Ryn Lavellan

Have a melodramatic unprompted Trespasser drabble.

“Hold on just a little longer,” Dorian pled, as he held him through another shuddering, spasmic shock of pain. Noise could attract all sorts of trouble their way; Ryn had tried to keep quiet, at first. He’d drawn blood, biting down on his other hand, until finally it was unbearable, his screams ripping through his body, tearing his throat. “Just a little longer,” Dorian begged, and something mad and hysterical in Ryn wanted to laugh. Everything was always ‘just a little longer’ with the mage. Put things off long enough, and –

It haunted him, Dorian’s face when he pulled him aside earlier. He’d known his advisors would tell everyone, once they found out. In the whirlwind of activity since the discovery of that body, Ryn hadn’t had time to eat or rest. He’d hoped to avoid –

But Dorian had caught up to him, and pulled him into a sheltered alcove of the Winter Palace. Haggard, haunted – Ryn knew he had been told, just as he knew how they’d both spent their reunion pretending not to notice how bright the Fade-green pulse that spilled from his glove had grown.

Just a little longer.

“Let me see it, amatus,” Dorian had commanded. The sickly green hue made him look like a corpse. He was pale.

“Dorian,” Ryn began.

“Don’t argue with me. Please. Let me see it.”

How exhausted Ryn had felt in that moment! He was dying, and they both knew it – there was no avoiding it anymore, no more pretending there was a future to be planned for, that there was a use for the pointless ring lying cold in his luggage. It seemed so far away and silly, that Ryn had been angry at him this morning. What did it matter that Dorian was returning to Tevinter? There was clearly nothing left for him here.

The glove was difficult to tug off, catching on the thick wrapping beneath – the layers of gauze and elfroot Ryn used to help conceal the smell. It had been a long time since the herbs had stopped having any impact on the pain.

Ryn hadn’t had the chance to change the bindings since that morning, and even the outer layers were soiled now. He kept his eyes lowered as he unwrapped them, half waiting for some quip, a joke from Dorian about the stench. Rotting meat, seared under a desert sun. Death, that was what he smelled like, and with each layer he pulled away it grew stronger. Dorian covered his mouth with his sleeve, but he didn’t comment, didn’t joke, didn’t turn his eyes away.

The soiled bindings clung, wet, to his hand as he reached the end. The light was almost blinding, making it difficult to make out the particular gory details of his ruined hand, the burned and blackened flesh, craking, festering. Dorian carefully pulled Ryn’s sleeve back over his forearm as far as he could, his eyes tracking where the damage disappeared under the cloth.

“Oh, amatus,” Dorian breathed.

It was going to consume him, kill him. It was going to hurt.

Now, hours later, Ryn sobbed and screamed through wave after wave of pain he could not push down, could not ignore, and Dorian held him, pressed trembling lips to a sweat-soaked brow, and begged him, brokenly, for just a little longer.

It was quiet, when it finally passed. Ryn treasured the brief moment of reprieve after the eternity of torment. The Crossroads, eerie and still, seemed as if they should be trembling with the memory of his suffering.

Cassandra would not look at him. Varric had his back turned completely away. Dorian clung to him, shuddering, shadowed.

“You bastard,” he whispered into Ryn’s hair. “You bloody bastard.” His cheeks were wet.

Ryn forced himself to find his feet. He didn’t have a lot of time, and there was so much left to do.

“Let’s get moving,” he said, in as strong a voice as he could muster. As if he were fine, and the last several moments had not occurred. His voice was raw.

He had to keep going.

A little longer, then.

anonymous asked:

"I'll swim and sail on savage seas, with ne'er a-fear of drowning. And gladly ride the waves of life, if you will marry me."

Since there wasn’t a pairing, I chose one. Feel free to send something else if this doesn’t work for you, anon!

Ryn had been prepared to ask at the Exalted Council.

He had a bad habit of hiding unfortunate truths, even from himself. His arm had been deteriorating; he grew weaker by the day. Even still he’d bought the ring. Even still, he –

Only the fact that circumstances forced him to acknowledge the reality of his own impending death had prevented Ryn from asking Dorian to marry him. How selfish to ask it of him – a newly-raised magister, bound to a Dalish elf who was slowly rotting from the inside.

That selfishness, the memory of how close he had come to ruining Dorian’s life, kept him from action later. Even with his arm gone and his life saved, Ryn was too ashamed of himself to ask.

He let Dorian go back to Tevinter. He put on the bravest face he could find.

“We both have important things to do,” Ryn said. He smiled. He tried to smile. He remembered smiling. Dorian had looked guilty, tormented and desperate, and heartbroken. He would have stayed if Ryn had asked, at least for a little while. He would have said yes.

Ryn hadn’t asked.

Selfishness, that was all his desire mounted to. Marrying Ryn would be the worst thing Dorian could do. It would be terrible for his career – marrying a man. An elf. And it would put yet another target on his back – on both their backs. His enemies would go after Ryn. Ryn’s enemies would go after Dorian.

And Tevinter was so far away, and too much of a risk for Ryn to visit regularly. Seeing each other only a few times a year, when Dorian could get away – it wouldn’t be enough. Even with the sending crystals, it wouldn’t be enough. Each year they would drift further apart and – well, marriage would only complicate matters when Dorian decided it was time to move on.

It would have been a mistake to ask. Ryn would have been selfish – he was selfish now, hanging on, not ending it outright.

And so he decided he would end it.

He reminded himself that it was only selfishness that had him holding Dorian back. He reminded himself as he boarded the ship to Tevinter, and as he sat, alone, night after night in his cabin, ignoring the sending crystal that pulsed with Dorian’s calls. Winds tore across the seas, storms rocking the little vessel, and Ryn, feeling sick, told himself that he just wanted to see Dorian one last time, to tell him in person. He practiced what he would say.

