Three days since their victorious return and the Herald's Rest still buzzes with the stories. Grand sweeping things, exaggerated by Varric's deft hand and growing with no need for encouragement. Often is Dorian stopped, but where once suspicion had lingered only naked curiosity takes root. He plays his part, keeps himself abreast of the latest additions Varric has made to the tale and give his own embellishments so long as the drinks keep coming.

He has seen little of Lavellan these last few days. They have tried, oh have they tried. Every dinner on the Inquisitor's balcony interrupted, every 'walk' along the ramparts soon joined by the odd scout or advisor in need of advising. It feels almost as if their victory in Orlais is a year in the past and yet the elation still swims among the people he passes as he heads from his upper floor haunt in the tavern to a more favored one in the library.

The night is young, fragrant and blooming with promise. Or perhaps that is merely the scent of the perfumed scarf he finds folded between the pages of the latest tome to catch his interest. This marks the eighth such silk scarf he has 'stumbled' upon since their return. Seventh if he doesn't count the one Lavellan slipped into his pocket that night.

It brings an unbidden smile to his lips as he plucks it from his lap and sighs. He really should talk to the man. If there is no time then perhaps they should make some, have they not earned it?

Dorian sets the book aside with a less licentious bookmark and rises once more from the comfort of his seat. It is almost on memory that he collects the neat little pile of scarves from his rooms and certainly a manner of long practice that he mounts those first few steps to the Inquisitor's suite.

He knocks only once, tries the door and finds it unlocked. Could be an invitation, could be nothing but absent mindedness. He steps forward into the last bit of stairwell lit only by moonlight. This gives him pause as does the lack of noise coming from the room beyond. His thoughts nag, warning him that a sleeping herald should not be so disturbed regardless of the need straddling him. He crests the stairs and feels those fears evaporate.

With a mage's caress of power a dozen candles are lit, throwing shadows as skillfully as they brim with light. The effect is a good one, shrinking the otherwise large room down to an intimate ring of flame, mage and bed.

"I was starting to worry." It is just loud enough to hardly count as a whisper yet too intimate to be anything else and it emanates for the figure seated with his back to the headboard. Dorian sees nothing else in the room after that first glance.

Lavellan's head is resting against the wall and his smirk is inching from amused to pure temptation. He wears nothing but loose black pants and a set of silk scarves binding his wrists to the headboard behind him. The image is so striking, candlelight playing across pale skin in golden glow, the black fabric stark and yet inviting, like a present that knows you want only to unwrap it. Dorian feels his mouth go dry and runs the tip of his tongue across his upper lip just to break the hold of this spell.

"You could have sent a note." Caught between crawling up on the bed and immobility, Dorian settles on that which he knows all too well.

"Nonsense, anticipation is half the fun."

"And if I'd been an assassin and not a dashing mage?"

Lavellan chuckles at that and the sound is infectious. He crooks the forefinger of each hand and draws them slowly downwards while the silken knots at his wrists twist loose under an invisible force.

"Or there's lightning," Lavellan adds with a lazy roll of his bare shoulder as he reverses the gesture and tightens the knots back into place.

"It's a neat trick. But," it doesn't take Dorian that long to recover, it's just been a while. Actually, he's not sure anyone has attempted to seduce him in such a brazen fashion. Whether Lavellan can get his hands free or not, how many men has Dorian known who would willingly take the chance just to tease him? He can't name a one beyond the one he is staring at. "I'm not sure why you felt the need." He means it to be casual but the words catch on vulnerability as they slip from his lips.

"Well," Lavellan sighs with mock consideration. "I thought to myself, suppose a certain handsome mage were to come up here with his silk scarves, and suppose he were to make good on all his teasing with those silk scarves, well I certainly couldn't be expected to resist such a tempting display now could I?" He grins and it is filled with knowing and need. "So I thought it best I restrain myself… you know, just in case."

Dorian slips closer and his ringed fingers wrap one right after another around the nearest bed post. He leans and tries not to let it show how much he thrills to see Lavellan's eyeline follow the movement.

"And what, my dear dear amatus, is to keep me from just ravishing you on the spot?"


Lavellan can't help the shiver that flickers across his spine.

Dorian has always made it known how aware he is of his own good looks, but sometimes Lavellan wonders if he knows the extent of what he has beyond them. Yes, he is the image of perfection, the sight of him leaning ever so suggestively against Lavellan's own bed is pushing the limits of leash the Herald has wrapped around his own desire. The light catches on the silver adornments that pepper his clothing and draw the eye in with a flash, only to leave it lingering over tight leather and glimpses of tantalizing skin. Even knowing what lies beneath those skin tight clothes does not quell the allure. If anything it only wears on Lavellan's patience more.

"I wouldn't be of a mind to object." Like a game of push and pull neither can help trying to coax the other as if wrestling for control was just part of the appeal. "But it would make gathering all those scarves a bit of a wasted effort."

Dorian laughs and void help him if it doesn't push him that much closer to the edge. Watching the man slip closer isn't helping either for every step is etched in latent power and raw lust that appears ever so effortless. Dorian sits teasingly close and yet those last few inches make Lavellan want to growl in frustration. But that would mean defeat and he isn't ready to submit just yet.

"You've been planning this."

It's not an accusation and yet Lavellan wishes they could be done with talking, just for a moment or two. "And yet you're still two scarves short." A nail tip trails from Lavellan's collarbone to the top of his pants and he doesn't try to hide the jerk of muscles it elicits.

"Not quite." Lavellan exhales with a shudder. When did he become so jumpy? Perhaps he wasn't so far off when he alluded to the draw of anticipation. His own fingers curl on the end of the scarves at his wrists and realization lights behind Dorian's beautiful eyes. Another laugh and it is velvet against the goosebumps upon Lavellan's skin.

"My dear amatus. What am I going to do with you?"

"No idea. But if you've some ideas on what you're going to do to me then I'm all ears."