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Dorian can almost pinpoint the moment -- barely a week into their occupation of Skyhold -- when he realized Cullen wanted him. If it hadn’t been for the Inquisition’s hasty, and dramatic exodus from Haven, he might have noticed sooner. But neither he, nor the Commander had been at their best, after all.

But he remembers when he knew.

Cullen had been addressing the Inquisitor’s inner circle, thanking them for their support, before assigning them quarters scattered throughout the parts of Skyhold that were still habitable. Cullen’s eyes had lingered on his for a half heartbeat longer than necessary, and the Commander’s thumb had swiped a single, broad circle around the pommel of his longsword. Such a small thing, really. He doubted anyone else had even noticed. He’s not even sure Cullen noticed.

But Dorian was keenly aware of men, and finely attuned to their reactions to him. Had to be, really.

Tevinter was a land, infamous for its lack of restraint when it came to pleasures of the flesh, yet rather strict with what forms of debauch were considered acceptable. Men seeking the pleasure of other men was not strictly forbidden, but above certain circles the behavior was cause for social ruin. And Dorian always moved in the very highest of social circles. Flawlessly. As was befitting the lone scion of house Pavus.

Yet now, Dorian, flawless master of flirtatious subtlety, finds himself spending his nights lying in a musty, narrow bed, in a freezing castle, pondering how best to woo a taciturn Ferelden, and feeling entirely out of his element.

He spends his days watching Cullen -- covertly, of course. The man throws himself into his work with a single-mindedness that borders on obsession. For Cullen there is prayer, swordplay, and battle maneuvers. There is nothing else. His is not a world with a place for a disposed Tevinter Mage.

And yet…

Every so often his eyes will alight on Dorian’s, if only for a moment. And when they do, Dorian feels it. As warm, and inviting as a hand on his cheek.

Still, it takes weeks before Dorian finds the chance to speak to Cullen in private. Or, as private as the semi-sheltered garden alcove can allow. He happens upon the Commander standing over a small table, glowering at a worn, and rather ugly chess set.

“There’s a piece missing,” Cullen says, by way of greeting.

“Why Commander,” Dorian raises his brows. “I didn’t know you play.”

“Do you?”

“Quite well, in fact.” His grin is sharp and playful.

Cullen’s eyes cut to his, and there’s that flash of warmth again. Then he snorts, a brief sound of amusement, and turns back to the board. “Would you care for a game, Lord Pavus?”

“Actually, I don’t think my father knows how to play chess.” He sits. "Dorian, as I’ve said before.”

“Dorian,” Cullen agrees, softly. His smile almost makes him look boyish. The table is small, and when Cullen sits, his feet bump against Dorian’s, and they spend the next several moments murmuring apologies, and carefully folding their long legs beneath the table, until only their knees touch. Cullen clears his throat. “First move, yours.”

The corner of Dorian’s mouth lifts. Smirk accentuated by the curl of his mustache. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The game is pleasant. The conversation, less stilted than Dorian expected. They speak initially of Inquisition matters before meandering away into Chantry lore, and ancient Tevinter battle tactics. Philosophy. Haberdashery. A smattering of poetry. For a southerner, Cullen is surprisingly well-read. It isn’t difficult to make him laugh, Dorian discovers, and spends each subsequent game cheating more and more shamelessly, caring less and less, each time he loses, for Cullen laughs most freely in triumph.

“Are you sure your father would be worse at this than you are?” Cullen asks cheekily, moving his rook into position. “Check.”

Dorian sends his King into retreat. “You needn’t smirk quite so aggressively, Commander. I am merely testing you for weaknesses.”

“Are you?” Cullen laughs. “Reconnaissance cleverly masked as defeat, then? I'm impressed. Check.”

“I have no intention of losing, Commander. This is all a ruse to get you to lower your defenses. See?” Dorian makes a show of glowering at the board momentarily, before moving his King –– and a stray pawn –– again.

“Delaying tactics, at best.” Cullen grins, and captures the pawn with a raised brow. “I’ll have you eventually.” He glances up, pulled by Dorian’s pointed, and heated gaze. Really, the man must be doing it on purpose. Yet Cullen blushes furiously, clears his throat, and in his discomfiture, accidentally returns the pawn to the board.

“Promise?” Dorian shifts in his chair, pressing his thigh against Cullen’s ever-so-innocently.

