Archive of Our Own

It began with a chess game.

Well, no, it began with a discussion about a chess game.

Dorian was ensconced in his usual cosy alcove in the library, very much attempting to mind his own business, when Cullen first approached him to make the suggestion. The Commander looked startlingly out of place amidst the dusty books, standing in his armour and fur cloak, rigid and militant. He also seemed to be making a stab at sounding cordial, but was mostly only succeeding in convincing Dorian that the man had never once witnessed or conveyed a genuine human emotion in his life.

The mage snorted from behind his book, glancing up at him with faint pity. "And what, may I ask, has brought on this oh so friendly overture from you, Commander?" he enquired mildly, taking a second to dab one fingertip against his tongue and slide across a page. "Have you finally taken note of my excess of wit and charm, and been moved to bask in the coveted glow of my company?"

There was a beat of silence, as Cullen drew a slow breath and clasped his hands behind his back, eyes fixed resolutely on the drapes somewhere behind Dorian's left shoulder. "It was brought to my attention that we may have gotten off on the wrong foot."

"We did?" Dorian asked, as though this was thoroughly new information. He even made a show of lowering his book, to afford this revelation the attention it deserved. "Well I'm so embarrassed. I just thought you treated all your friends like criminal pariahs. You mean to say you don't?"

The Templar levelled a deeply unimpressed stare back at him, managing to communicate all his distaste for Dorian's nonsense without uttering a word. The mage felt a bubbling of delight in his chest, already enjoying the exchange far more than he cared to admit.

"Would you like to join me for a game, or not?" Cullen said shortly, looking just about ready to turn on his heel if he didn't get an answer this time.

So Dorian closed his book and set it atop one of the nearby stacks, uncrossing his legs and sitting forward in readiness. He wouldn't pass up the opportunity for an afternoon diversion as promising as this one. "Of course, I can think of nothing I'd enjoy more. Pull up a chair and make yourself -"

"Ah," Cullen hedged, his gaze once again sliding slightly past Dorian. "Actually I was thinking we might sit outside. The weather is pleasant, and there's a spot in the Chantry garden which would be ideal."

Dorian paused. Suspicion crested briefly in him, followed by recognition, and he watched the other man with new interest.

"Well now, Commander," he murmured at length. "So you are a political creature, after all. Whoever would have known?"

Cullen's expression remained blank, but he allowed himself a single slow blink. "I don't know what -"

"Oh please don't ruin the moment by playing dumb," Dorian interrupted, holding up a forestalling finger. "You were doing so well. Inviting me, the heretical Tevinter magister, to participate in a friendly show of camaraderie with you, the Inquisition's Templar Commander, just a stone's throw from our beloved Chantry, where we might make a fine tableau of unlikely alliances to anyone passing?" He tilted his head in judgement. "A little heavy-handed on the symbolism, perhaps, but I'll grant you I see the potential."

Cullen remained silent. He radiated discomfort, rolling his shoulders once beneath the weight of his thick cloak. A wooden board creaked torturously as he shifted his stance and then went still again. For a long, drawn-out moment it seemed he was going to deny the accusation, or retreat from the idea altogether. Dorian waited, curious to see what he'd do.

At last, Cullen lifted his chin. "My hope is that it would help settle unrest within our forces," he said carefully. "Should they perceive a stronger alliance between us, that is. Put the mages at ease, set an example for the -"

"It's not entirely selfless though, is it?" Dorian said lightly. "We're in a castle full of free mages, and they don't trust you."

"We're also in a castle full of soldiers and Chantry faithful," Cullen shot back. "And they don't trust you."

"Mutually beneficial, then." Dorian curled a slow smile, lounging back in his chair. "There. Was that so terrible? Isn't it much easier when we speak like equals?"

"If you'd rather not, you only had to say -"

"Not at all," Dorian amended quickly, uncoiling and rising to his feet with a flourish. "I quite agree with your reasoning. What's more, I'd be honoured to be your partner in political machinations. I expect we'll have great fun."

Apparently Cullen hadn't been anticipating such easy agreement, and in his surprise failed to make way as Dorian stepped forward to join him. The mage ended up standing closer than he'd intended, having to tilt his head back to hold eye contact.

For the first time Cullen wavered. "Good. Thank you, I mean. I, uhm."  

It was obvious he didn't know how to proceed, and Dorian permitted himself the smallest of unwholesome smirks. He wondered if the good and honourable Commander had expected Dorian to be offended by the true nature of his request. If so, he'd forgotten just who he was dealing with. Dorian's first and most fluent language was political scheming, and if anything it came as a welcome respite to find someone willing to speak it with him. That it would be the morally uncompromising Commander Cullen was something of a turn up, but certainly no cause for fuss.

