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Still Need Me

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The moonlight casts the Inquisitor in cool tones, his many freckles forming constellations across his shoulders, his chest, his nose and cheeks. Dorian’s fingers tremble just above them, ghosting along the patterns. This was becoming a problem, he thinks distractedly, watching as Trevelyan shifts in his sleep. Dorian bites back a sigh, rising quietly to wander to the Inquisitor’s desk.

Where books and parchments should be scattered, whetstones and leather cast odd shadows. Trevelyan’s sword lays across the marked wood, unsheathed, his shield leaning against the desk leg.

He knows when this started, knows where it began, but that doesn’t really help, not when Dorian’s pulse picks up at the sound of Trevelyan’s husky laugh, or when their eyes meet, and Trevelyan winks, leaving Dorian flushed and breathy.

He sits at the Inquisitor’s desk with a quiet sigh, eyes on the man. Trevelyan sleeps deeply, always does, and that’s a relief for Dorian. His quiet musings can continue uninterrupted.



Trevelyan had caught his eye the moment Dorian saw him, but he had been careful, had been cautious, not wanting to cross lines, to alienate himself from the man who drew Dorian in like a moth to flame. Dorian had kept a careful distance, a careful barrier between them, trying not to react to Trevelyan’s flirtations, telling himself that it was safer, better, to remain apart.



It had started, really noticeably started, when the Inquisitor had stepped forward to block a strike meant for Dorian.


“I had that.” Dorian says tiredly, leaning on his staff.

“Oh, I know.” Trevelyan replies warmly, eyes on the mage as he flicks his sword casually, sending droplets of blood flying with one smooth motion. Dorian raises an eyebrow, and Trevelyan laughs, shaking his head. “I just didn’t want you to have to deal with it.”

Dorian sighs, glancing at the Templar knight at his feet. His ears are still ringing from the last smite, and his mana was stretched thin, a pulsing ache in his muscles and just behind his eyes. Trevelyan’s hand is suddenly on his elbow, and Dorian wonders how long he had drifted.

“Here, you look like you need it.” The Inquisitor says gently as he passes a lyrium potion over. Dorian takes it with a barely audible moan, fingers shaking as he uncaps the bottle. He ignores Trevelyan’s snort as he downs it, focusing instead on the mana surging back through his body. The air tastes sharp on his tongue, the heat under his skin climbing, molten and hot and ready, and Dorian grins.

“My thanks.” He says, and the Inquisitor gives him a wink before turning to face the next group. More Templars are approaching, and Dorian grins viciously.

“You lovebirds ready?” Varric calls, and Dorian rolls his eyes. “I’m talking to you, Sparkler!”

The fire in his palms builds, and Dorian tips his head back, laughing. Trevelyan’s grinning as he raises his shield, and he charges into the oncoming Templars with a shout, Dorian’s flames chasing his heels. The warrior moves easily, without fear, and that eases something in Dorian’s chest. More Templars fall, to flame and arrow, sword and dagger, but even more come. Trevelyan laughs as he fights, working on those foolish enough to approach Dorian.

“I can defend myself, you know.” Dorian calls at one point, incinerating an oncoming Templar defender with a flick of his wrist. Trevelyan grins at him as he jerks his sword free from a Templar knight’s shoulder.

“And here I thought you were defending me.” He quips, and Dorian rolls his eyes, refreshing their barriers with a quick gesture. Trevelyan is getting pushed back, until he is fighting abreast of the mage, doing his best to give Dorian the room to cast.

“So, don’t freak out…” Dorian warns after a while, and Trevelyan shoots him a look, shield raised against an archer’s shots. Cole is twisting in and out of sight, working his way toward the archer, while Varric peppers the approaching warriors and knights with crossbow bolts, slowing their approach. Dorian raises a hand, the sinking feeling of spirits filling his palm. The dead knight behind them drags itself to its feet, movements stiff and uncanny, before it lunges past Dorian and Trevelyan, falling upon its former allies with a fervor.

