fadewalk | Dorian (dorianpavus-fadewalk)

He'd barely arrived at Skyhold when he was taken.

Taran remembered it clearly. He'd met Dorian. He'd discovered he was the other man's Voice. He'd been ridiculously happy (despite knowing just how much trouble it all was going to land him in with Cassandra, Giselle, and the others later.) And then, just as he'd taken a step toward Dorian, concerned by the idea that Dorian had thought him dead, he was...somewhere else.

Somewhere not very nice at all.

Tevinter was a beautiful place, but for the Herald to suddenly appear there was dangerous, especially with so many Venatori around. He'd barely survived, taking sanctuary with a moderate-minded house who helped heal his injuries and agreed to contact the Inquisition.

Until he'd spotted Dorian's portrait in their gallery and made a surprised comment.

Until he'd realized they were Dorian's family.

Until the truth came out, along with the magical chains, and talk of blood magic and finding a way to release their son and...

He still had the ritual marks on his skin, blood welling from elaborate cuts when the table he was strapped to shuddered and he was suddenly laying on the grass staring up at a queasy-green sky--gasping and clawing at the fine silver chains that still draped his skin, stifling his veil magic.

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Taran laughed, tipping his head back so Dorian could have full access to him. "Surely not," he said. "At least a good quarter of you must be made of sass."

"My theoretical maths instructors might have taught me wrong as a child, but I'm almost entirely certain that a quarter sass and three quarters wine is still considered mostly wine." Dorian's hands were incredibly gentle as he worked.

He leaned close, nose brushing Taran's earlobe, as he wrapped his arms around him and slowly washed his back and shoulders, managing to make the awkward angle somehow graceful.

"Three seconds from climbing into your lap," Taran purred. He was built strong, muscular and toned to within an inch of his life, but he was melting at Dorian's attentions, turning into a big cat.

"Don't you dare." Dorian chuckled softly, breath against Taran's neck. "I'm not going to die drowned in a bath tub by you." He drew away slowly, rinsing the cloth, and using it to wash warm water over the previously soaped skin.

He pushed forward a little anyway, skin sliding against Dorian's hotly. "I'll be very careful," Taran murmured, turning his face so his breath whispered against Dorian's temple.

Dorian's hands stilled as Taran slid against him and his breath caught in his throat. "Amatus," he breathed, tipping his head a degree closer.

And really, what better invitation was there? Taran let the water carry him, gripping the edge of the tub and sliding forward so very easily to straddle Dorian's waist. He caught his mouth in the same movement, tongue stroking past Dorian's parted lips as if to swallow the word, following the arch of his hips.

Skin against skin from chest to groin to thigh.

Dorian's breath rushed out over Taran's cheek, a ragged push of air through his nose as he lifted his chin to meet the kiss. Still hands slid down to the strong, chiseled lines of Taran's paler thighs, and skimmed back up to his waist.

His tongue was wicked, teasing closer, inviting, against all his better judgement.

Taran moaned into the kiss almost immediately, responding as if he were kindling just waiting to be set ablaze. His hips rolled forward, tongue tangling with Dorian's. He caught Dorian's lower lip between his teeth and let it lightly drag free before he pushed in for another tangling kiss. His hands moved restlessly, learning his body even as he drove their cocks together with a hitching roll of his hips.

The moan was like honey in his wine, Dorian licking into Taran's mouth, seeking that sweetness. He groaned in return as they ground together, a hand raking down the small of Taran's back to the swell of his ass, gripping over the hard muscle there.

He was tempted - so tempted to give in, to let the tide of this pleasure, of this perfect moment of heated skin and wet, eager mouth undo his hold on the magic that sought Taran. That would always reach for him.

Taran could actually feel it--the intoxicating buzz along his skin, the sweet-sharp-bright spike of love and need that wasn't his. It was there and gone again, but for a moment, their desire spilled messily one into the other, feeding off each other dangerously.

Maker, it was very nearly too much, and it felt so good he immediately wanted more, writhing closer, shuddering with echos of magic he couldn't quite feel.

The sudden clarity of awareness, a flash like a spark, there and gone made Dorian gasp into the mouth on his, and then nearly whine when Taran sought more.

