#oc - tristan trevelyan

[invinciblerodent]

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❌Tagging "datv spoilers" for Dragon Age: The Veilguard until the end of the year!❌

Fic:

AO3 page (as of jan 2024, mostly old Dragon Age and Mass Effect fics- this is to be updated)

Ficlet on immortal elven souls and vampiric immortality (BG3, Astarion/Iona)

"Prayer of an unknown cleric" (BG3, Gale/Arvid)

Warden Tristan of the Grey - OC backstory snippet (DA:TV)

Verbena of the Shadow Dragons - OC backstory snippet (DA:TV)

Selected love letters (DA:I, Dorian/Ray)

Characters:

Baldur's Gate 3

Arvid Trygg (he/him, 54)

"Gold dwarf" cleric of Tempus

Soldier background

❤️: Gale Dekarios

Playlist 🎶

Summary:

Note written by Gemria Bozzahr, 1438 DR, found pinned to the swaddling of a corpse-blue, wailing infant boy: "If you've any care for the weak, please find one who may care for him. I cannot face my family as mother to a half-breed. May he find grace in the glory of your god, and let him bear the name 'Arvid', after the father he may never know."

A bastard son born from but one night shared by a trader's daughter and a handsome duergar soldier, Arvid was raised by clerics of Tempus in a small and insignificant monastery/fortress, in a small and insignificant town close to Neverwinter. Now, it was unusual for Tempurans to take in urchins like that, but the boy, while unusual in his appearance and meek in his nature, proved a quick study, and a rare talent at healing. Which, with his quiet, mellow (and soon, not even quite so anxious!) personality, made him a favored addition to the "mercenary" excursions of the warrior-priests: and so, hitting the ground running, Arvid learned to fight in the very melting pot of battle.

With body and spirit molded by the Foehammer's teaching, he took his Acolyte vows shortly after his 16th spring, and became a fully fledged cleric of the Faith much younger than most. And as time passed slowly (and with... only a regular amount of constant bloodshed), he made his way to the rank of Direhar (guardian-priest). It was at 53 that he was called to Baldur's Gate: partly to replace the sole healer of the city's monastery who had perished (naturally in battle), and partly at the urging of his Warlyon (high priest), as an opportunity for him to eventually, maybe, even head his own congregation.

Of course, the mind flayers had different plans.

After merely a year of trying to establish a foothold in the city with... middling-to-poor success, Arvid was yanked from the city streets while trying to usher as many of those fleeing into the protection of the temple as possible. Fat load of good playing the hero did for him. (But to be fair, that's... kind of his theme.)

Iona Raedir (she/her, 61)

High elf sorcerer (draconic ancestry, red)

Guild Artisan background (jeweler/trader)

❤️: Astarion Ancunín

Playlist 🎶

Summary:

"Don't ask, kitten, and I won't lie."

Once dutiful daughter, once devoted wife, always a secret sorceress. Iona lived most of her life in a settlement by the name of Puremount's Hollow, among the so-called 'Emissaries of the Immaculate': a radical offshoot of the Ilmaterian church, one that views all magic as the domain befitting solely the gods, and arcane casters, abhorrent thieves of divine power. So, with the magic of ancient dragons thrumming in her veins, that... was sort of a problem.

To her very good excuse, neither did she join of her own accord, nor did she know she commanded such powers at the time. She was only 11 years old, after all.

But, one of the things elves do best, is wait. So that's what she did, and she played her part expertly: she and her beloved father lived their life in accordance with human traditions, he took a second wife (we don't talk about the first, it's too painful), she married the first boy who asked her (Herric Birchlight- a nice boy, if rough around the edges), and kept her facade (though loveless and rote, minor issue) impeccable, while ignoring her magic as it grew and yearned to be used. For over 30 long years, she kept playing her part. But even the best liars must eventually slip- or be made to slip, more accurately.

Uncovered as an "abominable thief" of divine power, a "pretender", a "fucking witch" and "magespawn" (all Herric's lovely words about the woman he had once called "wife" and "love"), Iona was forced to flee the compound, and took the burning of bridges behind her quite literally, taking little more than the clothes on her back and that brand new scar on her face.

She was snatched less than a day after she had finally arrived to Baldur's Gate, penniless, exhausted, and alone- and for all intents and purposes, she can't quite shake the feeling that this really might have been a better outcome than many of the possible alternatives.

Petyr Wildbrook (he/him, 45)

Wood half-elf ranger/rogue

Outlander background

❤️: Shadowheart, Halsin Silverbough

Playlist 🎶

Summary:

Raised among druids of the Circle of the Shepherd, Petyr waited quite a bit longer than he should have had to for his magic to show itself. And, well, it... simply never did. Brother, cousins (gods, so many cousins), friends, all inducted into the druidic arts before he could as much as conjure a single goodberry.

So, partly at the urging of his mothers and partly out of spite, Petyr took to trying to learn all he could about the wild- on his own, through sheer trial and error if need be. At 20, he gathered what meager belongings he could call his own (and a big pack of gifts from his worried, but oddly relieved family), and set out to find his luck wherever it may guide him.

Though it wasn't easy, or painless, or even smart by any stretch of the imagination, he fell into the role of a ranger and forester, and made a living as a hunter of monsters and big game, and a silent keeper of his little patch of woods: a lone watcher, and reclusive woodsman. He had always enjoyed the company of those who expect no social niceties from him anyway.

Turns out, the exception to that particular rule is the silent, squirming passenger of a tadpole behind the eyeball. And, yeah, so maybe even a self-identified utter bitch of a man is capable of being a "hero", if you stretch the meaning of the word far enough.

"Mara" (she/her; ???)

Lolth-sworn drow monk

Dark Urge

❤️: Karlach Cliffgate

Playlist 🎶

Summary:

She is three days old, and all she knows is murder.

But she's... nice. No, I promise. Or at least, she's... she's trying her best.

Dragon Age

The Veilguard

Verbena "Ver" Mercar (she/her, 32)

Human (Tevinter), Shadow Dragon warrior

❤️: Davrin

Playlist 🎶

Summary: TBD

"Tanner" Laidir (she/her, late 30's)

Dwarf (Orzammar), Lords of Fortune rogue

❤️: Lace Harding

Playlist 🎶 (WIP)

Summary: TBD

Tristan Thorne (he/him, 41)

Human (Ferelden/Orlais), Grey Warden warrior

❤️: Emmrich Volkarin

Playlist 🎶 (WIP)

Summary: TBD

Coris de Riva (she/her, early 30's)

Dwarf (Antiva), Antivan Crow rogue

❤️: Lucanis Dellamorte

Playlist 🎶 (WIP)

Summary: TBD

Marcus Ingellvar (he/him nonbinary, 25)

Human (Nevarra), Mourn Watch mage

❤️: Bellara Lutare

Playlist 🎶 (WIP)

Summary: TBD

Syl Aldwir (she/her, 27)

Elf (Tevinter), Veil Jumper rogue

❤️: Neve Gallus

Playlist 🎶 (WIP)

Summary: TBD

Origins

Aren Lorna "Arie" Aeducan (she/her, DAO: 25, DAI: 36, DATV: 46)

"Canon" Warden-Commander

Noble dwarf, sword and board warrior (Berserker+Champion)

❤️: Leliana (softened, Divine)

Aesthetic

Summary:

Aren Lorna Aeducan is a woman forged in fire through and through. Bearing the name- and donning the armor of her late grandmother, she quickly proved herself to be as steadfast and politically shrewd as her namesake.

As she was bred and born a leader and thus grew up an unintentional rival to her elder brother, she is generally proud and poised, unapologetic in her way of carrying herself, and assertive in her opinions which, while driven by a desire to do and be good, are quick to take backseat to a strong emotional motivation- She is as dedicated and passionate in love as she is in duty.

While her assertiveness may make her come off as harsh, stubborn, she is nonetheless essentially benevolent, mindful and supportive of emotions and wants of those around her- keeping people’s best interests at heart, she is diplomatic and ambitious, occasionally sarcastic, with strong convictions of what is right and just, which she intends to enforce and uphold even if that means resorting to less than legal measures. The end, in her eyes, sanctifies the means, even if that end is just the survival of one more person, be it others or herself.

The main conflicts of her character throughout the story are the choices that force her to pick between her compassion and her desire for vindication, and the choice dictated by her royal upbringing in grossly homophobic Orzammar conflicting with her later-life realization of her own bisexuality, with which she grapples until eventually she allows herself to fall in love with Leliana.

