Dragon Age One Shots

Dorian at the Laundromat

"Fasta vass!" Dorian cursed, glaring at the infernal machine that greedily accepted his money but refused to start. He felt eyes rising from across the peeling linoleum, hands ceasing their folding, as they all wondered about the man close to beating a washing machine to death.

His patent leather shoe nudged into the side, barely even a kick, though he wished he could do more damage. That cursed creature didn't so much as give a jiggle, only sat there happy to have consumed half of his pile of quarters. Growing more incensed with each second, he folded his hand into a fist and rammed for the flimsy metal.

Fingers wrapped around his enraged punch, holding him to a dead halt an inch before he made contact. Who dared to touch him? His cheeks flushed with rage, his eyes dilating to unearth a threat, Dorian spun to the tan hand holding him and his jaw dropped. Eyes as sharp as a perfectly cut diamond stared into his. The man's lips lifted in a small smirk as he unleashed his hold upon Dorian.

"I wouldn't if I were you. Unless you want to be thrown out onto the street and have Bertha keep your clothes."

This stranger dropped his arm to his side drawing Dorian's eye to the man's ramshackle clothing. He was dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt looking as if he'd just come from the gym. And judging by the taut and proud muscles displayed on a hungry frame, he visited there regularly.

Trying to shake away his eyes wandering off on their own, Dorian focused on the machine instead. "Is there some sort of slip I can fill out to get back my money? Or, baring that, a bareknuckle unground fight club against various washers?"

A laugh ripened the man's cheeks, his hand slicking back through thick tufts of chestnut hair. "Afraid not. But..." He leaned over towards the controls, those diamond eyes cutting through the ancient runes someone dashed over the knobs. No chance that claptrap was a current speakable language.

"Here," the stranger tipped his head to the middle knob. "You've got to push in first," he did so, then turned the knob towards some designation on the mystical chart. "Then push start and..."

The machine began to rumble against both their hands, Dorian starting in surprise at how quickly it succumbed to this man's will. He was about to thank him, when the stranger sighed, "Guessing this is your first time in a laundromat."

"Why?"

Those sharp eyes drew down Dorian's body, taking their time before returning to his uncertain face. When the pouty lips of the stranger lifted, some of Dorian's concerns did as well. "Not many dress in here like they're going to a polo match."

"Ah," Dorian scoffed, batting at his hair, "I'll have you know I wouldn't be caught dead at a polo match in this." He tugged on his lapels and struck a slight pose to accentuate the lines of his body. The stranger was quick to take note. "This would get me laughed out of the stable by the first dowager to spot me."

"As you say," he ruffled his hair again, putting it even more out of shape than before. "Wouldn't know much about that myself." Silence fell between them, the stranger fiddling with his fingers.

"Thank you," Dorian got out. It felt strange to tell someone that. To feel honest gratitude in his bones. He'd been running on anger and betrayal for so long he'd thought it a permanent fixture. This unexpected kindness was a balm to soothe away some of the rage's rash.

"Guessing you threw off the yoke recently," the man said, jabbing a finger to the cardboard box Dorian used to cart his filthy clothes down here.

Yoke? No, it was far more restrictive than that. At least animals were allowed their freedom from the chains when they slept and ate. At least they could be themselves in the food troughs and barns. And how did this stranger have any clue what he was going through?

"No idea what you mean," Dorian tried to wrap himself in his insouciant charm. He hated how deep the man's probing comments struck.

"Well, never mind then," the stranger moved to turn away when Dorian spoke up.

"I'm Pavus, Dorian Pavus," he extended his hand and it took a moment for the stranger to grip back. Bristling at the eyes around the laundromat staring up at them, Dorian kept his body far enough back none could mistake this for anything more than a friendly greeting.

Then the stranger went and darted just the tip of his tongue over his lip, guiding the bottom lip in deeper so his teeth could bite down. Fasta vaas, indeed. "Most call me Lavellan."

"That's a curious name."

Lavellan shrugged as if it were normal to him, "What I was given, sort of."

Dropping his voice low to match the rumble of the stained dryers, Dorian asked, "Anyone out there call you something...special?"

The man's cheeks burned bright as he glanced down at the floor. While those crystal eyes vanished from his view, Dorian watched the man's lips laugh a moment and smile, "Not in...a while." He raised his head and met Dorian's gaze, crystal blue into hazel grey. "A long while."

Sweaty palms dangled at both men's sides, nearly touching against the knuckles. Tongues lapped over chapped lips, daring the other to make the first move. Eyes wouldn't slip from the other, hanging for a charge.

A buzzer sounding of a dying airhorn shattered the air and the foggy mystique. The fact they were surrounded by bored and off-putting people scrubbing off skidmarks crash landed on Dorian's brain. He drifted a step back, trying to shake the thoughts from his head. The stranger, this Lavellan, turned his handsome face to the stacks of dryers.

"Looks like my clothes are done. Nice meeting you, Dorian," with a tip of his head, he walked over to his finished dryer and quickly fished out the laundry into a plastic basket.

Frozen in place, as if he had to guard his meager clothing spinning around in the washer, Dorian watched this confounding man scoop out the last of his laundry. He'd leave soon. Vanish back into the noisy and uncaring city. "You, um," Dorian took a single step forward, then lost all his nerve.

What could he do? Ask for the man's number? It didn't matter even if he agreed, Dorian had yet to get himself a new phone.

Diamond blue-white eyes lifted from the basket full of an array of colors to land in Dorian's. "I bet we'll run into each other again soon. I'm often around, here and there. If you need anything else...?"

Lavellan stepped a bit closer, his basket switching to his hip. It'd take little for Dorian to grab at his hand, ask him to go somewhere later. Meet him elsewhere. A date? What was he thinking going on a date with another man? Right here where everyone could see?

Those crystal eyes sized him up and, with a sigh, Lavellan swung the basket in between them. "I get it, Pavus. Settling in, lay of the land. But if you need help, don't be too proud to ask. We look after our own here." With that final sentence, this hauntingly beautiful man walked towards the door.

Dorian could do nothing more than watch him leave, his fear pinning him in place. But, his eyes grew emboldened, and dared to skirt from Lavellan's plain, grey-shirted back down the jeans suckered so tight to his taut ass he could almost make out any moles. Just before he was about to vanish out that door, possible forever, Lavellan paused.

"And Dorian," he winked at the man left gobsmacked beside the washer, "welcome to the city."