ah...” Dorian looked around for a moment. “In your apartment. Last time I checked, I hadn't received an invitation.”
The small joke made Galathan smile, relaxing him further. Mustache didn't seem to be a threat at all, just a normal person who got carried away drinking. He hadn't made a mess at the bar, didn't pick a fight, and this morning he hadn't thrown up on Galathan's floor. As far as drunks went, Mustache was a pretty polite house guest. He even seemed nice, especially his smile.
Galathan ducked his head to break eye contact, fixing his glasses. “That's good that you're okay then,” he said as he straightened.
“Only 'okay'?” Dorian asked, pouting. He was better at pouting when his tongue didn't taste like he'd been licking frogs and, eugh, had he drooled on his shirt? He had, hadn't he. Maker's breath, this was not the impression he would have hoped to make. “I suppose I am a little ways from my best at the moment,” he agreed, disentangling his other foot from the blanket and swinging it to the floor. “But I should really get going.”
He calculated how hungover he was, decided it wasn't too bad, and stood carefully. When he didn't feel dizzy or nauseated, Dorian straightened and finally gave in to preening. Smoky eyes were a fashion statement, and he could definitely pull off the bedhead look, as untidy and lazy as it was. It was all in how a person carried themselves, though he preferred to make a proper appearance there wasn't much to be done in this situation.
“Um. Do you... want some coffee?” Galathan offered. At first glance Dorian hadn't paid much attention to the mug, more interested in the man holding it, but when the elf gestured with it Dorian's gaze was drawn to the cute little white deer prancing along it. He waved a hand to decline the coffee, smiling charmingly as he did.
“No, no. I have troubled you enough already.” Dorian quickly found his white velvet jacket draped over the back of the same couch he'd been sleeping on. He draped it over his arm as he made his way to the door. “But, thank you for... taking me in for the night.
“Ah, sure. No problem,” Galathan replied. He started to take a sip of his significantly cooler coffee when the man stopped and turned suddenly back toward him. Galathan swallowed awkwardly, barely managing not to spit out his drink in surprise. He wasn't threatening, but the sudden movements were alarming.
“You know, it's not fair of me just walking out. There must be something I can do to repay you.” Dorian unfolded his jacket, fishing a small, black and white card out of one of the pockets. Before Galathan could protest, Dorian was pressing it into his hand. “How about you come by my salon and I'll give you a free haircut?”
“What?” Galathan started at the card in his hand, baffled. The card was crisp, despite being folded into a pocket. It had sharp black lettering that read Vipera Cura over a pair of intricately entwined snakes that formed the shape of a scissor.
“A haircut,” Dorian repeated. “You could really use one to be honest. That forest you got going on over there needs a bit of trimming.” He moved his hand by Galathan's hair, almost as though he were going to flick it aside though his fingers didn't touch.
Galathan reflexively ran a hand through his hair, feeling self-conscious. He did wash his hair, and brush it. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten it cut. A while ago. Maybe when he was still in school? The days had started to blur together since he stopped having classes, always the same errands, the same job. Time had gotten away from him. He didn't smell, but as he thought about it Galathan realized he'd been so busy and so dull that he'd just forgotten to do the extra steps of properly grooming himself.
“Come by anytime!” Dorian said as he started to make his way out, startling Galathan from his fidgeting with his hair. “Oh, except for Sundays. Sundays we're closed.”
“Oh. Okay. Goodbye!” Galathan stammered. He watched as the man finally left, shutting the door behind him. He wasn't sure what had just happened. He was holding a card awkwardly alongside his coffee mug from a stranger who'd spent the night in a drunken stupor on his couch. Shifting the card to his free hand, Galathan peered more closely at the crisp, black lines of the design, then lifted his hand to touch his hair once more.
Maybe he should take a break from the routine he'd fallen into. He could some time to fix himself up a bit. And it might be nice to get a haircut from a place that had such fancy business cards. Galathan doubted it was the sort of hairdresser he would usually go to.