Cullen’s breath catches in his throat, and when he reaches for one of the pieces he ends up knocking over half the board. “Maker’s Breath,” he swears, scrambling to salvage the game. Dorian reaches to help and their fingers close over the same chess piece, and something goes all tight in the center of Dorian’s chest. Cullen freezes, then pulls his hand away as if burned. The knight drops to the board with a heavy thunk. “I –– sorry.”

There’s a sound in the distance, the soft bleat of a horn marking the hours, and Cullen stands abruptly, knees banging against the table. The other half of the chess pieces fall.

“Damnit,” his hand tears through his curls, and he swears again. “Sorry. Sorry. I should –– You –– I need to ––”

Dorian watches Cullen scuttle off with an even more incoherently muttered apology. He drums his fingers against the chessboard, considering the abysmal effects of his seduction. Most of the men he’s ever sought have fallen into his bed with not even half the effort he’s spent on Cullen. But Cullen is… not like any of the men he’s seduced.

He’s inexperienced, for one thing. Dorian is used to evenings spent at parties, flirting with young heiresses, then taking their brothers to bed. Pretty men, well versed in the art of lovemaking.

But more than that, there's nothing about him that's coy, or coquettish, or beguiling. Cullen's honest, and open in a stiff-legged sort of way. He looks life straight in the eye, and manages most of the time not to flinch. A blunt sort of coarseness in a world that has been –– for Dorian –– like Navarran silk; uncommonly fine, and often fake.

It's… refreshing. Endearing, even.

And wildly annoying.

And Dorian is done with playing games.

He reaches out, and moves his pawn halfway across the board, towards Cullen’s still-standing king. “Checkmate.”

***

Two weeks later, and Dorian is thoroughly fed up.

They’ve hardly found occasion to speak, but Cullen keeps giving him these desperate, hungry looks. He always stops abruptly when he notices Dorian noticing. Blushing. Busying himself with one mundane task or another.

It’s… well, it's very much how he imagines foreplay with a Chantry brother to be, except with less spanking. (The spanking is likely not very realistic, but why would one waste one’s time imagining illicit encounters with the clergy that didn't involve spanking?) But heated looks can only do so much, and Dorian has never been particularly good at waiting.

So he finds himself at Cullen's door one evening. Determined to put an end to this stalemate they’ve found themselves in. A brief knock, out of strict courtesy, but he doesn't bother to wait for a reply. Everyone knows Cullen never locks his door.

“Dorian,” Cullen stands as he enters, surprised. Late as it is, Cullen’s still armored, though his gloves and vambraces are in a pile on the corner of his desk, and the sleeves of his tunic are rolled up nearly to his elbows. “Are you…? Hello.”

There's a sort sort of warmth in Cullen's greeting that Dorian's sure he isn't imagining, so he steps fully into Cullen’s office and shuts the door firmly behind him. “I’m bloody tired of dancing around this, so I’ll just come out and say it. I want you, Cullen. Badly. And I suspect you want me as well.”

Cullen doesn’t blush. Not really. It’s just that he’s so pale, and thin skinned, that the tiniest shift of emotion is written across his face. Surprise. Embarrassment. A soft tide of red that creeps across the bridge of his nose and over the tips of his ears. Cullen eases his weight from one foot to the other, silent, and a little shocked, but he doesn’t look away.

And he doesn't deny it.

Dorian moves closer. Cullen’s office is small, it takes only a few steps to cross the space between them. He can feel more than see Cullen’s soft intake of breath.

“Dorian,” Cullen shakes his head, but it looks more like he’s trying to clear it than protest. “I… We… I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“It isn’t,” Dorian agrees with a smile. “It’s a terrible idea. Don’t you just love terrible ideas?”

“My terrible ideas are usually… quite terrible.” Cullen’s gaze drops down to Dorian’s lips, briefly. “Besides… this isn’t really a matter of what I want.”

“Isn’t it?”

The Commander’s eyes turn a lovely color when he’s aroused. Darker than their usual golden shade. Deeper. Like sherry, rich and delectable. He wants to drown in them.

“Cullen?” Dorian murmurs, angling his body closer. Leaning, but not yet touching. The Commander will have to close the gap himself, if he wants a taste.

Cullen’s eyes flutter shut. The muscles in his cheek leap as he clenches his jaw. Then his eyes open again, and he rushes forward, across the tiny space between their bodies, and presses his mouth against Dorian’s.