Ryn had ordered secrecy for this voyage. His name appeared nowhere on the ship’s rosters, and he’d smuggled himself on board under the cover of night. He kept himself to his cabin, and always wore a hooded cloak when he emerged.

Despite his precautions, Dorian was there when they docked in Tevinter.

Josephine,” Ryn swore, when he spotted his lover’s face in the crowd on the docks, pale with worry under a heavy cloak. The storms that had hounded his voyage chased them now, soaking through them entirely as Dorian ushered him into a covered coach, where warm towels and strong wine waited.

Amatus,, what were you thinking?” Dorian demanded, as he rubbed at Ryn’s soaked and shivering shoulders. “I told you never to come here! Fasta vass, I have never been more furious with you, I swear – I’ve been sick with worry for weeks!”

Ryn, sitting across from him, listening with the howling wind and the rain hammering the roof, thought of all the things he’d practiced saying. He thought of all the reasons their affair should reach its end.

Ryn said, “Marry me.”

grimsister  asked:

"Dorian, please! I need to work!"

Dorian’s mustache was a soft tickle against his ear, his breath warm. He nuzzled Ryn’s neck from behind, and one hand travelled, slowly and sneakily, under the collar of the elf’s shirt, resting firmly against his chest.

“No more of this nonsense, amatus. Come back to bed. Another hour. Two. I’ll make it worth your time.”

“Dorian,” Ryn said, and his voice was a mixture of exasperation and amusement. Ever since Dorian had realized he’d gotten up, the mage had done everything in his power to drag him back to bed. Seduction was merely the man’s latest ploy, following both blatant threats and passive aggressive comments. 

Do you know, amatus, nine out of ten healers agree that lack of sufficient rest is a contributing factor to premature aging? I shall be very cross with you if you begin to look like an old man. 

“Please,” Ryn said. “I need to work!”

The mage drew back, his hands sliding away from him, and he was silent as he thought up a new underhanded tactic to employ. Ryn shook his head and turned his attention back to the stack of trade reports Josephine had given him. In less than three hours all of Skyhold would be up, and he wouldn’t have time to give them the proper attention they required.

Dorian was quiet for so long that Ryn began to think he had finally given up. He could feel him, standing behind his desk – not reading over his shoulder, or breathing down his neck, but simply watching him. It was hardly unusual for Ryn to rise before his lover, and so he didn’t know why it was bothering the man so much today. Dorian usually slept for another two hours.

He had almost put the matter out of his mind entirely when he felt Dorian’s hands slide into his hair.

“How industrious you are, my darling,” Dorian said mournfully. “You exhaust me.”

“You can go back to sleep. You’ll still be keeping me company.”

Dorian sighed heavily. His clever fingers massaged Ryn’s scalp, almost preternaturally skillful, and despite himself, Ryn found his head falling back. He hesitated before setting his pen aside – only for a moment! – and flexing his hand. Dorian’s ministrations earned a small groan.

“Another headache?” Dorian asked, sympathy heavy in his voice.

“Just a small one.”

“Which will no doubt grow monstrous by brunch,” he tsked. “It’s this low light. You shouldn’t be working before the sun comes up. It’s unhealthy.” His fingers dug in a little more. Ryn sighed.

“I know what you’re doing. This won’t work either.”

“But you can hardly fault me for trying, can you? You work so hard, amatus. I can’t help but to worry about you.”


“Mn…” Dorian’s flingers slid firmly against the back of his neck, and Ryn let his head fall forward. His hands began to message his shoulders. “It hurts me to see you so stressed,” Dorian said. “Hurts as much as if you were wounded. Your life’s blood, pouring out upon the ground. That’s what it’s like to me.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Ryn sighed. He leaned forward, let the mage have better access to his back. Dorian kissed his neck.

“Let me take care of you.”

“Just for a moment,” Ryn allowed. “But I’m not going back to bed.”

Dorian didn’t answer, just continued the massage – Ryn’s back, his shoulders. It was very early, and the more Ryn’s muscles began to unknot, the more he became aware of it. He put his head on his desk, and allowed himself to drift.

“Play hookie with me today,” Dorian said, and Ryn snorted.

“You’re going to be so smug about this later, aren’t you?” he asked, when Dorian turned his chair around. The mage already looked supremely satisfied, kneeling in front of him, pulling his knees apart as his fingers plucked at the halfheartedly tied laces of Ryn’s pants.

“I reserve the right to be, yes,” Dorian said. “I’m sure you’ll agree that I’ve earned it.”

Slumping in his chair, and letting his legs spread wider, Ryn gave a helpless sort of laugh and covered his eyes with his forearm. “You’re impossible,” he said, “All right, then – prove it.”

And Dorian did.

He was, indeed, smug about it later.

devouring-time  asked:

Prompt for whenever: Dorian and Ryn and one of their late night chats through the communication crystal?

“You sound tired, amatus,” Dorian said, and Ryn stifled a laugh.

“I’m always tired,” he reminded him. “You’re forgetting me already.”

“Not in a thousand lifetimes.”

Ryn smiled to himself, and he let his eyes drift closed. With the Inquisition disbanded and its members scattered to the winds, Skyhold felt haunted. Ryn himself would be moving on within the fortnight. Tonight, the library was filled with silence and shadows, but there was something comforting about being able to press his cheek to the dusty worn leather of Dorian’s old chair, to curl his body between the two padded arms and watch the sending crystal flicker and glow. It was warm in his hand.

“How is your arm?” Dorian asked, concern naked in his tone, and Ryn chuckled again.

“Still gone.”

“Don’t be morbid. I worry about you.”

“I’m in your chair,” Ryn said. “Do you remember the time the Orlesian ambassador was visiting, and I snuck up here to suck you off?”

“You’re a filthy tease – and I won’t be distracted.”


“All you’re telling me is that I have every cause for concern. I know you too well. What’s happened? Don’t tell me you’ve lost the other one.”

“Creators, now who’s morbid?”

Amatus, the next time I see you, I’m turning you over my knee.”

