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Sarel Lavellan had never liked the taste of wine.
He much preferred the taste of Dalish mead, sweet and intoxicating, served best when it was sun-warmed and recently fermented. As Inquisitor, it was rare to find such a drink, but when he could get his hands on it, the taste brought him back to the aravels of Clan Lavellan.
However, there were moments when Sarel believed he could grow accustomed to the taste of wine. Most, if not all, of these moments involved a certain Tevinter mage. More specifically his lips.
Sarel let out something a satisfied sound in the back of his throat, entwining his fingers in Dorian’s hair while his fellow mage peppered kisses along his neck. He closed his eyes for a moment, another pleased sigh escaping his lips. Sarel opened his eyes once more when he felt the kisses trailing up his neck and across the bottom of his jawline, and he tilted his head down a little bit to meet his lover’s gaze.
Gray eyes met green, and Sarel smiled. Dorian smirked in return and kissed his lips. The Inquisitor parted them just enough for Dorian’s tongue to slip inside his mouth. He tasted of the Antivan red that now sat abandoned on the desk, rich and heavy.
It was so unlike his favored mead, but it was also so much better.