While trying to avoid facing her own emotions whenever possible, for the first chunk of the game, she is almost singularly obsessed with the idea of revenge, and until Bhelen’s eventual death at her hands, her personal vendetta takes priority even over the establishment of a stable dynasty that might be best for Orzammar in the wake of the Blight. That anger and defiance that resides in her is eventually placated, and it is only once the faith of Ferelden and Thedas no longer rests on her shoulders that she mellows out, turning from the commander into herself.

Vogar Brosca (he/him, DAO: 22, DAI: 33, DATV: 43)

Casteless dwarf, dual-wielding warrior (Reaver)

❤️: Zevran

Non-canon Warden, but an unrelated Warden in my head regardless

Vogar Brosca is unequivocally what the Hero of Ferelden should not be- he is abrasive and selfish, almost completely illiterate, and easily the most cynical man Thedas has ever carried, in its belly or on its back.

He carries a lot of anger in him- a lot of envy and jealousy, as well as overall resentment towards most everyone willing to exploit him and people like him. As he is motivated mostly by spite and a drive to prove people wrong, he always strives to show an image of strength and confidence, even though many times he would rather hide under a rock and never again poke his head out- the man has turned “fake it till you make it” into a personal motto and intends to stick to it.

After an adolescence and early adulthood as a Carta grunt (during which he had to sell his sword arm and honor simply to stay alive), he keeps his loyalties fluid, and his morals where his money is; if it suits his fancy, he is prone to reasoning away any and all decisions he might make as reasonable and moral.

As little beyond his love for his sister and his friendship with Leske tied him to the city, he was quick to jump on the opportunity to abandon Orzammar in favor of the promise of an ability to be someone beyond a casteless thug, although he won’t deny that the idea of “pretty and easy Surface girls with knockers the size of my head” also contributed to the decision- the fact that later he happened to find love by the side of a very male assassin who had been sent for his head is but an amusing caprice of fate.

As the game progresses, he grows and changes rather quickly and dramatically- the responsibility of decision-making affects him pretty badly, but the rest of the party poses a whole new set of good and bad examples and influences on him. The surface, where people look at him and say “Ser” instead of spitting, will finally show him an angle of the world which he likes- a world in which his existence is at least acknowledged beyond him being an eyesore. He also manages to eventually overcome his deeply internalized homophobia with Zevran’s help, (come to terms with his now past but then obvious affection for Leske,) and learns to trust and allow people to get close to him.

Inquisition

Raymond "Ray" Percival Trevelyan (he/him, DAI: 24, DATV: 34, BG3: 55)

"Canon" Inquisitor, Inquisitor-as-Tav AU

Human

DA: sword and board warrior (Reaver)

BG3: fighter/Oath of Devotion paladin (noble background)

❤️: DAI- Dorian Pavus, BG3- Wyll Ravengard

Playlist 🎶

Aesthetic

Summary:

There's one thing that is to be said / about him in the years to come: A hero seldom lives to see / past the ending of their tale.

Raymond begins his story a naive, idealistic young man with a passion for the romantic, the sentimental, the dramatic, and the comedic. He is witty and bright, an educated and charming man, but as such, he is also impulsive and brash, immature, and emotional- his decisions are motivated mostly, if not only by his heart, and an almost comical sense of justice.

Inspired heavily as a young teen by the Tale of the Champion and the refugees' tales about the Hero of Ferelden, he aspires to be the great hero Hawke and Lady Aeducan were painted as- while fully aware of how unattainable that ideal might be, he nevertheless aims to become the generous and brave "Knight in Shining Armor" Thedas wants him to be, more or less successfully.

In the beginning of the story, he is deeply Andrastian and practices his religion frequently, but throughout the game, his faith is shaken. Initially, it is his firmly held belief that he is in fact Andraste’s chosen, but confirmation of the opposite at Adamant plants the doubt in his heart that later results in the abandonment of organized Andrastianism, and establishing a rather more lenient, personal relationship with religion.

Throughout the events of the game, as he is faced with more and more injustices and pointless loss of life, his initially neutral-positive views on mage freedom and elf rights quickly radicalize. While the realizations take away a lot of his naiveté and optimism, make him slightly jaded and more skeptical, ultimately he matures and grows as a person. He unlearns a lot of the toxic views he internalized growing up noble, and slowly, with the help of the friends and the love he finds in the Inquisition, he also learns to allow himself to be loved.

At the end, while tired and battered and suffering from moderate- to severe PTSD, the once-green-eared kid emerges a soldier and a man more or less worthy of his title as Inquisitor.

---

The BG3 AU is set roughly 30 years after the events of DAI. After a tumultuous youth of adventuring, ostensibly saving the world (which earned him the moniker "Inquisitor of the Dales"), and the loss of his sword arm in the process, Raymond had retired from heroics young, at merely 25 years of age. Upon the peaceful passing of his father (a minor, but old-money Baldurian baron in this reality), he quickly took to managing the family estate (reconciling a tenuous love with his estranged mother- we don't talk about the past much on that one), and settled in for two joyous decades of blissful domesticity by the side of the love of his life, Dorian.

Except fate has a way of throwing its doomed chosen at increasingly bigger problems, until one finally manages to kill them.

A handful of years pass between the assassination of his husband over blasted politics and his own abduction by mind flayers, and Ray, both dreading and strangely anticipating the adventure, falls back into the role of a leader and a hero like he would into a bad habit, though he is barely a shadow of his once-gregarious, larger-than-life hero self.

Maybe this time, throwing himself at a nigh-immortal god-monster will finally wind up killing him for good. And then, maybe he can finally rest.

Or not. Who knows. At least if he's lucky, fate will take a fucking leg this time.

Adela Cadash (she/her, DAI: 37, DA:TV: 47)

Surface-born dwarf (Marcher, Tantervale)

Archer rogue (Tempest)

❤️: The Iron Bull

Non-canon Inquisitor

Summary:

Adela Cadash is a woman with an undeniable talent for consciously putting herself into the wrong place at the wrong time. She’s cynical and efficient, energetic- not one to sit idly by and contemplate consequences, more often than not she leaps before she would look. She fixes mistakes as she goes, making a lifestyle out of risk and thrill-seeking, but regardless of what it is into which she’s throwing herself, she always gives off the impression that she is at least one step ahead, even -or especially- when that’s not true.

Perceptive and cunning, Adela is an expert at reading people and giving them who, and what they want her to be. She is flexible and adaptable, clever and shrewd, capable of morphing herself into whoever the situation requires her to be- from the principled dame, through the mother figure, to the commander of war, there is a personality in her arsenal that fits that role, while she keeps her true thoughts and feelings buried six feet under.

As for religion, Adela is mostly agnostic in her views. She is mostly neutral concerning the plight of mages- while she is mostly aware of the injustices, Tantervale's Circle never caused the kind of problems Kirkwall's did, and overall, she holds mostly the same views as Vivienne does- that magic is dangerous as fire is dangerous, and she's not about to let herself get burnt.

She has, however, a passion for the finer things in life- be it food, bathing, or love, she likes to make an event, a spectacle out of the mundane. Be it Orlesian opera, really nice shoes, disgustingly overpriced alcohol, or elaborate, kinky sex, she is not one for saving things for special occasions- to her, having lived most of her life in mortal danger, every day lived is a special occasion worthy of celebrating, and she lives life from one day to the next, barely thinking past tomorrow for it may never come.

She is, all in all, a professional survivor.

Harwen Lavellan (later on Harwen Montilyet- he (primarily)/they (incidentally), DAI: ~35, DATV: ~45)

Dalish hunter

Archer rogue (Assassin)

❤️: Josephine Montilyet

Non-canon Inquisitor

Summary:

Harwen is a no-nonsense, practical man- a calm and collected, rather quiet person whose every word is spoken with purpose.

Able to think coolly and logically even in the face of danger, Harwen is a born analyst and strategist. He’s prone to seeming emotionally detached in his decision-making and known to prioritize the purpose over the idea- Ultimately, he is a smart worker rather than a hard worker, with a remarkable talent for seeing the big picture without getting swallowed up in the details.

He is very pragmatic and equally introverted; a very private person and while not unfriendly, he is difficult to get to know and even more difficult to predict. Being perceptive and at times suspicious, he may come off as grumpy, coarse. That is, however, merely the surface- as a private person, he is deeply romantic, loyal, and works best as a member of a team. Having been trained as a Dalish hunter, he seems to have a gift for seeing the strengths and weaknesses of each of his companions, and working with- and around them with efficiency.

He is also an eerily fast learner- while as a Dalish elf, he has not had any formal education and is barely literate in human writing systems, he is remarkable at absorbing large amounts of information very quickly and applying it as the situation requires.