“Promises, promises,” Ryn said, but he was still smiling, his eyes still closed. “I’m well,” he said. “Everything is healing fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“But I do.”

Come back to me, Ryn wanted to tell him. I miss you with ever fiber of my soul.

But Dorian had work to do, and Ryn did too. Neither one of them could afford to be selfish.

“I want to fall asleep here,” he said instead. “Listening to your voice. Will you talk to me?”

“That sounds terribly uncomfortable. You’ll wake all stiff and sore and be impossibly cranky all day tomorrow.”

“But I’ll have good dreams.”

He heard Dorian’s heavy sigh, and a silence that stretched so long he almost thought Dorian had severed the connection. Then Dorian spoke again. “I hardly know what I’m supposed to talk about for so long,” he said, as if terribly burdened, and Ryn smiled, because he knew he had won.

“Tell me about your mustache,” he teased. “That usually takes a few hours.”

“You jest,” Dorian said, “But I did find the most marvelous new wax at this darling little shop…”

anonymous asked:

pavellan! 3

3.kissing so desperately that their whole body curves into the other person’s

After all this time, he was nervous. Tension pulled through his shoulders from holding himself too tightly, a jittery, nervous energy in his limbs, humming in his fingertips, rattling in his brain.

Dorian tried out several poses, beforehand. Seated casually at the desk, feet propped up, smile at the ready. Stretched, enticingly, across the bed – so casually, perfectly picturesque against the firelight. Standing at the balcony, backside braced against the railing, attention seemingly caught on a book.

None of it felt right. He couldn’t be still. The old voice inside him, that old ache that never healed, that waited, ever-braced for a blow, was howling. He got up. Paced. When the Inquisitor finally returned to his rooms he found him standing there, on the rug, hands useless at his sides, posing and pretense forgotten.

Ryn paused there, at the top of the stairs that led down to the rest of Skyhold, his hand light on the railing, the sun from the windows behind him bright on his hair, lighting him from behind like some heroic figure of legend, this slim elven youth with tired eyes like bruises and a pretty mouth turned down in a frown.

His hair was pulled back in a way that told him it had been hasty, and thoughtless. There were ink stains on his fingers, and his leathers looked like he had been wearing them for several days. Dorian wondered when was the last time he’d slept. Their eyes met, and it seemed a small eternity passed. Something in Dorian pulsed, aching, wondering if this was it – waiting, always, braced for rejection. Ten months was a long time to be apart.

Ryn breathed out at last. His shoulders loosened. He said, softly, “Dorian.”

Neither of them moved. It took Dorian a few moments longer than usual to find his smile, his charm. “I wanted to surprise you,” he said.

Ryn answered, “Consider me surprised.”

“Bad timing?”

“Shut up,” Ryn said, weary and, uncharacteristically, showing it. “Get over here and kiss me. Please.”

It was that please that moved him, that broke Dorian from his anxiety and had him crossing the room, and Ryn met him halfway, fit his body against the mage’s, arms gripped tight around his torso as Dorian found his mouth. Suddenly it seemed silly that Dorian had thought a few months of separation might change things between them. Ryn was trembling in his arms.

There was desperation to the way Ryn kissed him, his body molding to Dorian’s. Time and distance had dulled the memory of how it felt to hold him, how he fit into his arms, how warm he was, a small furnace, so hot it was like there were no clothes to separate them at all.

Amatus,” Dorian breathed against him. “Amatus, what have they done to you?”

Ryn shuddered. He put his forehead against his shoulder. He said, “Nothing. I just – I need you.”

It was honest, and wrenching, and vulnerable. Dorian had forgotten how that felt, too, when he had been in Tevinter, surrounded by pretext and illusion.

“I’ve been gone too long,” Dorian said.

Ryn answered, “I don’t want to talk right now.”

anonymous asked:

hi! can i please request a pavellan fic where dorian gets left behind for some reason and your lavellan comes back injured? (the severity of the injury is totally up to you--it could be anything from a sprained ankle to something more serious!)

“Dorian, this is the last time I’m going to warn you,” Ryn said. “If you don’t get up right now, I’m leaving you behind.”

“Leave me behind, then!” the mage said, defiant. He clutched his pillow to his chest, and kept his eyes tightly closed. “It’s cold out there.”

“Well, you don’t have to whine about it.”

“I am not whining,” he insisted. “But I don’t see why you insist on always bringing me to these places!”

He felt the camp mattress sink in beside him, and Ryn’s weight as he leaned across him, his breath as he nuzzled his cheek. “Because I would be lost without you, Dorian.”

“Pest,” he sniffed, even as he reveled in the attention. “Begone.”

“Are you certain?”

“I’m going to sleep,” he said, again, and thought about trying to persuade the Inquisitor to stay, but then Ryn was rising, and Dorian found himself drifting off. They’d been on the road for ages, and he was exhausted. And it was cold. He felt smug in his decision.

When Dorian woke, the shadows were stretching long across the ground, and the camp was in chaos. Hair disheveled, Dorian stood outside the tent shivering, yawning and scratching his head as he contemplated the quickest route to the latrines and the possibility the mess tent had anything worth eating.

And then the chaos parted, and he saw the cart upon which the Inquisitor lay prone, the bed of hay stained dark crimson.

Suddenly, he no longer felt the cold.

anonymous asked:

pavellan, 15

15. a gentle “I love you” whispered after a soft kiss, followed immediately by a stronger kiss

The visitors from Tevinter came to meet the Inquisitor, and it was as awful as Dorian had feared.

They swept in upon Skyhold like crows, all sharp and sleek, ready to get a measure of this new power that had risen up across Thedas. They were haughty, superior; they found the idea of a Dalish Inquisitor laughable. They brought slaves.

“We will get through this,” Josephine announced, “Without causing an international incident.”

Dorian wasn’t so sure.

