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The day had been shit, frankly.
It started with the morning march, when Agent Henley had "accidentally" shouldered Dorian hard enough to make him stumble on the rocky path. Then there was the canteen incident at midday—someone had emptied his water skin when he’d stepped away to speak with the scouts, and the cackling that followed his discovery was neither subtle nor brief. By the time they'd made camp, he discovered someone had put a dead rat in his pack. He'd made a terribly embarrassing sound when he’d reached into to grab his gloves and his bare fingers had touched its frozen fur.
He’d whirled around and found exactly what he’d expected: Henley, with his gaggle of conspirators, offering Dorian a sneering smile. Dorian’s expression was sour and he turned back to his horse, flinging the frozen rat away. Henley was a nuisance, but one Dorian was familiar with. The man had made a pass at him once, when he’d first joined the Inquisition, and had expected Dorian to be grateful the the main had deigned to want to fuck him. Dorian had declined, and when Henley had not liked the answer, Bull had stepped in. To men like Henley, because there were always men like Henley, Dorian was a whore who should be satisfied with scraps. He was a mage, and outsider, he had no power here, not like he’d had in Tevinter, and men like Henley felt it was their place to remind him of that.
All of this was accomplished with Mathalin elsewhere. Speaking with the Captain about troop movements. Scouting ahead with the Dalish contingent. Reviewing maps with Harding. Always just far enough away that he wouldn’t hear. Dorian could handle it himself, because he was a grown man and an accomplished mage and certainly didn't need to run tattling to his lover every time some brutish soldiers decided he was the enemy within, but it was obnoxious and, loathe as he was to admit it, it stung.
He'd endured worse in Tevinter, he reminded himself. Bullying was a sport all Altus children were expected to excel in - required in order to survive - and those games were often played for blood. These childish pranks were merely irritations, by comparison pinpricks, the small cruelties of small minds.
But Dorian Pavus had never been particularly good at letting things go and however cruel altus games could be, Dorian was very, very good at playing the game by his own rules.
~*~
Camp settled into its evening rhythm the way military camps always did—fires banked, watches posted, the low murmur of conversation fading toward sleep. The cold bit at them all here in the Emprise, the frost-rimed stones gleaming pale under the moonlight, and everyone was eager to burrow into their bedrolls.
Dorian moved through the camp with purpose.
He stopped first by the fire where Corporal Velez sat mending a sock. A stocky Rivaini woman of middling years, she’d joined up with one of the mercenary groups at Haven and decided to stay. She had always made a point to show the Inquisitions mages and Dorian in particular, the same decency she offered everyone else. She’d shared her fire with Dorian more than once in the field, and made conversation. He liked her, her humor was dry and biting and she didn’t suffer fools.
He crouched beside her now, and when she looked up with mild surprise, he leaned close.
“Those Free Marcher boys giving you trouble again Master Pavus?” Sha asked, eye henley and his toadies over Dorian’s shoulder, “I can have them by the short hairs, just say the word.”
"As much as I appreciate the offer, Corporal I have other plans. " he asked, conversationally, “Can you make sure Henley and his little friends are assigned to take watch near my tent?”
She nodded.
“Good. I'm feeling a little vindictive tonight,” Dorian grinned, “Might I suggest if you want to ensure you have a restful evening, you set up far, far, from the Inquistor’s tent? I leave you to decide who you share that information with”
Velez's eyes widened. Then, slowly, a grin spread across her weathered face.
"Understood, ser," she said, already reaching for her pack.
~*~
The tent was warm when he ducked inside. Mathalin had already laid out a thick blanket of furs to keep the cold out, set up their bedrolls, and set the small brazier burning, but the light was low, barely enough to see by. Dorian waved his hand, feeding magic into the flame, and the brazier flared to life. The tent was suddenly, gloriously warm, the light dancing bright across the canvas walls. Bright enough to cast shadows. Sharp, unmistakable shadows.
Mathalin looked up from where he was sitting on the bedroll, removing his boots, and raised an eyebrow at the sudden illumination.