Regarding beliefs, Harwen is a traditionally wired mind with a modern twist- while conscious and critical of its flaws, he observes Dalish customs and honors the gods according to his clan’s practices, invoking Falon’din and Andruil before each battle. In this, he does not allow himself to be shaken- while he accepts that his people are not perfect, not by a longshot, he is nevertheless devout. As the story of the game progresses and he is forced to give up elements of his heritage, he only seems to cling tighter to the few parts to which he can.

In his spare time, he enjoys gardening, and he often whistles out of tune.

By Veilguard, he lives in Antiva as Josephine's husband, no longer wears his clan name, and is a father to one half-elven daughter by the name Valeria Montilyet (she looks human, and her father is often mistaken for merely her caretaker).

[shannaraisles]

Ulterior Motives - @artilaz

For the delightful @artilaz, who has been patient and truly inspiring to work with. Thank you so much, my lovely!

Ulterior Motives

Laughter rang through the clearing, two voices joined in shared amusement at some private joke that bit at his heart.

Tristan ... and Wyll. Enjoying time alone, together.

Gale paused in his foraging as a wave of bitterness swept through his heart. How had this happened again? How had he thought to find some love that would soothe and inspire him, only to have that prospective love ease away at the first sign of his, Gale’s, attachment to them? What had he done this time? Was he just impossible to grow close to, after so many years spent devoted to Mystra?

He stopped those thoughts firmly before they could spiral out of his control. No, he was not some new-formed pup with more eagerness than sense. This situation they had all found themselves in was one fraught with tension and no little danger, and there was no blame to be cast on those who sought to alleviate that tension with the comfort of finding a kindred soul among their companions. Wyll was a good man; he would treat Tristan well, show the young princeling the world and all its wonders with adventure and kindness and, above all else, love. But knowing that did not soothe the sting in his own heart as he contemplated the hopes he had held to be that guide and lover to Tristan Trevelyan, whose shy warmth and bold eyes had kindled feelings in the Gale Dekarios of old.

He sighed to himself, rising to his feet with his armful of herbs gathered from the shaded roots of the trees. Perhaps he was too old for Tristan. Perhaps he was too dour. Was he too talkative? Oh gods ... did he talk about Mystra too much? Tara had warned him that, if he ever met another love of his life, he should not mention his goddess too much. Did Tristan believe him still enamoured of Mystra? It would make sense. Who would take a risk with their heart on a man who could not, for the life of him, shut up about the woman who rejected him so thoroughly because he did not know when to quit?

There was a clue in there somewhere, he was sure. 

The murmur of the younger men’s voices reached him again, too distant to make out the words, and another laugh, this time solely from Tristan. The shy, awkward laugh that had wrapped itself around Gale’s heart with hope and joy. The laugh he had fooled himself into thinking belonged only to himself ...

“Pull yourself together, man,” he muttered, straightening his shoulders. “His heart is his own to give to whom he chooses. Who can blame him? It’s not much of a choice between a fine, handsome adventurer, and a washed up magician with a death sentence.”

Now, the thing to do would be to leave now and get back to the camp before the two men realised they were overheard or discovered. He would set to cooking the evening meal, and when everyone was settled, he would find a way to get Tristan alone and make sure the younger man knew that there were no hard feelings. 

Even if there were hard feelings, there was no need to hurt Tristan with them. He had already been through so much, fought so hard to just be accepted for who he was ... What right did Gale have to demand from him anything he was not wholly able to give? Gale, who had had everything handed to him and still managed to screw it up; did he even have the right to hope for the love of a man like Tristan, much less mourn when it did not come to pass?

But he had lingered too long; footsteps cracking over fallen twigs echoed into his mind, and he found himself looking up at the sight of Tristan and Wyll returning to the camp, retracing their steps along the same path he himself had chosen in foraging for herbs. The two men faltered in their stride, awkwardness flaring between all three as the silence stretched out. 

“Ah,” Wyll said finally, taking a prudent step away from Tristan’s side. “I will leave you both to what, I am sure, will be satisfying conversation.”

Gale watched as the warlock gave Tristan a look that seemed to hold stern yet affectionate meaning, as Tristan’s cheeks flushed just a little and his head ducked under the pointedness of that look. He didn’t watch Wyll walk away, his eyes returning to Tristan in the still forest silence that now enveloped them. 

A silence that lingered for too long, just as he had, stretching out the moments into seconds, into minutes, unwilling to break and have this be the last moment to share for themselves. 

Tristan raised a hand to his own neck, rubbing nervously as he opened his mouth. 

“Gale, I -”

“Please,” Gale interrupted, one hand rising to prevent those words as though by sheer will alone. “Don’t say it. It does not take a genius of any intellect to put the pieces together, and we both know I am somewhat overqualified to do that.”

“You don’t -”

“I wish you all the happiness in the world,” the wizard went on, not allowing the other man to speak, afraid that if Tristan were to say anything at all that he might embarrass himself further than he already had. “Wyll is a good man. He does not deserve you, but ... I venture to state that no one does. You are indescribable, Tristan. The one who earns your love is a lucky person indeed.” 

He sighed, unable to keep that one sigh of his disappointment from his little speech.

“I will trespass no further upon your emotions,” he promised, offering a firm nod as though to underline his intentions. “Happiness is not to be sniffed at, nor held back for the sake of another. Be happy, Tristan.”

What was that look on the younger man’s face now? Tristan was staring at him, azure eyes wide with ... disbelief? Incredulity? Pain? No, no, no, pain was the last thing Gale had wanted to give him. He’d thought that in stepping aside he would be seeing relief in Tristan’s eyes, perhaps even a smile on his handsome face. Not this near numbing uncertainty and wounded sweetness. 

“Are you ... breaking up with me?” Tristan finally said, the quiver in his voice tearing at the open wound in Gale’s.

“Sweet Mystra, no!” Gale lurched forward, one hand outstretched yet afraid to actually touch him. “No, I ... I thought you were ...” He gestured behind himself, along the trail Wyll had taken back to camp. “Are you and Wyll not lovers, then?”

Tristan stared a moment longer. Then incredulity gave way to laughter, relief, the warm sound Gale enjoyed so much employed now as almost a mockery to his confusion and upset. He must have shown that distress all too plainly, for Tristan was swift to swallow that laugh, reaching out to take Gale’s outstretched hand between his own. 

“Wyll is a dear friend,” he said, “but it is not Wyll I guard in battle, Gale. It is not Wyll’s company I seek out at every opportunity.”

“Yet the time you do seek with him is sought in private, away from others’ eyes,” Gale pointed out, perhaps a shade petulant in the wake of Tristan’s amusement. Hope was flaring in his chest, refusing to be swallowed by pragmatism no matter how hard he tried. 

“Well, he’s the only other person who knows how to dance the courtly dances,” Tristan said, and Gale felt a sudden sharp pang of idiocy threaten to stab him in his heart. Had he totally misread the situation? “You said you ... you said you liked to dance! And ... well ...” He let out a harsh sigh, more an expression of frustration than annoyance. “I am nowhere near good enough for this, yet.”

Gale felt a tug on his hand, his body lurching into a new position, shoulder to shoulder with Tristan, facing into the trees. Instinct drilled into him over many years of society gatherings drew his spine straight, raised his chin until he was looking into Tristan’s eyes, listening to the younger man count down to the first steps of a galliard, the energetic dance that Wyll seemed to prefer of an evening. Tristan’s hand belatedly caught hold of Gale’s as they began to move, feet flicking in time to a beat Gale knew by heart and Tristan seemed to hold somewhere in his head.

And Gale’s heart began to beat again.

There was little grace in Tristan’s movement, no practised elegance to smooth his steps. But the little frown between his brows as he focused fiercely on those steps, the mumble of his lips as he fought to keep both the beat and the steps in mind ... Gale could not help but melt. So much secrecy, so much misplaced hurt, simply because one of them wanted to give the other a surprise, and the other was too damned insecure to let him have his moments in private to deliver that surprise when he was ready. 

Yet for all his fierce concentration, his hands were sure and gentle as fingers gripped and twisted between Gale’s, each change of position and direction perfect as Gale could have wished for. Oh, he would have been laughed off the floor of any society ball in Waterdeep, but for Gale ... here and now, melting into the knowledge that Tristan’s ulterior motives had been entirely for his benefit, Gale could not imagine a more perfect dance than this. Even when toes were accidentally victimised by stray steps, or hands gripped tighter than necessary to prevent a fall, nothing could possibly have Gale’s heart soaring higher than the certainty that Tristan cared enough for him to learn something that so clearly did not come naturally. 

At the last stumble, he found himself laughing - not at, but with - hoping that the softness he could see in Tristan’s eyes was reflected in his own expression. For once, he did not want to be the wizard, but simply the man ... a man who was touched and moved, and needed to do something to prove his feelings now, once and for all. 

