There was something about the Inquisitor’s natural state of being that was so fascinating to Dorian. The thought that his admiration for him was something akin to studying him caused him to feel a certain measure of shame. Still, he could not settle for such a frivolous word as desire for the feelings experienced when he watched him resign the role of a fearless leader for the evening. How could he when the thoughts that flitted through his mind when they crossed paths had so little to do with his flesh and so much more to do with his spirit?
The Inquisitor possessed within him two persons he believed, both of them designed to satisfy someone other than himself. The first he assumed to appease the masses. This person was far more stoic than Pelle, he spoke little but with much purpose. He was calm and collected, calculated in how he handled his affairs, he smiled and offered pleasant words as a means to control a conversation, not because he had any interest in making friends. He had mastered the art of being looked upon favorably while revealing so little about himself that what he had sold the masses was not an open book to look upon and find themselves in but a mystery for them to chew on, someone to they would spend hours racking their brains around and in turn become enamored with in the process.
The second he reserved only for those who piqued his interest. An inappropriate and unabashed mating call. He too spoke little but for a reason entirely separate from making a powerful impression, and yet these two personalities shared an awareness of how unattractive too many words looked on a person. This personality was purely invented for sex, and there was no denying that. Words spoken low in whispers that forced you to lean in close so he might whisper ribald nothings into your ears, hands that subtly brushed against your arm and when he walked past leaving behind little sparks on your skin that would beckon you chase him. He liked to be chased, he thrived on it. He was clever, playing a promiscuous prey to draw in the foolish predator he intended to swallow whole.
All that being said, these two persons were not him. He was neither the crusader nor the maneater, and yet Dorian admired every single personality of his from an objective lens, fascinated by his ability to be so many people at once to prevent himself a premature death. Did the Inquisitor even know how much power there was to be possessed in such a talent? Was he even aware of just how often Dorian had caught himself idolizing him?
Truth be told, Dorian had admired many men in his life. It was a vice that he was certain was only going to break his heart time and time again. He wished he could say his infatuations were no different than any other man's experimental endeavors: shallow, fleeting, sexually charged, meaningless. How nice it must have been to possess the cold authority to find someone easy enough on the eyes to whisk away for an evening and forget them by morning. It was selfish, but so was he falling so desperately in love with them. Dorian’s fatal flaw was he often attached himself to men with qualities he coveted. They were stronger than him, bolder than him, better than him. The Inquisitor for all his shortcomings was no exception. He envied his fortitude, his resolve, his firm footing to remain himself when so many would ask him to change. Traits Dorian would love to say he too possessed, but the Inquisitor exuded them with a confidence he only feigned having. Pelle would argue and deny this, swear up and down that he was no one to be admired, but Dorian would not be convinced otherwise.
Even sauntering about his bed chambers rambling on about Skyhold’s most recent guest he moved with so much grace. It was a known fact that elves took lighter steps than humans as a means to avoid drawing attention to themselves, and yet Dorian had never noticed the way that when Pelle too naturally took up very little space . The elves who worked in his father’s estate were admittedly always invisible though present. They could always be found when needed, but they were little more than pawns, trained to work quietly lest they risk the consequences of disruption. No one wanted to be punished for bringing attention to themselves, because no matter how not despicable Dorian could say his father was to their servants it did not negate the truth that they weren’t people to them. In fact, Dorian had never even had a real conversation with an elf before the Inquisitor, nor had he taken the time to notice the way so many elves moved with such a programmed discretion for humankind.
He’d gotten so lost in watching the way Pelle meandered when he did not need to assert his right to have a seat at the table that it dawned on him that he had not heard a single word Pelle was saying. The last thing he’d picked up was a question regarding his thoughts on their guest, after that he’d heard nothing else. He’d not the faintest idea what the Inquisitor’s opinion of their guest was, it had all been lost amidst the plethora of thoughts floating about the altus’ brain. Even self aware of his inattention he struggled to reel back his focus to pay attention, which presented a new issue in which he was listening to the sound of the elf’s voice but the words were a lost cause. Instead he found himself picking apart the small inflections in his tone, the way his voice rose higher when he uttered certain words, the way that even the cadence in which he spoke changed when he spoke to him. His soft spoken voice suited him, putting in little effort to conceal his southern Marcher accent, he was comfortable.
