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Dorian was always surprised by the depth of affection the Inquisitor gave him. At first, it had seemed like such harmless flirting. The Herald of Andraste having a bit of fun with the local Tevinter mage. It was a bit of mostly benign amusement. Then Mahanon had to go and be so damn compassionate. He’d taken all of Dorian’s suggestions to help the Inquisition, he’d gone with him to meet his father and allowed them time to try and reconcile, then he’d checked up on Dorian after the entire tense debacle. He stood up to Mother Giselle, the Inquisition’s main line into the Chantry, for him. He had even gotten Dorian back his birthright, done in such a way that the bastard who’d been holding it ransom got nothing in the end. It was all so much for Dorian to take.
So when he’d taken Mahanon to bed that first time, he felt his hopes getting a little too high. Burning a little too bright. And what did Lavellan have the gall to do?
He asked for more. He wanted more. He wanted Dorian, not for stress relief or simple pleasure. He wanted all of him. And while Dorian could keep his glib tone in the eye of a hurricane, getting him through the moment with relative ease, he later found himself freaking out.
Half a bottle of wine in, Mahanon came up the stairs. Dorian knew it was him. No one else ran around Skyhold utterly barefooted like their Dalish Inquisitor. Dorian’s lover… his… He took another swig of wine straight from the bottle, ignoring all of the decorum that had been hammered into him throughout his life.
Mahanon appeared around the bookshelves and paused in his alcove. Clever green eyes ran from the top of Dorian’s head to the soles of his fashionable shoes. Then he smiled softly, walking forwards.
Dorian wasn’t expecting the elf to climb into his lap. Mahanon was a little too tall for the position to look in any way comfortable as he laid his forehead against Dorian’s.
“Aneth ara, lethallin.” He greeted. “I see you are deep in your cups. Is there something you wish to talk about?” He pulled back, rubbing a hand over the leather stitched into the shoulder of Dorian’s robe.
Dorian set his bottle down on the floor, choosing to instead wrap his hands around the elf’s slim waist. “You say that as if the two statements are somehow linked. Perhaps I am just enjoying my wine.”
Mahanon laughed and his voice was soft and soothing, like the brush of velveteen on the skin. He traced a finger over the curl at the tip of Dorian’s mustache. “Ma vehnan, I think I can tell when you are enjoying yourself. You are not enjoying that wine. You’re sulking. Perhaps I can convince you to tell me why?”
Dorian mentally cursed. His beloved paid far too much attention. He supposed that was part of why he cared so deeply for Mahanon, but it wasn’t such a benefit when he sought to drown his thoughts rather than confronting them.
“You’ll have to be especially convincing, my dear.”
Mahanon brightened, his eyes dancing with mirth. “I think I can manage that.” He sprang from Dorian’s lap, leaving the mage just long enough for him to miss his presence, before a slender hand latched onto Dorian’s wrist and tugged him up out of his chair. Immediately, Mahanon was pulling him towards the curling stairs that went down to Solas’ part of the rotunda. Dorian made a feeble protest, but it died on his lips at the mischievous look Lavellan shot him.
They passed Solas and Varric and more than a few scandalized dignitaries as Mahanon guided Dorian through the hall and up to the Inquisitor’s bedchambers. Heat suffused Dorian’s cheeks, even though he felt he should have been less surprised than he was. When Mahanon kissed him, Dorian smiled into the gentle touch.
Well, at least he was confident in this part.
He began pulling at the buttons of Mahanon’s jacket. Then was thrown for a loop when the decadent slide of tongues stopped so Mahanon could step back. Dorian stared in confusion as his lover shot him a grin.
“You hate this uniform, correct?”
The Tevinter mage paused, not certain just where this was going. “Yes… It’s garish and a travesty against fashion. Where are you going with this?”
Mahanon chuckled. He took Dorian’s shoulders and made him sit on the edge of his ridiculous Free Marches bed, between the lush red curtains that were for once tied back as they belonged. Then Mahanon knelt down in front of Dorian, looking up at him with such an impetuous grin that it made his heart stammer.
“I thought perhaps you would like to make a mess of this garish travesty. Though I’m not opposed to the cloth only being part of your canvas.” Mahanon’s hand snuck forward to rub the crotch of his trousers where Dorian’s cock was already swelling against the fabric.
His head dropped forward with a groan. Dorian found his hand in Mahanon’s thick brown hair, fingers curled in the silken strands. “The things you say…” He breathed, unable to catch much air while Mahanon was setting about pulling him out of his trousers and breeches.
The elf met his gaze when he had Dorian’s length in his dexterous hand, then dragged the flat of his tongue from the root to the tip. Mahanon’s eyes went hooded and he let out an appreciative hum that had Dorian fighting the twitch of his own hips. His lover swirled a talented tongue around the crown, lapping up the precum beading from the slit, then licked his lips as if to absorb the rest of the flavor.