It is not the first kiss Dorian anticipated. From the man who danced around his feelings for the better part of three months, he expected hesitancy. Restraint, even. But for all Cullen’s uncertainty, Dorian has forgotten; the Commander never does anything in half-measures.

This… this is ––

Heat. Breath. A mouth, soft and hard all at once. He feels Cullen’s hand slide up the back of his neck, cupping, pulling him closer. Feels the demand as Cullen’s mouth opens, feels the slick of a tongue against his teeth. Dorian answers in kind, pressing forward, until their bodies are flush against one another.

And Cullen’s mouth is not the only thing that’s hard.

“Maker,” one of them moans. Dorian thinks it’s him.

They press into each other. Cullen’s tongue licks hot against his mouth, and Dorian loses all sense of time. It could be hours. Years.

For a man who lacks social finesse, and knows it, Cullen doesn't bother trying to be coy. In the whole of his life, Dorian has never been kissed like this before. In Tevinter, such obvious, and open affection could be used as a political weapon. Even with the lovers he cared for the most, Dorian was always guarded, masking affection with flippancy. So he finds Cullen’s complete lack of restraint leaves him with a staggering sense of vertigo, like the floor beneath him has suddenly been yanked away.

Cullen’s fingers are restless. They stroke the curve of his ear, tangle in his hair, cup his cheek. And Dorian melts under the attention. It’s possible he might need nothing else to sustain him, save this man’s touch.

When they finally, finally pull apart, Dorian’s legs are trembling, and his hands are full of Cullen’s arse. “If they teach you Southerners how to kiss like that in those circles of yours, I may have to rethink my stance on them.”

Cullen chuckles a little breathlessly, and rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve never kissed anyone like that,” he admits. His brow furrows, but the eyes beneath are untroubled, and still dark with desire. “What is it you want, Dorian?”

“For starters, I’d like to know what your cock tastes like.”

“Maker’s breath!” This time Cullen does blush, and gasps like a landed fish. “I meant––”

Dorian presses in for a second kiss, or a third. A fourth. Fifth. He loses count. His fingers drift down, following the hard edge of Cullen’s breastplate, the rigid leather of his belt, until he discovers something just as hard and rigid further below. Cullen makes a pained sound as Dorian traces the outline of his cock where it lies trapped against his thigh.

His hands find the tangle of Cullen’s laces, and tug impatiently at the knot. Cullen sucks in a startled breath, and momentarily freezes. So does Dorian. Then ever- so-carefully, he takes each of Cullen’s hands, and tugs them open. Plants a single kiss onto each broad palm before pressing them closed around the ladder rung above Cullen's head. “If you want me to stop, for any reason at all, just let go of your hands.”

Cullen’s eyes widen slightly, but he nods.

It should only take a moment to undo the Commander’s breeches, but Dorian draws it out, relishing the way Cullen’s breath hastens and hitches. He tucks the end of Cullen’s tunic under the edge of his armor, and drags a finger down the trail of coarse golden-brown hair. Cullen makes a tiny, needy sound, and Dorian can’t help but plant a tender kiss below his navel. He inches Cullen’s breeches lower.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to do this to you?” Dorian asks.

“I assume that question is entirely rhetorical, and that you don't actually expect me to be capable of any sort of calculations right now.” Cullen pants, hips arching slightly. “Forever? I don't know… That's what it felt like to me.”

Dorian’s heart flips, and he has to take a deep steadying breath, wondering how it is that he’s inches away from having this man's cock down his throat, and yet he’s the one who feels as though he may fall to pieces. He yanks Cullen's breeches down, accomplishing what remains of the task, in a moment.

Cullen’s quite sizable, and almost fully hard, cock bobbing at precisely eye-level. Delightful. He's widest at the base, but not by much. Dorian thumbs down Cullen’s foreskin easily, and presses a kiss to the shiny-slick head of his cock.

Cullen makes a stilted sound one does not usually associate with mindless passion. A sort of half-swallowed giggle. Dorian arches his brow at the Commander.

“Your mustache tickles,” Cullen admits breathlessly, and shivers as Dorian plants another tickling kiss.

“So sensitive," Dorian mummers, pleased. He kisses his way down the underside of Cullen’s erection, inbetween long, lazy strokes of his hand. And then, because he can, kisses his way back up.

