“You know, for a genius, you’re kind of a dumbass.” or “You just got stabbed and you want to know if I’m okay?!” from the dialogue prompt? :D For any ship you want!
In which an assassination attempt leaves Magister Pavus with an injury and Varlen with a bucket-load of guilt. (Pavellan, approx 1000 words)
“You just got stabbed and you want to know if I’m okay?!”
Dorian mustered a deep laugh, the mixed look of incredulity and horror on his amatus’face something he wished he could preserve in portrait and hang above his bed. Varlen was scrabbling up from the ground, the blue shimmer of a barrier spell fading from his skin as he reached out and seized Dorian, eyes wide with worry.
“It’s fine, Varlen,” Dorian insisted, nodding to his arm. “See? Barely a scratch. For an assassin, one would think he’d have better aim.”
“Oooh look at me, barely a scratch,” Varlen muttered under his breath, already in the process of tearing off a piece of his nightshirt. “Did that sound as stupid as it felt? Because that’s what you sound like, standing there with blood running down your arm.” He shook his head, his movements stiff as he worked. “You know, for a genius, you’re kind of a dumbass.”
Dorian arched a brow and glanced back to his arm. He was mildly surprised to note that Varlen was not, in fact, exaggerating. “Ah.” Clearing his throat, Dorian had to admit, he was beginning to feel a little light-headed. “Seems it is a mite deeper than a scratch. Perhaps I should… sit down…”
Thank you @thistlecrow for the drabble prompt! Set post-trespasser. Pavellan. In which Varlen is injured and Dorian was not expecting a visitor.
“You’re out of your damn mind.”
Panicked breaths, fumbling hands. Sometimes, Varlen wondered how they could have ever spent so long apart, when the sensation of his shirt being tugged open still spiked something warm and urgent inside him. Dorian was so close he could smell the wine on his lips, his evening meal forgotten the moment Varlen staggered in from the balcony and collapsed on the marbled floor.
“This… isn’t exactly how I thought this would go,” Varlen rasped, then cringed, teeth gritted as Dorian inspected the crossbow bolt jutting from his side. “S-Shit, that hurts.”
“I imagine so.” Dorian glanced up at Varlen, meeting his gaze for the barest moment, and Varlen swore the man was angry. But Dorian’s touch was gentle as he swept back his sweat-matted hair, pushing it from his face, silver locks dyed jet black. A different kind of marble. “Amatus, what have you done?”
Varlen tried to turn then cried out, his vision fogging slightly as a flash of pain left him voiceless for a moment. When it returned, Dorian was cradling him, eyes wide with panic, a spell already fading from his fingertips. “You’re… not wearing your liner,” Varlen mumbled, reaching out tentatively to brush a thumb beneath Dorian’s eye.
All Dorian could offer for the observation was a disbelieving laugh. “Yes, well, forgive me for not expecting you to come staggering in an hour from midnight.” He shook his head, his eyes flicking back down to the bolt jutting from Varlen’s skin. “We’ll get this fixed, amatus. Not to worry. Try not to move, yes?”
It was a difficult order to follow, because in that moment, Varlen wanted nothing more than to sit up and kiss him, bolt be damned. He wanted to for a number of reasons. Because the situation was a mess. Because he was in pain. Because Dorian wasn’t wearing liner. He’d never seen him without liner.
Because he had called him amatus.
Because it was Dorian.
But he didn’t. He didn’t because Dorian had asked him not to. Even as they lay there on the floor, the mage’s hands worked silent patterns in the air, his fingertips pressing to the site of the wound, cooling the area, numbing it until Varlen released a breath of relief, no longer at he mercy of blinding pain. “Creators… that’s better.”
“Good.” There was a sense of uncertainty to Dorian’s reply. In fact, now that Varlen could properly see, it was written all over his face.
“That bad, huh?”
Dorian started slightly, like a thief caught with a hand in his mark’s pocket. “Nothing that cannot be mended,” he insisted, then hesitated. “Just… not by me. I have called for a healer. She will be here shortly.”