His fingers grazed Tristan’s jaw, a tender touch that wanted to convey so much more than just physical sweetness. 

“I am the greatest fool there ever was,” he admitted, wry humour quirking the corner of his smile as he drew the younger man’s brow to his own, inviting intimacy in the wake of something no one else had ever done for him. “Can you ever forgive me for my weakness?”

Tristan’s smile was audible even as Gale closed his eyes, feeling his lover’s hands find their resting place at his sides. 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he murmured. “And for all your foolishness, you are my fool ... at least, I hope you are.”

“Oh, I am.” Gale’s laugh was a mere ghost of sound, unwilling to break the comfort of this one, special moment for anything in the world. “I will never question your ulterior motives again.”

[featherypauldrons]

Find me on AO3 here for Dragon Age content featuring Anders, Alistair, Cullen, and more. Sometimes spicy, mostly gay. Various ships. Much of my work is 18+, so no minors. I don’t feel comfortable having anybody under 18 interact with me or my content in general anyway but I thought I’d make that clear.

My OCs:

Tristan Trevelyan (❤️ Cullen)

Tristan Amell (❤️ Alistair)

Mahanon Lavellan (❤️ Dorian)

Asharel Lavellan (❤️ The Iron Bull)

My Hawke is default Garrett Hawke (❤️ Anders) because I can’t bring myself to change a single hair on his head 😅

And here is me, because it has been a hot minute since I was last here. Now almost 8 years on testosterone, several mh diagnoses, and one top surgery later! :O

[artilaz]

Seeing some absolutely lovely fanart with an aged version of Gale in it earlier made me want to try to make a model for an older Tristan as well, and since I still only have FFXIV at my disposal, that's what I rolled with, as usual. Honestly, I absolutely love the result! I originally wanted to give him a bit less saturated hair, but it ended up making him look pale as a ghost, so I guess he gets to remain blond for another couple decades. He is getting some white strands though, they just don't seem to stand out very well.

I've mentioned it in other posts before, but I'll gladly do so again: Once he and Gale settle down in Waterdeep, he'll become a shipwright at the Waterdhavian docks, and I can absolutely see him doing that job until his body can't bear it anymore. And since shipwrighting is a branch of carpentry, I also gave him some clothes that can only be worn by carpenters in FFXIV. I think he looks amazing in the outfit, and now I can't wait for him and Gale to grow old together 💙💜

Not pictured in these images: Tara seething in the background over both of them having beards now 😂

[etdraconis]

Updated Muse List

Bold denotes primary/main muses, underlined denotes secondary muses, Italics denotes tertiary/low muse, * denotes request only

Dragon Age Canons:

Cremisius Aclassi

Anders

Zevran Arainai

Blackwall

Eleanor Cousland

Fergus Cousland

Fenris

Bethany Hawke

Carver Hawke

Nathaniel Howe

Thomas Howe

The Iron Bull

Anora Mac Tir

Loghain Mac Tir

Josephine Montilyet

Dorian Pavus

Cassandra Pentaghast

Cullen Rutherford

Varric Tethras

Alistair Theirin

Cailan Theirin

Maric Theirin

Dragon Age OCs:

Arden Aclassi

August Amell

Elizabeth Amell

Julian Amell

Oliver Amell

Rosalie Amell

Pyke Brosca

Elysia Caius

Amara Cousland

Brennon Cousland

Lauryl Cousland

Victoire Ducet

Callum Hawke

Kenton Hawke

Leanore Hawke

Hava Lavellan

Theron Mahariel

Kalva Sabrae

Alim Surana

Aurelia Tabris

Claire Trevelyan

Declan Trevelyan

Evelyn Trevelyan

Everett Trevelyan

Maxwell Trevelyan

Persephone Trevelyan

A Court of Thorns and Roses

Elain Archeron

Feyre Archeron

Nesta Archeron

Azriel

Cassian

Jurian

Kallias

Rhysand

Tarquin

Eris Vanserra

Lucien Vanserra

Bridgerton

Sophie Beckett

Benedict Bridgerton

Colin Bridgerton

Eloise Bridgerton

Francesca Bridgerton

Gregory Bridgerton

Hyacinth Bridgerton

Felicity Featherington

Penelope Featherington

Gareth St. Claire

Gwendolyn Sinclaire

Kendall Sinclaire

Alexander Thorne

Charlotte Thorne

Lillian Thorne

Sebastian Thorne

William Thorne

Crescent City

Aidas

Juniper Andromeda

Fury Axtar

Baxian Argos

Ariadne

Hunt Athalar

Lidia Cervos

Ruhn Danaan

Declan Emmet

Hypaxia Enador

Danika Fendyr

Tristan Flynn

Connor Holstrom

Ithan Holstrom

Tharion Ketos

Bryce Quinlan

Rigelus

The Empyrean Saga

Andarna

Jack Barlowe

Imogen Cardulo

Ridoc Gamlyn

Aaric Greycastle

Liam Mairi

Sloane Mairi

Rhiannon Matthias

Brennan Sorrengail

Lilith Sorrengail

Mira Sorrengail

Violet Sorrengail

Grishaverse

Kaz Brekker

The Darkling

Jesper Fahey

Inej Ghafa

Matthias Helvar

Fedyor Kaminsky

Tamar Kir-Bataar

David Kostyk

Nikolai Lantzov

Zoya Nazyalensky

Genya Safin

Alina Starkov

Wylan Van Eck

Tolya Yul-Bataar

Nina Zenik

Percy Jackson

Annabeth Chase

Nico Di Angelo

Jason Grace

Percy Jackson

Piper McLean

Will Solace

Leo Valdez

Throne of Glass

Aedion Ashryver*

Sam Cortland

Lysandra Ennar

Aelin Galathynius

Evalin Galathynius

Dorian Havilliard

Fenrys Moonbeam

Chaol Westfall

Rowan Whitethorn*

The Witcher

Jaskier

Geralt of Rivia

Yennifer of Vengerberg

Other Book Muses

Daniel Arlington V (Ninth House)

Aziraphale (Good Omens)

Crowley (Good Omens)

Alexander Clairemont-Diaz (Red, White, and Royal Blue)

Arthur Delacey (Gwen and Art Are Not in Love)

Galaxy Stern (Ninth House)

Greek Mythology

Aphrodite

Apollo

Ares

Aristeus

Artemis

Asclepius

Hades

Hera

Hermes

Patroclus

Persephone

Poseidon

Zeus

DnD/Fantasy OCs

Jalana Astorio (human warlock)

Tarquin Auglathia (sea-elf rogue)

Nedri Autumnblaze (half-orc ranger)

Azure (water genasi monk)

Anders Brightwood (human bard)

Caerlin (tiefling arcane trickster rogue)

Drake (Wild Hunt shifter ranger)

Elianis Galonodel (half-elf druid)

Naivara Galonodel (half-elf mastermind rogue)

Taron Galonodel (wood elf bard)

Rhys Le'Quella (eladrin wizard)

Makaria (tiefling paladin)

Reya (tiefling storm sorcerer)

Alwyn Sulian (sun elf paladin)

Auryn Sulian (sun elf fighter)

Cerys Sulian (sun elf celestial warlock)

Emrys Sulian (sun elf shadow magic sorcerer)

Cloak Timbers (gnome cleric)

Hollis Tremaine (human fighter)

Other/modern OCs

Destin Michaels (merman)

Novah Michaels (mermaid)

Cassian Sage (werewolf)

Sophie Sage (werewolf)

Reina Solace (werewolf)

Hazel Thatcher (werewolf)

Nicolai Voss (vampire)

[bitchesofostwick]

something to talk about

today’s OC kiss is for my love @jewishzevran and their jasper cadell! ellinor and i give you both a big smooch!

***

“Don’t look so happy to see me,” Jasper says sarcastically as he joins Ellinor on the balcony overlooking the ballroom. He holds a flute of champagne out to her, but she sighs and shakes her head.

“Am I so obvious?”

“Always.”

She’d sock him on the arm if she thought it would do any good. Or if she really had the heart to. But even the sight of her best friend doesn’t bring a smile to her face like it normally would. Instead, it only makes her more blue.

It’s her first public appearance since Tristan broke off their engagement. Though she’s seen Jasper since—he’s gotten quite good at climbing the trellis of the Trevelyan’s manor into her bedroom—she’s seen no one else other than her family. She’d been surprised at the invitation to begin with, but it’s more than likely her mother pulled a few strings to get her out in front of potential suitors again as soon as she could. Not for my sake, she thinks bitterly, only for the family name.