Cullen makes another startled sound, and his hips twist, as though trying to escape the sensation, but his hands stay firmly in place on the ladder. His head tips back, adam’s apple bobbing has he swallows. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, please, please…”

Dorian presses down on Cullen's cock for the simple joy of watching it spring back up when he let's go.

"Dorian…"

He jacks Cullen again, almost lazily, and reaches for the series of buckles and straps along his flank, loosening his breastplate enough that he can remove it entirely.

"On the desk," Cullen instructs breathlessly, when he hesitates, breastplate in hand.

Dorian sets the breastplate on the edge of the desk, on a bare patch that isn't covered with paperwork and other bits of administrative detritus. When he turns back around Cullen is still in his place against the ladder, arms raised over his head, breathing heavily, shirt askew, cock out and stiff with arousal. Dorian freezes in place, drinking in the sight of him.

He walks back, deliberately slow, savoring the –– well, all of it, really. He reaches out, careful to touch Cullen as little as possible, and undoes each button on Cullen’s tunic, until it hangs open all down the front. Bar the odd scar here and there, there's nothing at all that mars that perfect expanse of rose gold skin. Dorian gives a small sigh of satisfaction and trails his fingertips down Cullen's chest, swirling through the stripe of dark blonde hair that grows straight down the middle.

Cullen jerks sharply. The ladder rung in his hands creaks.

"Let go, and I will stop," Dorian warns, as much threat as reassurance, and drops to his knees.

Cullen's breath catches audibly.

And with no other preamble Dorian leans, and takes him into his mouth.

Cullen smells faintly soap and metal, and tastes delightfully of cock, all salt and musk and earthy bitterness. A few careful bobs to get him properly slicked and Dorian lets his throat relax, and presses himself down deeply enough that dark curls brush his nose. Cullen makes a tight sound of shock.

"Mmmmm?" Dorian looks up, mouth full.

"Maker have mercy," Culler mutters, watching.

Dorian maintains eye contact as he slides nearly all the way off, letting his tongue curl around the head of Cullen’s cock. He takes a slightly exaggerated breath and presses himself down again as Cullen's hips twitch and his eyes flutter briefly closed, grip, white-knuckled on the ladder.

For a while time blurs. There's only the fraying rasp of Cullen's breath, the growing ache in his own jaw, and the steady rhythm of his movements as he sucks Cullen’s cock. Once or twice the ladder creaks loudly, and Cullen's grip clamps down, desperate to hang on. He mutters Dorian's name amidst broken pleas and fractured bits of the Chant of Light.

A few times Cullen’s cock slips down the back of Dorian’s throat, just a little, and whatever Cullen's muttering to himself stops abruptly, dissolving into a restless groan.

"Close," Cullen rasps when it happens again.

Dorian lifts his head long enough to breathe and smile.

"Can I… Can I come in your mouth?" Cullen's eyes are wide and gold and guileless.

Dorian chokes on a laugh –– amongst other things. "I'd be rather disappointed if you didn't."

For a moment Cullen looks as though he might reply, but instead his eyes flutter shut as Dorian seals his mouth around the tip of Cullen's cock again. He finds his rhythm easily enough. Opening his throat as he pushes himself down, and a firm, hollow-cheeked suction as he pulls back up.

Cullen moans, hips thrusting, arms shaking with the effort to keep a grip on the ladder.

A tiny spill of salt against Dorian’s tongue.

Then another.

One of Cullen’s hands slips off the rung, and instantly scrabbles back into place. "Please don't stop,” he gasps. "Please, don't."

Dorian doesn’t stop, but he pulls back wickedy to suckle only on the very tip of the tip.

"Don't stop don't stop," Cullen continues to beg frantically, words tumbling out in a rush. "Don't stop don't Maker please don't going to––" A strangled grunt of tremendous effort, as though Cullen's heart has been torn straight from its roots, and the sudden taste of quicksilver floods Dorian's mouth, spilling over. He swallows hastily as Cullen makes the loveliest, most broken sound Dorian has ever heard.

He bobs in long careful strokes, tip to base, as Cullen's cock twitches in pulses, until he's entirely spent and still rather hard –– interesting that –– and only then does he pull off entirely with a smugly satisfied grin and a wet pop.

Cullen still has his arms above his head, breathing hard, a slick of sweat on his chest, and flushed nearly down to his navel. "Maker," he mumbles, and with some difficulty, forces his hands off the ladder. He stumbles, weak-kneed and wobbly, and clutches at Dorian, to stay upright.

Check and mate, Commander, Dorian thinks smugly.

