Work Text:
Mahanon woke slowly, in a haze of content and warmth. It was the first morning that he had woken on his own, without an advisor or other member of the Inquisition shouting at him, and with a smile on his face.
His lower back thrummed with a deep ache that matched the ache in his thighs, and he gave a great sigh, turning a bit to look at the sleeping Mage beside him.
The Inquisitor barely bit back a laugh.
Dorian, usually the picture of composure and preening, had his mouth hanging open, half of his face smooshed against one of the lush pillows adorning the bed. His hair was sticking out at odd angles (mostly from sleeping, some from Mahanon’s fingers the night before.) Even his mustache was unkempt and the half against the pillow was crinkled in an almost comic way.
“You’re still beautiful,” Mahanon whispered, smoothing his fingers through the thick, dark hair.
“Of course I am, dear,” Dorian replied in a sleep slurred voice.
Mahanon rolled his eyes. Of course.