Dorian found his hand tightening in Mahanon’s hair. Certainly he had experienced a man’s mouth before, but for some reason this was different. Mahanon wasn’t like any other partner he had ever been with. He was attentive, taking his time, and looked like he enjoyed the act of giving more than any mortal being should. It was intoxicating and terrifying.
Mahanon teased only a little longer before pressing his mouth down over Dorian’s cock. Teeth hidden and tongue flattened, he bobbed his head endlessly in a slick slide over the sensitive flesh. Dorian sucked in air when he breached Mahanon’s throat and found the elf did not even gag at the contact. His hand tightened to what must have been a painful point in his lover’s hair, but the groan Mahanon gave was anything but pained.
“Kaffas.” Dorian swore, unable to stop himself from tugging on his partner’s thick locks to draw out the sound again. The elf didn’t disappoint, moaning like he was the one being blown, and his eyes met Dorian’s. The Fade magic green of his irises was nearly gone behind the wide black of his pupils. He looked beautiful. He looked like a wild thing, possessed by nature and passion. Dorian knew time had been passing, the wet suction around his cock driving him ever closer to madness, but he felt time had stilled around them from the moment they entered the room. And those eyes. Those passion-crazed eyes had him unraveling before he could think of silly things like pride and stamina.
The moan was Mahanon’s only warning as Dorian came. At the first touch of seed upon his tongue, the elf drew back, stroking Dorian’s length with fervor. Sticky stripes of white painted Mahanon’s atrocious Winter Palace uniform, dripped down his fingers, streaked his lips and cheek. And, Maker, Dorian had never been the type to drift into the urge to mark his territory, but a possessive pleasure tore through him at the sight of his lover decorated in his come.
Mahanon worked every last drop from Dorian before licking him clean. The altus was panting, feeling the bursts of electric aftershocks through his form from a mind blowing orgasm. He reached out, running his thumb through the translucent white smear on his lover’s cheek and dragging it back to Mahanon’s mouth. The elf gladly sucked his thumb inside, laving over the pad with his talented tongue and stealing every trace of seed from the swirls of his thumbprint.
Dorian felt his heart flutter. When his hand retracted, Mahanon gave him a blinding smile. He kept Dorian’s gaze as he removed his Winter Palace jacket and used it to clean his face. The expensive garment was tossed carelessly to the floor and Mahanon rose. He pushed lightly at the center of Dorian’s chest until the mage was forced back onto the bed in an inelegant sprawl. Mahanon re-laced Dorian’s trousers and set himself down on the mage’s hips.
When Dorian reached out to reciprocate, he was surprised to find Mahanon batting his hand away lightly. He shot his lover a puzzled look.
“I’m fine, Dorian. This was about you.” Mahanon offered quietly, raising his hands to rub Dorian’s shoulders in a careful pseudo-massage.
Dorian felt his heart crack open.
Had he ever had sex that wasn’t just mutual gratification? A single partner that would have pleasured him only to expect nothing in return? If he had, they weren’t half as memorable as Mahanon, though the possibility of anyone comparing to Mahanon was slim to none. Dorian sat up, sliding his lover back into his lap and wrapping his arms around him tight.
“You’re impossible, do you know that? Saying such things. If I couldn’t rest my hands on you, I would think you were only a dream.” He whispered.
Mahanon’s fingers traced down the back of Dorian’s neck in unrecognizable patterns. “Please tell me what’s wrong, Dorian. I can’t help if I don’t know how.”
And wasn’t that just part of the problem?
“You can’t fix every problem you find, amatus.” Dorian answered, his voice an airy sigh.
“I can’t if I don’t at least try.”
Dorian tucked his face into the hollow of Mahanon’s throat. After a moment, he allowed himself to give in. He was so vulnerable at the feet of this man already. What was one more chink in the armor?
“I have never done… what we’re doing. Sex is one thing, but you ask me for more and I find myself wanting to give you everything, but… I don’t exactly know how. And if I give you what you ask for, how am I to be sure I will come out the other side unscathed?” He admitted.
Mahanon’s hand cradled the back of Dorian’s neck. “It’s a daunting thing… No one can know what the future holds, Dorian. And while I can promise you that you are already my heart, I cannot promise the happy conclusion to our tale that you deserve. But I would rather spend the rest of my life having your wit and your snark and your beautiful heart alongside me than to follow the safest path with no chance of heartbreak. To me, you are worth that risk.”
Dorian sobbed, his arms hauling Mahanon against his chest tightly. The lithe elf went easily, wrapping Dorian in an embrace that felt safer than any he had ever had in his life. He allowed himself to sort through the heavy emotions he had so long fought to suppress. The fear, the anxiety, the affection… the love. His heart calmed, eased at last by the crushing weight of his realization. He loved Mahanon too much not to give himself fully to the man. It was terrifying, like the dreams of falling into an endless chasm, but also uplifting. Like maybe, just maybe, he was flying instead of falling.