"I think that round went to me," he grins, wiping at his chin.

"Cheater," Cullen laughs breathlessly, and leans in to kiss him, deep and thorough, as if hungry for the taste of himself in Dorian's mouth.

And Dorian laughs, almost giddy with happiness.

Such a strange sensation, really.

Cullen kisses him again, and fumbles with the various buckles and straps around Dorian’s waist for a full minute before he gives up with a growl. “How in the void do you––”

Dorian chuckles, kisses the flush of Cullen’s cheek and, with a few quick tugs, has himself bared to the waist in a matter of moments. “Don’t you worry,” he grins at Cullen’s expression, “you’ll be able to do that too, with practice.”

“Oh?” Cullen raises his brows, distracted by the subtle promise as much as the view. Dorian smirks, angling himself back, just slightly in a way that makes the muscles of his chest flex. Cullen’s color rises a bit more. He reaches out, fingers long and hesitant, and strokes at the smooth skin of Dorian’s chest. A touch entirely too tremulous for a man who has just spent himself down Dorian’s throat.

Then the Commander leans forward, surprising him entirely as his lips close around one of Dorian’s nipples. The startled noise that breaks free twists into a groan as Cullen suckles him, mouth firm, and insistent.

The sound he makes when Cullen pulls back is entirely embarrassing. The Commander smirks, scar wrinkling before he leans over to taste his other nipple. One arm braced behind his back, as if Dorian is in danger of falling.

And he is.

It’s almost absurd how erotic it is –– Cullen against him, hands hard against his hips, mouth, suckling, with just the tiniest scrape of his teeth.

And then, Cullen drops to his knees.

Oh fuck, yes.

“I’ve never done this before.” Cullen admits, almost apologetically.

That omission sends bolts of arousal riding up the insides of Dorian’s thighs. His cock throbs heavily. “Have you ever been with a man?” He asks.

“Once,” Cullen says hoarsely. “But, we didn’t… He was, um… at a… at a brothel in Kirkwall, just before everything went sideways. I had his arse.”

What a lovely idea.

“And has anyone ever had yours?”

Cullen shakes his head, swallowing hard.

Dorian files that information neatly away into a list of things he really must do before he dies. And, not one to forgo present pleasures in favor of future promises, undoes the last buckle holding his breeches closed, and pulls out his cock, hard as anything, the tip glistening with precome.

Cullen blinks rapidly, and exhales just a little, eyes dark and pupils overblown. He reaches, fingers cupping the weight of Dorian’s balls, and tilts his head back, mouth open, tongue thrust forward just a little.

Waiting.

Maker this man is going to be the death of Dorian.

Dorian drags the head of his cock across Cullen’s tongue, letting Cullen taste him briefly, before angling in and down. Cullen's eyes widen, but he doesn't pull back, merely keeps his mouth open and his tongue over his teeth as Dorian thrusts in and out in small, shallow motions.

"That’s right… that’s lovely…" He curls his hand round Cullen’s jaw, encouragingly. "Just a bit more…"

Cullen presses himself down –– nearly all the way down –– with a sort of stiff determination. Dorian's cock bumps the back of his throat, and he gags, pulling back. Then tries again. And again. And again. Straining and struggling. Trying to do it well.

Dorian has always thought himself a connoisseur of technique, but the simple effort Cullen exerts as he struggles to deepthroat him is wildly, unexpectedly arousing. He feels his balls begin to tighten with a familiar, heavy ache.

His hips shift, restless and wickedly indulgent. Heaven. He has found heaven.

And Cullen moans around his cock. A sound of delight, not distress, pulling Dorian dangerously close to the razor's edge.

"Maker's breath, Cullen," he says, and grabs a fistfull of curls to pull him off.

Cullen's eyes are watering from the exertion, and Dorian has a brief, but vivid fantasy of bending Cullen’s bulk over his own desk and taking him just like that –– with the tears still standing in his eyes. But Cullen's on his knees before him, looking utterly vulnerable and wrecked. His hands lay open on his knees, palms up in soft supplication, and between them his cock stands, hard as stone.

“Already?”

Cullen shoots him an easy, if slightly exhausted grin.