His front door opening again startled him and Galathan looked wide-eyed to see Mustache had popped his head back inside. He looked hesitant and confused.
“Um. Would you happen to know where the elevators are?”
It was Saturday morning when Galathan finally made time to go to the salon. The front of the building was plain, he would have missed it if he hadn't recognized the scissor of snakes logo on the business card he'd been given earlier that week. There was a large pot of black roses beside the door. Beautifully arranged and a deep, velvety color, they put Galathan in mind of the man he'd brought home only a few nights ago. He hadn't seen him since, but it still felt like just yesterday that he'd tried to close the bar only to see one of his regulars passed out on the bar.
Galathan looked at the business card again, a little more tattered on the edges now from his nervous fretting. The address matched, though the logo should have been enough for him. He was just being nervous. Without a glance behind him, Galathan lifted his chin and strode up the short steps to the door. It was heavier than he expected, but swung open easily on well-maintained hinges with the gentle chime of a bell.
The bell had alerted the hairdressers to his arrival. One of them, an elf like himself, came to meet him as he took his first breath of the salon's air, heavy with the chipper scents of shampoo and the inky smell of dyes. The chemical mix jolted his senses, and Galathan was trying not to wrinkle his nose when he was greeted.
“Hi there!” she said. Her chestnut hair was glossy and pinned neatly in a bun. Her dress was extravagantly patterned, so bright it looked the way the air inside the salon smelled. There was a lot more makeup on her face than he was used to. At a glance it seemed caked on, which contrasted with the otherwise stylish outfit, but when he looked more closely it seemed that she'd used it to make her features look more feminine. There was a square jaw and the barest hint of stubble carefully camouflaged with concealer, a thin mouth generously accented with color. “Are you looking for a haircut today?” she asked, and bowed low.
Galathan tried to clear his throat quietly, the sudden chemical smell of the place more than he was used to. And the bow, people didn't usually bow to him. Actually they never did. “Ah. Um. Yes. Yes, I am,” he managed. He wasn't sure how to explain he was there for a free haircut without sounding rude, but Galathan didn't think he could actually afford a hair cut here if he wanted to eat anything this month.
Before he could figure out an answer, a familiar voice called from the back, “Oh, Mavis, I got this one.”
Galathan let go a sigh of relief, rescued from the awkward situation by the same man who'd spent a night passed out drunk on his couch. He looked completely different this afternoon than he had that night, so much more in his element that it was almost like Galathan was meeting a new person. He wore shiny leather shoes half-hidden beneath long black dress pants that were crisp and neatly pressed. His red shirt looked like it might be silk, it seemed so soft Galathan was struck by the desire to touch it. The man had his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, presumably to keep them out of the way while he worked, and a golden watch on his left wrist. His hair was flawless, his mustache groomed to perfection. He looked like a model, and Galathan was staring in awe.
“Well look who came for a visit,” Dorian said warmly. Galathan missed the wink he gave Mavis, as well as the knowing smile on Mavis face as she walked away. He'd seen this man at the bar so many times, but he'd never seen him quite like this. Dorian led him towards one of the chairs. “I was hoping to see you sooner. Ready to get rid of that forest of yours?”
Galathan touched his hair, a self-conscious flush creeping across his freckled cheeks. Standing next to Dorian he felt like a complete disaster. “I guess it's pretty bad, huh?” he said, trying for a self-depreciating smile.
Dorian chuckled. “You have no idea.”
Now even more embarrassed, Galathan avoided eye contact as he let Dorian lead him to a chair and sat where directed. Dorian flicked the apron to shake off any extra hair before sweeping it across Galathan in one expert motion and tying it around his neck.
“Any specific cuts you particularly want?” Dorian asked. He pulled a small cart of his tools over to the chair, and when he looked up he met Galathan's eyes in the large mirror in front of them. Galathan blushed further but maintained the eye contact in the mirror.