Wordlessly he watched as Pelle began unbraiding his hair. His tattooed fingers worked with so much precision and expertise. He’d done this braid many times, it was like a shield for the elf the same way women painted their faces with cosmetics to hide them from their insecurities. Tied back and contained it made him feel like someone worth listening to, but as each strand was released from their bounds with it came a small glimpse of the effeminacy he’d been made to feel made him lesser than men more red blooded than himself.
An abrupt pause in Pelle’s ranting snapped Dorian back to attention and for the first time since their conversation had begun he heard him, like actually heard him.
Amber eyes watched him closely under dark furrowed brows, the candlelight reflecting off his irises giving them a faint glow. “Are you listening?” Pelle asked him.
Dorian’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He wasn’t ignoring him, or he wasn’t meaning to at least. Did mentally checking out in the name of admiration count as ignoring? Guess it depended on who you asked.
He offered the Inquisitor an apologetic smile. “You’ll have to forgive me, I may have gotten caught up in watching your fingers.
The Inquisitor stared at him in silence, the blank expression on his face indicative that he was searching for a response, but he wasn’t entirely sure he'd heard Dorian correctly. “...my fingers?” he repeated.
Dorian did not confirm that immediately as it occurred to him that it was rather strange to tell someone their fingers were so distracting that it prevented him from holding a conversation.
“They’re nice fingers,” Dorian answered, trying to salvage the comment, but the cock of one of the elf’s brows told him immediately that he’d failed.
Incredible how he always had something to say until Pelle gave him that look. It could very well all be in his head but when the Inquisitor raised his brow at him he couldn’t help but feel very stupid. For a while the two of them just stared at each other in loud silence. Dorian couldn’t shake the feeling that his adoration had gotten him in trouble, it wouldn’t be the first time.
Thankfully, their silence was broken by an amused smile from the Inquisitor. It was subtle, the way his lips curved upwards, revealing a peek of imperfect teeth, a bit crooked where fangs Dorian doubted saw much use has sprouted in his youth, a small gap between his front teeth, charming in a way no perfect teeth of an aristocrat’s could. Then his gaze was gone, drawn back to his hair as he finished loosening the threads of gold from their gentrified prison.
The sight of Pelle with his hair down was something of privilege to Dorian. It was the most himself the young elf could be. There was no calm, calculated Inquisitor, watching him with a studious eye, picking apart his body language looking for any sign of weakness. But there was Pelle, clever though a little naive. Temperamental in the way he felt everything too deeply, too intimately. Beautiful in the way he embodied the desire to be seen, to be just as respected in his gentleness as he was when he called down storms.
He ran his fingers back through his hair, shaking the curls out so they separated themselves before draping the mass of blonde burls over his shoulder, baring his back towards the Altus.
“Would you help me out of this corset?” he asked, turning his head to look back towards Dorian.
A flush of heat rushed to Dorian’s face. He didn’t even know what for. It wasn’t like he’d never seen the Inquisitor naked before, or hadn’t literally torn the clothes from his delicate frame in the heat of passion. The entanglements he’d found himself in with this man? So many things that should never see the light of day and yet he was blushing over the idea unlacing a corset for him? Ridiculous. And yet, he was up, sworn to not leave his amatus waiting on him while he collected himself.
Upon approaching the small elf he grabbed him by the waist with an attempted gentleness. It wasn’t, no rather he felt as though he’d given away just how badly he’d been aching to touch him as he pulled him close to kiss his head. Sometimes, he was glad that Pelle was so receptive to his sloppy attempts to woo him. The embarrassment was always short-lived in the face of the elf’s warm laughter and reciprocated affections.
“Ah so that’s what was on your mind,” Pelle teased, “been waiting to do that all day haven’t you?”
Dorian chuckled into his ear, leaving another kiss on his head. His hair smelled of lavenders when he pressed his face against him, nice to know that Pelle was enjoying the little gifts he’d given him.
Releasing Pelle, he turned his attention to the aforementioned corset, tracing his fingers over the boning that contained the Inquisitor’s waist and forced his spine to align himself. He had terrible posture without it, though that was precisely the reason the ambassador had asked him to don them. Bureaucrats were petty and partial with who they regarded as being worth their time, and a slouching Dalish elf would sate nothing but their unquenchable thirst for gossip. Dorian couldn’t say he was much better, were it not for his mother snapping at him anytime his muscles loosened he would certainly have a slouch with all the time he spent bent over a book studying.