“Well, on your feet, Commander.” Dorian says, sauntering backwards towards the desk, pushing his breeches fully off his hips. There’s a tiny vial of oil hidden in his pocket. He sets it on the corner of the desk. His eyes don’t leave Cullen’s as he concludes stripping, and steps out of breeches, boots, and smalls. He can feel his cock twitch and reaches down, cupping his balls in his hand for a moment before turning, and pressing both hands flat against the burnished wood of Cullen’s desk with great deliberation.

Cullen takes a deep breath through his nose. He runs a hand backwards through his hair, making the curls stand out wildly in all directions.

He looks –– well wrecked comes to mind. And disbelieving, as though half convinced this is all a dream and afraid that moving even a little might cause him to wake. But he takes another deep, steadying breath and reaches for the tiny vial of oil.

Dorian watches as he carefully upturns the vial, slickening first his palm, and then his cock, working the oil from base to tip until he's nearly dripping.

A slippery, hesitant touch that creeps from the base of Dorian's balls, to halfway up his crack. He arches slightly to give Cullen better access, and feels him press against his hole, fingers rubbing at the rim. The tip of Cullen's finger breaches him, with a playful sort of wiggle. Then, the sudden shock of Cullen’s finger sliding all the way inside him.

“Brute,” Dorian complains, but there’s so little heat in the word that Cullen merely laughs, finger carefully drawing back before pushing in again. And again. And again. Twisting a little, trying to ease the burn until pleasure blooms, thick and hot and Dorian has to clench his teeth and fight back a moan.

Cullen’s gentle, and surprisingly thorough, waiting until Dorian grows accustomed to the sensation before adding a second oil-slick finger with a soft growl of approval.

The pressure is delicious, sharp and bright and deep all at once. And Dorian presses back against the burn, eagerly.

Cullen’s fingers graze Dorian’s prostate, just barely. Just a single spike of intensity that coils tight in his gut, and makes his breath gust out in a noiseless gasp. He doesn’t do it again –– damnit –– may not have even known what he’s done. And Dorian looks over his shoulder, fully prepared to beg, just as Cullen leans forward, and presses a kiss to the small of Dorian’s back.

“Ready?”

“Yes, damnit."

A chuckle, strained, but edged with real humor, and the feel of Cullen’s slicked cock against his buttocks. Dorian shifts forward, splaying his legs and tipping his hips to help with the angle. He can feel Cullen's fingers near his rim, holding himself steady, holding Dorian open enough to see. Pressure. Resistance. And the sudden, impossible yielding of first penetration as Dorian takes a solid three inches all at once.

Dorian grunts. He isn’t nearly as used to this as he ought to be.

Cullen makes a shocked and breathless sort of sound, freezing. And there’s a question there in the cadence of his voice, but Dorian can’t think enough to focus, or breathe, or do anything but grip the desk and keep his heart beating. Cullen strokes his hip and asks something again, and Dorian still can’t understand, but he gathers enough wits to say: “Don’t. You. Dare. Stop.”

Cullen presses forward.

Another inch.

And another inch.

Another.

And Dorian takes every one, growing more and more breathless, gripping the desk until his knuckles ache.

"Maker have mercy," Cullen growls hoarsely, and thrusts the last inch home. The desk beneath them slides forward a foot and a half, with a loud screech.

Cullen makes a small half-swallowed sound of laughter, pausing long enough to remove his surcoat and fling it on to the floor. He grips Dorian’s hips, carefully maneuvering him down, managing to get Dorian on hands and knees without withdrawing. He thrusts once, experimentally, and with a grunt of satisfaction, gets to it.

Military precision.

Dorian had under-appreciated the term. Or what it might mean to describe someone pistoning him up the arse in such a fashion. The pace Cullen sets is quick and strong and never faltering, and all Dorian can do is brace himself against the floor and try not to die.

Cullen’s hand flits between his legs. “Let me,” he whispers. "Please.”

Dorian makes a half-broken moan that he hopes is affirmation enough, and then another, sharp with desire as Cullen's hand closes around his cock and begins to stroke it. Dorian always touches himself teasingly. Light brushes of his fingertips that lets the pleasure slowly build and build and build. Cullen commands. His hand is broad, and calloused, and firm. He touches Dorian as if trying to wring as much sensation as possible from the act with long, relentless strokes that match the tempo of Cullen’s hips. It’s boorish. Practically uncultured. It shouldn’t… should be…

Dorian’s eyes flutter closed.

Cullen shifts his grip, paying more attention to the tip of his cock that Dorian usually does, swirling his thumb in the same manner that had started this whole mess. One long, broad stroke of his thumb.

