#ofandrastes

the words nearly topple ellis. it feels like a confession, making the air between them thick & tangible. elliott is a curiosity. it's difficult to imagine a world in which he wants ellis at all. so his confession fills him with a blatant sense of satisfaction, it jolts through his body. elliott admitted to wanting something, wanting him. he tries to keep his heart from soaring at the notion.

" use your manners, " ellis chides, though there is a smirk playing at his features. it was ironic, coming from him. he was one of the last people who should be preaching about manners. he had offended the wrong patron of the hanged man, ending in him smashing the man in the side of his head with a full mug. it was a waste of mead, but what followed was a satisfying domino affect. with a few proper redirections, a rather large fight had swarmed the bar.

it had created just enough chaos for them to slip away into the night. for ellis to press elliott against the shadiest wall he could find & steal an adrenaline-fueled kiss, followed by a savage bite in the crook of elliott's neck. his heart was still beating furiously in his chest, his body is flushed & hot … though he's sure it's not from the fight.

it was all he could do to breathe. he stands on the cliff's edge of elliott's desire. it would be too easy to fall into it, to let it wash him away & into whatever wicked thoughts elliott played at. he knows that desire will be gone by morning when the world expands beyond a smoky barfight & a streetlight rendezvous. for now, though, he would revel in it. instead of falling over, he holds himself a little taller. he hooks a finger under elliott's chin & draws him closer. he denies them both the indulgence of a kiss, but he does linger close enough to share a breath. a promise, with a condition.

But, well, he's yet bafflingly found himself brought into the fold. Dorian studies the library, bestowed with an alcove he's now taken to believing is his weather-worn refuge. Andres has accepted his company and whatever magical prowess lays sizzling at his fingers. It's a vote of confidence that stirs him, the swallowing whatever poison Dorian puts in his mouth, and he knows very much to win the Herald's favor. He has to. For he, as Andres nears, is a shot worth taking.

there was not many who's judgment that ellana would have trusted more than leliana's, it offers some ease with trusting her identified right-hand, maverick. his background, too, as a former warden gives many favors - they didn't run into too many darkspawn, fortunately, not out here in the hinterlands. a small blessing: they had more than enough problems to deal with already. they felt a bit out of place with it all, but leliana and cassandra both had lent out enough trust to her, and she hoped that she was proving it warranted. it did not feel as though there was any room for her personal insecurities or doubt, only the problem and seeking out hard - sought answers.

the night had been wonderfully, incredibly long. they chased one another into bed & ellis had rode elliott until he scarcely knew his own name. the both of them were covered in bitemarks & bruises, sticky with sweat & otherwise. testaments to the way they were slowly becoming tethered to one another. marks that would keep ellis on the edge of desire, coming back & sniffing out any sentiment elliott had left to spare the next day & the day after that. it was rare, he knew, but when he could find his way back into elliott's arms… well, he was sure nothing else was sweeter.

part of him thought to flee, to throw on his clothes & go before elliott remembered he wasn't allowed to treasure anything, especially not ellis. unfortunately, ellis had never been good at reasoning with himself & so he had decided to stay here, in bed his body & soul bare before elliott.

it was humiliating as it was sweet. he felt pathetic, but he craved a softness only available to them in these endorphin-filled moments. temporary & private, they could at least pretend they were allowed to be soft. ellis curls up at elliott's side, his head nestled too sweetly in elliott's lap. a moment of safety that he thinks only elliott might be able to provide. he tenses up, half-expecting elliott to push him away. to recoil at ellis' lightly veiled vulnerability.

instead, something wonderful happens. at best, he had thought elliott might let him lay there. to revel in the comfort of being close to the most divine force of destruction he had known in his life. a hand settles on his head & he shivers. he can't help but lean into elliott's flat palm as he extends his fingers into ellis' hair. he melts into the affection, the tension falling from his body for the first time in days.

" oh, elliot, " ellis' voice is soft, nearly a groan. he hadn't meant to let the words slip out but he hadn't been able to stop them either. something pangs inside of ellis, a feeling the is bold & warm. it twists in him & the faint shimmer of it is enough for him to know he is doomed. a tremble cascades over ellis. he swallows harshly. reality threatens to creep its way back into the moment & he tries nuzzle into elliott's thigh to try & ignore reality's brutal glare. his lungs tighten in his chest & he speaks before he can think better of it.

POSITIVITY TIME! | Accepting

How foolish, indeed.

All the same, how delightful proves the image he stands offering tonight -- like every image, every one, regardless of his mantle. Atop a horse, he'd be their steely-browed Inquisitor, a man made for portraits with the banners at his back. Yet, he could shed it all away, turn a scintillating scholar when they retreat for reading, but the image he provides as the Chantry's little darling? Well, that, with a tender blush, may honestly be his favorite.

Door creaking, he would watch Andres sputter, his reflection twinkling off the vanity by his bed. He's kaleidoscoping emotions, a dizzying sort of maelstrom like gales bottled tightly in a henhouse of want. Dorian's heart lurches maddeningly, a traitorous little feeling cajoling him with teeth to dare and hope a little. Yes, hope that Andres likes him and hope that Andres needs him... How quickly he smothers it. Still, those eyes yet fixed upon him may ruin him forever.

Well. Andres, red in the face, nervous, embarrassment scorching color up his collar, turns with an urgency as though with dogs at his heels. Dorian lets himself smile, rearing back around as the sun cuts a pattern across the slope of his shoulders. He knows that he's handsome. He knows that their hero had thought that day one. Still, there's a sort of mindfulness in his gazes, a flavor bordering worship if that's the word at all. How fitting, Dorian supposes, what with the tightness in that collar and that heavy book of scriptures that he'd flip through at his bed. The mage moves carefully, gaze raking hotly along his legs and back. To stand before Andres with those angels in his eyes... It's a lot. Hand sliding atop his hip, Dorian means to make it simpler.

"Oh, no. Look at you. The Inquisitor isn't invited so much as he's summoned." Right? Dorian grins. He feels his body hum with energy, excitement, and it's all the strength he's left to command not to move, drink greedily, and succumb to fierce drunkenness on the space Andres keeps. He wonders if he smells it, the scent of figs, patchouli, and that of sprinkling of anise from his recent wash. Dorian's still flush with his bathing, a tempting color sat temptingly down his arm to his wrist. He takes Andres' hip, the side where'd been struck earlier by a Freemen in a fight. It isn't quite guiding him so much as it is a delicious temptation. Dorian knows this game; he'd mastered it with the ease he'd shown when pulling magic. Dipping in closer to nose the space behind that ear--