Spellbound

14. The Plan Gets Forged

Varric played with Dorian for a while before he complained about hunger and Dorian called their session quits to have the servants serve dinner. Lavellan tried to slink off now that his function as an accessory to Dorian's arm wasn't needed anymore, but the mage didn't let him off the hook. While they waited for the servants to prepare the desks and food, Lavellan perched by Dorian's side and sunk into the cushions of his seat while trying not to look small next to the mage simultaneously.

As soon as Varric excused himself to fetch a present for Dorian from his guest room, dread about the mage's attention on him coiled in Lavellan's stomach. Dorian lounged next to him with one arm on the backrest of the bench, while the other thoughtfully caressed his chin. After a moment of strained silence, his stormy eyes found Lavellan and the elf's breath hitched as if in surprise that he had been spotted.

A lazy grin grew on Dorian's face. With each bit it spread, his eyes gleamed with more mischief.

"You never played chess before, did you? I could teach you."

"Not if the price for any favour will be sitting in your lap again," Lavellan exhaled. He replied quickly, tried to worm out of the situation, but Dorian regarded it as a mutual conversation.

"Come on, it's a great lap! You can't deny its comfort." Dorian ran his hand over his thigh as if deeply in love with the feel. Upon Lavellan's scoff, his smirk broadened as he angled his head to look at the Dalish again.

"You made me jealous today. It seems Varric left a better first impression than I. Here I was, convinced you would hate anyone with ties to me so long as your spite came across."

"Varric didn't lock me up," Lavellan pointed out, fingers itching to shove off the hand on the backrest behind them that played with a loose thread on Lavellan's sleeve. The occasional brush of Dorian's fingertips on his shoulder maddened him.

"Strictly speaking, The Iron Bull is the reason you are here. I explained the situation concerning Cole. Has it not convinced you of my good intentions?" Dorian's stupid head didn't see the wrongs of slavery since he had grown up with it. Lavellan changed his argument to one of the many others in his repertoire.

"Not in the least. You bed your slaves and those you can't bed you try to delude. Isn't that dishonourable to you?"

"Ah," Dorian's eyes assumed a knowing glint. "What is it that causes you discomfort? The power dynamics, or..." He drew his body closer by that thread until he could lean to whisper into Lavellan's ear. "The fact that I prefer men and you happen to be one?"

Lavellan gulped at his sultry drawl. Every ounce of his strength resisted the need to turn his head in the mage's direction. He wanted to peer at the supple skin of Dorian's chest peeping through his clothing, wanted to breathe in the scent of jasmine and fruit.

Instead, Lavellan held his breath and waited for Dorian to retreat. His stony resistance drew yet another hum of amazement from the mage.

"You need not worry. Just like you, anyone has a free privilege to refuse me and while I will mourn the missed chance, I won't force them. Compared to the rest of Tevinter, I do not wish that one's sexual desire is a cause of concern here. I do not care if my female servants glance at each other, and neither do I stigmatise my nights spent with the Bull. Do you?"

Uncomfortable, Lavellan dug his hands into his knees. Dorian had removed his lips from the pointed ear of the Dalish, but he hadn't resumed a straight position. Leaning into the elf's space, he played with his sleeve.

"I care about the power at play more than the gender of those involved. Your slaves might give in to you merely because you pressure them to, hoping it gains them something."