“I love you.” He whispered, voice cracked and breaking. Mahanon hugged him a little tighter.
“Ar lath ma, vehnan. I love you too.”
-
They were walking through the Storm Coast. The deep, abiding sea rain peppered them with salted droplets. Dorian could only imagine the drying grit that would be on his skin later, or the way the salt would begin to rust and tarnish all of the metal on his robes and staff. He hated the Storm Coast. He’d like, for once, to enjoy the seaside without the oppressive soak in rainwater. Though, he imagined it wouldn’t have been called the Storm Coast if it actually had any pleasant beaches.
Mahanon was ahead of them, springing along the rocky hillside. He always stopped to pick up the plantlife they could use in the Inquisition, so he naturally kept a faster pace ahead of them. Dorian knew he feared delaying their group even to pick up much needed elfroot, so much that he ran himself ragged over the course of their journeys. He was trying to think of a way to inconspicuously call his lover to slow down without drawing too much attention to his ploy, when it happened.
It was some hunter’s trap. A wicked snare the likes of which Dorian had never seen nor expected. It was a tight line of razor wire half hidden in a bush that he tried to step past. When he nudged the trap with his foot, the tension brought it snapping around his leg in a tight coil. It was powerful or sharp or both, enough that it rent right through Dorian’s trousers and tore into his leg. He gave a startled cry and fell to a knee.
Mahanon was by his side in an instant. The elf eased Dorian into a sitting position, careful not to aggravate the length of wire digging into the meat of his calf.
“Ir abelas, ma vehnan.” Mahanon stroked the side of Dorian’s face before turning to the injured leg. “Varric, Bull, please find the closest place to make camp. We’re done for the day.” He ordered over his shoulder.
Dorian made to protest, but the moment he opened his lips, Mahanon touched the wire embedded in his leg and the words devolved into a cry of pain. The Inquisitor mumbled more apologies, peering closely at the wire to find the best way of unwinding it.
The pain of the wire coming unbound was excruciating. It felt as if his leg were encased in molten metal. Every tiny tug against the trap had Dorian cursing in Tevene and digging his fingers into the rocky dirt beneath him. Mahanon’s voice was a constant slew of apologies and endearments as he took his time freeing Dorian from his captivity. When the wire finally released, Mahanon dumped it into a pouch from his knapsack and pulled out a clean rag with two bottles of health potion.
“Do you think you can drink this on your own while I clean these wounds?” The elf asked, offering the bottle to Dorian. The mage’s hand shook as he took the glass vial.
“I can. I’m alright now, amatus.” He pulled the cork from the potion and pressed the rim to his lips. The elfroot concoction was bitter as it passed his lips, tasting much like the medicine it was. Mahanon’s gaze lingered on him before he began soaking his rag in the other potion.
“This will sting.” The elf warned.
“No worse than removing the wire.” Dorian breathed, having finished his potion and licking the sour stickiness from his lips.
Mahanon lowered the soaked rag to Dorian’s leg and Maker did it ever sting! It was just on the verge of burning as Mahanon swept over the wounds in careful strokes. Dorian felt the prick of tears returning to his eyes, seemingly having not gone far since the wire’s removal, and ground his teeth on the pain. The deep cuts were beginning to fade as the potion medicated and numbed him. Dorian saw twisted pale scars curling up his leg like thin, braided vines.
“Kaffas…” He breathed in relief as the leg finally completed its journey to blissful numbness.
Mahanon wiped clean the last traces of blood and tucked the rag into the pouch he had put the terrible razor wire in. Dorian was thankful. He didn’t know if it was enough blood in the rag to fill a phylactery or if the Red Templars even had a way of doing such a thing from a mere rag, but he wasn’t willing to chance it. Thank the Maker Dorian’s lover was well versed in that particular fear.
“Boss, we got the tents set up. You need me to carry the Vint?” Iron Bull called from somewhere behind Dorian’s head. Bull probably wouldn’t struggle to carry his weight, so it wasn’t a terrible idea. Mahanon just shook his head.
“I have him. Thank you both.”
And have him, he did. Before Dorian could utter a single syllable about Mahanon struggling with his weight, the slender elf placed himself between Dorian’s splayed legs, tucked his hands beneath the other mage’s arse, and lifted him up. Dorian sucked in a sharp breath and seized Mahanon’s shoulders. His cheeks went hot.
“You sentimental fool. Don’t you dare drop me.” He warned, clinging as his lover ascended the slope towards their campsite.
“Varric, could you pick up our staffs and place them in the tent? My hands are a little full at the moment.” Mahanon said, simply ignoring Dorian’s posturing.