Dorian's smile was slow and vicious. He crossed the tent in three strides and dropped into Mathalin's lap, straddling his thighs, cupping his face in both hands.
"Amatus," he said, "I have had the most wretched day."
“Those recruits giving you trouble again?”
“They left a dead rat in my things.”
Mathalin's hands came up to rest on his hips, thumbs rubbing soothing circles through the fabric of his trousers. His jaw had tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his skin.
"I'll speak to Cassandra…"
"No, no I know this sort," Dorian said, running his fingers through Mathalin’s snow white hair, "You have to beat them at their own game, show them you have the power.”
Mathalin cocked his head, listening. He was sometimes…indulgent of Dorian’s vindictive streak.
Those bright blue eyes searched his face.
"What did you have in mind?"
“I'm going to have my revenge, and you're going to help me, "
“Am I now?” he asked, with a crooked smile, one scarred eyebrow raised in question.
Dorian rolled his hips, just once, feeling Mathalin's interest stirring beneath him.
"I want you fuck me until I scream so loudly that every miserable bastard who made my day hell is going to lie awake all night wishing they'd been civil to me,” Dorian leaned in, brushing his lips against Mathalin's jaw, "I want every single moment of their assigned watch to be a lesson in suffering. I want them so exhausted and so haunted by the sounds of our pleasure that they can’t even look at me sideways."
"That's..." Mathalin grinned, the scar on his mouth twisting, his voice rough, "That's wicked."
"I know," Dorian nipped at his earlobe, lightly tugging the delicate pearl drop earring between his teeth, "Is that a problem?"
"No," But something flickered across Mathalin's face—something darker, something that made his grip on Dorian's hips turn almost bruising, "No, it's not a problem. In fact..."
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was carefully controlled.
"That ginger prick, Henley, was the one who started it, you said?"
"That’s the one,” Dorian huffed, “He thinks he’s the biggest dog in the pen, and the others fall in line. "
Mathalin nodded, thoughtful.
"He was one of the ones who used to complain, loudly, about a knife ear being invited to the war tables. Minaeve hates him.”
The cold that settled in Dorian's chest had nothing to do with the Emprise frost
"You didn't tell me…"
"Vhenan, you set Duchess De Montesbonne’s dress on fire because she thought I was servant,” Mathalin replied, sliding his hands up Dorian’s back, “Prick or now, you can’t be setting our soldiers alight. It’s bad for morale.”
“She called you rabbit,” Dorian said indignantly, “And I didn’t set her dress on fire, I simply made it smoke a bit. I am the picture of poise and restraint.”
Mathlain chuckled, warm and fond.
"My point is, Henley is hardly the first to insult me for being an elf and he won't be the last. I have better things to worry about than some Shem’s petty cruelty and you causing a political incident for the sake of my honor. Josephine would have my head."
Dorian cupped his face, tilting it up until those bright blue eyes met his.
"Amatus. You are the Inquisitor. You are the Herald of Andraste, the leader of the Inquisition, the hope of Thedas—and more importantly, you are my Amatus. No one gets to treat you like that and walk away unscathed."
"Dorian—"
"We are going to fuck. Loudly, and with vigor," Dorian's voice was fierce, his dark eyes blazing, "We are going to keep that miserable bastard and his shitty little friends awake all night, and tomorrow he is going know— without a shadow of a doubt — that he is nothing compared to you, not by any measure. "
Something shifted in Mathalin's face: hunger, raw and unguarded. He surged up and kissed Dorian, hard and desperate and filthy, his tongue pushing into Dorian's mouth with a hunger that made Dorian's cock stir against his belly.
"You're incredible," Mathalin breathed against his lips, "You know that?"
"I have been told," Dorian pulled back just enough to smile at him, sharp and vicious, "Now shut up and let me suck your cock, amatus. I want to be loud about it."
Dorian slid off Mathalin's lap and pushed him down onto the bedroll, settling between his thighs with a purpose that made Mathalin's breath catch. He made quick work of the laces on Mathalin's trousers, tugging them down just far enough to free his cock—already half-hard, flushed and thick—and wrapping his hand around the base.
