#covered in blood only from petting his guard dog's soaking wet fur

[r0ttenb0gb0dy]

@simonrriley im tagging you in this bc its pure jeegan energy and i kind of went off in the tags and i know you'll be here for it anyways HDJDKSKSKSKS

collection of posts for a very specific dynamic

[trashwarden]

Healing

Commissioned a fic from ticklishivories (twitter) some time ago and I love it. Do commission Kathy if you have a chance (:

Dorian Pavus x Vaxus Trevelyan (2229 words) | AO3

          For every heat spell that blasts through Dorian’s staff, a bit of the frost encroaching upon the bones in his fingers melts. A month disposing of demons and claiming Emprise du Lion for the Inquisition has him fondly reminiscing the sweltering summers of Tevinter, even the inescapable days where no amount of ice in a marble bath could soothe his cooked skin. He’s been spoiled by the magical elvhen dome that canopies Skyhold, which makes it a perpetual cool spring or fall during all times of the year. It’s a breeding ground for romantic idleness and daydreaming, his favorite pastimes– but none of that is possible here, with his ankles buried in snow and his socks soaked through in murky water, constantly swigging down lyrium mixed with herbal tinctures and his own tacky blood just to stave off an hour’s worth of soreness. Even he is starting to tire of hearing himself complain.

           “You’re rather fond of that spell today, aren’t you, darling?” Vaxus says over his shoulder, breathless as he swings his broadsword through the air one last time to shake off bits of crystalized red lyrium.

           Dorian brushes off the pet name, hoping Cassandra and Varric don’t notice the practiced casualty in the swing of his staff into a resting position, or the lack of necessity of it. “I thought everyone might appreciate my heated display in these trying times.”

           “I certainly appreciate it back here,” adds Varric. When the dwarf shakes his head like a wet dog, droplets of icy, melted snow diluted with someone’s (who knows) blood fly off from his ponytail in all directions. “To be honest, I’m hankering for a little more than a few lukewarm sparks from Sparkler. My trigger finger’s getting a bit slow and I’m not sure it’s because of overuse or the grape-like shade it turned a few hours ago.”

           “We can set up camp if you like,” Vaxus says. It’s off-putting watching him shake his spotless sword over the snow, as if some ghostly remnant of their battle might cling to it, but these enemies possess no flesh and blood to pierce nor any fat or fluid to stain a blade. Dorian’s magic seeps through their rocky exteriors and shatters them as if they were cheap glass figurines.

           Cassandra inspects her slightly dented shield, but otherwise it’s immaculate in the winter sunlight. “Camping here would not be reasonable; we’re exposed and positioned downwind from the mountain. Demons will most certainly attack us in the night.”

           “Right, so we should press on, then.”

           The four look at each other and nod, then press on.

           They’re eager to make it past the scene of the battle, but the longer they trudge through the snow the more they realize that the path is set on an incline, and the rock their feet find purchase under through all the piles of fresh powder is sleeted and slippery. After an hour of hiking, Dorian notices he’s no longer the only one stealing sly gasps for breath or pushing himself a little less; even their effervescent leader up front is lagging, falling at Cassandra’s side and keeping his head low. She mutters something to Vaxus that Dorian can’t quite catch. Vaxus shakes his head, waves her off. Cassandra seems to relent.

           But Dorian is keen to Vaxus’ tells. So he jogs to catch up with the two, and slips a hand over his shoulder.

           “Amatus,” he whispers, and he doesn’t miss the small second of delay that it takes for Vaxus to lift his head toward him. “I think we should stop. Enemies forbid, I think camping here might be–”

           “Tired, are we now,” he teases, grinning in the way that makes Dorian’s insides perform flighty dances, but the exhaustion lining his eyes turns it still rather quickly.

           “Yes, I’m tired.”

           At this point, their party has slowed to a complete stop. Cassandra moves to lean against a crevice not walled with ice and Varric waddles to a flat stone that he sits himself upon with a long, appreciative groan. But Vaxus makes no move to relax, standing straight with his hand on his hip as he faces Dorian, so Dorian does the same, crossing his arms over his chest.