“You got it. How are you holding up, Sparkler? That trap looked nasty.” Varric replied, walking over to collect the two heavy wooden weapons. His tone was casual, as if it were an every day thing to see the Inquisitor carrying a fully grown man through the damp grasses of the Storm Coast.
“I’m quite alright, thank you. Setting up camp was unnecessary. I should be back on my feet momentarily.” His vision became obscured as Mahanon ducked through the cloth folds of a tent and set him comfortably down on a hide bedroll. Dorian saw Mahanon’s face when he pulled back and felt awful upon seeing the strain of worry pulling at his features.
Varric ducked into the tent and set their staffs off to the side. “Just give the Inquisitor this one, Sparkler.” The merchant intoned softly. “We’re not really stopping for you.” Then he was gone and the tent closed.
Mahanon had the grace to blush in the dim light inside the tent, turning red all the way to the points of his ears. “Please rest Dorian.” The elf touched his hand, clammy from the sea air but still comforting against Dorian’s skin. “Your shout of pain made me… I was so worried we had missed some hidden assassin.” Mahanon swallowed, closing his eyes. “I just need to know you’re okay.”
Dorian’s heart swelled with adoration. He extended a hand, cupping his lover’s cheek. “I’m fine, amatus. I promise. But if you need the night to be certain, then I will rest.” He eased back onto his elbows. “Lay with me?”
Mahanon nodded. He shifted their bedrolls just a bit closer together and laid down beside Dorian, curling a possessive arm over Dorian’s side as the other mage laid down facing him. Their breath mingled, a warm counterpoint to the air around them, though no less humid. Dorian could see the ache in Mahanon’s gaze. He could see the fear behind Fade green eyes. He allowed himself to be coddled, just for the night, because Mahanon needed to show he cared. Dorian was already loathe to deny his lover anything. To deny him the indulgence of showing how much he cared would have been needlessly silly. And if Dorian enjoyed the attention, enjoyed the way Mahanon touched him like he was made of the most beautiful glass, then that was only a benefit to their indulgent evening.
-
To say that Iron Bull was a flirt would have been an understatement. The Qunari had bedded at least a fourth of Skyhold at this point and propositioned far more. He had even responded to some of Dorian’s scathing criticism of the Qun was the least subtle flirting known to man. Dorian was certain that Bull had even flirted with Mahanon, though not when Dorian was looking. The Bull was smart enough to fear the bite of Dorian’s magic if he started to lobby for the mage’s lover in front of him.
But, while Bull was smart enough not to piss Dorian off, he clearly underestimated their darling Inquisitor’s possessive streak.
They were in the Herald’s Rest, having a drink with dinner and listening to stories from the Chargers. Krem was always a delightful storyteller. Almost as good at regaling a tavern as he was at brawling with their enemies. But it was Bull’s turn to tell the story and he was sharing about the time he met a Vint mage on an island where the Chargers had been tracking a small dragon.
The mage had been exaggerated and arrogant and sarcastic, much like Dorian. Bull had started down a tangent about how he’d liked the idea of bending someone so sassy over his knee and Dorian felt it appropriate to snark out a comment of his own.
“I’ll be sure to be wary of your knees, Iron Bull, if sass is such a trigger for you.” It was a joke. Meant to derail the story or perhaps put it back to its rails so they could hear about the Chargers and the dragon again. Mahanon gave Dorian a glance from the side of his eyes and laughed.
Then Bull pushed perhaps a bit too far. “I’m sure you’d like my knee, Vint. And many other pieces of me.”
The Chargers laughed, minus Krem who raised a brow at Iron Bull in subtle warning. The room around them chilled. Dorian glanced back, wondering if someone had recently opened the door to the tavern, but it was closed. Then he noticed the frost creeping up the mug in his lover’s hand, spreading in a languid tide of ice crystals up towards the rim of the cup.
“Well, perhaps we should get back to the dragon.” He cut in, trying to quell the way Mahanon’s gaze seemed to shadow.
Iron Bull flashed Dorian a smirk. “What’s the matter? You don’t want to know all the ways I could rail your tiny ass-“
The words died when Mahanon stood up and ice spread from the points of his fingertips on the table, shooting up into pointed crystals that ended in the Iron Bull’s face. The Chargers were shocked. Dorian was shocked. Bull merely raised his tankard and took a drink in the face of a very angry Mahanon.
“I’ll have to ask that you keep such comments to yourself, Iron Bull. I don’t want a reason to injure a friend.” The Inquisitor’s tone was as frosty as his magic.
Bull set his mug to the side, his one eye glittering mischievously. “I wondered what it would take to make that kind heart of yours harden… Don’t worry, Boss. I’m not after your Vint. Just teasing him. It’s more fun to make him all fussy than to try and get a rise out of you. Not that this hasn’t been fun.” The Qunari ran a finger down the icicle beneath his jaw.