He leaned down and licked a long, slow stripe up the underside of Mathalin's cock, and Mathalin's hips jerked, a groan escaping his lips.
"Dorian.."
Dorian, hummed, pleased, swirled his tongue around the head, preening. He took Mathalin into his mouth then, sinking down inch by inch, letting the heat and wetness envelop him. Mathalin groaned again—louder this time, his hand coming up to tangle in Dorian's hair—and the sound of it made Dorian's own cock throb in his trousers.
This was what he loved. This feeling, Mathalin heavy on his tongue, Mathalin's fingers in his hair, Mathalin's voice breaking on his name. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked, bobbing his head in a slow, deliberate rhythm, letting the sounds of it fill the tent. Wet, obscene sounds that made his own face heat with something that wasn't embarrassment.
"Fuck—" Mathalin's voice was rough, strained. "Your mouth, Dorian..."
Dorian moaned around his cock, and the vibration made Mathalin jerk, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat. The sound was loud enough to carry, loud enough that anyone outside would hear, and Dorian felt a thrill of satisfaction shoot through him
Mathalin's hand slid down his spine, fingertips tracing the dip of his lower back, and Dorian shivered. Then those clever fingers were tugging his trousers down over the curve of his ass, and the cool air of the tent hit his heated skin.The position was awkward, wanton, absolutely obscene—his ass raised and presented toward the canvas wall, his mouth full, his body on display for anyone who might come in.
"The oil," Mathalin murmured, and Dorian reached blindly for the small pot they kept by the bedroll, pressing it into his lover's hand without removing his mouth from its task.
The sound of Mathalin slicking his fingers was obscenely loud in the quiet tent. Dorian moaned around his cock, anticipation coiling tight in his belly, and then a long, calloused finger pressed against his hole, circling, teasing, before pushing inside.
Dorian groaned, long and low, the vibration making Mathalin's hips jerk upward. He took it, took the cock pressing deeper into his throat and the finger pressing deeper into his body, and the dual sensation was enough to make his head spin.
"More," he managed to gasp when he pulled back for breath, and he wasn't sure if he was asking for Mathalin's cock or his fingers or both.
Mathalin added a second finger, scissoring them apart, and Dorian's elbows buckled. He caught himself on his forearms, face pressed against Mathalin's thigh, panting, as those fingers worked him open with patient, devastating precision.
"You're so tight," Mathalin murmured, and his voice had dropped into that low, rough register that made Dorian's cock ache. "So tight and so hot and so loud, vhenan. Can you hear yourself? Every little sound you're making? Anyone walking by can hear it too."
Dorian whimpered. Mathalin's fingers found that spot inside him and pressed, and his whimper became a moan, and his moan became a desperate, broken sound that he couldn't have held back if he'd tried.
"That's it," Mathalin's free hand came up to tangle in Dorian’s hair again, guiding him back to his cock, "Keep making those sounds. Let them hear how good I make you feel."
Dorian took Mathlain into his mouth again, sucking with renewed fervor, and the sounds he made were wet and messy and utterly shameless. Drool slid down his chin. His hips rocked back onto Mathalin's fingers, chasing the sensation, and every thrust of those fingers punched another moan from his throat that vibrated around Mathalin's cock.
"Fuck," Mathalin's voice was breaking now, his composure fraying at the edges, "Dorian, I'm going to…"
"Not yet " Dorian pulled off with a gasp, his hand replacing his mouth, stroking Mathalin's slick cock in slow, firm pulls, "Not yet, amatus. I need you inside me when you come. Need to feel you."
Mathalin's fingers stilled inside him. His jaw was clenched, his chest heaving, and Dorian could see the effort it took for him to hold back.
Hand still in Dorian’s hair, Mathalin dragged him up onto his knees, and kissed him, hard.
They shed the rest of their clothes with the kind of desperate efficiency that came from wanting, tugs and pulls and yanks that scattered fabric across the tent floor. Then Dorian was straddling Mathalin's lap again, this time with nothing between them, and the heat of Mathalin's cock pressed against his ass made him shiver.
