But He Lies

Reading dungeon meshi are we really surprised

Spent three hours drawing porn and can't even post it anywhere besides twitter anymore what kind of world is this

"Well, fancy meeting you here."

The main hall is quiet at night. Not for long, of course, just a moment between the midnight's fall and just before the sunrise, when the room gets so eerily quiet Dushan thinks he could count the mice around the corners just by the sound of them. The fireplace is the only light inside, he squints at its gleam with slightly blurry eyes before slumping down a and finding Dorian's worried gaze.

"Fancy indeed," Dushan echoes, eyes following the slope of the mage's shoulders, buried beneath the fur — it's one of those robes he managed to salvage from home, he knows it just by the shape.

From the Trevelyan house, that is. Something about the way the fibers cling to Dorian's slightly sweat-damp skin, how he shivers barely noticeably, something about that makes Dushan's guts ache, dull and weary. He gets up from the throne with some unexpected effort and crosses the distance to the chamber's door, pulling Dorian into a hug.

"Why are you up?" his lips find the left temple, his fingers find the back of his neck, pulling the heavy head into a cautious embrace.

Dorian, unusually cold palms hidden beneath the fabric, wraps his arms around his middle in return. Stands like that for a few seconds, chest to chest, beat to beat, breathing shallow and just a bit too fast.

"Couldn't sleep without you."

There's an unspoken implication that something woke him, one of those heavy night terrors that leave him panicked and gasping for air. Dushan kisses his temple again and hears a quiet chuckle muted by the layers of fabric. "You look terrible like that, you know?"

Dushan pulls away slightly, arching a brow. "Like what?"

Dorian breaks the embrace, taking a few steps aside and slumping down on the throne — legs thrown over the armrest, arms folded over the chest. He bounces a foot in the air, eyes finding the fire Dushan was staring daggers into minutes ago. "Like this. Like a ghost of an emperor looming over his lost kingdom. Was afraid that if I look at you for too long you'll start turning green."

Dushan snorts and makes a scary face, letting the anchor shine and light his frame. Dorian rolls his eyes to that, idly bumping his heel into the golden binding. "Oh shut up."

He doesn't see the painful vince, Dushan makes sure of that, grabbing him and turning him in his seat like the mage weighs nothing. Dorian yelps, almost offended, as Dushan kneels down in front of him. A brief eye contact — the Inquisitor marvels at the sight of him against the starry skies, and then lets his own head fall, burying his face into the robe, into the tense thighs. I'm tired, he wants to confess. I'm so tired and I can't keep my eyes shut for more than mere seconds no matter how close I hold you.

Dorian doesn't really need him to spell it out, does he. Dorian runs his fingers through his thinning out hair and whispers gentle words Dushan can't yet understand.

"Amatus, come back to bed."

"Marry me."

The silence rings. Dushan doesn't lift his head, not until Dorian lifts it up for him, hands squeezing his cheeks in a deadly grip.

"Have you gone mad on me?"

They stare and stare at each other, Dorian's sheer panic against Dushan's stone calm. He palms at his forehead, grips his cheeks again, something hysterical in his posture. "No, really, you impossible bastard, have you lost your mind?"

Dushan's stoic expression turns to amusement, as he finds a wrist to kiss. "I'm on my knees already, I can beg."

Dorian huffs. Dorian puffs, one hand flying up to cover his mouth, the other pushing Dushan away with a force he doesn't really mean. The Inquisitor sits back willingly, looking up open and offering, eyes squinted in loving humour.

Dorian shakes his head. "Absolutely I will not."

And weak, awed curses follow, as he stares down at the man at his feet.

Dushan leans forward again and pulls one bare, frozen foot into his own lap. Kisses the knee, does the same with the other. There are hands in his hair, still feverishly pushing him away without any real strength to them, lips whispering something inaudible and "get up, get up before anyone sees you, matula" as they grow trembling and unsure. Dushan hugs his legs, like he's afraid Dorian will set off running, and looks up, face suddenly stern.

"I've done many things wrong and I will do much more. But I want to do this, this, right, while time remains."

The anchor burns, his eyes burn, as the hall grows green in color. His own panic rises as he speaks urgently.