Mahanon lifted his chin. “I doubt my reaction will come as much of a surprise when you write your Ben-Hassrath letter about this.” He leaned forwards. “Dorian is off limits, my friend. I will fight at your side. I will slay dragons with you. I will listen to every story you feel in the mood to tell. But I will not share.”
And with that, the elf extracted himself from the table and blew out of the Herald’s Rest like a tornado, leaving nothing but a chill, several shards of ice, and Dorian staring after him in shock.
Iron Bull laughed good naturedly and met Dorian’s gaze as he looked back. “Are you still worried you don’t mean as much to him as he means to you?” He questioned, raising a brow.
Dorian wasn’t even going to ask how he knew that because, Ben-Hassrath, obviously Bull had figured him out. Instead he sighed. “Are you really antagonizing him for my benefit?”
The Iron Bull’s lips pulled in a smug smirk. “Not just yours… You should follow him. He’s probably in the Chantry. It’s where he always goes when he’s done something particularly un-Herald-y.”
Dorian drained his tankard and stood. “Have a good evening, Bull.” He met Krem’s gaze as he turned and they exchanged nods. Then Dorian left the tavern to hunt down Mahanon.
The garden was empty when he arrived. It was well past sunset, so the gardeners and visitors had found their way to other places. The Chantry sisters were still nearby, in the rooms off one side of the garden, but none of them were here to give him their disapproving looks. Dorian found the door to the Chantry and opened it.
Sure enough, Mahanon was inside. He was beautiful in the glow of the lit candles, standing before the statue of Andraste. The light caught the strands of red lurking in his brown hair and curved around the contours of his form, making him a glowing silhouette in the dim room.
Dorian closed the door behind him and approached, laying his hand low on Mahanon’s back. If the elf was surprised, he didn’t show it. He was completely still, gazing up at the shrine like it might hold some arcane answers for him.
“You really didn’t have to run off, darling. Bull was just teasing.” Dorian offered softly.
“I threatened my friend.”
The elf’s voice shook. Dorian felt a pang in his heart at how broken up his kind lover sounded about the matter. “He tried to make you threaten him. It was a game.”
Mahanon shook his head. “It wasn’t very fitting of the Herald of Andraste. I resorted to violence too quickly. I could have hurt-“
“But you didn’t. You didn’t hurt Bull or anyone else. And Maker take the title! You don’t need to be a holy figure to be what the world needs.” Dorian raised his hand to cup Mahanon’s cheek and turned his head to face him. Mahanon’s eyes were bright, concern showing in their shining depths.
“The Herald title is how we made it this far.”
“Fasta vass, Mahanon. The title was your beginning, but the people follow you now because of all that you’ve accomplished. It’s not like the Maker cares if you have a silly name for yourself. You are enough. Without the title or the religion.” Dorian stroked Mahanon’s cheekbone with his thumb, following under the dark lines of ink around his eye. Amusement flickered through the elf’s gaze.
“Even the Maker wouldn’t care, hm?” He reached up and curled his palm around Dorian’s hand, nuzzling his face into the touch. “Don’t let the Chantry sisters hear you say such things.”
Dorian stepped closer, his lips tugging up in a smirk. “I’m sure I could think of far worse things for the Chantry sisters to hear from this room.” He teased salaciously.
He was expecting a laugh. Mahanon seemed to love when Dorian terrorized the southern Chantry. He wasn’t expecting the blush that stole across his lover’s face, nor the way his lips parted with a little breathless huff. His brows crept upwards.
“My, my. Is our lovely Inquisitor enticed by the idea of defiling the Chantry?” Dorian teased, crowding closer to his lover. Mahanon visibly shivered.
“Dorian…”
Dorian stepped back, his eyes glittering with delight. “Put your hands against the statue, amatus.” He commanded, his voice turning sultry and dark.
He heard Mahanon’s breath catch. It took a moment, in which Dorian began to doubt his assumptions, but the elf stepped forwards and placed his gloved hands against the stone curve of Andraste’s dress. Mahanon gulped audibly when Dorian stepped into place behind him. Dorian caressed a hand down his lover’s side, feeling the leather smooth and rustle beneath his fingertips. Breath shuddered from the elf’s chest, shaking his ribcage under Dorian’s palm.
“I’m going to take good care of you, amatus. In the end, it won’t be the Maker’s name upon your lips.” The mage dragged his hand around to palm Mahanon’s erection where it strained against his trousers.
“Ah!”
Dorian chuckled at the soft cry, twisting open Mahanon’s laces with perhaps more teasing than was wise. He pressed against his lover, rubbing his own thickening length into the curve of Mahanon’s behind.