Shivering, nodding, Varlen let himself sag back down onto the cold stone floor. Focusing his attention on his breathing; on Dorian’s gentle urges that he stay awake. He barely even noticed when a second figure joined them in the room.
“Silvania. Please.” Dorian’s voice was rough and urgent, met by the frantic sound of footsteps.
His eyes closed, Varlen could only hear the woman drop to her knees on his other side, the soft rustle of fabric marking her descent. “Maker’s breath, what happened to him? What is this?”
Slowly, weakly, Varlen raised his left hand before Dorian had a chance to reply. Both mages fell silent, dangling by a thread, waiting for him to speak. Then, with as much flair as he could muster, Varlen spread his fingers and wiggled them in the air.
Dorian Pavus, Varlen Lavellan, Maevaris Tilani. Approx. 3000 words
Dorian and Varlen both decided totake Maevaris up on her offer to spend time at her estate. There was an elementof safety to it, of course. Anyone seeking to harm Dorian would be unlikely tolook in the home of a different Magister, at least for a time, and Varlen couldpersonally vouch for the training of her guards. But there was another concern– a rather pressing one – that went unspoken between the three of them as theyhaunted the sitting room. It was visible primarily in the stiffness of Dorian’sposture. In the erratic tapping of his fingers on armrests. In the way he wouldsuddenly lurch to his feet and pace, robes shifting smoothly, his brow the onlything bearing any form of crease. Varlen and Maevaris both watched helplesslyfrom a pair of plush sitting chairs, commiserating in their shared worry ofDorian, whose words had slowed to only a handful per infrequent conversation.To her credit, Maevaris had become significantly more accommodating once sheknew exactly who Varlen was, both to Dorian and the Inquisitor.
For Varlen, it remained a sourceof bitter amusement how much of his worth was defined by other people. But hesupposed that could not be helped, given the company he kept.
Hey Reluctant you remember that tragic fic you wrote about Dorian leaving Varlen bc he refused to stay behind while Dorian went to Tevinter? since I've been thinking about it again and it's re-broken my heart, could you pretty please maybe do a short sequel where Varlen follows Dorian to Tevinter anyway and keeps him safe from the shadows, something with a happy ending? Bc I'm dying still thinking about my boys sad and lonely even if the fic isnt technically canon its still breaking my heart ;~;
PHEW. Sorry about this taking SO LONG to actually get to, but it ended up much longer than I anticipated. Because of that, I have uploaded it to AO3 in chapters for ease of reading (LINK HERE), but will also put it here for people who don’t mind… y’know… a lot of scrolling >.>
Also HERE is the break-up fic in question, in case people are interested
Dorian groaned softly, the fingers of hisleft hand rubbing a tired circle against his temple. “Yes, yes. What is it?”
The scribe entered; a mouse of a thing calledAdiran. New to the household, he bobbed his head deferentially, and with theMaker as his witness, Dorian swore the young man’s knees were trembling.“T-There has been a change of venue for your meeting with Magister Tellene.Instead of the upper chambers, she has requested you meet her at the,u-um…“ He paused, glancing hurriedly at his board, which quivered andjumped in the air. “The Gilder.”
One dark brow arched high on Dorian’sforehead. “Harbour-side? An interesting choice for a lady with such a notabledislike of salt air.” The young man opened his mouth as if to beg apology, butDorian quickly waved a hand. “No matter, no matter. Thank you, Adiran. Informher that I will be present at the agreed upon time.” Typically, Dorian wouldmake a show of rescheduling entirely, as was common practice within theImperium when one wanted to assert one’s status over another. Or be a little petty. However,if he was to ever bring forth discussion of the treatment of slaves in themagisterium, he needed Tellene on side. She was old blood – something that carriedgreat weight in a nation stained red. Her support would be invaluable. Despitehis better judgement, he had little choice but to attend whatever she deignedto organise. If he did not establish an alliance now, someone else wouldinevitably beat him to it. It was not something he could afford.