"Look at you," Mathalin's hands came up to rest on his hips, thumbs stroking the jut of bone beneath skin, “Gods you are beautiful."
"Less talking, more, " Dorian reached behind himself and wrapped his hand around Mathalin's cock, positioning it at his entrance, ", this."
He sank down in one long, slow motion, and they both groaned—Dorian's voice high and thin, Mathalin's low and rough. The stretch was perfect, the fullness exactly what he'd been craving, and Dorian had to pause for a moment once he was fully seated to catch his breath. Mathalin looked up at him, tilting his head back to gaze at Dorian, that strange quiet wonder in his lyrium blue eyes, like Dorian was something precious.
"Okay?" Mathalin asked, and his voice was strained, his fingers tight on Dorian's hips.
"More than okay," Dorian rolled his hips experimentally, and the friction made them both gasp, "Maker, you feel good inside me."
Mathalin kissed him, slow and deep. Dorian’s arms wrapped around his narrow shoulders, holding him close
"Ride me," Mathalin hummed against his mouth, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t stop kissing him.
Dorian didn't need to be asked twice.
He started slowly, rocking his hips until Mathalin bit his lower lip, and snarled into Dorian’s mouth.
“Keep teasing like that and I’ll put you over my knee. Let the whole camp hear you then…”
Dorian grinned at him wickedly.
“Promises, promises amatus.”
But Dorian could feel the heat pooling in his belly, his cock trapped between his stomach and Mathalin’s was hard to aching now. He set a brutal rhythm, rising up until only the tip of Mathalin's cock remained inside him and then sinking back down in a deliberate, grinding motion that made his thighs shake. The angle was perfect, every thrust pressed against that spot inside him, sent sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine, and Dorian let himself be loud about it.
"Ah!yes! Right there, amatus, don't stop, please don’t stop…"
Dorian had, for better or worse, always liked putting on a show for the men in his bed, but with no great hardship. His cock was perfect, long to touch him deep and thick enough the Dorian would feel him tomorrow, just enough of a curve to him that he stroked Dorian’s insides in the most delicious way, and it didn’t hurt that Mathalin was a generous lover. He rolled his hips in perfect tandem to Dorian’s meeting him on the down stoke, making him see stars. His hands were all over, grabbing his hips and things, running up the plain of his bare back, squeezing the back of Dorian’s neck in a way that made his eyes roll back.
And his mouth. Sweet maker his mouth. His scarred lips kissed their way across Dorian’s jaw and down his throat, his pointed teeth nipping at the tender flesh just hard enough to make Dorian shiver with want. He dragged his tongue of Dorian’s thundering pulse and Dorian's voice cracked on a moan that was almost a scream.
"You like that?" Mathalin's voice was rough, hungry.
"Yes" Dorian head fells back, throat beared to Mathalin’s attentions, beyond coherence, beyond shame. "Yes, amatus don’t stop…"
"Anyone walking past could see you right now," Mathalin kissed Dorian’s shoulder, traced his collarbones with his mouth, "See the silhouette of you on top of me. See you riding my cock, your back arched, your head thrown back. You want them to see, don’t you?"
"Yes, " Dorian's voice broke on the word, his hips moving faster now, chasing the pleasure building at the base of his spine, " Fuck, you’re so good to me, you darling man…."
Mathalin’s fingers slid into Dorian’s hair, pulling him down into a biting kiss, swallowing his moans, and Dorian's hands came up to cup his face as they moved together. Dorian rode his lover like a man possessed, Mathalin's cock hitting that spot inside him with every thrust. Dorian could feel his orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter with every snap of Mathalin's hips.
"Come for me," Mathalin breathed against his lips, one hand still cradling the back of Dorian’s skull, the other splayed over the small of his back, "Let them hear you come on my cock."
