the thing about gideon nav is that she is satan AND jesus and a butch and has great tits. canonically. and the thing about harrowhark nonagesimus is that she is my close personal friend.

this charming man - dorian/oswin

(why pamper life’s complexities when the leather runs smooth on the passengers seat? - this charming man by the smiths) Dorian comes to visit the Inquisitor not long after they arrive at Skyhold lowkey looking for a hookup and leaves with a giant crush.

“My, my,” a smooth voice came from behind Oswin, and he hurried to wipe away his tears. “What’s a handsome man like you doing crying alone like some penniless nobleman with no servants or bootlickers to keep him happy?” After a moment with no reply, Dorian sat down next to him on the stairs outside Oswin’s quarters, back against the wall. “What troubles you?” “Nothing,” Oswin said quickly, already swallowing past the lump in his throat. Dorian was relatively new to their Inquisition, he couldn’t see its leader crumbling just days after he’d been titled. “That would be more convincing if your eyes were not so red,” Dorian said. “Come. What’s the use of being the Inquisitor and being sad if you don’t use it to persuade Josephine to give you a bottle of that fine vintage she saves for the important diplomats, hm?” Dorian nudged him. “Or being so handsome, if it means you cannot drink away your sorrows with other handsome men?” Oswin smiled, a little. “I’ll see what I can do about the wine,” he said at last.