“Nothing I can think of, I’ll leave that up you…uh… how do I address you?” Galathan asked, shocked to realize that he'd still been thinking of the man as 'Mustache' or 'that guy from the bar' despite having spent so much time with him.
“Name’s Dorian, Dorian Pavus.” The low tone the man used made Galathan feel like it was a whisper. He could feel the man's, Dorian's breath touched the tip of his ear and he quickly busied himself taking off his glasses.
“Well, thank you Dorian,” Galathan said, carefully settling his glasses on his lap. Without being able to see clearly, he could look at Dorian's reflection in the mirror without feeling embarrassed. Difficult as it was to see, he could still tell that Dorian had met his eyes before the hairdresser moved to pick something blurry and indistinct off of his cart.
“Don’t thank me, Galathan.” Dorian replied, his tone teasing.
Galathan's eyes widened in astonishment. “How... how did you know my name?”
“I don’t just come into the bar and get drunk y’know,” he answered and laughed as he combed Galathan’s brown locks in place, “But even if I do, I still remember who served my drinks.”
His name tag. Galathan laughed, he'd forgotten that he wore a name tag. He didn't usually bother to take it off the black uniform vest, since he would need it the next day. He'd gotten so used to it he didn't even notice it anymore, but apparently Dorian had.
“Now just sit back and watch how the magic goes,” Dorian cooed, trading the comb for a glinting pair of scissors.
It was interesting to see Dorian work. He held the scissor and comb in his fingers, switching back and forth as he worked and barely looking at the cart at all as he got into it. Galathan watched as Dorian swapped his tools from memory, his hands deft and his movements smooth. It was easier to relax after the shared laughter, and even Dorian's quick motions with the scissors by his ears didn't make him too nervous. Galathan felt his head becoming lighter as Dorian snipped away. Clumps of hair littered the ground by the chair and Galathan wondered what he'd look like when Dorian was done, it was difficult to see without his glasses. He felt the brush of Dorian's fingers, gentle against his scalp despite the efficient speed with which the man worked, and the idle conversation was soothing.
Galathan thought it was strange that he could have seen Dorian so many times without ever really seeing him. He'd served the man with the immaculately groomed mustache drinks for what seemed like forever, but he'd only learned his name because of a mistake. Now he was settled and chatting as if with an old friend while his daily customer gave him a free haircut. Life was strange sometimes.
“And… there!”
Dorian snipped off the last strands and combed Galathan’s hair into place with quick fingers. He took Galathan's chin gently and tilted the elf’s head up to look at the mirror. “What do you think?”
Without his glasses, Galathan could mostly see that his hair was brown. He shuffled through the apron to find his glasses. When he put them on, he accidentally met Dorian's in the mirror again. His eyes were light, a soft gray-blue framed by that dark liner and soft lashes. Galathan felt himself turn red and quickly adjusted his gaze to study his hair instead.
His hair usually just parted itself in the middle, but Dorian had moved the part to the side. He'd also thinned out Galathan's bangs and combed them back, revealing more of Galathan's forehead and keeping his hair out of his eyes. The hair on the side was trimmed much shorter, emphasizing his long, elven ears. The back of his neck felt cool and light, and when he touched it he found the hair there had been cut short and felt so soft after the split ends and loose tangles he'd grown accustomed to. He suddenly felt as though he looked more than ordinary, that he looked good.
“I think it's great!” Galathan exclaimed, trying to touch the hair very gently so as not to ruin it, but too curious about how it felt so different to keep his hands off. “I feel really light right now.”
“I think you look great,” Dorian said. He admired his customer, stroking his mustache thoughtfully.
“Thank you, Dorian,” Galathan said sincerely. He'd missed the flirtatious tone, but still flushed from the compliment. “You are really good at this!”
“Well, of course,” Dorian said, sounding pleased. “If I wasn't, then I wouldn't own this place.”
Galathan twisted to look up at Dorian. “You own this salon?” he asked, stunned.