And all at once everything inside Dorian comes rushing to surface, overflowing, too fast and too much and too impossible to contain.

Dorian comes––

There should be fanfare to accompany a sensation such as this. A great crescendo of music. Fireworks that arch across the sky. Raucous applause.

–– but the only sound he can make is a tiny, half swallowed Ah, as he arches against the span of Cullen's chest, and spills in pulses across Cullen’s fist, and on the fine burgundy wool beneath them.

Cullen growls something in approval, and his fist slides up and down once more, careful and deliberate.

Dorian moans, arching as Cullen gives a single hard thrust inside him.

"Maker's breath, you are stunning." Cullen husks. And there's something locked inside him, a promise. A threat. All the strength in the world sits coiled in those arms, and that frame. Cullen’s hand tightens just a little, on Dorian’s still-hard cock.

"Can you… again?" He asks breathlessly.

Dorian shivers, and turns his head for a kiss. It isn't a proper kiss, they're both too wrecked for that, just the meeting of two mouths, between shuddering gasps of air.

"For you, I can do anything."

Cullen makes a broken sound, and his hand begins to move, slick and sure, a half-beat slower than his hips. He uses the same technique as before, long and smooth from base to tip with just a bit of an extra flourish at the end.

“Festis bio… umo canavarum…” Dorian chokes out between breaths when Cullen’s thumb swirls over the head of his cock.

It’s the sweetest agony. Hanging on the razor's edge of overstimulation. Twitching, and shaking, and swearing beneath the motion of Cullen’s hand.

Twice Dorian thinks he may prove himself a liar and beg Cullen to stop. But the heat between his legs builds slowly, but surely, pulled along by Cullen's gentle determination, and the praises he mutters in Dorian’s ear.

And it's suddenly far far too much. He makes a shattered sound. A sob. A plea. And Cullen’s hand twists over the head of his cock, mercilessly.

And he can't.

Can't.

And yet...

His breath seizes up, a moan and a gasp tangling in his throat, and then there are white starbursts behind his eyes. And sharp white teeth against the curve of his shoulder. And a sharp white heat between his legs, that pulls and pulls until something snaps inside him and he’s coming for the second time in as many minutes, spilling liquid heat into the tight clench of Cullen's fist.

The flare of pleasure is so bright it nearly blinds him.

Cullen’s rhythm falters, all at once ungainly, and he jerks to a sudden stop, coming with a wretched, desperate sound. And the world is slick and sweet and utterly perfect. Dorian has the vague sense of Cullen tipping over him, rolling together in a tangle of sweat and smiles.

Time stills. It may halt all together.

And Dorian's content to let it. To exist forever in this blurry haze of connection, and warmth, and boneless peace. One minute more. Just one minute more. But Cullen withdraws, far far sooner than Dorian would like, and the world snaps back into stark focus.

They're on the floor. With Cullen's cloak spread out beneath them, and stained in enough places to raise brows should he simply try to don it. Dorian hadn’t thought to ask if has a spare. Cullen himself is flat on his back, shirt wide open, still clad in his unlaced breeches, cock, soft and pale against his belly. Dorian curls beside him, head cradled in the pit of Cullen's shoulder, waiting as the intensity of their encounter slowly bleeds away, clinging to the sweetness, and nearness of Cullen's body. Dreading the awkward part.

It comes more swiftly than he’d hoped.

“What is this, Dorian?” Cullen asks in an unsteady, quiet voice.

Dorian frowns. He’s not sure he can bear to hear how little Cullen wants him now. The itch has been scratched after all, and Dorian won’t pretend he doesn’t know how the game ends.

It always ends the same way.

“It doesn't have to be anything,” he says lightly. “We could just suck each others cocks now and then. Fuck, if the mood takes us. A bit of pleasure to be had while the world around us burns. There's no need to complicate things needlessly.”

Cullen swallows visibly. His eyes flutter closed for a moment. “Is… is that what you want?”

“I offered didn’t I?” He presses a kisses against the sharp line of Cullen’s collarbone before he can stop himself. “Besides, it’s not so terrible of a thought, is it?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean–– ” Cullen shakes his head, a little, teeth grinding together as he thinks. “I… hate when you go away with the Inquisitor. I find myself worrying. Not concentrating. Not sleeping well. I don’t sleep well in any case, but I imagine… things.” He sighs, shoulders lifting in a not-quite shrug. “I want you safe. Whole. Happy. I’m just... I don't matter in this.”

