“As soon as I think I’m in control, you make me laugh or say something so smart, and I feel like I lose a little bit of myself.” please, perhaps Carvrian?
Dorian was entirely aware that he had a “type”. So when Carver Hawke strode through the doors of the Redcliffe chantry like he owned the place already, it was obvious what he was in for. At least it was nothing that couldn’t be worked out within the confines of fantasy.
Or, at least, it should have if the other man didn’t insist on being so incredibly frustrating.
“Can’t say anything for sure, actually.” Carver leaned back against the alcove, smile far too bright as he crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s the thing about the future, you know that, don’t you?”
It should have been far more irritating to have his own words tossed back at him, but Dorian only shook his head with a faint chuckle. “An optimist! Such a rare breed. I’ve stumbled across a unicorn!”
Carver snorted, trying (and failing) to cover up his own laughter by pressing a fist to his mouth as his shoulders hunched over. “Now that’s something I’m not called often.” He reached out to squeeze Dorian’s shoulder, smile small but firm. “I won’t make you regret siding with us, that much I can promise.”
Dorian smiled to cover up the lump threatening to rise in his throat. “Careful with that sort of talk, Hawke,” he said. “Anyone would think you like me.”
“Ah, well.” Carver pushed off the wall, grin far too sharp. “There are far worse things for people to think than the truth.”
Oh, fuck.