“I’ve never seen this one before,” Dorian commented, taking in the way the stiff garment hugged the natural curvature of the elf's waist. This new bodice was cream colored, nothing like the peach one he’d worn beneath his jacket. Subtle florals only truly noticeable when the light caught them decorated the linen fabric. It was much quieter than the last he thought, but it suited Pelle all the same.
“The old one was beyond repair unfortunately,” the Inquisitor quipped. “Practically torn in two.”
Dorian’s subtle appreciation paused as that flush of shyness returned. That was right, it was him who had destroyed that thing tearing it from him in the compromising location of a broom closet of some estate wasn’t it? Yes, that was him.
“...I like this one better,” he decided.
The Inquisitor laughed, it was an abrupt snort followed by chuckling that warmed the Altus’ heart. “Does this mean you’ll be kinder to this one? I don’t think my tailor shall forgive you twice.”
“I shall try,” Dorian promised, but admittedly he was, if anything , poorly versed in the unlacing of a corset.
He stared at the laces and immediately he was lost. Where did he even begin? The lines that trailed up the elf’s back were so complex, and the last thing he wanted to do was pull the wrong strings and tighten it. As pleasing it was to his eyes it hardly looked comfortable for Pelle to wear, and the longer he stared bewilderment the more sympathy he felt. But then, savior, small fingers reaching for his hands and guiding them to the right x to begin with.
“Tug here first,” he told him. “Work your way up, then do the same for the bottom laces.”
Dorian followed the elf’s instructions, slipping his finger beneath the laces he’d been pointed towards and giving them a gentle pull, relieved to see them obeying him as he worked his way up the corset’s ladder. With a little help it was not as difficult nor intimidating as he’d initially thought. He worked slowly, taking his time with the laces, reveling in the soft moan of relief that escaped Pelle as the bodice loosened its hold on him.
As Dorian got used to the rhythm of unwrapping him, he couldn’t help but notice the intimacy of what they were doing. This was nothing like their heated abandonments of self control: wary glances to ensure no one would see, then it was clothes cast aside in a hurry, hands flirting with whatever they could reach, warm mouths battling for dominance. It was intense, wildly enjoyable and yet lacking in something both of them craved so dearly. But this? This felt like that thing. Undressing the Inquisitor carefully, slow to reveal his delightful body, not with the intention to bed him, rather to free him from the discomfort he endured throughout the day pandering to small minded men, It was such a tender act, one he’d have never dared try had Pelle not invited him himself.
Drawing out the final loop, he was finally able to remove the thing entirely, setting it down politely on the sofa near the staircase. Beneath that bodice was a simple shirt with full sleeves embroidered by the Inquisitor with small halla in his spare time, and the kilt he wore when in castle walls. He’d learned that Pelle had sewn little editions onto his clothing quite frequently, a rather creative but harmless way to make hand me downs feel a little more personal.
For a moment, he had resolved to let Pelle finish undressing himself. But then, a drop of courage. He returned to the elf, placing his scholarly hands over Pelle’s own freckly pair who’d had every intention of wrestling themselves out of his woolen kilt.
He hadn’t brought enough of that courage with him when he traversed from one side of the room to other to ask Pelle directly if he would allow him finish his work, so a pleading stare would have to suffice. Though he hadn’t needed to bring his words with him. His silent request had been heard regardless, and he felt a hint of glee surface inside him as the Inquisitor’s fingers released the belts in his hands.
The kilt was not nearly as baffling to perceive as his corset had been. A few belts here loosened and it would slide right off. That being said, he still elected to take his time with it. He had a mind to believe that he gained a deeper appreciation for the man beneath the clothing when he undressed him with care. His body was like a precious secret, one that he’d trusted Dorian to keep and treat well. He took it as a compliment that Pelle who had always been so stubborn to never let anyone see him bleed could be so willing to allow himself to be vulnerable to him, to let him see a side of himself that he kept hidden from so many people, and most importantly that he could feel so safe to ask him to help undress him without any fear that Dorian might abuse the power he’d handed over to him.