Dorian shoved a hurried hand between their bodied, stroking himself, hard and fast. He came with a shout that he didn't even try to muffle, his cock pulsing between their bodies, his hole clenching around Mathalin's cock. Mathalin followed a moment later—a low, bitten-off groan that vibrated against Dorian's mouth—and then they were collapsing together onto the bedroll, Mathlin leaning back, arms still wrapped around Dorian, pulling his taller lover down on top of him, both of the trembling and gasping and thoroughly, magnificently ruined.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing. Dorian propped onto his elbows and Mathalin smiled up at him. They shifted and shuffled, Mathalin’s softened cock slipping free of the clutch of Dorian’s body. Mathalin let his hands wander, and Dorian traces the green, antlers like vines of Mathalin’s vallaslin.
Outside someone's boot shuffled in the dirt and Dorian could swear he ears what must have been a sigh of relief. Then Dorian laughed, quiet and satisfied, and pressed a kiss to Mathalin's jaw.
"Don’t go falling asleep on me amatus. We're not done."
Mathalin's laugh was a huff of warm air against his neck.
"Wouldn’t dream of it vhenan.”
Still, they took their time recovering—sharing the waterskin, trading lazy kisses, letting their heart rates slow. Outside, the camp was quiet save for the wind and the distant, muffled sound of someone shifting restlessly in their bedroll. The silence was broken after a moment, as someone's boot shuffled in the dirt and Dorian could swear he heard what must have been a sigh of relief.
Good. Let them think it was over.
The touches, lingering and soft, slowly began to turn purposeful, the kisses deeper, and slowly Dorian grew hard against his belly again. Mathaling rolled their bodies, pinning Dorian under him as he let his hands and mouth wander. He bit and licked at Dorian’s nipples until Dorian was quivering, and then he’d move on, kissing his way down Dorian’s belly, until reached his cock. Mathalin took him in a loose grip, swiping his tongue over the head, mouthing at the half hard length until Dorian was squirming, and then he’d kiss his way back up to Dorian’s mouth and start the whole process again.
Dorian let himself babble, let himself say whatever wanton thing popped into his head. Let Henley and his brutes think Dorian depraved. He was depraved for one man and one man alone and that was Mathalin Lavellan. He belonged to their inquisitor, body and soul, and he wanted everyone to know it. Henley would never be half the man Mathalin was and Dorian wanted him to know it.
Dorian was the one who moved first, rolling onto his hands and knees and presenting himself to Mathalin with a look over his shoulder that made his lover's breath catch.
"Again," he said, "Fuck me again, amatus."
Mathalin moved behind him, hands sliding down his sides, and Dorian shivered at the touch, "You're insatiable."
"You love it."
"I do," Mathalin's lips pressed against the small of his back, and then lower, and then, "Let me taste you first."
Mathalin was already spreading him open, his tongue pressing against Dorian's hole—still slick with lube and his own release—and Dorian's voice broke on a sound that was half moan, half sob. Dorian's elbows buckled.
"Mathalin—"
"You’re mine, inside and out now," Mathalin's voice was rough, hungry, and his tongue pushed inside, and Dorian's hands fisted in the bedroll so hard his knuckles went white.
"I am…" Dorian was trembling, shaking, his cock fully hard again between his thighs, "I am, I'm yours—"
Mathalin's tongue fucked him open with the same devastating precision as his fingers had, and Dorian couldn't stop the sounds spilling from his lips—moans and gasps and broken fragments of Mathalin's name. The pleasure was overwhelming, too much and not enough, and when Mathalin finally pulled away, Dorian nearly wept with the loss.
"Please.." He didn't even know what he was begging for, "Please, I need—"
"I know," Mathalin hummed, sitting up, pressing himself against Dorian’s back to his the spot between his shoulder blades, his hands settling on Dorian’s hip, "I've got you."
The blunt head of his cock pressed against Dorian entrance, and then he was pushing inside, and Dorian's moan was loud enough to echo off the canvas walls. Mathalin set a rhythm that was almost cruel in its intensity—deep, hard thrusts that made Dorian's arms shake and his voice crack. The tent was shaking too, the supports creaking in protest, and Dorian hoped distantly that it wouldn't collapse on them because he absolutely was not stopping.
"You're so beautiful like this," Mathalin growled, and his hands were tight on Dorian's hips, sure to leave bruises, "On your knees for me, taking my cock so beautifully, making those sounds…everyone can hear you, Dorian. Everyone knows you're mine."