Sighing softly, he pushed himself to hisfeet, chair sliding out behind him along the soft carpet. Moving to thefloor-length mirror, Dorian took a moment to adjust his attire, tugging hisrobe slightly, reasserting the perfectly effortless flow required of his cloak.He would not be wearing his insignia of office this time. Not if he was toventure so far from the heart of the Magisterium. It would be interesting, hesupposed. He had yet to visit the harbour since his magnificent return toTevinter. It held a rather significant number of fond memories.
All he hoped was that the meeting would gosmoothly, and those memories would not be replaced by something comparablydark.
Hey Reluctant you remember that tragic fic you wrote about Dorian leaving Varlen bc he refused to stay behind while Dorian went to Tevinter? since I've been thinking about it again and it's re-broken my heart, could you pretty please maybe do a short sequel where Varlen follows Dorian to Tevinter anyway and keeps him safe from the shadows, something with a happy ending? Bc I'm dying still thinking about my boys sad and lonely even if the fic isnt technically canon its still breaking my heart ;~;
PHEW. Sorry about this taking SO LONG to actually get to, but it ended up much longer than I anticipated. Because of that, I have uploaded it to AO3 in chapters for ease of reading (LINK HERE), but will also put it here for people who don’t mind… y’know… a lot of scrolling >.>
Also HERE is the break-up fic in question, in case people are interested
Dorian groaned softly, the fingers of hisleft hand rubbing a tired circle against his temple. “Yes, yes. What is it?”
The scribe entered; a mouse of a thing calledAdiran. New to the household, he bobbed his head deferentially, and with theMaker as his witness, Dorian swore the young man’s knees were trembling.“T-There has been a change of venue for your meeting with Magister Tellene.Instead of the upper chambers, she has requested you meet her at the,u-um…“ He paused, glancing hurriedly at his board, which quivered andjumped in the air. “The Gilder.”
One dark brow arched high on Dorian’sforehead. “Harbour-side? An interesting choice for a lady with such a notabledislike of salt air.” The young man opened his mouth as if to beg apology, butDorian quickly waved a hand. “No matter, no matter. Thank you, Adiran. Informher that I will be present at the agreed upon time.” Typically, Dorian wouldmake a show of rescheduling entirely, as was common practice within theImperium when one wanted to assert one’s status over another. Or be a little petty. However,if he was to ever bring forth discussion of the treatment of slaves in themagisterium, he needed Tellene on side. She was old blood – something that carriedgreat weight in a nation stained red. Her support would be invaluable. Despitehis better judgement, he had little choice but to attend whatever she deignedto organise. If he did not establish an alliance now, someone else wouldinevitably beat him to it. It was not something he could afford.
Sighing softly, he pushed himself to hisfeet, chair sliding out behind him along the soft carpet. Moving to thefloor-length mirror, Dorian took a moment to adjust his attire, tugging hisrobe slightly, reasserting the perfectly effortless flow required of his cloak.He would not be wearing his insignia of office this time. Not if he was toventure so far from the heart of the Magisterium. It would be interesting, hesupposed. He had yet to visit the harbour since his magnificent return toTevinter. It held a rather significant number of fond memories.
All he hoped was that the meeting would gosmoothly, and those memories would not be replaced by something comparablydark.
Thank you for the prompt (and the nonny who also sent this one)
Pavellan. Dorian Pavus x Varlen Lavellan. Set Post-Trespasser. (720 words, some under the cut)
“No one’s watching. We totally could.”
“No, amatus. And, for the record, there are plenty of people watching. This is hardly an appropriate time.”
“C’mon… Just a quick one?” Varlen glanced across at Dorian, who was doing his best to appear amiable despite Varlen’s pestering. He was smiling, waving with grand yet restrained regality. A crowd of people milled about below the balcony, out for some celebration or feast day or… something. Rather shamefully, Varlen had stopped listening earlier when Dorian had explained the significance of the event. He had been far too distracted by the magnificence of his formal robes, a deep crimson, adorned with sharp, intricate lines of gold and silver that fell in a overlapping geometric pattern. It flowed all the way to the floor, the cloth whispering against the stone whenever he walked or turned.