He did what he could to mitigate the damage – to show his countrymen the best of the Inquisition, to hide from the Inquisition the worst of his countrymen. He gave strict instructions that at no time was the Inquisitor to be left alone with them.

By the third day of their visit, he was exhausted.

“I know what you’re doing,” Ryn told him, and Dorian, newly collapsed into a chair by the fire in the Inquisitor’s quarters sat up too quickly and plastered a smile on his face to readily. Ryn’s hands on his shoulders turned him back ‘round, pulled him back to rest against the seat, massaging, firm. The elf bent his head over him to kiss his hair.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you are implying,” Dorian told him, “But I am highly insulted that you feel the need to imply it.”

“You’re cute when you get protective.”

Dorian sniffed in disdain. He crossed his arms. Ryn massaged his shoulders with a little more pressure.

“What is it you expect to happen, with them?” Ryn asked. “I can handle a few petty insults, Dorian. I’m Dalish.”

“You know, I think the discussion of politics in the bedroom is an egregious crime.”

“Do you think they’ll make me think less of you?”

Dorian set his jaw and he didn’t answer. Under Ryn’s attentions, he felt even tenser – his shoulders locking up, his hands like claws when they came to rest again against the armrests. His mind, as it had been all week, ran over every terrible outcome this visit could prompt.

Ryn slid his hands from his shoulders and came around the chair to face Dorian.

He wouldn’t have looked like much of an Inquisitor to Dorian’s countrymen – this small, humble elf in his rough hunting leathers. His pretty face and the shock of his stunning eyes would have made him look more suitable to the task of adorning the end of some nobleman’s leash than running the upstart Inquisition. They wouldn’t see his intelligence, his capability, his determination. They wouldn’t be able to imagine the sleepless nights, the bow-roughened hands, the careful study. They were incapable of seeing just what Ryn was.

“If you think any louder, you’re going to give us both a headache,” Ryn told him, and he slipped, with bold confident ease, into Dorian’s lap.

Amatus,” Dorian began, firmly, but it was as far as he got, for Ryn was there, leaning into him, with his smell of wood and wild and his warm little body. His lips were soft against Dorian’s, heartbreakingly soft.

Ryn said, “You do know I love you, don’t you?” and everything in Dorian grew silent.

“You’ve never said that,” Dorian said, as Ryn drew back enough to meet his eyes.

“I’m saying it now,” Ryn told him.

Dorian knew he should say it back, but it seemed as if he would just be inviting disaster if he did. Something in him felt pained, broken. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. How could he answer – how could he explain what those words felt like, what they meant?

Ryn, in his perfectly appropriate Ryn way, knew just how to respond. He leaned in again, found Dorian’s open mouth with his lips. Where he had been gentle before, he was hard now, insistent, until Dorian’s hands were prying themselves from the chair arms to fill themselves, instead, with the sweetness of his flesh, grasping handfuls of pert backside, thoughts flying out of his mind at last, chased by the Ryn’s lips, his taste, this man who loved him, somehow, despite all the reasons not to – who wasn’t afraid to say it, plainly, no pretext, no playing.

You do know I love you, don’t you? As if it would have occurred to Dorian on his own – as if he would have thought himself for a single moment deserving.

Ryn was sliding from his lap, pulling Dorian up with him. Dorian chased his lips, because he knew the moment they were parted he would have to think again, and Ryn, with his hands in his own, was walking backwards, leading Dorian with him, and when he knees hit the bed the mage did not hesitate to follow him down.

anonymous asked:

Oh my god, I absolutely LOVE your latest Pavellan fic! Would you ever consider writing a part 2? You have so much talent, and I always enjoy your fics! Keep up the good work! :)

So this is out of order for my first come first serve rule, but here is a follow up to this and this. Hope you enjoy!

Dorian got the story in bits and pieces – in snatches of overheard conversation, or, worse, volunteered from the mouths of those who legitimately believed they were helping.

- demons and templars –

- closed the rift –

- didn’t see the blood until –

- bad place to take a blade, it was. Don’t know how he –

Dorian didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to know. He tried to shake off their voices like the buzzing of so many tiny insects. Pests. The story came to him anyway – the image of Ryn, pale and weak and pained, closing the rift, then dropping to his knees in the snow. He fell, face first, as the others fought on against the red templars the Inquisitor had inevitably brought back to them, as he hadn’t been able to fight them alone.

By the time they realized his absence from the battle, Ryn had been pale and blue and almost gone, the snow beneath him nearly black with blood, and they’d thought –

Dorian couldn’t bear it. Thinking it made it seem in his heart as if it had already happened. Ryn’s smile stilled, his flame winked out so uselessly. Dorian’s hand trembled as he checked for a pulse once again. His vision blurred as he watched for the rise and fall of his chest.

He thought, it was inevitable. If this didn’t kill Ryn, something else would. Corypheus, probably. It rose up within him, this surety, and something like panic, choking him, making it hard to breathe.

As far as Dorian was concerned, the whole of the world would cease to be without Ryn in it – not because their shared venture into the future had proven as much, but because Dorian found the idea that anything might go on when Ryn did not intolerable.

Ryn’s hands were frightfully cold. His body was terribly still. Dorian’s tears burned his cheeks. If Vivienne hadn’t been there with her spells – if Cassandra hadn’t wrestled Ryn’s limp cold form into the cart – if Blackwall hadn’t kept the templars from closing ranks –

If Dorian hadn’t decided he’d rather sleep in than venture out into the snow to protect the man he loved –

If, if, if – Dprian was tortured by ifs. He pressed his lips to Ryn’s hand. His shoulders shook with sobs.

“I hate you,” he said. “You infuriating thing.”

Ryn neither stirred nor answered.

earlgreyer1  asked:

Hesitant Kiss for Ryn and Dorian please!

It wasn’t the first kiss.

No, the first kiss had been thrilling, daring, spur of the moment madness.

“If you’re capable,” Ryn had said, and then Dorian had been there, his lips against his mouth, stealing his breath along with his senses.