“Don’t you know I’m a stain on the family tree?” she jokes. She doesn’t have to point out to him that no one has come her way for a dance or a flirty conversation. A year ago nobility would have clawed at the chance to be seen with the Lady Ellinor Trevelyan; now, hardly anyone bats an eye at her. And when they do, it’s with hushed tones whispered into heavily bejeweled hands, side glances, scoffs.

Jasper chuckles. “So I’ve heard. It’s a shame. I sorely miss scaring off unwanted attention to you with my vulgarity and masculine aggression.”

“‘Masculine aggression,’” she snorts. “Is that what it was?”

“You didn’t seem to question it if it was. I caused a scene on your behalf on more than one occasion, and I remember you being quite grateful for it.”

She sighs wistfully. “I was.”

“In fact, I remember you expressing your unending gratitude by wrapping your lips around my—”

“Well, those days are over,” she interrupts him. “If this is my mother’s idea of bouncing back my reputation after being jilted by Tristan—”

“—may his cock wither—”

“The phrase is supposed to be ‘crops.’”

“I said what I said.”

“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, it’s clearly backfired. The high society of Ostwick is about as happy to see me as I am them.”

Jasper shrugs. “It’s a boring party anyway. Where’s the intrigue? The scandal?”

“She’s right here,” Ellinor says dully.

“If that’s so, you need to do a better job of causing drama. The most exciting thing to happen so far tonight is Messere Carrington getting a wine stain on his trousers. And he does that at every ball.”

She laughs at him. “So what do you suggest I do, Jas?”

“Really get them talking.” Without further ado, he pulls a small letter opener from his jacket, clinking it loudly against the side of the champagne flute.

Dear Maker…

“Everyone! Everyone, I’ve an important announcement to make.”

Quickly, the din in the hall begins to hush, and even the harpist stops playing.

Jasper looks at her and raises an eyebrow.

He’s giving me an out.

Instead she starts to laugh. Just quietly, just once, but the grin on her face is answer enough for him, and she nods. He winks at her. And carelessly, he throws the champagne aside, leans into her, and absolutely commits.

He kisses her passionately on the mouth, pulling her close by the waist, tugging at her hair, slipping his tongue between her lips, even going as far as to dip her near to the floor before pulling her back up again. The crowd around them gasp, whisper, grumble their distaste. And when he finally lets her go, she laughs.

After a moment, the harpist begins to play again, more quickly this time, and the chatter—albeit much more scandalized now—begins to resume, and the guests do their best to pretend whatever happened most certainly did not happen.

“You—” she giggles, poking Jasper in the chest. “Are going to be in so much trouble for that!”

Jasper laughs. “I told you. It was a boring party.”

[captainsquality]

more old dragon age crossposts, this time with my Trevelyan Herald, Tristan(and lots of josie too)

[in-arlathan]

The Most Troublesome Man In Thedas

A tribute to Tristan Trevelyan, the grumpy, surly and absolutely lovely Inquistior of @johaeryslavellan. Thank you for allowing me to draw your boy. I love him far too much. 🖤

[serphena]

once he trusts you there’s no getting rid of him

Theo & @lavellanhunter‘s Tristan :3

[shannaraisles]

The Trevelyan Siblings

Gisela

Date of Birth: 1st August, 9:05 Dragon

Position/Title: Knight-Commander

Face Claim: Katie McGrath

Florian

Date of Birth: 17th Cloudreach, 9:09 Dragon

Position/Title: Heir to the Bann of Ostwick; Baronet of Ansburg

Face Claim: Torrance Coombs

Alise

Date of Birth: 30th Harvestmere, 9:12 Dragon

Position/Title: Royal Companion (Mistress)

Face Claim: Anna Popplewell

Tristan

Date of Birth: 21st Kingsway, 9:16 Dragon

Position/Title: Lord/Herald/Inquisitor

Face Claim: Bradley James

Kathryn

Date of Birth: 21st Kingsway, 9:16 Dragon

Position/Title: Lady/Herald

Face Claim: Yael Grobglas

[freethemages]

So here is the new incarnation of Tristan Trevelyan :3 He’s not exactly like the OG but I’m happy with how close I got him, and how the mods have shaped up well. Still very much getting the hang of playing on PC lol, but definitely expect more screenshots and videos in the future!

Special thanks to my wonderful friends for making this possible! @cerisiacos​ @margesimpsonkin​ and @mlmsolas​ <3 I love you guys <3

[artilaz]

The Tav Ask Game

Tagged by: Nobody in particular, just saw it on some people's blogs and wanted to do it

Placeholder FFXIV screenshot until I can actually play the game

Name: Tristan Trevelyan

Nickname: No one has given him one so far

Height: Roughly 6'0 / 1.80 m

Gender: Transgender male

Orientation: Homosexual

Nationality/identity: He originates from a barely known kingdom named Cir'omdo which I pulled from an independent fantasy story I'm working on because I'm not savvy on D&D lore

Favourite fruit: Blueberries

Favourite season: Summer

Favourite flower: Forget-me-not

Coffee, tea or hot chocolate: Hot chocolate, but he usually prefers cold drinks over any of these

Avg hours of sleep: 7-8 if he can get it in, but if necessary, he can function on 4. A realistic average is probably 6

Dogs or cats: So far he's always liked dogs a little more, but recently, he's grown fonder of cats. Particularly winged ones

Dream trip: He can't shake the fantasy of visiting one of the underwater kingdoms you hear about in legends and fairytales, even though he knows it's unrealistic that he'll ever get to see them

Number of blankets: Normally just one. Two when it's very cold, but as many pillows as he can reasonably bring

Random fact: He can hold his breath for 10 minutes. He once used that skill to escape an assassination attempt, by jumping into a well and hiding under the surface

Tagging: Anyone! If you see this and you wanna do it, this is your sign!

[darlingrutherford]

@freethemages recently won first place in my giveaway and has been soooo patient with me as I took my sweet time on this fic for him. Thank you so much, lovely, for trusting me with your wonderful OC and the great idea you entrusted me with :) The fic is under the cut, and I’ll also be linking below for those of you who have Ao3 accounts and would like to read it there :) 

Comfort | Cross-posted on Ao3 | Tristan Trevelyan/Cullen Rutherford/Alistair Theirin| DA:I Post-Trespasser | Explicit - polyamory, comfort sex | 18+ only, please!

     Somewhere deep inside of him, Cullen had almost hoped the weather would have turned that day. Grey skies had been on the horizon that morning when he had awoken, but fair winds had kept the day less than stormy the entire afternoon. It was his fault that they were sparring in the first place. Cullen had suggested the Inquisitor and he work on his form, a way for Tristan to adjust to having just the one hand now to wield his staff. It had seemed like an honest enough suggestion at the time. Very quickly, however, Cullen was beginning to realize he had perhaps pushed the subject all too soon.

“Stop going easy on me. I can see it in your footing,” Tristan grumbled. Cullen shifted slightly at being caught, taking a step back as Tristan picked his staff up from the ground. 

“I'm not -”

“Don't lie to me, Cullen. I don't -” The mage sighed as he straightened, trying to tighten his grip on his staff so that it wouldn't slip from his hand this time. “I do not want special treatment just because you do not want to hurt me.”

“I am sorry,” Cullen sighed. He readied his stance, holding his sword and shield as he watched Tristan shift his foot forward. “I just thought, we should go slow at first, to -”

Cullen had little time to finish his thoughts. Frustration sparked in Tristan's eyes as the idea of starting slowly. He shifted forward, throwing a low blast of flame towards Cullen which was deflected by a downwards pivot of the commander’s shield. By the time Cullen had lowered his shield, Tristan was almost upon him, magic sparking from his staff as he dared Cullen to go easy on him now. Cullen almost chuckled; Tristan was tenacious, stubborn to a fault. It was one of the things he loved most about the Inquisitor. 

As the essence of a large fist began forming magically near Tristan, Cullen's feet moved quickly, allowing his shield to take the brunt of the punch as he shifted towards Tristan. The mage moved back quickly, tripping over his feet as Cullen thrust his sword underneath his boot to knock him off balance. Tristan managed to stick his footing, distracting Cullen with another spark of fire to increase their distance. As Cullen looked up from his shield and the flames faded away, he saw the beginning of a smirk curling at the corners of Tristan's lips. Tristan began pulling at his mana, readying his next attack. He began twirling his staff, bringing his left arm up to assist, forgetting for a moment everything he had lost. And then, his staff dropped to the ground.

Tristan stared at his staff in horror as it hit the dirt. How could he have forgotten? It was gone, clear as day. But it had felt as before - as if his fingers would have closed around the wood, spinning it with his right hand to conduct the magic needed for the spell. Tristan looked up when he realized everything was silent around him. Cullen stood there, just as far away as he had been before, as if waiting to see what Tristan would do, how he would react. And, there it was: the concern, the worry, as plain as day on Cullen's face. Tristan looked back down at his staff, frustration coursing through his veins. His eyes stung as they welled with tears. He reared his leg back before kicking it as hard as he could with a loud yell. It was all he could think to do in his anger, feeling it bubble up as Cullen placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Perhaps we should take a break?” Cullen suggested softly.