“Busy, Varlen…” Dorian said, smiling throughout the response, barely moving his lips.
“You could pretend you were turning to cough? Or dropped something?” Varlen suggested helpfully. Dorian just snorted and rolled his eyes, although Varlen noted with a tinge of pride that his cheeks had flushed slightly at the audacity of his proposal.
“Read my lips, amatus: no.”
Varlen sighed, deflating a little, but opted to let it go. Dorian was right, after all, and it wasn’t his fault he looked so damn good in that outfit. Then again, maybe it was. Can a man be blamed for his bone structure?
After a moment’s consideration, Varlen decided that probably wasn’t very fair. So he behaved, falling into parade rest behind Dorian, arms clasped behind his back, legs shoulder-width apart. The least he could do was look the part of bodyguard. That was the gimmick, after all.
As if surprised by Varlen’s easy acceptance, Dorian turned, eyebrow raised curiously, hand still waving despite his attention being elsewhere. “What, that’s it? No pouting? No we never have any fun anymore?”
Hello ! For the kissy sentence starters : “ read my lips, no. ” for Varlen and Dorian pretty please ? :)
Thank you for the prompt (and the nonny who also sent this one)
Pavellan. Dorian Pavus x Varlen Lavellan. Set Post-Trespasser. (720 words, some under the cut)
“No one’s watching. We totally could.”
“No, amatus. And, for the record, there are plenty of people watching. This is hardly an appropriate time.”
“C’mon... Just a quick one?” Varlen glanced across at Dorian, who was doing his best to appear amiable despite Varlen’s pestering. He was smiling, waving with grand yet restrained regality. A crowd of people milled about below the balcony, out for some celebration or feast day or... something. Rather shamefully, Varlen had stopped listening earlier when Dorian had explained the significance of the event. He had been far too distracted by the magnificence of his formal robes, a deep crimson, adorned with sharp, intricate lines of gold and silver that fell in a overlapping geometric pattern. It flowed all the way to the floor, the cloth whispering against the stone whenever he walked or turned.
“Busy, Varlen...” Dorian said, smiling throughout the response, barely moving his lips.
“You could pretend you were turning to cough? Or dropped something?” Varlen suggested helpfully. Dorian just snorted and rolled his eyes, although Varlen noted with a tinge of pride that his cheeks had flushed slightly at the audacity of his proposal.
“Read my lips, amatus: no.”
Varlen sighed, deflating a little, but opted to let it go. Dorian was right, after all, and it wasn’t his fault he looked so damn good in that outfit. Then again, maybe it was. Can a man be blamed for his bone structure?
After a moment’s consideration, Varlen decided that probably wasn’t very fair. So he behaved, falling into parade rest behind Dorian, arms clasped behind his back, legs shoulder-width apart. The least he could do was look the part of bodyguard. That was the gimmick, after all.
As if surprised by Varlen’s easy acceptance, Dorian turned, eyebrow raised curiously, hand still waving despite his attention being elsewhere. “What, that’s it? No pouting? No we never have any fun anymore?”
Angsty Sentence Starter: "You should leave. Now.” >8Db
So I am SLOWLY working my way back through my ancient catalogue of prompts!
Here we have Dorian x Varlen, set post-Trespasser.
(~1000 words, mostly under the cut
“You shouldleave. Now.”
Varlen hesitated,suddenly acutely aware of the way his heart thumped deep inside his chest. Notthe kind of rapid beating that accompanied excitement, as he had expected, but alow and cavernous thrum. It resonated in the bones of his ribcage and pulsed at the back of his throat. It made the rest of the world suddenly seem very small.Very silent.
“Dorian…?” Varlen said as he hovered by the open window, mingling with the cool draft of the Tevinternight. His hair drifted gently around his face, the few strands lifted by the gentle wind as wispy and fine as spun silver.