Laces undone, he pulled down both trousers and breeches until Mahanon was exposed to him. He slid his hand over the swell of the elf’s ass, enjoying the contrasting differences in the color of their skin, before murmuring a soft spell. With now slick fingers he teased the furled opening between his lover’s cheeks, smearing the oil over him. Mahanon’s breath came harsher when Dorian gave the first teasing press inside.
“Dorian-“
“Tsk, tsk, amatus. Take care with your voice. The Chantry sisters may hear you.” Dorian teased, before fully pushing a finger into him. Mahanon sunk his teeth into his lip to smother a moan. The tightness of his hole had Dorian nearly mimicking the action. Had he been this tight that first time? Or was it a response to where they were? He put aside the wondering and began to slide his finger back and forth, coating his lover’s insides in oil.
When the elf began to relax and his muscles to loosen, Dorian added a second finger. He heard his lover choke down another moan, his head falling forwards and casting his normally brushed back hair into his eyes. Dorian explored Mahanon’s hole, looking for one place in particular. When his lover lurched forwards against the statue, he knew he’d found it. Dorian found that delightful bundle of nerves again and rolled his fingertips over it.
“Ah- Dorian!” The exclamation was whispered, nearly squeaked, as the body before him shook with pleasure. Dorian supposed a good man might let up. Might let Mahanon catch his breath.
Dorian was not a good man.
He leaned forwards, nipping at the delicate point of Mahanon’s ear, and pressed again on his prostate. His lover spasmed and groaned, long and low.
“I could make you come just like this, amatus. I could make you paint the Holy lady’s shrine from nothing but my fingers.” Dorian purred to him, quiet and taunting.
Mahanon shook his head rapidly, curling his fingers on the stone. “N-No, Dorian, please! I-I want you!” He breathed, arching his back in such a perfect way. And Dorian wasn’t a good man, but he wasn’t a cruel one either.
One handed, he unlaced his trousers and stripped himself down just enough to make this coupling possible. His fingers slid from Mahanon’s hole, leaving him to whine at the emptiness as Dorian used the remaining oil to slick his cock. He wrapped one hand around Mahanon’s waist and guided himself with the other until he was pushing inside of his lover slowly.
He should have stretched him more. The tightness was overwhelming. It was almost too much and Dorian had a brief worry that he was hurting Mahanon. The worry died when his lover gave a shaky, but relieved sigh. Mahanon dropped his head between his bent arms and shifted back to meet Dorian’s careful push. Dorian smothered a groan as he fully seated himself inside his lover.
The first thrust was just to test the limits. Pulling back slowly and feeling Mahanon’s body cling to his cock. Pushing back in a little harder to see if it caused any pain. But Dorian saw no pain nor tension in his lover’s quivering form. Only desire. He started up a rhythm of thrusts and watched Mahanon falling apart for him. His amatus pressed into every thrust and whined whenever Dorian was fully sheathed within him. His legs shook and Dorian crowded him closer to the shrine so he was more stable under each harsh pulse inside him. After moments that felt like seconds, Dorian found his prostate and struck it with a glancing blow. Mahanon moaned loudly. It might have been okay in the safety of their room, but here they could be so easily discovered. Dorian had no shame, but he delighted in the idea of reminding Mahanon.
He curled his palm over his lover’s open mouth an leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Any louder and you’ll wake Mother Giselle. What rumors do you think that you’ll start?” He smirked against Mahanon’s scarlet skin. “The Inquisitor being fucked stupid on the shrine of the Maker’s bride.”
Mahanon’s insides tightened further, grasping Dorian in like a vice. The mage nipped his lover’s ear and pounded into him with abandon, the smacking of their hips unbearably loud in the quiet night air. He could tell Mahanon was close. His face was twisted between bliss and agony and he looked back at Dorian with eyes gone watery and dilated. Dorian slipped his hand from Mahanon’s mouth down to caress the fragile line of his throat.
“I want to paint your insides with my come until it’s dripping on this Chantry floor.” Dorian purred, angling just right and hitting Mahanon’s prostate once more.
His lover jerked and spasmed as he came, spilling in harsh spurts. His voice was choked on a moan and the sight of his seed striping the shrine, extinguishing one of the candles, sent Dorian over the edge as well. He buried himself deep inside Mahanon’s hole and felt his cock twitching as he spent himself in that shivering heat.
They stayed there, intertwined for a moment longer, before Dorian guided Mahanon up into a kiss. He ravished his lover’s mouth in sensuous and lingering strokes.
Then, to their horror, they heard a door open into the gardens.
“Fenedhis!” Mahanon whispered. Dorian quickly pulled back, unsheathing himself from his lover, and hurriedly pulled up his trousers. Mahanon did the same, not bothering with his laces in favor of pulling Dorian to the side of the room and conjuring a shroud of shadows in the barest attempt to hide them in the minimal space.