           “I’m tired,” he repeats. “We’re all tired.” Vaxus is on the defensive, his hand tightening on his hip, but Dorian’s right, as always, the flash of fatigue that fills Vaxus’ eyes as he spoke the word ‘all’ not missed in the slightest. He speaks gently, embarrassed that they have an audience for something as silly as this. “We’ve been scouting at the point for hours. The sun is well over our heads. Let’s rest, shall we, Amatus?” He plays on the delicate, slightly guilt-impelling tone, maybe even pouting a bit. “Come now. For me.”

           It works, slowly; like snow melting from stone he seems to give to his exhaustion and unravel, his arms moving for Dorian and Dorian opening to be his pillar.

           They’ll camp here, enemies be damned. Just feeling the brush of Vaxus’ familiar heat makes him want to collapse into their bedroll.

           There’s a crash behind them then; before Vaxus’ hands can reach Dorian’s arms, the ringing sound of Cassandra’s sword being drawn turns them away from each other and behind at the men swathed in red and black running uphill towards their party. An explosion of battle cries erupts from all around, but one command booms like an avalanche in Dorian’s brain.

           “Kill the warrior!”

           He’s barely able to prepare his enchantment before Vaxus is barreling past him, smashing sword-first into the frontline of corrupt soldiers. His barrier doesn’t reach him in time; instead it covers all of them but Vaxus, who is left exposed at the head of an entire infantry of deranged, red-lyrium-corrupt Templars.

           Their slight advantage is that they’re uphill, and Vaxus and Cassandra can throw their weight into their attacks and push them back down the mountain, but they’re outnumbered four to fourteen at least. He can only cast so many spells at a time; their earlier battle had sapped a good portion of his mana and they had no lyrium potions left. The moment that energy bursts from his staff and into the atmosphere or the enemy’s body, he’s firing again and again until the spirits in his blood are so drained that he can hardly breathe. Varric is at his flank, shooting arrows that cut through the air past his ear. Cassandra is in front of them, guarding from the soldiers that leak past Vaxus’ barrage. The attackers split in half– one division for Varric, then Cassandra and Dorian, and the other all on Vaxus.

           He can only watch as Vaxus takes on seven men on his own. He can’t break away to run to his Amatus’ side. Cassandra is overwhelmed protecting him and Varric, leaving Vaxus’ back exposed. The second his mana replenishes he throws shield after shield up for him, hoping that Varric and Cassandra forgive his leanings, just this once.

           His ears are ringing. He hears the swish of his staff through the air, his breath filling up his dry throat, but nothing else.

           But then there’s a shout, like thunder striking in his head. It stops him cold. The build of his next spell dies as his power fades.

           Dorian’s heard it once before– in the middle of the night, a terror overcoming him within the safety of the Herald’s fur sheets as he’s bolted awake by the cry from beside him. The room glowed a sickly green as Vaxus curled on his side and clutched his pulsing left hand, and when Dorian touched his back it was tacky with sweat. It took minutes of gentle coaxing, but when Vaxus had finally fallen asleep in his arms, it was fitful. Dorian could not follow him, the sound of his cry of agony an echoing dread in his ears.

           He can do nothing. He watches, a helpless stake in the ground, as the last standing Templar goes down with their sword slipping with a wet squelch out of Vaxus’ ribcage.

           Vaxus stays upright. He looks out at the bodies he’s strewn in a bloody halo around him, and sheathes his sword.

           Dorian thinks he’s going to turn around. Before he can move an inch, Vaxus collapses. The snow plumes around him like smoke.

           Dorian faces the last corrupt shoulder in his path and uses all of his remaining reserves of magic to set upon them a conflagration that burns a bright crimson into the sky. When the bodies are ablaze, crystals of lyrium as dark as blood shattered across the snow into thousands of shards, Dorian lets his staff fall from his hand and runs to him.

           He doesn’t remember much from the next sequence of events. His mana had been drained so completely that he gazes upon Vaxus’ form beneath him in a fogged daze. Instinct draws his hand down to the exposed area of chainmail that’s hot and wet with blood. Vaxus is gasping, his neck red and strained.