Dorian smirked and nodded, looking as smug as the cat who'd caught the canary and gotten the cream too. His smirk faded slightly as he glanced around the room before leaning in close to Galathan. “I know we didn't start off with the most spotless of introductions. Perhaps we can try again?” Dorian asked softly. “And... am I allowed to come back for drinks?”
Galathan realized suddenly why he hadn't seen Dorian since his awkward Tuesday shift.
“I do love variety of drinks you have at your bar,” Dorian was continuing, still talking quietly enough that only Galathan could hear him. “It is by far my favorite.”
“Of course,” Galathan agreed, chuckling at the question. “I'd never turn away my favorite customer.”
Dorian/Inquisitor + "you’ve been sleeping at mine because your house is being renovated and we aren’t even dating, yet every time you wake up to the baby crying and sigh, “i’ll go” i feel like we might as well be married" GO!
(Modern AU no Inquisition. No character specified so I'm using my Will Lavellan, who I don't have a picture handy, so just imagine Cykeem White with shorter hair and elf ears). Will and Dorian had been friends for about a year, and Creators what a year it had been. First was Dorian's massive falling-out with his father, which led to him being disowned from his family. Then the horrible Accident, Will losing his sister and unexpectedly gaining custody of his four month old nephew. And most recently, the flood that took out Dorian's apartment building, which led them to their current living situation:Will and Dorian sharing Will's too-small bed, because he did not own a couch (and neither of them would let the other sleep on the floor), barely clothed and with the covers kicked off because it was Hot and the air conditioning was broken. Still. The landlord kept promising to fix it and then putting it off, and Dorian swore he was going to rip the man's ear off, and in the meanwhile they both wore very little clothing which had proven to be somehow not awkward but very distracting. Despite the heat and his complaints, Dorian (already asleep) was clinging like an octopus. Despite the discomfort of sweaty skin, Will found himself not minding. It was almost comforting, really. He was just drifting into true sleep when, from the hallway, baby Elias started wailing. Will turned his head into the flimsy pillow and groaned. At his back, Dorian shifted and rolled over, grumbling. Will sighed and started to get up, but Dorian stopped him with an uncoordinated pat and a "No, no, I've got it." Will stared at him as he stumbled across the floor, some feeling he was unable to identify curling up through exhaustion and heat-addled haze. Dorian returned a moment later with Elias. "It is absolute hellfire in that hall," he groused, checked the window fan (again), and fell back down into bed with the baby laying tiredly on his chest. "Little wonder you're grumpy," he said to Elias, brushing his hand over the baby's tiny curls, "you must've felt about to combust. I swear, I am going to set that man on fire tomorrow," he said to Will. "This is absolutely unacceptable." "Setting people on fire is illegal," Will smiled. "Leaving necessary repairs for this long and letting an infant risk heat stroke is illegal -- oh, no he's fine," he added as Will reached out worriedly to feel the baby's cheek. "Only hot, sleepy and quite justifiably cranky." Will stared at Dorian for several moments. The handsome man was holding Elias so gently, rubbing his little back to lull him into sleep as he was nodding off himself. That strange feeling of /right/ curled up again and settled in Will's chest. A small smile grew in his face. A small idea, a possibility of /maybe/ picking at his mind. He'd always found Dorian attractive, and they got along so well, supported each-other.... "Do you want to move in?" He asked. "Officially. Permanently, I mean." Dorian gave him a searching look. "You're over here all the time as it is." Dorian looked around the room, slowly. Assessingly. Will held his breath. "Well," the man said finally, "We'd have to buy a larger bed." He laughed. He knew Dorian had picked up on the subtlety. "I believe we can arrange that," he said, grinning and planning a few much less subtle approaches. Hopefully Josie was available to babysit this week. He'd call her in the morning.
au idea: lavellan, who comes from a trailer park and only got into college on a scholarship he worked his ass off to earn, is staying at leliana, cullen, and josephines apartment. He is horrified to learn that his crush Dorian is friends with Cullen and panics when this well off beautiful man sees him in his pjs and bedhead sleeping on his friends couch
