Chapter Text
To Dorian's muted delight, "I need to talk to you" turned into something more. It always did. They'd make their way to the nearest balcony. Teasing. Exchanging glances. Hands would brush tentatively. Then shoulders, and then (just when Dorian thought he might die), lips. One of them would end up pinned against the stone wall, most often Dorian, hidden in the shadow of the eaves.
In those stolen moments, they weren't Inquisitor and follower, Dalish Elf and Tevinter Altus, or even two men; just brilliant points of pleasure. It never got old. Perhaps because it always ended too soon. There would be some interruption or other - something dragging the Inquisitor's attention away.
But not today - today had gone differently. Today, Dorian found himself in the Inquisitor's chambers, seated on his grandiose bed with the elf practically in his lap.
He didn’t remember following Lavellan down to the great hall - just his surprise that they were going further inside, rather than outside. And the sudden awareness that everyone could see them together. Then they were safely through the door - the Inquisitor’s door - and he was pushed against the wall. Lavellan’s body, long and lean, pressed against his; green eyes gone dark, fingers in his hair, a thumb on his lips. He made a noise embarrassingly close to a moan, and the thumb was replaced by lips and tongue. He would have happily remained there, dissolving into heat and desire. But he was being pulled up the stairs and- Vishante Kaffas, the room was massive!
Dorian stopped dead, gaping at the ornate desk framed by overflowing bookshelves; at the two -not one, but two- glass-paneled doors and the balconies beyond. “Speechless, I see,” Lavellan ran a hand up Dorian’s neck, gently turning his head to face him. Those plump lips curled up devilishly, and Dorian couldn’t not kiss them. Lavellan’s free hand went to his hip, guided him backward until his thighs hit something plush and his knees buckled. Dorian landed on the bed, hands braced behind him, and stared wide-eyed up at the elf.
This was a line they hadn’t crossed before. Granted, all of their clothes were on, but the room -the bed- was A Line. And if the Inquisitor joined him there, it couldn’t be un-crossed. Lavellan stared down at him, eyes intent, biting his lip, waiting for permission. Before he could recount all the reasons not to cross that line, Dorian grabbed the elf and pulled him across it.
Kneeling, straddling his legs, Lavellan still peered down at him. Dorian tilted his chin upward toward those soft lips, exposing the line of his throat. Instead of meeting his lips, the elf focused on his neck, pressing lush kisses into sensitive skin. Slowly working his way upward. His jaw, his chin… When their lips finally met again, Dorian nearly growled. He knew he could and should put a stop to all this before it went any further. If only he could convince his hands to stop sliding down Lavellan’s back. Instead, they rounded that firm ass and pulled; Lavellan hummed, thrusting closer, confirming he was just as hard as Dorian. Kaffas, he was-
Knock-knock-knock
They froze. In the silence that followed, Dorian almost convinced himself the rapping had come from out in the garden. But no.
Knock-knock-knock- “Inquisitor?” A light voice called out below them.
“Fuck.” Lavellan pulled himself off Dorian and stood. Back turned, hands on his hips. “Fuck.”
Dorian’s heart stopped. His face burned. He’d never wanted to be someone’s shame -their dirty secret- ever again. Yet here he was: the biggest, dirtiest secret the Inquisitor could possibly have. He wanted to laugh or scream or-
“Inquisitor? I’m coming in.”
Lavellan turned to him. His fists balled at his sides. His throat bobbed. His face had gone pale, eyes strained in a way Dorian had never seen before. On that face- well, he had nothing to compare it to, but the expression looked a lot like… anguish. His chest felt like it was collapsing as Lavellan mouthed I’m sorry and disappeared through the balcony doors.
In the time it took Josephine to let herself in and climb the stairs, Dorian had more or less collected his wits. So she found him peering over the baluster into thin air, and not perched on the bed with a cockstand. “Oh, Dorian.” To her credit, she at least tried to cover the disappointment in her voice. “I - didn’t expect you.”
Drawing on his carefully curated mask, Dorian turned to face her with a grin. “I do try to keep you all guessing. Predictability is so dull.”
Josephine’s return smile didn’t reach her eyes. She glanced down at the desk, running a finger across scattered pages. “Perhaps I should have predicted that the Inquisitor would not be here.” She picked up a book. “Perhaps I should just accept that he is avoiding me.”
“Now, why would you assume that?” Dorian left the balcony, putting on his most charming smile. But Josephine didn’t see it. She huffed a sad little laugh and put the book back down on the desk.
“This is our second meeting he’s missed.”
That did line up with what she’d said the last time they’d run into each other. They really had to stop meeting like this. “The Inquisitor has a lot on his mind. I wouldn’t read-”
“The second meeting this week. He’s been avoiding me for much longer.” Josephine’s fingers found a little trinket - some kind of marker or paperweight shaped like the stylized Inquisition eye. She frowned down at it. “You and the Inquisitor…”
Dorian’s hands went cold, the hair on the back of his neck began to prickle in anticipation- certain her sentence would end with derision and condemnation. But Josephine sighed, looking up at him for the first time. Her eyes narrowed and creased... Dorian could read faces like some people could read the stars, except much, much faster. It was purely survival: a skill built from never knowing when his father’s mood would shift, from having to guess how much the man knew of Dorian’s most recent display of delinquency. But this was an expression that Dorian was intimately familiar with, having seen it in the mirror so often. Shame.
“What has the Inquisitor told you about his Clan?” She asked.
For the second time that day, Dorian was speechless. His mind scrolled through trivia about the Green Dales and Aravels and the proper way to harvest elfroot. His mouth opened dumbly, and he snapped it shut. What did he really know about the elf outside the Inquisition?
Josephine nodded sadly. “Suffice to say, I lost his trust. And now, when I- when the Inquisition needs him to focus on the peace talks…” She set the little icon down on top of the book and tapped the cover. “At least he is doing the reading.”
Despite wanting to be literally anywhere else (Fallow Mire included), Dorian approached the desk, taking the book in question. “Court and Intrigue: a Fereldan’s Guide to Orlais,” he read aloud. “Ah, yes, the Grand Game.” So they were preparing to send Lavellan, a man who regularly slept on the ground and ate insects, into a pit of jewel-encrusted, two-faced vipers. His chest twinged. “Perhaps I can help.”