"Yes—" Dorian babbled, his voice wrecked, hoarse, barely more than a rasp, “Never been fucked like you before… I’m yours, I’m yours….”
Mathalin pressed a hands between Dorian’s shoulder blade, pushing him down into the bedroll. Dorian went, chest and cheek pressed into the furs and blankets. The change in the angle was devastating, Dorian could feel Mathalin in his throat. The hand on his back slide up to wrap around the back of his neck, possessive, holding him down and Dorian whimpered. He felt collared, owned, and it was the most freeing feeling in the world. Behind him, Mathaling shifted, planting a foot flat on the bedroll, giving himself the leverage to pound into Dorian even harder. Dorian howled.
"Say it louder, " Mathalin's thrusts were faster now, harder, and Dorian could feel his orgasm building again, could feel it coiling tight at the base of his spine, "Let them hear."
"I'M YOURS—" Dorian moaned, and he didn't care who heard, didn't care about anything except Mathalin’s inside him, Mathalin’s hand on the back of his neck and his hips, Mathalin's voice in his ear saying filthy, impossible things, "I'M YOURS, MATHALIN, FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK ME—"
Dorian came with a wail that tore at his throat, his cock pulsing untouched, his whole body shuddering with the force of it. Mathalin followed him over the edge a moment later, burying himself deep with a groan that was almost a growl, and they collapsed together onto the bedroll in a tangle of sweaty limbs.
~*~
The night stretched on.
Every time the camp outside started to settle, every time the distant sounds of shifting and sighing suggested that someone might be drifting toward sleep, that the watchman near the fire outside thought his night of cold, misery was finally finished, Dorian would catch Mathalin's eye and grin, and Mathalin would grin back, and then one of them would reach for the other and the whole thing would start again.
They took breaks, of course—Dorian's voice needed rest, and Mathalin's stamina, while impressive, was not infinite. During one of these pauses, Dorian lying sprawled across Mathalin's chest while they shared the waterskin, Mathalin's fingers found the bruise he'd left earlier on Dorian's neck and traced it thoughtfully.
"I should mark you again," he murmured. "Somewhere visible. Somewhere everyone will see tomorrow."
Dorian shivered.
"Yes."
"I want them to see it and know," Mathalin's voice was low, rough, and there was an edge to it that made Dorian's cock stir despite his exhaustion, "Know that you chose me. That the great Dorian Pavus, the Tevinter mage with the sharpest tongue and the sharpest mind i’ve ever met, lets himself get bend over and be fucked cross eyed by me and me alone. That you want it. That you beg me for it."
He leaned into to kiss Dorian’s neck. Dorian tilted his head back to give him more room.
"Mathalin," he groaned.
"Does that make you hard?" Mathalin's hand slid down Dorian's chest, wrapping around his cock, and Dorian gasped, "Thinking about everyone knowing? Thinking about them seeing the marks I leave on you?"
"Yes," Dorian's hips jerked into his touch. "Yes, amatus, yes—"
"Good," Mathalin released him and rolled them over, settling between Dorian's legs, and this time there was nothing theatrical about it—nothing performed, nothing calculated. Just Mathalin's mouth on his, kissing him slow and deep and thorough, and Mathalin's hands roaming over his body with a tenderness that made Dorian's chest ache.
"I want to take my time with you," Mathalin murmured against his lips. "Just for us. Can I?"
Dorian's throat was too tight to speak. He nodded.
Mathalin smiled—soft, private, entirely his—and reached for the pot of oil.
~*~
This time was different.
Though there was little need, Mathalin fingered him slowly, carefully, as if determined to map every inch of him from the inside out. He kissed Dorian through it—kissed his jaw, his throat, the mark he'd already left, —and when he finally pushed inside, it was with a gentleness that made Dorian's eyes sting.
"Look at me," Mathalin said, and Dorian opened eyes he didn't remember closing, meeting that bright blue gaze, "I want to see your face."
Dorian wrapped his legs around his waist and pulled him closer, and Mathalin began to move.