No, it wasn’t the first kiss. It seemed they were both unsure how to progress from there, from that singular moment of trespass, and for a day they both carried on as if nothing had happened at all.

Ryn was the one to approach, and Dorian looked at him, so cool and unconcerned that the hunter nearly changed his mind. Perhaps, he thought briefly, he had been imagining it all. A well-bred Tevinter Altus had little reason to interest himself in some Dalish nobody with the misfortune of falling through a hole in the sky.

“What is it, then?” Dorian asked, with a hint of a smile and a lofted brow. “More questions? I had no idea you found my point of view so fascinating.”

Ryn placed his hands on the arm rests, and leaned over the mage’s chair. He watched Dorian blink, startled, watched his lips part, his tongue dart in anticipation. Ryn said, “It’s not your point of view I came for.”

Dorian’s eyes fell to his lips, then darted back up to meet his gaze. It was strange to Ryn, how Dorian seemed to be the nervous one. How poorly he seemed to hide it.

Dorian marked his place in his book and closed it. “Why, Inquisitor,” he said. “Are you implying that you have less than honorable intentions in your visit today?”

Ryn moved in before he had finished talking.

It was hard at first, a bold press, but it softened at an unexpected hitch of breath from the mage. Ryn began to pull back, then stopped himself, their lips still brushing, barely touching. Dorian’s hand lifted to his hair. His lips parted, and Ryn leaned in again.

When he finally straightened, aiming, inexpertly, for dignity, it was Dorian who was left sitting there, still and slightly stunned. His lips were distracting, and Ryn had a difficult time not ducking down for another kiss.

“So,” Dorian said. “I suppose that settles that, then.”

“Does it now?” Ryn asked, and realized he sounded out of breath. “Right, then. Good conversation.”

“Very informative,” Dorian agreed. They stared at each other as if neither was willing to move first.

“Will you join me for a walk after dinner, or not?” Ryn asked at last. He noticed Dorian’s hands shook a little when he reached for his book. Dorian seemed to try so very hard to appear nonchalant.

“Will there be more of that kissing nonsense?” he asked.

“It’s possible.”

He watched him fight a smile. Dorian cleared his throat, and appeared to focus on his book. He said, airily, “Then, I suppose I shall endeavor to make it. If there’s time.”

anonymous asked:

I don't know if you're still taking prompts, but if you are, would you consider writing a drabble about an assassination attempt on Ryn's life while Dorian happens to be nearby? It's something I always thought the Inquisition in-game should have been more concerned about but it never comes up lol. Your writing is just so concise and lovely. I've read "The Other Dorian" three times this month. *blushes* Thank you and happy new year!

Darling anon, I am so sorry for taking so long to get to this. Thank you so much for your sweet words. I hope you didn’t think I forgot you!

Dorian wasn’t even nearby when it happened.

They had had a fight. No – a spat. A meaningless, senseless spat. Something stupid, about socks.

Dorian couldn’t remember. He couldn’t think. He – Ryn –

They were – they were in Denerim. Parades. Meetings of state. They fought about socks. Dorian stormed out. The tavern. The drinks.

The explosion.

It was – something magical in nature. Dorian didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He wasn’t there. They heard the explosion. It rattled the windows. He rushed outside to the dust, the whoosh of air, the feel of power. Dorian started running.

Crowds had gathered, curious, frightened. They drifted into the streets like mindless sheep, gaping. Dorian squeezed and pushed and forced his way past. He didn’t feel anything.

But he knew.

Dorian wasn’t made for love. His life didn’t know how to hold it, how to make it work. He had always known it was foolish. He thought it would end with Corypheus. He’d thought he had more time.

They’d fought about socks.

The Inquisition’s guards had the palace blocked off, but they recognized him. They let him through. He tore through the halls. He knew. He knew he was gone. He ran anyway. That flame in him, that spark of hope he could not extinguish. He knew he was gone but he had to see, anyway.

“Dorian!” Cullen’s voice, sharp. The blond caught him as he nearly ran past. Pushed him in the opposite direction. “This way,” he said. “He – you should be there. Dorian, it…it didn’t look good.”

Dorian didn’t answer. He knew. It was cold, the certainty. It was unreal. He hardly heard the words his friend spoke: an assassin with an alchemical concoction. The guards tackled him – his aim was off – but they didn’t know – they couldn’t know – he wouldn’t wake up – Ryn –

Dorian burst into the room, but Cullen held him back, kept him from getting any farther than the threshold. It took him a moment to get his bearings, to understand what he was seeing. Mages gathered around a figure on the bed – too small, too frail. They worked fast. Their spells flashed bright, white and blue and purple. Twisted, blackened skin grew red, then pink. His breath was slow, labored, wheezing.

Only when Ryn was whole again did the healers cover his nakedness with a blanket. His eyes were closed. His chest was barely moving.

Cullen released him.

Vivienne was the first to turn from the bed. Wan, exhausted, she had to grasp the bedpost for a moment to catch herself from falling.

“You’re just in time, my dear,” she said, when her eye fell on Dorian.

“He’s dying,” he said, flat, emotionless. He already knew.

Vivienne looked surprised. “On the contrary,” she said. “I anticipate a full recovery.”

Dorian tore his eyes from her. He took heavy steps to the bed, almost falling over his own feet. He grasped the scrolled edge of the footboard. Ryn was whole. Ryn was breathing.

Vivienne had the room cleared. Dorian didn’t dare sit on the bed. He pulled up a chair and sat on it, slowly, he stared at the Inquisitor.

Ryn was whole. He was breathing.

Dorian prayed for his eyes to open.

anonymous asked:

For the prompts....having been reading "The Other Ryn," I wonder what it would be like for Ryn to lose his temper. Not lose his temper out of love or worry, but lose his temper because of everyday, petty irritations. It doesn't have to be nasty, but he's such a nice person that it makes me wonder what it looks like when his patience wears thin. We've all gotten overly angry because of a stubbed toe or rude coworker, after all. :)

Anon, you have managed to sum up the last week and a half of my life pretty well. I hope you enjoy this!