Though both of them seemed abashed to tell the other they loved them, fearful that somehow somewhere little affections and promises could seep through the stones and fall upon unwanted ears, it was wordless acts such as these that spoke such things for them. In a strange way, Dorian liked to believe such things to be more sincere than words coming from two men who'd made a living as liars.
is any way to live to feel as though everyday is just one day closer to the end, and it is but courage or nerve perhaps that you lack in bringing it about?
Rules: Bold all that apply to your muse. Repost, don’t reblog.
JOHN KEATS. the lavender in sunsets, flowers in the rain, sunlight slipping through clouds, lazy summer afternoons, the heavy scent of musk, flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books, fireflies on a cool summer night, being wrapped in fresh bed sheets, the ache of wanting what you can never have, dripping sunlight like gold, loving someone so exquisite, soft lips and soft whispers, fingers through hair, names of lovers carved in trees, broken glass, the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD. crisp winter skies with cold bright stars, mahogany wood, the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog, empty bottles on stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room, bruised arms reaching out into the darkness, cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol, a wall of books all old and weathered, a thunderstorm at the end of a beautiful day, your favorite sweater, parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing, the contrast of blood against snow, a purple split lip oozing blood, black eyes fading to blue to pale skin, the butterflies of falling in love for the first time, statues falling apart over time in cemeteries, the romanticization of self-destruction.
FRANZ KAFKA. the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future, decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there, the way not even light can escape a black hole, the rich smell of old books, delicate veins in the wrist, ghosts filling lungs, shattered bones, raindrops on the tongue, rusting metal, nostalgia that aches, the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.
H.P. LOVECRAFT. the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave, pouring rain and mud, a child’s fear of the dark, thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean, the silence of three a.m., ouija boards and urban legends.
JACK KEROUAC. the brisk pine air of being on a mountain, travels without a destination, those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory, screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive, coffee shops late at night, car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark, naps spent in the sun, novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins, the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders, ignoring flaws and loving life, wind through hair, depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals, a quiet sunrise, walks alone, when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe, dazzling people, open lands stretching out into infinity, falling in love with being alive.
EDGAR ALLAN POE. the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog, hollow bones, a preserved heart held in hands, twinkling stars above an old graveyard, the way everything turns to dust, silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom, self-inflicted flames, perfection depicted as a rotting corpse, death as bricks in the heart, lips barely brushing against each other, glassy glazed eyes, heart-shaped bruises, rotting flowers on a grave, dried blood and spilled liquor, the hush of dusk when it begins raining, the intimacy of a secret.
Hello everyone I was kinda avoiding tumblr cause of the porn bots but I am back here now to curse everyone. I might even be adding Dorian and Felix muses to write maybe a side blog or something ?
@pellelavellan said: 🃏 ─ wildcard ! choose your own activity ! / ☕️ ─ drink something warm and/or festive
Kaaras frowned, looking over the pot. He didn’t know how he felt about this. There was just something about it that seemed off. Then again, he was willing to give everyone at least a try once.
“I don’t know how I feel about drinking eggs…” he muttered with a sceptical look back to Pelle. He’d never had eggnog before. Of course, they’d kept the alcohol out of this batch, but he did have to wonder if that’s what made it drinkable. It didn’t smell bad, it just looked strange, and of course, the idea of drinking cooked egg whites was a little bizarre to him (despite what Kaaras had eaten in his life).
“I was skeptical too,” Pelle confessed. “But it is sweeter than you’d think it would be.”
The young elf had naturally never celebrated Saturnalia, he was Dalish. That being said, he was very interested to learn about the customs and try a few if he may. He was if anything, thrilled to see the humans wanted to share their festivities with him, so he’d not made a fuss if something seemed strange.
“I promise it doesn’t taste like eggs.” he assured the Inquisitor. “Just try it.”
send me in specific detail exactly what your muse thinks of mine. whether it be when they first see them, or when they’re lying in bed in the middle of the night and just can’t fall asleep. I’m genuinely curious.
ellievsbear
areudirty
janainaart
annaxmalina
tangentwithtanner
discoholicmusic
origamiaround
snowghoul
prguitarman
romaincrisis