Pressed tight to the wall and to each other, they saw the door open and a young woman look in. She cast her eyes about the dim room, but apparently saw nothing. A giddy laugh built in Dorian’s chest and he quashed it ruthlessly to avoid getting them caught. Their intruder hummed under her breath, then turned around and left.
Mahanon shook against Dorian’s chest, trying too hard to stifle his amusement, and Dorian drew him into an embrace, shaking just as much. When they heard the door outside close once more, they burst into soft giggles, still not safe enough for outright laughter.
Dorian cupped Mahanon’s cheek and kissed him happily. This, he would not trade for the world.
-
Returning to Tevinter after the defeat of Corypheus was one of the hardest things Dorian had ever had to do. His only lifeline in the darkened shadows of his duty were the communication crystals. The chance to simply come home after a day of Tevinter’s usual political mess and talk to Mahanon. The Inquisition was gone, but the Inquisitor was still needed. So being able to still talk to his amatus across the long distance was a pleasure Dorian would only give up on pain of death.
It was, however, the third day he had gone without a call from Mahanon. Dorian was pacing outside the high arched doors of the room where the Magisterium was to meet in an hour and he couldn’t help gazing at the crystal. What could be keeping his lover so busy? Was it… But no. Solas had saved Mahanon’s life the last time they met. Surely he would wait a little closer to the end of the world before he tried to murder an old friend.
Still, the silence was killing him. Dorian had never been so close to madness.
“Magister Pavus!” Called a voice from down the hall. Dorian looked up, already pulling at the edges of his facade, when he saw who it was that called him. He gave a genuine smile as Maevaris walked down the hall towards him. It should have struck him that she was putting in none of her usual showmanship to the sway of her hips as she walked. He was just glad to see a friend.
“Magister Tilani. You’re quite early to the meeting. What happened to arriving fashionably late?” He teased.
Maevaris took his arm. “Yes, well needs must accommodate other circumstances today, I’m afraid. Could I steal a moment of your time, dear? There’s something we must speak about.”
Dorian raised a brow. “You have as many moments of my time as you like. I doubt we’re discussing anything of importance at the meeting today.”
“Perfect. Follow me, darling.” Maevaris began to maneuver them back down the decorated halls she had just come through, her grip on Dorian’s arm a little tighter than usual. That was when the newly minted Magister Pavus began to realize something was amiss.
“Maevaris, is something the matter? You seem… out of sorts.” And by out of sorts, he meant entirely based on her actions because there was not a single hair out of place on the beautiful woman’s appearance. She wasn’t vain, but she kept herself together like pottery shielded entirely in gold, any brittle insides protected by a sturdy and shiny protective layer.
“Oh, Dorian. I wanted to come get you right away, but he insisted that on asking questions first. Honestly, the man is stubborn as you are. And now he’s in pain and I have no idea what to do.” Maevaris’ brows tipped together in distress.
“Who, dear woman, are you talking about?”
They stopped beside a door that Dorian was well accustomed with as Maevaris’ office. They had spent many days inside talking and planning different theories that would help them realize their shared dream of reforming Tevinter’s flaws.
“You’ll see.” Maevaris opened the door and gestured him inside.
Walking into the office was like stepping into a small library. Maevaris kept plenty of tomes from magic to politics to advancing fields like sociology. And in the center, before her carved mahogany desk, stood Mahanon.
Dorian’s eyes widened and he rushed forwards, laying his hands on his beloved’s cloaked shoulders. Mahanon looked up at him, lips drawing back in a fond smile, Fade green eyes sparkling like open Rifts. Dorian cupped the elf’s cheek, stroked his hair, drew gentle fingers over the arch of his nose and down his soft lips.
“Amatus, what are you doing here? I thought you were in the Anderfells.” He asked, in no way disappointed by the change.
Mahanon chuckled. “I was in the Anderfells. I found an Eluvian in a ruin near Weisshaupt. I thought… Well I’d hoped to get Solas’ attention by going through it. Fen’Harel apparently saw fit to send me here. I came out of an Eluvian in what I think must have been some kind of archive. I thought perhaps I could find you. Eventually I found Magister Tilani and I couldn’t resist asking her about both of your machinations. You always tell me so little over our talks.”
Dorian laughed and kissed his forehead fondly. “Only you would get distracted so easily.”
Mahanon laughed, gazing up at Dorian as if he were the most beautiful man on the planet. Despite Dorian’s many claims to be just that, it was a remarkably humbling way to be seen.
Behind them, Maevaris cleared her throat. Dorian turned, his joyous smile faltering at her look of concern. “Inquisitor, dear, perhaps you had best tell him about the part you left out.”
Gray eyes whipped back to Mahanon and Dorian cast his gaze over his lover with fear. “What happened? Are you hurt?!”
Mahanon caught his hand as Dorian started to push the cloak from his shoulders. “I’ll be fine, ma vehnan. I just had a small run in with the slavers. We disagreed about my right to walk Minrathous so confidently.”