He broke the kiss, turning his face away, barely able to draw breath to whisper, "Taran. Taran, please." It hurt to make the words, to bring his hands up to grasp his waist tightly, trying to make him settle. It hurt in ways he'd never expected to know his Voice's desire and have to deny him.

"Void. Sorry," Taran gasped. He was young and untouched and being near Dorian like this was enough to have him shivering dangerously close to the edge, entire body lit up like magefire.

He let out an unsteady breath and carefully stood, erection straining and flushed, water running down his body in streams as he stepped out of the tub and away from temptation. "Maker, you're just so--perfect."

Dorian closed his eyes as Taran extricated himself, hands on the sides of the tub, nearly white-knuckled in their grip so he wouldn't reach for him as he moved away.

Dorian made a small pained noise, low in his throat, at the loss of Taran's skin pressed against his.

He let out a shaky breath at Taran's words and opened his eyes, to quip, to bluster. Anything, really. Whatever he was about to say was lost as his grey eyes tripped over the water glistening in the magelight on Taran's skin.

"It seems perfection is not in as short a supply as I was given to believe in the south." Clumsy, and delivered with far too much need in his voice. "Are there any fables about someone looking at something so beautiful that they run mad? I feel like if there isn't, I'll inspire one or two."

"I really want to say something clever back," Taran assured him earnestly, voice husky. "But I'm, um, a little too turned on to even think. So. Sorry? I guess I'll just be perfectly silent, too."

Dorian managed a passable smirk, the discomfort of their interrupted interlude slowly subsiding. Very slowly. He was still hard as marble under the water. "I'd rather you weren't silent." He began washing himself in brisk movements. "You could tell me a story. Or sing. Can you sing? All you southern chantry boys sing, don't you?"

It was absurd, but the tension between them had to be cut somehow, and Dorian didn't think he could get out of the tub until it had been, or he would only fall to his knees and swallow Taran's beautiful cock and then they would be bonded, nevermind that it would end in utter disaster for the Herald of Andraste to be tied in any way to Tevinter and a mage at that.

"...I think you'd really rather I stay silent," Taran said, dragging his fingers through his hair. He looked around--anywhere but at Dorian right now, really--and grabbed a towel, drying off quickly before wrapping it around his waist.

Then he started poking around the room to distract himself, making a pleased noise when he found clothing in a simple wardrobe. It looked like it would fit, barely. It'd at least be better than what he had been wearing. Taran started to get dressed, truly trying not to look back at every splash.

Dorian watched Taran wander the room from the corner of his eye as he finished washing the grime from the assault on Redcliffe from his skin, pursing his lips slightly when Taran started dressing.

He'd never known something so disappointing to simultaneously feel like such a relief. He tutted softly. "I don't suppose there's anything sized a touch more modestly in there." He stood carefully and stepped out of the tub, toweling himself off slowly.

"Not that modestly," Taran said, grabbing an armful of clothes that looked like they would do and coming back around the screen. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Dorian again, eyes fluttering down his body. "Oh."

For Dorian to feel properly impressive he'd need some scented oils, kohl, gold dust powder, hair wax, and a shave. But he knew what kind of effect his body could have on a man. Seeing Taran go speechless sent a strangely tender thrill through him.

He wrapped the towel around his hips carefully, tucking the end and then padding on damp feet toward Taran. His steps were slow and oddly tentative as he resisted the urge to just crowd up against the young man and kiss him again.

"Is there anything in there I can bear to be seen in, is the real question." He cocked his head, eyeing the pile of clothes that Taran carried without much hope.

"I'm, um," he said, clearly struggling to gather words again, flush rising and eyes dropping down Dorian's body, then up again to study his face, as if he couldn't decide what he wanted to savor more. "I'm really hoping not. You make a towel look very very good."

"Of course I do," Dorian agreed with playful lilt in his voice that matched the curve of his lips. He glanced down and plucked at the towel, before meeting Taran's eyes from beneath his lashes, actually biting his lip against all the things he wanted to say that were dangerously flirtatious.

He reached for the clothes, flipping through them with an aggrieved sigh, until he'd found something that wouldn't make him look like a court jester or a child playing dress-up, but only just. "This will do. Thank you." He let his fingers brush over the back of Taran's hand in a lingering, gentle caress.