"Whatever you want, however you will have me. But when the Herald dies I want him to bring your name to the grave, Dorian Pavus. I'm no Trevelyan. I'm no Inquisitor. I'm but a man devoted to you and I want to go as one."

There are tears, Dushan can't see them gleaming in the dark but Dorian chokes on his breaths like he can't find his voice or any air around them. He hits his shoulder last time, then slides down to the ground until there's nothing but his limbs and chest and the oh so familiar smell of his oils as he grips Dushan so hard that neither of them can breathe now.

Merely a whisper, "You cannot say such things. It's cruel."

Dushan nods and kisses his lips pressed together in a salty line.

"I know. I am."

"You're not," comes out as a louder cry.

"Now you're talking nonsense."

"The whole castle just heard you pledge allegiance to my father's name. Don't nonsense me."

"I did no such thing. I asked you to marry me."

"And I told you I won't."

"No trouble," Dushan says contently, leaning against the base of the throne. "I will ask you again."

Party

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Classical/popular paintings redraws!

•Pricing ranges from 55€ to 145€+ depending on detail and amount of characters!

•Any painting is fair game even if I drew it already

•Will draw existing fictional characters, OC's and real people

•No additional charges for changes in clothing and bg/color changes to match the aesthetic of the character(s)

Here are some examples next to original paintings <3

I threw together a few sketches of my canon warden I love her so much you have no idea

And all things end

All that we intend is

Scrawled in sand

look at this silly guy !!!!

I've been trying to design Kilgharrah and no matter what I sketch he comes out looking like either Price or Benoit Blanc I can't I might just embrace it at this point

we all know and love smitten-yet-ridden-with-guilt-and-insecurities-Thorin, so here - I wrote some!

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Gandalf was right; Thorin is not cutting a very fine figure as King Under the Mountain. He knows that much, his bruise-dark undereyes and unkempt hair hardly adding to his already lacklustre appearance (much still needs done, and rest is for those more deserving than he). He had, however, not shorn his beard since the Battle, and while poorly maintained, the little length since gained might mask his less appealing facets. Maybe.

Thorin had never been a vain dwarf. His faults were many, he could see that much now (…not a ssssingle… the memories still makes his skin crawl), but vanity had rarely tormented him, despite having long been aware he would never hold any great dwarven beauty. Kili's pitiful beard was a family heirloom, of sorts; the line of Durin had seen many an unpolished gem. However…

Curls of spun gold, framing steely eyes. A mouth cut from stone…

Now, this was rather late in life to wish he had been born with some beauty to tempt with. His hammer bears down on the white-hot metal once more. If the thoughts could not be forced from his mind, his hands would force them into his craft. The blade is taking shape. Thorin was confident in his smithing; bending metal to his will had always come easier than attempting to do the same with the councils of Erebor. He would not falter now. And yet, as the garden trowel glows under his attention and the flames of his forge, he worries. It is not a courting gift, he swears it. Bilbo has simply found a patch of weeds in one of the less collapsed atriums of the outer wings, and how he had shone when he told the company of the things he would grow there.

Thorin is glad for it. Carving a garden from the rockface would have been much harder to explain away as a token of their friendship. But oh, to have Bilbo take root here like this. Plant your trees, watch them grow… Would Thorin get to see that acorn again? Would it make his heart claw its way out of his chest to lay itself bare for a hobbit that would never spare a longing glance for the likes of him? No… Thorin shakes his head with a rueful smile as he douses the finished tool in cold water, steam hissing. If Bilbo Baggins were ever to have his head turned by a dwarf, it would surely be someone much more handsome than this haggard King. The Shire has no kings, and Thorin was glad for it - it would be infinitely worse could he entertain the idea that Bilbo might come to admire the lustre of his crown, even if never that of his smile.

Thorin carves his maker's mark into the wooden handle, wincing at his own shameful indulgence, and yet unable to truly regret it. Thorin would provide his gem with the tools to plant his garden, and if Bilbo would stay a single day longer than planned to tend to it… Well, the whole of the mountain should be merrier for it. Yes, he decides, a set of gardening tools could not hurt. The sketches of a hundred courting bead designs covering his desk could yet be contained if he permits his heart this less perilous outlet.