It turned out that Josephine did feel badly enough for him to give him the bottle of wine, although he had no idea if it was the fine vintage Dorian had spoken of. Oswin knew nothing about wine, but Dorian had insisted that if he’d gone to speak with her as well, she’d know he put Oswin up to it. By the way Dorian crowed when he brought it back to his quarters, it was what he’d been hoping for, however. “That ambassador does know how to pick her wines,” Dorian sighed, taking another reverent sip. “I’ll trust your judgement,” Oswin said. “Does our Inquisitor lack a sophisticated palette?” Dorian asked, mockingly askance. “By the Maker, don’t tell the Orlesians! They’ll sell you Rivaini cheese and tell you it’s from Claose!” “I’ll take your word for it,” Oswin laughed as he got up, his glass largely untouched. He went to his fireplace, poking at it and adding another log. Dorian frowned at him. “You tend your own fire?” “Of course.” Oswin frowned back at him. “I’m not going to call for a servant every time I get chilly.” “Was that a barb, dear Inquisitor?” Dorian smiled at him. Oswin shrugged, taking his seat again. He took a sip of his wine, staring blankly at the glass. Dorian, seeming to take notice of his once more downward-spiralling mood, spoke again. “Care to tell me, now that we are not sitting on the cold stairs of a drafty staircase, what was so upsetting?” Oswin shrugged again, avoiding Dorian’s gaze. They didn’t know each other very well, not yet, though Oswin would call them friends. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a connection with him, didn’t admire his mind and his easy grace and his beauty. The confidence with which he held himself, the chip on his shoulder the size and shape of his country. How he defended it against anyone, how much he loved it and wanted to improve it. But he was still one of Oswin’s people, wasn’t he? He shouldn’t let them see him cry, collapse under the weight of it all, shouldn’t share wine with them by firelight. But. But he was kind and he was here, and he was Oswin’s friend. He needed a shoulder to cry on, metaphorically. “The apostates in the woods,” he said slowly, and Dorian nodded encouragingly. “We…we killed them, last week, we cleaned out their camp and looted their bodies and took note of their belongs and came home victorious.” “I remember,” Dorian said, frowning. “I was there.” They’d just returned to Skyhold from that mission that very day. “I thought they’d join us,” Oswin said softly. “That’s why I let them go on, terrorizing the roads and villagers until after Redcliffe. I thought, once they saw that we were on their side, that we supported the mages, that I was a mage, a rebel mage like them, they’d join us. But they didn’t. They still didn’t trust us, and they attacked us. And we murdered them.” “As you said, they attacked us first,” Dorian reminded him gently. “You asked them to lay down arms and they refused.” “I asked them, and they refused. They didn’t trust me! They saw the Inquisition banner and they thought we were their enemies,” Oswin said desperately, fingers tightening around his wine glass. “You don’t understand, I was one of them. I joined the Libertarian fraternity the day after I was harrowed, I helped organize the first uprising of the Ostwick Circle, after Kirkwall happened, I participated in the second one, the one that set us free. I almost continued on to Redcliffe, but I chose to go to the conclave instead. And they saw us, and they thought we were a threat to their safety, their freedom. I know how that feels, and I hate that I’ve helped to create an organization my own people can’t trust.” Dorian’s face softened. “Those people didn’t want change, they wanted violence. Otherwise they would’ve been in Redcliffe, where you were going to go, and they’d be here now, instead of dead in the woods. You have created an organization mages can trust. They’ve been arriving daily from all over Thedas, seeking the shelter and freedom you’ve given them. You made the mages your full partners and allies, not your soldiers, you negotiated with Fiona, you didn’t put her out of power. You have done enough,” he said. “It isn’t your fault they didn’t want what you offered.” After a moment, Oswin smiled. “Thank you, Dorian,” he said. “I don’t know. I just feel as though I’m not the right person to be doing this. That I’m not doing what’s right.” He thought of nights spent crammed in a wardrobe with Variel and Quintus, quietly reading aloud from the forbidden Tevinter tome Quin had knicked from the First Enchanter’s office when he was being disciplined. A tome about mage freedom, the oppression of southern mages, the gift from the Maker that magic represented. He’d set out from Ostwick to change things for other mages. He wondered if he’d lost sight of that. If he should let it go, now that he was Inquisitor. “But. Thank you. What you said means a lot.” He stopped, searching for words. “You’re a good man, Dorian. And a good friend,” he said finally. “I must admit, you’re rather…different than I expected,” Dorian told him, after a very long pause. He sounded conflicted, puzzled. “Am I?” Oswin asked. He took a sip of his wine. It was good, Dorian was right. He glanced up at him, and winced to see his confused expression. Of course. The one guy Oswin had been interested in in what, three years? Four? And he’d driven him off not two months after meeting him. “Is that good or bad?” “I….good,” Dorian said quietly. “Very good. I think.” He sounded strange and faraway. “I…I should be going, Inquisitor. It’s very late.” Oswin glanced towards the tall windows, the balcony that lay beyond, and beyond even that, the pitch black. “It is,” he said, confused. It was late when Dorian arrived. Dorian stood, that strange frown still on his face. “Thank you for the vintage,” he said. “It was everything I expected. But tell Josephine I know she has something better hidden. I can’t prove it, but I smelled some kind of red from the Storm Age on that Nevarran prince who left her office.” “I’ll let her know,” Oswin said, amused. He stood too, handing the bottle to Dorian. “Take it, I don’t drink when I’m alone.” “Is that meant to imply that I do?” Dorian asked, and Oswin couldn’t quite read his tone. “Of course not,” he said, confused. “But between the two of us, I can’t tell the difference between what we just drank and what we had the other day at the Gull and Lantern.” “I’m aghast,” Dorian smiled. “A man who carries the Trevelyan name, but not the taste to suit it.” Oswin tensed at the mention of his family, but returned his smile anyway. “Thank you, Dorian. I mean it. It means a lot that you came, that you talked to me. Thank you. I hope you know that if you ever need the same, I’m here.” That strange expression passed over Dorian’s face again, and his hands tightened around the bottle. “I…thank you, Inquisitor.” One corner of his mouth flicked up, a smile there and gone. He turned towards the door, eyes downcast. “Oh, and Dorian?” Oswin called out. He smiled as Dorian turned, one brow raised. “Please, call me Oswin. If I hear another friend call me Inquisitor, I think the weight will crush me. Or a scepter will grow out of my hand and I’ll become a tyrant.” Dorian laughed. “We wouldn’t want that,” he said, his voice still a little off. “Goodnight, Dorian.” “Goodnight, Inquis…goodnight, Oswin.” He liked the way his name sounded, when Dorian said it. Dorian turned, leaving his chambers, and Oswin kept smiling well after the door closed. I like Dorian, he thought. I think we’ll be good friends.