~A Memory: Craving~

It had been four days and eighteen hours since Inquisitor Lavellan kissed Dorian Pavus in the library, not that anyone was counting. Certainly, Dorian wasn't counting, because Dorian wasn't the sort of man who pined. Pining was for poets and saps, for blushing maidens and awkward squires – and, perhaps, for adolescent mages just coming to the confusing and rather disappointing realization that while several of the aforementioned blushing maidens were pining for him, he was busy pining for squires, who were pining for maidens.

Pining was overrated and undignified and not at all the sort of thing you wanted hanging over you when you were trying to get on with the business of battling darkspawn magisters and their pet archdemons. That kind of distraction could get you killed, as it almost had today, when Dorian had been so busy admiring the lithe athleticism of a certain silver-haired elf that he very nearly found himself run through. His barrier had thinned to almost nothing, but he was far enough away from the fray that he'd thought himself safe. Then the Inquisitor had glanced in his direction, and the sudden widening of his eyes was all the warning Dorian got before the elf whipped a dagger over his shoulder, so close that he felt the breeze of its passing on his unprotected neck. A wet splat sounded just behind him, and Dorian whirled to find a warrior staggering backward, sword tumbling from his hands as he clawed at the dagger buried in his eye. Dorian dispatched him with a sizzling arc of electricity and a snarl on his lips. Then he turned and met the Inquisitor's eye once more, and the relief he saw there was genuinely touching and not at all likely to improve his concentration problem.

As if all this weren't bad enough, the Qunari had noticed. The two of them were resting by the side of the road, watching the Inquisitor scout up a nearby bluff, when Bull said, "You keep staring at him like that, he's going to burst into flames. Or you are, when one of your spells goes haywire."

"I have no idea what you're referring to."

Bull smirked. "Ben-Hassrath, remember? Not that I need to be. Subtlety isn't really your thing, Dorian. You should try wearing a helmet. That way, you can ogle him all you like and no one will notice."

"And cover up these lovely features?"

"The Inquisitor knows how pretty you are. You won't stay that way without a helmet. Just my two coppers."

"This is very odd advice coming from someone who minces about without any armour at all."

"I'm a little meatier than you. And I like my scars. Every one of them is a story, and they all have the same ending. The Iron Bull fucking killed you."

"Why, it's practically a lullaby."

"Helps me sleep like a baby."

Dorian thought he'd successfully steered the conversation away from the Inquisitor, but then the Qunari added, "I'd let it go, though, if I were you. Sleeping with the boss is a bad idea, even if he wants to sleep with you."

Dorian was increasingly persuaded this was the case, though that might have been wishful thinking. "Must it always be a bad idea?" he asked, a question posed as much to himself as to his companion.

"That shit can get messy. Things go well, you're distracted. They don't go well, there's drama. Either way, a whole lot of people disapprove."

Dorian snorted softly. "That ship has sailed, wouldn't you say? I'm already distracted, and as for disapproval, half of Skyhold was whispering about us even before that business in the library." (Four days, eighteen hours and forty minutes ago.)

"Fair point." Bull shrugged. "And I can't say I blame you. Truth is, if he batted those pretty eyes at me, I'd probably plough him into next week, bad idea or no." He yawned and stretched, his straining muscles seeming as if they would burst right through the skin.

"I'm not sure he would survive a ploughing from you," Dorian said wryly, eying the Qunari's massive frame.

Bull just smiled and walked away.

Unsurprisingly, this talk of ploughing pretty Inquisitors did nothing to alleviate Dorian's craving. And though he did his best to mind his own affairs once they got back to camp, his eyes betrayed him, stalking the elf from one end of camp to the next as he went about his business.

Dorian was no stranger to addiction. His first love was the Fade, the electric shiver of its touch when he drew on its power. Once he'd discovered how to do it, his six year-old self couldn't stop, drawing it back to him again and again until his exasperated mother, tired of having her favourite furnishings accidentally burnt to a crisp, tried to convince him he'd go blind if he overdid it. It would be many years before he learned how similar the sensation was to sexual pleasure, but even as a boy, he'd understood that a person could disappear into that need if he let himself.

After that it was alcohol, and then sex, and even, for a short time, cards. There was Rilienus, of course, and after him, Vitus, whose violent rejection had left scars both emotional and physical (and who taught Dorian that deep-seated self-loathing, however broodingly attractive, was a dangerous trait in a lover.) The combined effect of these experiences was to instill in Dorian a healthy dread of addiction in all its forms, so the familiar ache in his breast ought to have set off all manner of internal alarms. Because the Qunari was perfectly right: It was a Bad Idea. It was, in fact, the Worst Idea.

And yet.

All he wanted was to get the elf alone for a few minutes. To have those magnificent eyes fixed on him and him alone. See those full lips curved in a smile that hinted at something naughty just beneath the surface, begging to be discovered. Just a few minutes, Dorian told himself. Just one little taste, and I am content. Andraste grant me this, and I swear I won't touch a silver hair on his head.

Ugh, was he praying now? Pathetic.

Pathetic or no, it seemed to have worked, because the elf was making his way over. He looked tired, raking a hand through his short-cropped hair in a way that left it standing askew, as if he'd just been properly fucked. Dorian wanted to thread his own fingers through that hair so very badly, but he'd promised Andraste.

"Quite a day," the elf said with a sigh.

"Aren't they all? Though I do believe that's the closest I've come to being skewered, at least so far. Thank you for that. I don't fancy being mage-on-a-stick." And because he couldn't help himself: "Not that sort of stick, at any rate."

The elf threw a glance over his shoulder, as if gauging their proximity to the nearest pair of ears. Alas, there were several within hearing distance, so he just said, "You gave me a fright."

"Apologies. Terribly careless on my part, but I'm afraid I've been rather distracted of late."

"Distracted?"

Dorian answered with his eyes, holding the other man's gaze until a hint of colour touched the elf's cheeks. "I find myself anxious to continue our… conversation… from before. In the library."

"I'd like that," the elf said with quiet intensity.

Dorian had suspected as much, but having it confirmed still stirred embers inside him. "When do you think it might be arranged?"

"I don't know. It's…" The elf's gaze took in the surrounding farm, which managed to be both wide open and rather crowded. "Not possible here, I don't think."

Dorian sighed theatrically. "I knew there was something I didn't like about this camp. I thought it was the smell of animal shit, but it turns out it's the lack of suitable venues for inappropriate assignations."

"Hopefully not too inappropriate," the elf said with that endearing hint of self-consciousness.

"I will let you be the judge of that, Inquisitor. Just know that I am your humble servant." Dorian bowed, one side of his mouth curled in what he knew to be a perfectly devastating smile.

He felt a tug of longing as the elf walked away, as though a cord stretched between them had gone taut. There was a hook at either end of that cord, he was convinced. That ought to have been a comfort, but instead, it just made the craving worse. Knowing that the slightest pull on his end of the rope would yank the elf into his arms made it that much harder to resist the temptation.

But resist it he must, at least for now. If this was going to happen, it had to be on the elf's terms.

Maker, he hated waiting.