“Well, well, well,” Dorian said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He looked good, in a well-cut new outfit – cream and gold, which he knew the Inquisitor admired on him. His mustache curled roguishly, his eyes lined thickly with kohl, his hair just so – Dorian smiled his most charming smile, and rested his arm against the back of Ryn’s chair.

“Do you know, I spotted an alcove just down the hall that seems to be simply begging to be canoodled in. What do you say we claim it, mn? Before someone else catches wind?”

Ryn said, “Not right now.”

It wasn’t his rejection but his tone of voice which had Dorian stalling, his smile falling from his face. Ryn had sounded exasperated. Worse, he had sounded short with him.

Amatus?” he asked, slowly sliding his hands from the chairback.

For a moment Ryn didn’t answer. The elf’s sigh was more of a huff, and he closed his book with a cruel snap, rounding on Dorian without rising.

“What?” he asked. “What is it?”

“I…nothing,” Dorian said. He lifted his hands as if in surrender, and took a step back. “Nothing at all. Forgive the intrusion.”

He was almost to the stairs before Ryn said, “Wait.”

Dorian stopped. He idly ran his hand over the decorative little doodab at the top of the banister, and glanced at Ryn, sidelong, careful. The elf rubbed the bridge of his nose as if fighting a headache, and set his book down on his desk as he rose.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not at all,” Dorian said, a little coolly. “I neglected to ask earlier if you wanted company tonight. Entirely my fault.”

“Halla shit,” Ryn said.

Dorian was surprised enough that he turned toward him fully, his brows lifting.

He said, “Excuse me?

“It’s a – an expression?” Ryn said. “Those days when you wake up, and your first step out of the aravel, you step in halla shit? No, you wouldn’t know that…”

“I believe I am capable of grasping the imagery here.”

“That’s the day I’ve had,” Ryn said. “Everything that could go wrong, has. And everyone. Wants. Everything.”

“Everyone always wants everything from you.”

“Well. Today they can tie their own bowstrings.”

“Tie their – never mind. It’s refreshing to see a little selfishness from you. Amatus are you grumpy?

“No,” Ryn snapped. “I’m hiding up in my rooms because I’m planning a surprise party for you and all our friends.”

“Sarcasm? I’m delighted.”


“No, no,” he said. “Sit down. I’ll pour the wine, rub your shoulders. And you can tell me all the juicy details. I want to know everything.”

daiimonas  asked:

Prompt request - who does Ryn leave behind in the Fade and why? How does the decision effect him? I've seen you write prompts on if Leo gets left behind, what's going through his head. But I don't think I've ever seen you write about how the decision effects your Inquisitor.

They looked at him, to know the answer.

They trusted him with the decision.

When Ryn closed his eyes, all he saw was green. Not the rich, life-giving green of the forests through which he had once passed his solitary hunts, the shifting shadows, light and dark, gentle curl of vine, crisp crunch of leaf. He had been content enough, then, if not exactly happy. Those were quiet days. Solitary.

Now his life was chaos and noise. Now his life was no longer his own. They looked at him, with all their trust and their fear and their expectations, and when he closed his eyes the forest was gone, replaced instead by the noxious green poison of the Fade.

Ryn couldn’t sleep.

Skyhold was quiet at this hour, cold and haunted by a history no one alive could remember. His chair loomed in the shadows; not a throne, but a monstrous creature of jagged teeth and hungry urgings. He – who would have been content to pass his life in lonesome obscurity among the trees – he was trusted to sit there, to pass judgement upon the penitents who were made to kneel at his feet.

He sat. He slid his hands along the armrests, looked out upon the shadows of his empty court.


His hand stung and it itched, feeling at last returning to him after their venture into the Fade. He hadn’t told anyone, not on the long journey back to Skyhold, not on their triumphant arrival home.

His life was not his own. He had to be more than what he was. They trusted him with their lives – he could not repay them with his weakness.

If he closed his eyes, he saw the Fade. He remembered the face of Fear.

And the man he had left behind.

Vishante kaffas – a body is libel to freeze solid down here!”

Ryn jerked, came back to himself. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, but it seemed unreal to look up, to see his lover in the doorway to his tower, a heavy blanket around his shoulders and his hair a disheveled mess.

When he didn’t answer, Dorian’s face creased with concern. “But, you look so sad,” the mage realized. “Amatus, have you been crying?”

“I’m only tired,” Ryn said. “That’s all.”

“Then you should be upstairs in bed with me, not sitting down here imitating ice sculptures.”

Despite everything, Ryn smiled. “You scold worse than my Keeper,” he said, his voice soft, and Dorian snorted.

“I’m my experience,” Dorian said, “You are a man in very great need of scolding. Move over.”

Had Ryn been human, they might not have been able to fit the both of them in the chair. As it was, they found a tight squeeze. Dorian insisted on sharing the blanket, and pulled Ryn’s legs across his lap. He swore up and down that it was for his own warmth and comfort.

“I don’t understand why anyone would choose to live in a land so barbarously cold,” he complained. Ryn didn’t answer.

It felt good – and that didn’t help Ryn’s mood. Dorian’s arms and his scent, the sound of his heart beating in his chest, the tickle of his mustache when he kissed Ryn’s ear.

“Why don’t you come to bed?” Dorian asked, and Ryn struggled with the urge not to tell him the truth. Dorian depended on him as much as anyone did. Perhaps moreso.

Finally Ryn relented. “Don’t you think it’s wrong?” he asked, and he felt Dorian grow very still. His hand paused against his hair.

“Don’t I think what is wrong?” Dorian asked. His voice had gone very quiet.

Ryn was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He said, “I left a man to die at Adament.”

He felt Dorian relax. His hand began to pull through his hair once again. His lips brushed his ear again when he spoke. “A lot of men died at Adament.”