“Why?” Tristan choked through his tears. “Because you feel sorry for me? Because you don't think I can handle it?”

“Trist, that is not what I am saying,” Cullen sighed. “It's all right, we can work on it -”

“No, Cullen, it's not all right!” Tristan shouted. Cullen stopped in his tracks as Tristan jerked his shoulder from Cullen's grasp and stepped away. The growing concern on Cullen's face only made him feel worse by the minute. “I've lost my fucking hand and you won't stop coddling me about it!”

“I was only attempting to -”

“I can't do this right now. I need… I need to be alone right now.” Tristan picked up his staff, not quite meeting Cullen's eyes as he straightened. Cullen didn't try to stop him as he walked back to the main gates of Skyhold, leaving Cullen rubbing his neck in frustration. Cullen sighed in vexation as he felt the first drop of rain bounce off his nose.

“Little late, aren't we?” He mumbled.

     Cullen couldn't blame Tristan for his outburst earlier. The man had lost half of his arm, his dominant one at that. Cullen had hoped that the relief of no longer baring the Anchor would have been some comfort to the man he loved, but the comfort had been short lived. Three weeks wasn't enough time to adjust to having to fight differently, to relearn how to dress oneself, how to mount a horse, to write, not to mention the phantom pains that plagued the poor man… 

“Unless this is important, it can wait until tomorrow,” Cullen grumbled as he heard the door to his office open. He was standing at his desk, pouring over the many reports laid out in before him as he watched a cloaked figure enter his office and shut the door behind them. Cullen sighed in vexation, setting the vellum in his hand down as the person refused to leave. “Well? What is it?”

“I suppose it's only important if you want to keep up relations between the Inquisition and Ferelden.” Cullen's eyes shot up to look at the cloaked figure as the familiar, warm voice spoke. A hand pulled back the hood on the cloak, revealing the King of Ferelden himself, grinning like a young boy keeping a close secret.

“Alistair,” Cullen breathed in relief. He walked around his desk quickly to meet the man. “Maker, you couldn't have come at a better time.”

“I would have come sooner, but you know how advisors are.” Alistair scrunched his face in slight annoyance at the thought of it. Cullen chuckled as he greeted Alistair with a tight hug, allowing his hand to rest on the back of Alistair's head. He gave the man a heavy kiss, relieved to see him after so long, and just at the right time it seemed.

“You should see him right away, he hasn't been in the best state, understandably. If anything will cheer him up, it will be seeing you… How did you get in without the guards announcing you?”

“I know a thing or two about sneaking around…”

“I hate to bring reality crashing down around his Majesty, but, if I recall correctly how many times you were caught by the Sisters at the Chantry… You are terrible at sneaking, Alistair.”

“Fine. Leliana snuck me in,” Alistair admitted with a sigh. “I wrote to her before I left. Didn't want a big to-do when I arrived. I'm here for Tristan, not for any noble in any nearby vicinity to come bother me here just because they couldn't get a personal audience the last time they happened to be in Denerim.”

“That sounds… awfully specific.”

“Yes, well, it's happened every time I've been here,” Alistair mumbled. He paused, looking over Cullen's face for a moment. “Did you do something different to your hair?”

“It rained,” Cullen sighed. He swatted Alistair's hand away as the man tried to play with the few curly locks that had reclaimed sections of his hair.

“I could have you arrested for that, you know,” Alistair said as Cullen pushed past him to lead him to the main keep. “Hitting the King. My guards would be furious.”

“Does your detail even know you are here?” Cullen asked as he walked onto the rampart. He took a quick look around, noting that none of the king's usual company were stationed anywhere in the courtyard. 

“They know by now,” Alistair said as he pulled up his hood over his head to avoid being noticed. He walked closely at Cullen's side, their fingers barely brushing. “I'll be chastised by them by the time they get here. I may not be fantastic at sneaking anywhere else, but I know my way out of Denerim better than anyone.”

“The King, chastised by his own men?” Cullen chuckled. “I should like to see that.”

“If you want to see me punished, dear Commander, all you have to do is ask.”

Cullen chuckled nervously at Alistair's comment, clearing his throat as he felt the back of his neck burning with heat. The two of them walked through the throne room, meandering past soldiers coming to and from their posts. A few suspiciously eyed the cloaked figure as he made his way to the first of the Inquisitor's chamber doors, but none questioned them as Cullen opened the door himself and ushered him in. 

“Allow me to go up first,” Cullen suggested as they reached the second door. “To ensure he's alone. The last thing we want is our ambassador knowing you are here.”

“Good point,” Alistair said, keenly recalling the last time he had attempted to spend time with Tristan, only to be pulled away to some long meeting between Ambassador Montilyet and a handful of nobles from… Well, he hardly remembered fully now. As Cullen opened the door, Alistair followed him through, hanging at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the Inquisitor's chambers. Cullen glanced back to watch Alistair silently close the door, before heading up the stairs himself. 

The first thing to catch Cullen's eye was Tristan's staff. Whereas Cullen had always found it in its place near the bookcase any other time he had come up, he now found it lying on the floor, still covered in a light layer of dirt from their sparring earlier. Tristan was sitting at the edge of his bed, hunched over with his head in his hand. He lifted his head as the floor creaked under Cullen's boots, and Tristan's eyes only caught Cullen's for a moment before he averted his gaze from the commander's.

“Cullen, I'm not in the mood for this,” he grumbled as he wiped his eyes. His eyes were red, his face tired, and Cullen felt his heart tighten for him.

“I know earlier was difficult. But, I think I found something that may cheer you up,” Cullen said with a kind smile on his face.

“I don't need cheering up.”

“I suppose I could return to Ferelden, if now is a bad time.” 

Cullen couldn't help the way the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile as Tristan's head shot up to look towards the stairs at the sound of Alistair's voice. The moment the man's auburn hair and amber eyes came into view as he walked up the stairs, Tristan stood and began making his way across the room. Alistair met him halfway, taking Tristan into his arms tightly as Tristan flung his arms around his middle. The moment their bodies met, when Tristan felt Alistair's warmth and smelled his scent that he had missed so much, it was like a light had wrapped around him. Cullen had been incredibly supportive, had held him at night, put up with him through the worst of the last few weeks. But Alistair was the last piece of the puzzle that had been missing since losing his arm, and Tristan hadn't realized it until that moment. They were both there now, the two men he loved more than anything else in the world, and, for a moment, he felt whole.

Alistair tightened his hold on Tristan as he felt the man shudder in his arms. He brought his hand up to hold across the back of Tristan's neck, cradling him and supporting him as he felt the Inquisitor slump against him.

“I missed you,” Alistair spoke quietly into Tristan's ear, rocking ever so slightly side to side as Tristan shook while tears collected against Alistair's shirt. “Ferelden just isn't the same without my two loves with me.”

“I'm so glad you're here.” Tristan's voice shook as he cried. Maker, he had missed this man. Tristan tried to bring his left arm up to hold the back of Alistair's head the same, only to feel a jolt shake through his body as he remembered. He couldn't hold him like that anymore. Not with a hand gripping the man's back while his other ran fingers through Alistair's hair which had grown since the last time Tristan had seen him. Why couldn't he remember? Why did he keep forgetting? It was infuriating, his mind playing tricks on him just when he began to relax even the slightest. 

“Come here, love.” Alistair tugged Tristan gently, leading him to sit at the edge of his bed. Alistair's heart ached for Tristan as he watched the man slump over once he sat. 

“Don't tell me you came here to pity me, too.” Tristan mumbled through his tears as he caught a glimpse of the sadness on Alistair's face, how his eyes strayed towards the glaring change at his left arm. Alistair quickly brought his eyes back to Tristan's face, changing his expression to a kind, small smile that probably wasn't as convincing as he had hoped it to be.

“Pity? No, never,” Alistair said as he sat to the right of Tristan. He took Tristan's right hand, lacing his fingers with it. “But you can't blame me for worrying, Trist. I do love you, as does Cullen.”

“He's right,” Cullen said. He took a few steps towards them to sit on the other side of Tristan. “You must at least allow us a bit of worrying. It has nothing to do with pity. I think, deep down, you know that.”

“Besides, as King of Ferelden, I'm supposed to worry about my subjects. Some a little more than others,” Alistair teased.

“We're not in Ferelden, Alistair,” Tristan mumbled. Still, Alistair caught the quick flash of a quirk in the corner of Tristan's mouth at his joking, and that was all the encouragement Alistair needed to continue.

