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He smelled like parchment, leather, lyrium, and spice. His breath was warm on skin that prickled in anticipation every time he drew near. His fingertips ghosted over skin and clothes and hair, leaving tremors in their wake. His laughter was liquid and warm, and it took on a deeper tone when he was aware of his own naughtiness.
Dorian Pavus was imprinting himself all over the young Elf's consciousness, damn him.
He was so slight, so delicate. All pale moonbeam skin, long midnight locks, huge and solemn violet eyes, and slender limbs. He wore mysticism and quiet like a cloak as he floated through life in his twin's shadow. Matching delicate Dalish tattoos on their faces and throats, matching solemn and huge violet eyes, matching dainty frames and heights, opposing genders and fine details. He had dark hair and healing gashes on his face marring the delicate features. She had red-gold locks and the sweetest of freckles on her milky skin.
The Lavellan twins, Adam and Angharad, were proof the Maker still put his personal touch on creation every once in a while.
The man was going to drive him mad. Dorian felt no compunctions about entering his personal space, asking him questions, talking to him. A previously quiet and retiring life filled with tending to the sick and injured with soothing magic and herbs was now interspersed with the spiced heat and fire of a cocky, confident, velvet-voiced mage. His words whispered into sensitive pointed ears, his breath brushing over the delicate organs, made the Elf want to hunch his shoulders, turn away. Dorian was so...vibrant. His charm radiated from him, regardless of who he spoke to.
Adam wasn't special.
Adam wasn't the only one to appreciate the rich tones emanating from Dorian's mouth. The Tevinter's warm hands didn't touch the Elf alone. Slowly but surely, people were starting to look at Dorian as a person. They were looking beyond he's a mage from dread Tevinter, a magister to the man beneath. They were seeing the genuinely talented and intellectual man. Those who could let go of their preconceptions concerning Tevinters were still holding themselves back since he was just...so...much. So much confidence. So much wit. So much charisma. So warm, so magnetic, but so very poised and contained.
No one could touch him.
Dorian wanted to touch Adam.
He wanted to always make the pale skin that contrasted so sweetly with his own golden tan turn pink or red with blushes. He wanted to pull that diminutive frame against him and whisper naughty phrases in his native tongue against those ears Dorian itched to touch.
The Tevinter wanted to spend an evening or two or several planted in his armchair, a dark-haired and violet-eyed waif in his lap, flustering the young man by making even that prosaic book about Divine Galatea sound raunchy. He wanted to tip up that kissable chin and leave his mark all along Adam's slender neck.
It was maddening. Dorian had done everything short of propositioning the lad for at least a kiss, but received no acknowledgement beyond those delicious blushes. Neither encouragement nor rebuff was sent his way. No responding flirtations or cold rebuttals.
Maker.
Dorian simply wanted to make an impression on the Elf. He wanted to be an indelible presence in Adam's mind. He wanted to be essential to the Elf, to take a chance on this idea of same-sex love being acceptable here in the South. Take a chance on having something more than something guilty and illicit for a night, and take a chance on having it with Adam.
Maker knew how he wanted to touch Adam.
Adam would never be able to drink another goblet of wine or sip another lyrium draught without thinking of Dorian's lips.
He would always remember that warmth, the spice, the heady blend of lyrium and wine and Dorian's tongue sweeping into his mouth with the same smoothness and confidence Dorian approached everything else with. He would always remember the way warm hands larger than his own cupped his rear, lifted him up onto his toes, lifted him into the Tevinter's more muscular frame to feel what he did to Dorian.
He was special, even when hiding away in the libraries.
Dorian had seen him and found him entrancing. Adam was not less in Dorian's eyes for being an Elf, or petit, or blind. Later, Adam would have to admit he didn't make things easy for Dorian. He'd made Dorian fight to get the Elf to realise the interest Dorian had in him, the desire for more. He'd made Dorian work for the opportunity to kiss soft lips, to cradle a smooth face in elegant hands, to nibble at pointed ears.
But here they were: Dorian holding Adam's slight frame close, Adam practically getting drunk on the devouring kisses. There was no protest now to the Tevinter folding into an armchair and pulling Adam into his lap for kisses trailing up the Elf's neck to his ear.
Perhaps Adam would never have to drink wine again if Dorian was going to simply render him witless with his mouth and hands.