Ryn shook his head. “I looked him in the eye,” he said. “I said his name. I chose to let him die.”

Dorian sighed. “Amatus…”

“I let him sacrifice himself.”

“You think you should have been the one to stay? I would kill you if you died.”

“Your outrage is noted – and no, I don’t think I should have stayed. I know I have to defeat Corypheus. I know that…that I’m not always going to like the choices I have to make to get to that point, too.”

“Then, why - ?”

“Do you know how I decided?” Ryn asked. “Stroud was a veteran warden. He had experience, respect – and I left him to die because I couldn’t bear the thought of telling Varric I left Hawke behind instead. It wasn’t strategy, it was cowardice. The wardens – what’s left of the wardens could fall. Weisshaupt – our only hope against future Blights – and I chose to sacrifice Stroud, just because I didn’t know his family.”

“There are no right answers to this game, amatus.

“I looked him in the eye and I told him to stay. It isn’t right that I should sleep soundly, happy with you.”

Dorian didn’t answer, and they fell into silence. Ryn had heard the bitterness in his own voice, had tasted it on his tongue. He thought of the man he had been before this – lonesome but content, quiet, obscure. He could have passed his entire life that way.

“I’m so tired,” he told Dorian.

“I know, amatus,” Dorian said. “I know.”

keithhawke  asked:

drabble prompt: how about some sappy-sweet pavellan? words for inspiration: reckless, daydream, flowers, winter, sugar, promise.

“It seems I broke my promise. To come back in one piece?”

The sound of the Inquisitor’s voice roused Dorian like a bucket of ice water, and he lifted his bowed head from his hands. Dorian was Andrastian, though not particularly strong in his religious convictions – but he’d lost track of how long he’d been praying, or who he’d been praying to.

“Could be worse, I suppose. Better than losing my head.”

Dorian’s eyes were burning. “No jokes, amatus, please,” he rasped.

Ryn looked too small in the ornate Orlesian bed. His skin was still sallow, gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat, his hair plastered to his head and his eyes almost bruised with exhaustion.

Still, he smiled for Dorian. “You’re angry with me,” he stated softly.

Fasta vass – I’m too relieved to be angry.”

“Liar,” Ryn attempted a chuckle, turning his face away. Dorian thought the elven lad had fallen back to sleep until he spoke again. “Yell at me,” Ryn said. “Tell me how reckless it was to keep it a secret.”

“You bastard,” Dorian said, not for the first time, and pushed up from his chair. When he joined the Inquisitor in the bed, Ryn felt too small in his arms. A side effect of secretly dying for months, no doubt.

And Dorian, gone so long between visits, hadn’t been able to catch it.

“The healers said they expect a full recovery,” Dorian said, though he found the prognosis difficult to believe. His luck simply didn’t work that way. It had to be the product of some inane daydream, a fantasy that the love he had always yearned for wasn’t just as doomed as he’d always feared.

“I’m certain the council will be terribly disappointed,” Ryn said. “You have to agree this whole matter would be settled if I simply…”


Perhaps it was the desperation in Dorian’s voice. Ryn fell silent without completing the thought.

The Inquisitor had received many gifts from well-wishers during his time of recovery, and they lined the windows of his borrowed room at the Winter Palace – fresh flowers, decorated cards, treats of spun sugar.

“One would hardly think they’re so ready to see the Inquisition end,” Ryn said, following his eyes.

“You - !” Dorian’s gaze snapped back to him, and Ryn grinned in the face of his outraged stare. “You nearly died. You just lost an arm. And you’re thinking about politics?”

Ryn’s hand found Dorian’s and covered it, calloused pads of his fingers so achingly familiar when they slid against his skin.

“I’m thinking about a lot of things,” the Inquisitor said softly, more seriously.

Dorian bowed his head. “How can I leave you now? After this?”

“How could I keep you here when you have so much yet to accomplish?”


“We have time,” Ryn said softly. “A little, anyway. And we won’t be apart forever. Promise.”

genderfvcks  asked:

Drabble prompt: Pavellan fluff. Lavellan is sick as a dog but is too stubborn to admit it until he collapses into Dorian. Dorian becomes mother hen and spoils Lavellan.

The Storm Coast. Wonderful! The name itself inspires no end of confidence, doesn’t it? Tell me – why is it whenever he thinks of somewhere unpleasant to go, his first thought is oh goody, let’s bring Dorian?

Sera gave an ugly laugh behind him, as Dorian shifted his hold on his pack and tried to position his collar to prevent more of the torrential icy downpour from worming its way down the back of his neck.

“That don’t sound like him at all, does it?” the archer asked. “You’d think as much time as you two spend, batting your eyes and waving your cods at one another – well, you’d do a better impression, right?”

“Pardon me if I wasn’t aiming for accuracy,” Dorian said. He tried not to grind his teeth, as such a thing tended to be particularly bad for said teeth. “I assumed my misery should be self-evident.”

“It ever occur to you, Sparkler, that maybe he just likes having you along?” Varric asked.

“Pah,” Sera laughed. “Not when he spends the whole time acting like this. They’re on the outs right now, anyway, right?”

Dorian wasn’t listening. He’d chanced a glance back to find the Inquisitor once more lagging behind them, manner utterly uncharacteristic, from the way his head hung to the slump of his shoulders and the way his feet, usually so sure, kept catching on rocks.

Things had been tense lately, and he was all too aware that it was his own damn fault, thank you very much, but Dorian hardly knew how to go about fixing them. The Inquisitor had to take some responsibility for it, nosing around where he wasn’t wanting, expressly going against Dorian’s wishes just because he could.

Their time had been fun. The flirty looks, the heated kisses, the witty repartee, but it had only been a matter of time before it ended, anyway, and perhaps it was for the best to let it go now, before Dorian found himself stupid enough to do something as regrettable as growing attached to the little Dalish.