“No? Hm… I suppose you're right,” Alistair sighed. “Still… I do feel a strong need to right what is obviously wrong in this situation…”

“You can't fix this.”

“You're right, I can't. Not literally. But…” Alistair took his hand and trailed his fingers along Tristan's jaw. The feeling immediately drew Tristan towards him, and his chin eagerly followed Alistair's lead as he turned his face to look at him. “At least let me fix this moment.”

Tristan felt the world slow down around him as Alistair's eyes met his, then flickered slowly to his lips. Alistair slowly leaned towards him, and Tristan found himself pulled towards the man as if by some invisible force. It had always been the same between the three - he, and Alistair, and Cullen - brought together by some unknown force, and tempted time after time again to be roped together until none of them wanted to so much as budge from each other. Alistair's kiss was gentle and heavy at the same time. Tristan could almost feel the desperation behind it, Alistair's want to make everything better and take away his sadness. Tristan had been consumed with his own self pity and darkness for weeks, ever since he lost his forearm. He had rocked back and forth between wanting this kind of attention and despising it, but, Maker, if there was one person in the world he knew he couldn't deny, it was Alistair. 

Tristan sighed shakily against Alistair's lips, his body relaxing even further as he felt Cullen's hand on his shoulder as if signaling him that he was there. Tristan leaned back, pressing his back to Cullen's chest as Alistair chased his lips. Alistair's hands started at Tristan's chest, gripping and feeling what he had missed the few months he had been gone. He slowly slid them down, squeezing his hips, then trailed one down further to run heavily along the front of Tristan's trousers. Alistair gave Tristan one last kiss before pulling back, his eyes watching with a sparkle oh so familiar to Tristan as he felt Tristan's cock begin to stir beneath the fabric and the heavy touch of his palm. As Alistair began slowly undoing Tristan's belt, Cullen placed a hand along Tristan's jaw, turning his head so that he could brush his lips eagerly against his.

“I've rather missed this,” Alistair sighed with a grin as he watched Tristan and Cullen kiss. Tristan opened his eyes to look at Alistair, his cheeks flushing when he saw the devious look in Alistair's eyes as Cullen held the back of his head and denied his lips any reprieve from his. Tristan kept his eye on Alistair, watching as he slipped Tristan's trousers and smalls down. Alistair hummed approvingly as Tristan's cock sprung to attention. “It seems you've missed it as well.”

Tristan moaned his affirmative response against Cullen's lips. He could see the straining bulge against Alistair's trousers, his heart pounding in want as he recalled the last time Alistair had taken him with Cullen. 

“You wouldn't mind, if I…?” Alistair asked with a cheeky grin. “It's just, Cullen has you so much more often than I'm able to, and I do miss the feel of you so…”

“Maker, please,” Tristan moaned against Cullen’s lips at the thought of it. Cullen chuckled against his lips, trailing his hand down Tristan's chest as Alistair rose from the bed. Tristan whimpered as Cullen ran a finger along the shaft of him, then continued onward to press a finger gently between his cheeks. Cullen shifted as Alistair handed him a small bottle, pausing to apply the oil to his finger before slipping it back down again. Tristan shuddered, his hand clinging to Cullen's shoulder as the man slowly and gently pushed the tip of his finger against his hole, coaxing the skin to relax and stretch as Tristan listened to the sound of Alistair removing his belt and trousers. Cullen continued preparing Tristan, distracting him with heavy, purposeful kisses while Alistair slipped off his trousers. Alistair watched the two of them, stroking himself with an oil coated hand as Tristan's hips ever so slightly rocked against Cullen's hand while the tip of his cock glistened with precum. Cullen's finger was buried deep in him, curling against the inside of Tristan. 

“Maker, but I could watch you two all day,” Alistair sighed with a happy smile. Cullen grinned while he continued to stroke the inside of Tristan, holding his chin in place as he pulled back to look Tristan over. 

“As fond as I am of feeling our dear Inquisitor squirm, I must admit… I do miss just how loud you can get him to be, Alistair,” Cullen said. Tristan whimpered as he felt Cullen's finger slide from him. Alistair's hands were soon on Tristan's ankles, pulling his boots and trousers off fully before stepping between his legs. 

“You know my goal well,” Alistair responded with a cheeky grin that made Tristan's heart skip and his face flush. “Now, my dear… Allow me to demonstrate just how much I would do to see you smile.”

They made a good team, Alistair and Cullen. They had gotten used to a rhythm in the beginning, perfecting it over time, of one of them steadily and lovingly prepping Tristan for the other when he would be the target of their affections. Alistair knew when he first set out to Skyhold that this wouldn't be an easy time for Tristan, and he was prepared to do what he could to take his dear love’s mind off of it all. Alistair slid his hands along Tristan's thighs, lovingly squeezing as he leaned forward and captured his lips with his own. Tristan sighed against him, melding into the touch of Alistair and Cullen at the same time.

A sharp inhale of air was the first sound to leave Tristan as Alistair pressed the head of his cock to him. Alistair continued kissing him, affectionately devouring his lips as he gave Tristan plenty of time to adjust to his size. Cullen ran his fingers through Tristan's short hair at the top of his head, his own breath heavy as he watched the Inquisitor slowly yet surely take in Alistair. Cullen knew well by experience of his own what Alistair was capable of, that sweet stretch as his generous length filled and made the object of his affection feel completely whole. A ragged sigh left Alistair as he began slowly moving his hips, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as his lips curled into a lopsided grin at the ragged moan that crept from Tristan's throat. 

“How does that feel, my dear?” Alistair asked. He felt his heart warm as a clear grin grew on Tristan's face.

“Like the King of Ferelden is fucking me,” Tristan shakily laughed through his grin. Then, on a more serious note, he added, “Maker, Alistair, I… I missed this. You, and Cullen, the three of us…”

Tristan sighed loudly as Cullen's hand wrapped around his cock. His palm slid along it, delightfully oiled, squeezing as he brought it from base to tip. 

“Speaking of Cullen...” Alistair locked eyes with the commander, his gaze traveling over him as if in careful consideration, before a smirk flirted his features. “You seem to be wearing quite a bit more clothing than the rest of us. Tristan, be a dear and help relieve your sweet Commander of his pressing issue.”

Tristan turned his head to look down as Cullen shifted from behind him. Without thinking, Tristan brought his left arm forward, freezing in place as he was jolted back into reality when he realized he couldn't grab Cullen's belt with his missing hand. Alistair's hands gripped Tristan's thighs, jolting him out of his thoughts as he tugged him onto his back and commanded a gasp from Tristan’s throat as he jerked his hips towards the Inquisitor in time. Alistair's hand ran soothingly along his thigh, his hips gently thrusting as he smiled lovingly down at him. Tristan turned his head, looking up at Cullen as the man ran a hand through his hair. Cullen took Tristan's right hand in his, pulling it across his chest to his belt to help direct him. 

It was as if a weight had been lifted off of Tristan, something he had been reluctant to release before. Now, with the two of them there, both directing him and gazing at him with so much love even when he faltered, he suddenly felt the true strength of their support, of what it would feel like if he let them help him. Maker, he had no idea if he could allow himself to step outside his pain and stubbornness each and every time they wished to help, but for now, in this moment, with the exhaustion of his loss weighing so heavily on his shoulders, he welcomed it gladly.

Tristan began eagerly undoing Cullen's belt with his hand. His fingers were slow, struggling when he was so used to using two hands. The reach stretched at his shoulder, and he soon found himself gritting his teeth in concentration. A heavy breath left him as Alistair suddenly pulled out of him and rolled him to his side. Tristan gripped the middle of Cullen's shirt, moaning loudly as Alistair sunk back into him. Maker, it felt so good. Alistair's cock slid along the inside of him, rubbing along every good spot imaginable. Tristan began losing himself in the feel of it all, but the sound of Alistair clearing his throat quickly brought his attention back to him. 

“I believe you're forgetting your task, Trist,” Alistair teased. Tristan smiled as he heard Cullen chuckle above him.

“It seems you may be a bit distracting, Alistair,” Cullen said with a smirk. He looked back down at Tristan as he felt his hand begin once again at his belt. “Although, I can hardly blame him. You do demand quite a bit of attention everywhere you go.”

“If you're wondering when you'll get your turn, there's no need to feel jealous. I'm sure there's plenty of room in my busy schedule for you as well.” 