           “It’ll be…it’ll alright…”

           He’s not sure who said it, but he chooses to believe it, for now. Dorian tries to reach his eyes, smile for him, but Vaxus is looking up and far, far away.

           The last droplets of energy in his body pool into the wound, all of his self, all of his being. As soon as he feels the flow of blood stoppered, he loses his remaining grip on his consciousness.

           Flickers of awareness slip in and out of his grasp, but he only clings to a few things; the warm solidity of Varric’s shoulder, the cool, collected affirmation of Cassandra’s voice. He’s safe– they’re safe.

           What he knows next is the soft length of his bedroll and the familiar blank, low roof of his tent. It’s dark and quiet– for a hair’s breadth of a second he’s sure he’s dreaming. He takes account of his extremities, one by one processing the movement of the breath in his lungs, the blood under his skin and how it moves, twitching his fingers and toes under the blanket. Yes, he’s been given a healing remedy, but the remnants of the battle echo in the throbbing aches of his muscles, in the sour taste on his tongue. He sits up slowly, wincing.

           “Age does not befit us well, it seems.”

           The voice beside him is burdened. Dorian seeks it out in the darkness, refusing to let the worry find him first. His hand rests upon a solid, bare chest. “Please, Amatus. You know age cannot touch this perfect specimen.”

           Vaxus laughs weakly. “Are you referring to me or yourself?”

           Dorian chooses not to answer. Instead, his hand carefully wanders down, sliding across his warm skin to come in contact with a bandage where a life-threatening wound should be. Vaxus’ breath catches in his throat.

           “Careful…”

           “Yes,” Dorian whispers. It was kind of their friends to do this for them; not just clean and bandage their injuries, but place them together in their tent so that the moment they woke, they’d be in each others arms. He couldn’t imagine an action more healing. Dorian exhales, his eyes slipping shut and allowing the magic to pour from his fingertips, knowing it’s reached him when Vaxus gasps and then sighs as if dipping into a steaming hot bath. As it floods through his veins, seeking out more hidden wounds, Vaxus’ large hand comes to rest over Dorian’s.

           Their eyes meet. His seem to shine, and somehow Dorian can see them perfectly in the darkness of the tent, how they crinkle tiredly when his mouth curves at one corner. Not taking his hand away from his bandage, Dorian bends down and presses his lips firmly to Vaxus’. Vaxus sighs, squeezing Dorian’s hand and bringing his other up to thread in the hair at the back of his head.

           It’s good. Dry, but so soft, and filled with the warm assurance that they’re touching with the majority of their blood inside their bodies and their spirits intact and whole. Dorian sighs happily, and delights in the soft tug at his hair, one of Vaxus’ small cues. If he were not exhausted as he was, did not feel the weight of his bones, he’d push further, allow their kiss to deepen, but he controls himself and reminds Vaxus of his state when he places the smallest bit of pressure on the bandage. Vaxus hisses quietly. Dorian breaks the kiss, pulling off in a sedate haze.            “You’re cruel,” Vaxus breathes, and Dorian’s hand comes up to brush across his sweaty forehead, relishing in the way his eyes flutter.

           “No,” he replies quietly. He leans down enough so that their noses touch, just barely, his heart aching. “It is you who is cruel.”

           He knows Vaxus doesn’t understand, wouldn’t. Or maybe he does, but regardless he says nothing, instead embracing Dorian against his uninjured side and allowing him to use his shoulder as a pillow.

           He’s had lovers leave him. They made it seem so easy. But Vaxus is different, in that tomorrow and forever seem the same. The how or why of it has changed, and with it comes a slow, sinking desperation, a quicksand of anxiety. Imagining what could’ve happened today is enough. It would crush him completely.

           “Your thoughts are keeping me awake, Dorian,” Vaxus says softly into the dark. Dorian tenses, but Vaxus doesn’t let him stay that way; his hand rubs up and down his arm, soothed like a child.

           “Sleep. Stay with me, in this moment.”

           It works. He hears the slow, even breathing of his Amatus, the soft flutter of his pulse under his chest. His warm, warm skin, his rich and earthy scent. Dorian sighs.

           He sleeps.