It was slow. Unhurried. Every thrust deep and deliberate, hitting that spot inside Dorian with devastating accuracy, and Dorian couldn't look away from Mathalin's face, the way his brow furrowed with concentration, the way his lips parted on each exhale, the way his eyes never left Dorian's.
"Ar lath, Dorian," Mathalin said, and his voice was rough, raw, nothing like his usual measured calm, "I love you so much, ma vhenan. I don't care who knows it. I don't care who hears it. I love you."
Dorian's vision blurred. He reached up and cupped Mathalin's face, pulling him down for a kiss, desperate and deep and full of words he couldn’t choke out but he needed Mathalin to know.
"I love you too," he whispered against his lips. "Amatus. My heart."
Mathalin's rhythm faltered, his control cracking, and he drove forward with a groan that was almost a sob.
"Going to mark you again,” his thumb pressed against the tender flesh just under the hinge of Dorian’s jaw, “Right where everyone can see. Is that….can I—"
"Yes," Dorian whimpered, head pressing back into the blankets, baring his throat. Mathalin groaned against his skin, and bit down.
The pain was sharp, perfect, and Dorian came with a sound that was barely a whine—he was too spent for anything louder, his whole body shuddering with the force of his release, spilling weakly between them. Mathalin followed him over the edge a moment later, his lips still pressed to Dorian's throat, his hips jerking in erratic thrusts as he spilled deep inside.
They lay there in the aftermath, trembling and gasping, and Mathalin's tongue soothed over the mark he'd left— a spot of red that would be purple tomorrow, the shape of mouth clearly visible against Dorian's brown skin.
"Everyone will see," Mathalin murmured against his throat.
Dorian's laugh was a wrecked rasp.
"I hope so.”
~*~
Dawn came too soon.
They had fallen asleep naked and tangled in each other, too exhausted from the road and their vindictive night long love making to do much but pull the blankets over them and share each other’s warmth.
Dorian emerged from the tent moving like a man who'd been ridden hard and put away wet, which was exactly what he was. His was sore, his voice horse. His gait was careful, deliberate, each step clearly costing him. And there, on the curve of his nec—visible above the high collar of his leathers—was a bruise. Dark and unmistakable.
Mathalin, by contrast, looked almost refreshed, though there was a certain satisfied looseness to his movements that hadn't been there the day before. He moved through the camp issuing orders with his usual quiet authority, pausing here and there to check on supplies and scout positions, and if his voice was a little rougher than usual, no one commented on it.
The soldiers who'd been kind to Dorian looked well-rested and faintly amused. The ones who hadn't looked like death warmed over—their eyes bloodshot, their movements jerky and irritable, their faces drawn with exhaustion. Henley in particular looked like he'd been through a war and the look he gave Dorian as he passed could have curdled milk. Dorian smiled at him with his teeth.
“Hope your watch was uneventful, agent,” he said cheerily.
Henley opened his mouth, likely to say something vile.
"Agent Henley. Agent Brann, " Mathalin barked, as he came to stand beside Dorian, voice carried across the camp with the quiet authority that made generals straighten their spines.
Whatever bravery the men had once had in terms of Mathalin, he was Inquisitor now, his authority was paramount, and they knew it. THeir mouths snapped shut. Mathalin settled a hand in the small of Dorian’s back.
"Gentleman, your job is to keep this camp moving, not gawk. If you want to stare I’ll put you with the forward scouts, understood?"
The two men jumped like they'd been struck.
"Yes, Your Worship," they stammered, and scrambled to move faster, the threat of cold cliff edges enough to tamp the flames of their anger. .
Mathalin watched them for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then turned to help Dorian into the saddle. Dorian hissed as he settled—sore in places not fit for polite company —and Mathalin's hand lingered on his hip, thumb brushing the edge of the bruise he'd left the night before.
"Worth it?" Mathalin asked, quiet enough that only Dorian could hear.
Dorian looked across the camp at Henley, who was fumbling with his bedroll with shaking hands, and at Brann, who kept glancing at the mark on Dorian's neck with an expression of exhausted horror.
"Absolutely," Dorian rasped, and smiled.