Still it was a shame to see the state he was in. Ryn Lavellan was so often the head of their party, scouting forward, talking, teasing, putting himself without hesitation in the same line of fire as all the rest of them. He was an astounding person. Bright, funny, caring – and attractive, of course, that was important. Dorian found himself falling back, and told himself it was merely habit.

But then Ryn stumbled, and fell, and would have smashes that pretty face of his all against the jagged rocks of the coast had Dorian not caught him.

“A fever – and you didn’t bother to tell a soul?” Dorian scolded, later in camp. They’d managed to get the Inquisitor back with only minor difficulty, and gotten him settled with some blankets and shelter and elfroot tea while a Solas sent scouts ahead for more herbs. “Your skin, almost literally burning to a crisp and you thought – what – better get back to work? You should have told someone. No, you should have told me.”

“Should I have?” Ryn asked, his voice thick and slow, eyes lifting from the mug in his hands.

“Don’t be preposterous – can’t you see how worried I am? Do you know how bad that is for the skin?”

“We aren’t friends,” Ryn said. Dorian felt his heart drop.


“We aren’t friends,” the Inquisitor repeated, his eyes on Dorian in such a way that the mage couldn’t have dreamed of looking away. “Isn’t that what you told Ponchard in Val Royeaux? Why should I burden you with a little cold?”

“You know very well I didn’t mean that.”

“Yet you haven’t spoken to me in days.”

“Am I not allowed to be cross with you? Don’t turn it into the end of the world – you should have told me you were ill!”

Ryn only blinked at him, slowly. Dorian huffed and looked away.

“Oh, all right, we’re friends!” he said, throwing up his hands. “We’re – well, we’re somewhat more than that, aren’t we? At the very least you could admit that someone like that weasel Ponchard has no right to an explanation of what the two of us are or are not. Likely he would sell the information, anyway.” Dorian finally chanced a glance at the Inquisitor, and was relieved to see a hint of a smile grace his lips.

“Was that so hard?” Ryn asked.

“You’re – you’re a terrible person, and the next time you neglect to tell me when you’re unwell, I’ll…kaffas. Do you need another blanket? I’m going to find you another blanket.”

anonymous asked:

I love Ryn so much, so maybe Pavellan where Ryn visits Tevinter for the first time.

Amid the fanfare – the parade and the speeches and the magical displays, Dorian managed to somehow squeeze his way to the former Inquisitor’s side, to grip him firmly along his upper arm and hiss through a gritted smile, “Amatus – this is certainly a surprise. What the everloving fuck do you think you are doing here?”

“Causing an international incident, one hopes,” Ryn answered, and shook him off to wave to the crowds. His cheeky smile made Dorian boil with the most peculiar combination of longing and rage. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to throttle him.

Such was life, loving the vexing Dalish hunter.

Dorian opened his mouth to say something clever and witty and scathing, but before he could utter a word, someone jostled between them, and in no time at all he was at the back of the crowd, as far from Ryn Lavellan as he could be without actually being a part of the crowd.

Even with the Inquisition disbanded, Ryn’s unexpected and unannounced visit to Tevinter was a huge affair, and Tevinter scurried to welcome him as if he were the Divine himself. Dorian could see the other magisters jousting for position, and he worried. Just as the former Inquisitor still held some measure of power and influence, so to did he still have enemies.

It was late before Dorian was able to get near Ryn again. After the welcome banquet at the embassy and before the mage light show, he found himself grabbed and pulled into a quiet corner, the elf’s lips against his lips, his body against his body.

“This isn’t Skyhold, you know,” Dorian told him, scolding, despite the way his head swam with him. It was unbelievable, the way he felt in his arms. The smell of his hair, the taste of his lips.

Even with only one hand, Ryn’s fingers were quick and clever with the clasps and buckles on Dorian’s clothes.

“Then take me somewhere private,” Ryn told him. “So you can greet me properly.”

“I should be very cross with you,” Dorian told him later – spent, exhausted, happy. They had stumbled their way into a storage room filled with boxes and crates and furniture covered in dusty sheets. With Ryn in his arms, a creaky, ancient couch felt every bit as luxurious as an Orlesian feather mattress.

“I told you if I had word of one more assassination attempt, I would come here straightaway.”

“And do you think it’s safe for you to be here?”

“Not at all,” Ryn said. “But we made such a fuss getting here, someone would have to be a very great fool to try something.”

“Unfortunately, amatus, Tevinter has no shortage of very great fools.”

Ryn only smiled, and leaned down to kiss him again, slow, lingering. Dorian pushed the elf’s hair back from his face. He had cut it, but it was growing long again. Dorian liked the feel of it in his hands. He liked the way it fell, soft and gleaming, over his shoulders.

Kaffas,” Dorian cursed, softly. “I may have to steal you away myself.”

“I miss you, Dorian,” Ryn said, utterly serious. He pulled back when Dorian tried to kiss him again, and he began to pull his clothes back on.

“Sudden mood shift, amatus?”

Ryn gave an honest answer. “It’s getting to me,” he said, the first Dorian had ever heard him admit to such a thing. Ryn was brave, and hardworking, self-sacrificing, cheerful, and strong. He was not the sort of man to lay his burden on others’ shoulders. “Things are – everything is so hard, Dorian. Weren’t things supposed to get easier? I don’t know how much longer I - !” he cut himself off as Dorian sat up. He felt him shudder when he laid a hand against the small of his back.

“What are you saying?” Dorian asked. It felt like the world was falling away beneath him. He had never seen Ryn break before. “Do you want to – end things?” he tried to stop the words from coming out. He couldn’t.

“No,” Ryn said. The word was a rasp. Dorian slid his arms around the Inquisitor, showered his shoulders and the back of his neck with kisses. When Ryn bowed his head, he felt hot wet tears drip onto his forearm.

“I want to be selfish, Dorian,” Ryn confessed. “I want to be with you. All the time.”