The bleakness in Cullen’s voice is upsetting in a way he’s not prepared to examine at the moment. Dorian glowers silently, unsure of what to say as his heart gives a pathetic bump in his chest.

"Have you… have you ever been in love?" Cullen asks after a long moment. His voice, a quiet husk.

Dorian makes an amused, and slightly forced sound. "Twelve or fourteen times, I think. Every other summer, certainly. Have you?"

"Once, maybe."

"Lucky. Who was she? He?"

"He," Cullen clears his throat. "Smart, but he'd uh… try to hide it sometimes. Hide behind wit when he could. But he was terrible at it. Loved books too much to pretend he didn’t.” Cullen’s mouth quirks up in a soft little smile, remembering. “He could be callous, when he was frightened. Or terrifyingly bossy. Cranky. Probably cheated at cards."

"He sounds like an ass." That's not a lump of jealousy at the fondness inn Cullen's voice, it's not.

"A little, sometimes." Cullen makes a sound that's sort of breathy laugh and Dorian's heart gives another painful beat. "A lot, sometimes too." Cullen says wryly. "But he was a good person. He gave up everything to join a fight that wasn't really his. You don't… you don't often find that in a person. Extraordinary, really."

A tingle of hope warms Dorian. A tiny sunrise locked tight in his chest.

"Beautiful," Cullen says, “impossibly beautiful, but not in a fragile way. Just sort of colorful. Alive. Wanted everyone to look at him so no one would see him. Wore the most impractical armor the world has ever seen." A quick flash of a grin.

It's a strange sort of feeling that sits in Dorian's belly. Giddy and hard-edged all at once. A butterfly made of steel. A soap bubble of diamonds.

And he’s afraid to breathe, and startle it all away.

Cullen's fingers trace over the bones in Dorian's hand with an almost worshipful kind of attention. Fingertips curling gently across each knuckle. "He was easy to talk to somehow. Easy for me, I mean. It shouldn't have been, maybe all of it shouldn't have been. I'm not sure it made any sort of sense. But… he was one of the few people who never looked at me with fear in their eyes… even when he really looked, and he… he was…" Cullen shrugs helplessly, faltering for the first time.

"A mage?" Dorian offers softly.

An apologetic twist of Cullen's mouth. "Yeah."

"In Kirkwall?"

"No."

"Kinloch?"

"No."

Dorian goes entirely still. "You said was, Cullen."

"Did I?" His thumb brushes across Dorian's cheek, soft as a feather. "I misspoke. Forgive me?"

"Never," Dorian breathes. His fingers are trailing up Cullen's chest in an idle sort of way. "I'm not sure I believe in love," Dorian says after a moment. He means it to be sharp, but all it sounds like is hurt. Small, and weak. He grimaces. "It’s like building your house on sand. It's fine for a time, but in my experience, it all tumbles down eventually."

Cullen nods, frowning only a little. "Perhaps. But I still think I'm falling in love with you, Dorian."

Dorian searches his face for a moment, his heart making annoyingly thuddy sounds in his chest. "Nothing ever scares you, does it?"

Cullen gives a sharp bark of rusty laughter. "Everything scares me. I’m the easiest man in the world to terrify. But… I still think it's true."

"And what if I could never love you back?"

Cullen pauses, honestly considering. "I don't know if I would want it then. The… the casual pleasure. I don't know if it would be enough for me."

Dorian sits up and turns away. Trying to pretend that it doesn’t matter. Trying to think of some quip, some clever metaphors for sandcastles, all the while knowing he was always in danger of feeling too much, not too little.

He always is.

Cullen reaches up and brushes the curve of his spine. A silent question.

They are both of them, fools.

He clears his throat and looks at Cullen. "So. Love then? That’s what you want between us?" He asks crisply.

Any courtier would laugh, and turn the game around. Jeer at Dorian for even asking. But Cullen just nods, a little tremulous at the edges but certain. “Love.” He says the word like a prayer.

Maker, the world will eat this man alive.

"Fine," Dorian says airily, knuckles tight in the fabric of Cullen's tunic, so he doesn't shake apart at the seams from the sudden rush of joy, or grin like an idiot. Or burst into tears. "But just so you know, I get to have the sex part too."

“See?” Cullen’s thumb traces the curve Dorian’s lower lip, smile soft, and radiant. “Bossy.”