Ice filled Dorian’s veins. He knew it wasn’t safe here for his lover, but it couldn’t have even been a day. They already tried to take his amatus away from him. Dorian cupped Mahanon’s cheeks, studying the elf for bruises and trying to quell the tide of horror.
“What happened, Mahanon? Where are you hurt?”
Dorian watched as the elf shrugged his cloak from one shoulder. The stump where his hand had been was a mottled flush of blacks and purples. The bruises stretched up to his elbow and were darkest at his wrist. Finger shaped marks curled around Mahanon’s bicep in blue prints. It looked as if they’d held him down and abused his already maimed arm with something blunt and painful. As if Mahanon wasn’t already in enough pain daily from his lost limb.
“Fasta vass! I will find them and set them on fire!”
“Dorian.”
“I will electrify them and when they’re dead I’ll raise their corpses so I can kill them again!”
“Dorian!” Mahanon’s hand curled around his cheek. Dorian heard him clear as a bell, even through the pounding of blood in his ears. It took him a moment to calm his rapid breathing and he realized Maevaris was in the corner, pouring water over the smoking remains of a plant. Kaffas. He hadn’t set things on fire since he was in his teens! He curled himself protectively around Mahanon, still shaking with the energy to follow through on all of his threats.
“I’m so sorry, amatus.” He whispered, wrapping the elf in an embrace. Mahanon wrapped his arm over Dorian’s shoulders and carded his fingers through his love’s longer hair.
“Dorian, I’m alright. I promise. Just… can we go home?”
And if Dorian were to deny his lover anything, it would only have been the result of monstrous alterations from blood magic.
With a soft thanks to Maevaris, Dorian led Mahanon out of the Senate building. Any that looked at them as they passed through the streets thought Mahanon was Dorian’s slave and nothing more. They were fools. If anything, Dorian was much more a slave to Mahanon, easy to bend to his lover’s whims. They passed the markets and the buildings, avoiding any alleys because Maker knows who might try to assault his amatus again.
Eventually they reached House Pavus. Dorian led Mahanon straight to the sitting room and made him relax on the red chaise while he went to get medical supplies. He returned only moments later, but he saw Mahanon already drifting. He was clearly exhausted and had been for a while. But he was here now and Dorian would pamper him until he had to leave.
Dorian coaxed a healing potion down Mahanon’s throat. Then he took the bruised arm and began rubbing lightly scented creams onto the skin. They were healing salves, but many used them as wrinkle removers or other such beauty toiletries. Dorian had long since stopped caring about wrinkles after Mahanon had told him they made him look dignified, but he still had the salves just in case of minor wounds. There was a numbing agent in one of them and Mahanon sighed when it leeched the pain from his bruises.
“Why do you think Solas wanted you in Minrathous?” Dorian asked softly, if only to keep his love awake just a little longer.
Mahanon laughed just as softly. “Fen’Harel may be on the path to our destruction, but that doesn’t mean he stopped being Solas.” Sadness weighed down his gaze. “He wants us to be together. Before the end.”
Dorian swallowed hard. He’d never understood the friendship the two elves had, but he didn’t need to. Solas had taught Mahanon about the Fade, about the Veil, about spirits, about all the things the Dalish only half remembered. He had saved Mahanon’s life, multiple times, though sometimes the danger was a consequence of Solas’ actions. Whatever they had was a nebulous thing. But Dorian could imagine Mahanon was right about the Dread Wolf’s reasonings.
“Maybe… you should stay in Tevinter.” Dorian said slowly.
Mahanon’s eyes widened in shock. The Magister huffed and continued. “You’ve already got people here looking for ways to stop Solas. A few of Leliana’s lingering spies and Varric’s connections. Maybe you should stay and monitor those leads.”
The Inquisitor swallowed and took Dorian’s hand. “How can I do that if I’m not human? Won’t I run into too much trouble in the streets? I’d worry you into an early grave, ma vehnan.”
Dorian raised his gloved hand and brushed a kiss over his knuckles. “You would be safer if everyone knew you to be a Magister’s husband.” He offered, utterly sincere as he gazed into Mahanon’s eyes.
Mahanon stared at him, then slid down from the chaise and threw his arms around Dorian’s shoulders, clinging to him desperately. “Ar lath ma, vehnan! Yes. In every language, in every country, in life, and in death, yes!”
Dorian gripped him tightly to his chest, feeling the familiar weight of lithe muscle and vibrant life that he had so missed in his arms. Every moment was gray in comparison to having Mahanon in his arms, ready to love him; ready to marry him.
Void take Tevinter customs. Void take what should or should not be. Void take the damn end of the world. As long as Mahanon was with him, Dorian would be fine. Their love could endure anything.
~ End