@bornpariah said: 𝙸 𝙰𝙼 𝚀𝚄𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙴𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷 𝙸𝙽 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴. 𝙸 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙱𝙴 𝚂𝙾𝚁𝚁𝚈 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝚈 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙴.
“Is that so?” Halwn arches a brow and shifts a little against the roll of his bundled leathers which is, at present, serving as a pillow. They are camped with the scouts in a temporary outpost, and this means low-slung tents and bedrolls and little more. The Inquisitor has his own tent—but he is not so above the others as not to share, if he must, as the party members are all made to do. Even if his bedmate has brought with him a stack of tomes (where he was keeping them, Halwn couldn’t say, but they have materialized, as they tend to do), several scrolls of parchment which are apparently too precious to be even nudged, and a pen and pot of ink. When added to the volume of their bodies, the mess of the makeshift bedding, a staff and a swordbelt and a clutter of discarded clothing, not to mention the missives and reports that Halwn had been handed upon arrival—to call their current quarters ‘tight’ would be generous.
Of course, Halwn does not mind it, and Dorian has made himself at home in nearly three-quarters of the tent space, draped somewhere perpendicular across Halwn’s legs, comfortably tangled together. A soft rain is falling, its sound little more than a distant texture, suffusing the quiet with calm. Outside it is cold but here, in the tent and in such proximity to Dorian, who is always warm to the touch, Halwn can find nothing to complain about.
Nothing genuine, at least.
“You’re sitting on my foot.”
The comment has the desired effect. A flat response to a romantic overture, even one phrased in teasing, earns him Dorian’s full attention from the book in his lap at last—even if it arrives in the form of an annoyed look, made to cut. Halwn is being ungrateful, he’s well aware. He only smiles to himself and returns his eyes to the reports spread across his legs, feigning a good-natured disinterest in the mage’s offense at being so dismissed.
Halwn does not lift his eyes again until he hears a book drum shut (not snap, of course, since Dorian would never be so inconsiderate with what is surely an old and delicate binding) and feels the impatient shifting of the other man as Dorian turns to pin him with an expectant stare. Waiting for his reward, no doubt, or for some explanation. Dorian never seems to do well when denied the full focus of Halwn’s intention in such scenarios as this, which he must have grown very accustomed to having by now. Nearly since the day they met under the glowing eaves of a ruined chantry. Ironic, when Halwn thinks about it—but he is not thinking about it now. Instead, he is trying to smother his smile.
The orb of Dorian’s magelight hovering above them flashes in warning, and, finally, Halwn looks up, that smothered smile drawn plainly in the creases about his pale green eyes.
“I am afraid you will be very distraught then, my darling—”
He cannot tell if the pull of Dorian’s mouth is surprised pleasure at the endearment or annoyance over it. Perhaps a blend of both. Halwn sets the reports aside, safely tucked into their casing, and sits up further, loosening his legs a little to make space between them in a very unsubtle invitation for someone to come and lie there.
“For I’ve every intention of earning only vastly more of your love in the years to come, such that it is likely to cause constant fits of real remorse—if you insist on being sorry for it.”
Halwn sets his hands on the tops of his own thighs, now the impatient one himself. They both know the truth: that when Dorian so much as mentions love, Halwn’s pleasure is such that he’d indulge him anything, and very often does. It’s a demanding impulse on his part, love for love, the having and the giving of it, a bit pathetic by now, and one Halwn can only play at resisting for so long . A feint frown creases between his brows. Again, one arches with a palpable impertinence.
“Now, will you come to me—or must I go to you?”