The magister barelyacknowledged the faltering murmur of his name. The only sign that he had heardit was in the way his back stiffened with a kind of affronted dignity. When hespoke, it was with a voice that was hard around the edges. Burnt to a crisp.
“Was I, at any point, unclear?” Dorian turned sharply andVarlen shrunk away from the white-hot anger that smouldered in his eyes. “Ispecifically told you not to come here.Kaffas, Varlen! Why must you never listen?!”
The way Dorian practicallyspat the words left Varlen with what felt like a mouthful of glass, bitingand painful. It hurt to swallow. It hurt to breathe. A part of him screamed at him to run. Argued that maybe Dorian, in his blinding fury, would mistakethis whole episode for a cruel dream if he’d just hurry up and leave. That, when next they met, Dorian would forgivehim, or perhaps fail to bring it up at all. That he would catch Varlen’s eye from across a street, light his heart on fire, and draw him in with the same warmth,the same love, that had dripped fromhis tongue every night at Skyhold.
Creators, he hadmissed him.
Now, standing there,so achingly close that he could smell the spice and wine on his breath, Varlenrealised he still did. That he still felt very far away.
“Please, don’t ask me to go.” Varlen’s voice was barely more than a whisper. It sounded so small andinsignificant, compared to the way Dorian’s had filled the room to its furthestcorners. “I know this isn’t what you wanted…”
“What I wanted?” Dorian repeated incredulously, stressingthe word through clenched teeth. His hands shook at his sides. “Fasta vass, you know full well what Iwanted! It isn’t safe for you here. If you are seen with me by even the most mule-brainedstable boy, you could be in seriousdanger.” Without further ado he stalked over, robes billowing out behind him, and seized Varlen by the upper arm. Before Varlen could even protestor fight back, Dorian dragged him roughly away from the window, drawing thecurtains shut with a snap of thick burgundy. Varlen reached up. Tried to loosen his vice-like grip. But Dorian suddenly turned to face him, his free hand now grabbing Varlen by his othershoulder.
“Why?” Dorian demanded, firing the word like an arrow. But there was something thattrailed behind it; a kind of waver, as though it had been shot from a poorly strungbow.
Varlen felt Dorian’sgrip tighten again on his shoulders and bit back a wince. Despite hiseffort to hide his discomfort, a spark flashed behind Dorian’s grey eyes and heloosened his grip, breathing hard through his nose. His gaze dropped fromVarlen’s.
Varlen knew it was nowor never. He knew he had tospeak.
“Dorian…” he beganslowly, and reached up, wrapping his hand around one of Dorian’s shakingwrists. “Please, I…” The words stuckin Varlen’s throat, and he cleared it thickly. “I tried. Creators, I really did. To stay behind. To wait at Skyhold.”
Like a proud oakcaught amidst a flooding river, something in Dorian seemed to give way. To crack. His griploosened again, and Varlen was able to move one of Dorian’s hands off hisshoulder and clasp it gently. It shook, so Varlen held it a little tighter. Drewit a little closer to his chest, where his heart continued to hammer out thesteady rhythm of his fear.
“I don’t know how ha…”Varlen swallowed, and old kind of self-consciousness bleeding into his words. “…if it was hard for you, too. But I couldn’ttake it anymore, knowing that you were here. Just… just waiting for the day someone tried to plunge a knife into your back.”
Quickly out of words,Varlen let them drift away, replacing their space with his shivering breaths.In and out. Shallow, as though they were ashamed of themselves. Ashamed of howmuch pain they were in.
Then, after a sharedsilence that was as hollow and heavy as a broken heart, Dorian moved.
The hand that remainedon Varlen’s shoulder slid down, wrapping around the elven man’s back, drawing him in. Hisother, held within Varlen’s, squeezed tight and drew back, guiding him to his chest. For a few slow, long moments, Varlen simply let himself beheld, numb with shock. He closed his eyes against the warmth. Listened to thebeat of Dorian’s heart through his dark robes. It still marched in timewith his own. The threat of hot tears welled up, but it wasn’t until Dorianspoke that they finally spilled over.
