josephinemontileyt-archive-deac:

Have a sexually frustrated Dorian

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It was warm for the South, Dorian mused as he left the relative safety of Skyhold for a walk of the grounds.  He was still bundled up in more clothing than most during the uncharacteristic warmth for the month of Pluitanis (Guardian, he had to remind himself, as the southerners called it), but the sun was shining, and the fresh air would do him good; Dorian had begun reading the same sentence in the Liberalum over and over again, and that point he knew that he needed to take a break.

If he happened to come across the Inquisitor training while doing so, then all the better for it. Of course, he had seen Max fight on the field – and there was something surprisingly arousing about the first time they had run into a High Dragon; the heady scent of sweat, both the blood of human and high dragon and lyrium clung to Maxwell as he stood over the corpse of the Northern Hunter, a lopsided grin on his face; his helmet lie abandoned a little way off, ripped off in the heat of the battle.

But seeing Max train was far less worrying, something he could enjoy. The first time that had happened, Dorian had been standing on the balcony, talking with Vivienne, and he had gotten distracted by the noise down below, a crowd gathering around the sparring ring as Max and Ser Barris, the leader of the Templars from Therinfal Redoubt, had circled each other, the clash of real steel piercing the air. Vivienne had simply given him that all knowing look and he had immediately excused himself, feeling the heat going to his cheeks that she had caught him.

These Southern Templars…so unfair.

Dorian noted as he headed down the stairs that once again, a crowd had gathered around the sparring ring, and – somehow -  he could hear Varric taking people’s bets for whichever match was going on. He might have called them barbarians if he had not noticed who was fi-

Oh.

Maxwell was not even clad in armour or the soft tunic he often wore when around Skyhold as he circled the sparring ring, shield in a defensive position. Max’s opponent was his younger sister, two daggers in hand, a grin on her face, also stripped down to her own trousers and a vest, prowling around the circle, eyes focused on her older brother. Dorian had not realised that the Inquisitor’s trousers were quite that tight. He bit back a groan.

They had been together for several months now, and at Max’s request, they had been taking it slow. It had started with some chaste kissing and the cuddling that Dorian would never have expected in Tevinter, before graduating to some groping, grinding against one another. Still incredibly chaste in comparison to what Dorian was used to. Sex had always been immediate gratification for Dorian, but he was well aware that Max was struggling with breaking the vow of chastity he had taken at all those years ago.

The shirt he was wearing clung to his ridiculous body – broad shoulders, tapering down into a narrow waist and those damned hips and arse were just delightful - 

He’d barely been paying attention to the actual fight, too busy watching Max - so much so that he seem surprised that the former Templar came over to him and kissed him directly on the mouth, far less gentle than he had been before, the taste of the lyrium solution on his lips. It clung to him - he must have taken the draught that morning.

“Hello to you too amatus,” Dorian managed to get out.

Max chuckled, “don’t think I wasn’t aware that you were looking at me like I was a piece of meat, love.”

“What can I say? I’m a lucky man.”

“That you are. As am I.” Max kissed him more gently this time, the same sweet kisses his Inquisitor always gives him when they are in public. But his eyes are sparkling in a way Dorian hadn’t noticed before. “Come to my quarters tonight?”

“An invitation to your bed, Inquisitor? How can I refuse?”