Trevelyan, to his credit, takes it in stride, giving a short nod before resuming the fight, working in tandem with Dorian’s spirit.


“So, necromancy?” He asks much later, when all is said and done, and they are at an Inquisition campsite. Dorian is sitting at his side, feet propped up near the fire, hands twisting the hem of his shirt nervously. Trevelyan’s question is easy, relaxed, and Dorian risks a glance, looking away immediately at the open expression on the other man’s face.

“Yes.” Dorian answers shortly.

“That’s amazing.” Trevelyan’s sighed answer has Dorian whipping to look at him, surprise on his face. Trevelyan laughs openly at the mage’s expression, shaking his head with a grin. “Everything you do is amazing, Dorian.”

“Get a room!” Varric hollers hoarsely from the nearby tent, and Dorian laughs wetly.

Trevelyan doesn’t look bothered, reaching a large hand to brush his fingers along the back of Dorian’s hand. His eyes are on the fire, and his voice lowers. “I’m serious, Dorian.”

Dorian hesitates, wondering if this was real, if this wasn’t a fade dream. He laces his fingers cautiously with Trevelyan’s, eyes carefully lowered. His hands are calloused from wielding his staff, but not as rough as the Inquisitor’s, and he is surprised when the man pulls him gently closer.

You’re amazing.” Trevelyan says, his voice low, husky, and Dorian swallows roughly, glancing at the Inquisitor’s lips. Trevelyan leans in slowly, hesitating for the first time in Dorian’s experience, and that has him leaning the rest of the way, slanting his lips across the other man’s mouth. Trevelyan’s lips are chapped, rough, but he is gentle, soft, his hands careful on Dorian’s, his stubble rough against Dorian’s skin.

“Is this-?”

“Do you-?”

They speak over each other, and Trevelyan laughs, pressing his lips against Dorian’s again, with a little more courage. Dorian timidly slides his hand along the Inquisitor’s bare arms, the taut muscles and ridged scarring tense under his palm.

“My being a mage-” Dorian says finally, trying to lean away to give Trevelyan time to answer.

“Is incredible.” The Inquisitor finishes, pulling the mage close once again. Dorian goes willingly.



It continued when the Inquisitor offered quiet support, an imposing figure when Dorian confronted his father, an understanding ear when he spoke of the tormented relationship between them. The support, the understanding, it was foreign, but welcome, though it left Dorian reeling.

He is sharp, brittle, uneasy with the affection and grace Trevelyan offers, though he tries not to push Trevelyan away. It’s when Trevelyan has him in his bed that Dorian feels the panic, the worry clawing at his throat.

He wants this man, Dorian realizes, and when Trevelyan wants him, wants more, that brittle, breakable part in Dorian’s chest eases, soothes, and he is falling, too fast, but he can’t be bothered, not when Trevelyan is smiling at him, not when the Inquisitor is holding him like something precious, something to protect, to keep.



“Dorian?” Trevelyan’s voice is sleep roughened, his fingers patting along the sheets, searching for him.

“Right here, amatus.” Dorian says softly, walking over to the warrior. Trevelyan pulls him down to lay next to him, wrapping his limbs around the mage, anchoring him to his side. Dorian relaxes with a sigh, and Trevelyan pulls him closer.

“What were you doing up?” The Inquisitor’s lips brush against Dorian’s throat, and the mage blinks back tears.

“Thinking, as I am wont to do.” Dorian replies, eyes sliding closed. Trevelyan’s lips are on his, hands running along his arms.

“Do your thinking in bed, then, would you?” The plea is amused, though earnest. The warrior is slowly falling back to sleep as he continues in a low murmur. “Thought you were gone.”

The pang in Dorian’s chest is sharp, a physical pain, and he looks to the man holding him, the brute of a warrior with the wit of a rogue, and presses his lips to Trevelyan’s temple.

“No, amatus. Not while you still need me.” And it’s true, Dorian realizes. Tevinter needs change, but Trevelyan needs him.