“I suppose it was foolish…”Dorian murmured, his voice no longer laced with hardness or bitter cold. “…possibly even selfish, to have asked it of you.”
Varlen clenched histeeth against the threat of sobs. Clawed them back possessively and scrabbled tohide them somewhere deep inside him. “Then why did you?”
Dorian leaned back slightly,his gaze gentle and warm, like a smouldering hearth. “I was afraid, amatus. You see…” he reached up, and gently brushed astrand of hair off Varlen’s face. Smoothed his thumb slowly across his wetcheek, subconsciously trailing the line of his vallaslin.
Then, he gave Varlen asmall smile. It hurt so badly, for all its softness.
“… I’d rather they plungea knife into my back than through my heart.”
Set post-trespasser. Dorian and Varlen are together in Tevinter for a time, but sometimes the smallest discoveries can call forth larger, hollow realisations. So, when Dorian finds a single grey hair, Varlen discovers there is more on his lover’s mind than simple appearances.
(Dorian Pavus x Varlen Lavellan, 2173 words) AO3 Link: [X]
Varlen sighed softly, arching his back and relishing the pleasant pull of his stomach muscles as he roused himself from a long night’s sleep. The darkness of the room was well-settled around him, the sun’s demanding rays blocked out by thick velvet curtains. If he allowed it, he could almost fool himself into thinking it was still night. That the ever-encroaching day wasn’t quite there yet, and he could spend just a few warm moments longer with…
… glancing across, Varlen noted with a pang of disappointment that Dorian was no longer lying beside him, all tousled hair and parted lips. Perfect in his looseness. Glorious as he crinkled his nose and breathed gently against the sheets.
Of course he would be up already.
He had been rising hours earlier than normal lately, and although Varlen had been aware of it, he had yet to catch him in the act. Either Dorian was extremely sly about it all, or Varlen was a heavier sleeper than he had led himself to believe.
“Dorian?” His voice was an intruder in the capacious room, dispersing in the air like steam off a hot tap. Varlen closed his mouth, suddenly acutely aware of himself, draped in silken sheets. They were deep burgundy, lavish in both shade and expense. Not for the first time, he felt alarmingly out of place. Tevinter was like a spurned lover – a part of it still tried to lure Varlen in with its relentless charm and warm demeanour. But beneath it all was a sharp danger, and the curling finger that beckoned him was born of spite. Waiting for the perfect moment to knock Varlen down from whatever cloud he might find himself on and remind him of everything he was not. He rejected the Imperium as much as it rejected him, but it was a somewhat imbalanced relationship. After all, Tevinter was a powerful nation, and he was just one man.
Title: Is This Thing On? (AO3 Link)Chapter 1: Are You “All Right”?
Word Count: 1983
Content Warnings: really lame puns, mild sexual references, contains Trespasser spoilers.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus / Varlen Lavellan (starting at Chapter 2)
Description: Set after Trespasser, Varlen Lavellan tries to adjust to life as it returns to 'normal' (whatever that means). However, doing so proves to be more difficult than he imagined, and he finds himself growing increasingly uneasy. It doesn't help that a certain Magister has yet to contact him either, leaving him wondering if he was even alive, and whether or not what they had was something more than a bit of fun to "pass the time".
Chapter 1 - Are You “All Right”?
"Thus far we still have had no reports regarding the Qunari forces. It is safe to assume they have made a full retreat - to nurse their wounds, most likely." Josephine's quill danced across the page, the flourishing marks poised as perfectly as the woman who conducted them. Those opal eyes glanced up quickly, sweeping across the room to acknowledge all four occupants; a diplomat to the core. Yet, they lingered the least on the Inquisitor, retreating swiftly to the safety of parchment and candlelight like a mouse to its den. As always, Varlen pretended to ignore it. Tried to trick himself into thinking it hadn’t happened. That it was all just in his head. It was getting harder.
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