Cullen cleared his throat, flushing with a smile at Alistair's cheeky comment. It took a bit of finesse, but Tristan soon had Cullen’s belt unbuckled and trousers unlaced. As Tristan pulled down Cullen’s smalls to release his cock, he eagerly gripped it at the base with his hand before lifting his head to run his tongue along the crown of it. The groan that left Cullen made Tristan’s heart flip. Tristan had become quite proud over time at how he had perfected stroking Cullen just as the man loved, something he felt quite lost to him ever since losing his dominant hand. His two lovers doted on him so often, making his want to give back something quite strong within him, and he had been afraid to disappoint, frustrated to have to relearn at such a disadvantage. The way Cullen’s hand gripped at the back of Tristan’s head, the satisfied sounds of him sighing in pure bliss as Tristan tried to focus on him through his own pleasure, it wiped away any worry that had attached to his mind before. 

“Maker, but that is a lovely sight,” Alistair sighed with a smirk as he watched the two. Cullen was still stroking Tristan, matching Alistair’s slow and heavy thrusts as Tristan tried desperately to keep up, occasionally falling behind as his mind clouded with glee. “You two are quite beautiful with your faces all pink and flushed.”

Tristan moaned his response, unable to say much more with Cullen’s cock halfway in his mouth. Cullen opened his mouth to respond, but only a groaning gasp fell from his lips as Tristan swirled his tongue, a sudden sense of purpose surging in the Inquisitor’s chest as he decided to prove something to himself. Left hand be damned, Tristan thought. He had been at such a disadvantage the past three weeks, tired of constant failure as he tried to right everything that was now wrong in his life. He was going to make Cullen come before anyone else.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen gasped. Tristan had increased his grasp on Cullen’s cock, squeezing delightfully as he quickened the pace at which he stroked him. His mouth stayed on him, sucking and lapping at him with his tongue as Cullen’s own hand slowed as his mind became overwhelmed with the pleasure the Inquisitor was giving him. Alistair’s thrusting slowed slightly, his eyes sparkling and a smirk flirting his features as he watched Tristan stare up at Cullen from his side while the Commander’s grip on Tristan’s short hair tightened. Alistair could see the determination in his eyes, how he was determined to get Cullen quickly to his end. They could both see it on Cullen’s face - the tightening of his brown, how his mouth hung open while heavy, quick breaths left him as his hips gently rocked in time with Tristan’s hand - and, after a few minutes of careful and deliberate work, Cullen’s hand slid to the back of Tristan’s head, holding him in place as he gasped loudly while his cock pulsed and emptied into Tristan’s mouth. 

“Fuck,” Cullen gasped through ragged breaths. “I didn’t mean - I meant to… to last longer than that.”

Both Tristan and Alistair chuckled in time at Cullen’s flustered words. Tristan slowly popped Cullen out of his mouth, sliding his hand to squeeze the man’s thigh reassuringly. 

“You’re always so tightly wound, Cullen. You need a good release as often as you can get it,” Tristan said. Cullen hummed in approval as he slid off the bed momentarily to remove the rest of his clothes. He paused for a moment, staring at Alistair as he watched the man dreamily gazing between the two of them.

“Caught in your thoughts, Alistair?” Cullen asked teasingly. 

“Just burning that image into my mind forever,” Alistair said with a grin. He tightened his grip on Tristan’s hip, just before snapping his own towards him. Tristan gasped loudly, caught off guard at the sudden change of Alistair’s pace. Alistair took Tristan’s leg, bringing it to his other side to slide between both of his legs once more. Tristan arched his back against the bed with a moan as Alistair sunk into him. The bed shifted as Cullen slid back onto the bed, situating himself just behind Tristan’s head. He pulled at the Inquisitor’s shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the side. Tristan sighed, his body flushing as Cullen ran his hands along his chest while Alistair continued to thrust into him. A whimper left Tristan as Cullen’s hand wrapped around his cock once more, gripping firmly and sliding along his length. Maker, he wasn’t going to last much longer at this rate. Tristan didn’t dare close his eyes, not wanting to miss a second as the two men leaned over his body to kiss one another. He could catch glimpses of their tongues, practically feel their hums and sighs vibrating all around him as the feeling of Alistair buried deep inside of him and Cullen’s calloused hand threatened to drive him over the edge. Tristan brought his hand up to grab at the collar of the shirt Alistair had yet to remove, tugging at it forcefully until the man eagerly left Cullen’s lips to come crashing down to Tristan’s. 

It was as if Alistair’s lips had sparked something within Tristan. Alistair’s tongue delved into Tristan’s mouth, his back arching to allow Cullen’s hand the room to continue stroking Tristan. One more snap of Alistair’s hips was all Tristan needed, one more stroke of Cullen’s hand, and suddenly he moaning into Alistair’s mouth, his body aflame as he burst. Alistair continued to thrust into him through it all, burying his face next to Tristan’s neck as the contracting of the man’s insides sent him over his edge with loud, guttural groans. Alistair remained poised above Tristan for a moment, kissing the Inquisitor’s neck in between heavy breaths. Tristan’s breaths matched his, his eyes closed and his mouth curled into a smile as Cullen stroked the top of his head. 

“Maker, but you’re perfect, both of you,” Alistair breathed. He lifted his head to kiss Tristan, nuzzling his nose with his own as he placed his palm at the side of his face. “I love you. We love you, Trist. I will do whatever it takes to keep you happy. Allow me that, please.”

Tristan could only nod as a single tear rolled down the side of his face. The three of them got resituated under the covers, Cullen and Alistair on either side of Tristan so that they could hold him. It wasn’t going to be easy - Tristan knew it, and so did they. There would be horrible days, days when he would fight with them, when his stubbornness would get the better of him and he would try to avoid their help and care. But, Maker, if he could remember this moment forever, how the two of them had made him feel whole again despite everything he had lost… With Alistair and Cullen as his support, perhaps Tristan could make it work through it all.

[midnightprelude]

Delayed Preparations

I’ve been seeing kiss memes everywhere and since I’ve been devouring @johaeryslavellan‘s Dorian x Tristan Trevelyan long fic A World With You, I thought I’d borrow her sonnes for a moment for some good, old fashioned SMORCHIN.

I HOPE YOU LIKE IT, FRIEND! <3

Dorian stood on the balcony overlooking the Skyhold stables, pulling his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. Spring thawed the mountains slowly and he had never really gotten used to the Ferelden chill. The yards were bustling with activity, soldiers and servants running about in the early morning light. He knew that Dennett would be whipping the stable boys into a frenzy trying to get everything ready for Trevelyan’s expedition--not that Trevelyan would be ready any time soon—Dorian didn’t expect him to be up for another hour at the very least.

Their Inquisitor was many wonderful things, but no one would claim he was a morning person.

He was just turning to go back to the library when a pair of hands clasped around his waist.

Dorian nearly blasted his assailant with a fireball, but then he felt lips against the sensitive skin along his neck and a soft, familiar laugh in his ears. He immediately knew who it belonged to; it was a sound that the man seemed to hold in particular reserve for him.

“I didn’t expect to see you up before lunch, amatus,” he breathed, turning to face Trevelyan.

“Cassandra gave Sera permission to wake me,” Trevelyan groaned. “I’m never going to get the smell of smoke out of my chambers… She lit my curtains on fire!”

Dorian smirked, pulling him close enough to kiss his lips, smiling against his skin. “The Seeker only wished to get you moving. I’d never thought of that tactic before. Maybe I’ll use it on you some time?”

Trevelyan pushed him away, exasperated, moving to the edge of the balcony and gazing at the mountains past the gates. “That’s really the last thing I need…”

“Ah, perhaps I’ll stick with kisses instead? It doesn’t get you out of bed, but it does get you moving.”

Trevelyan turned back towards him, eyebrow raised, looking skeptical and petulant.

“Perhaps we can disappoint the Seeker a touch and test my method?” Dorian said, taking Trevelyan’s hand and pressing his fingers to his lips. They were calloused and becoming more so from his training with Heir. “I believe rigorous experimentation is in order.”

Trevelyan smiled, a sight which was becoming more and more common by the day. “Oh, stop talking and just kiss me already. Cassandra can damn well wait.”

Dorian didn’t need more of an invitation than that; he pulled Trevelyan to him, their chests touching tightly. His fingers ran through Trevelyan’s long, feather-soft hair. Their eyes met and he felt his breath hitch in his chest, pausing for a moment to stare into his eyes. Finally, blissfully, Dorian turned his head and kissed his lover like they had all the time in the world.

[oftachancer]

14 Days of DA Lovers/OCKiss20 Combo

Day 1: Beginning Rose

Borrowed @johaeryslavellan ‘s Tristan from our modern au (as yet untitled). Did this turn into a massive roller coaster of a scene? Yes. But here is the smatter for the prompt. :)

[myusshak-moved]

I may present you to my new Inquisitor, Tristan Trevelyan.