Then again, Dorian supposed, perhaps he shouldn't be surprised at all. Cullen had built a reputation as a talented strategist and pragmatic thinker in the art of warfare, from what he'd gathered by listening in on scraps of tavern chatter. It was only natural such skills extended beyond the battlefield. The mage felt a glimmer of intrigue, his interest growing.

Besides, he certainly wasn't acting only out of duty-bound selflessness. Dorian thoroughly enjoyed trading barbs with the handsome Templar whenever the opportunity presented itself; loved to needle his prickly dignity and watch him fluster in response to Dorian's theatrics. Whether it served another purpose or not, the proposed chess game would provide excellent opportunity to enjoy himself at leisure.

So he lingered in Cullen's space, lifting his gaze to make deliberate eye contact. "Don't thank me yet, Commander. You'll be feeling far less grateful when all of Skyhold witnesses your ignoble defeat at the hands of the resident infidel 'Vint, I'm sure."

Cullen's dark eyes flashed at the challenge, but he only took a purposeful step back, lifting a hand to gesture Dorian past. "I look forward to seeing your attempt, Lord Pavus."

Dorian didn't realise at first that they'd embarked upon a tentative, unspoken alliance from that moment. He was slow on the uptake, or perhaps too cynical to immediately identify that Cullen's desire to demonstrate a truce with the resident Tevinter pariah was more than passing fancy. So it was some time before it occurred to him that the serious, taciturn Commander had become something more than a mere mutually beneficial ally - and by then it was far too late to rally a defence. All said, an embarrassing lapse in situational awareness, really.

One chess game turned into two, and then a regular occurrence. It soon became commonplace for Cullen's aides to come looking for the Commander in the garden if they couldn't immediately locate him in his office, and Dorian always nodded cordially to the stiff-backed soldiers when they eyed him. The mages were more skittish in approaching, but he knew word of his apparent new friendship was circulating their ranks. So far he couldn't be sure their calculated display of camaraderie was having the intended effect - but the attempt was certainly no hardship.

Cullen was a skilled, entertaining opponent. His tactics in the game itself were both understated and unexpected, and more than once left Dorian bemused as to how he'd lost quite so efficiently. But far more importantly than that, he exceeded Dorian's expectations in providing the witty, biting verbal exchanges that became a core element of their gameplay. Dorian had anticipated having to do much of the work in drawing out conversation, and was much relieved when Cullen proved able to hold his own in that regard too. Dorian began to look forward to their little meetings, often forgetting there had originally been a political purpose to the whole arrangement.

He was rather abruptly reminded one morning when they were gathered in the War Room, and Vivienne and Cassandra were snarling at each other at increasing volume over the strategy table.

"We need to offer sanctuary to the Whitepeake Enclave," Vivienne insisted archly, tapping one long pointed nail against the map over the city in question. She cast an expectant look towards the Inquisitor, apparently awaiting agreement.

"They're too great a liability," Cassandra shot back stolidly, before anyone could agree anything. "I appreciate that the Inquisition is allied with the plight of mages in general, but those mages have done nothing but wreak havoc along the northern coastline. Reports from the area describe them overtaking farmland, terrorising locals, burning a Chantry. There have been casualties. Rumours of demons -"

"Unsubstantiated rumours, unless you have information I'm unaware of?" Vivienne's eyes flashed challenge, and she continued smoothly, "They were a young Circle, only recently established when the rebellion began. I've seen the registry, many of them are little more than children. They would not have benefited from the guidance of experienced Circle mages -"

"That does not exonerate them," the Seeker snapped. "Nor lessen the damage to our own reputation if we are seen to show leniency to violent mages, now of all -"

"Invite them to Skyhold, under agreed codes of conduct, and not only would you be putting an end to their violence, you would be offering them the chance to redeem themselves and other mages! They could learn from experienced, disciplined teachers like myself, and Dorian -"

Dorian, who until that point had been under the distinct impression his role here was to be little more than moral support when Vivienne had asked him to accompany her, looked up from examining the polish on his nails. "What?"

He went ignored, as Cassandra spoke over him. "I am as committed as anyone here to allying with mages, no matter what you believe of me, but you must be reasonable, Vivienne! Those of us who have faced down mages truly set on anarchy and bloodshed know the costs better than most. I'm sure Commander Cullen will agree."

Cullen blinked, glancing up from where he too had been examining the map. All eyes turned towards him, and he weathered the awkward pause in the argument with a stoicism Dorian vaguely envied, taking his time to think for a few moments before responding.

"Well?" Cassandra prompted, impatient.

Cullen frowned, his gaze flicking between the Seeker and the First Enchantress, over to the Inquisitor, and finally landing on Dorian. It lingered there for perhaps longer than necessary, and Dorian found himself straightening up under the unexpected weight of the man's attention.

When he finally spoke, it was directly to Dorian, as though he'd quite forgotten the rest of the room was present. "Could you teach them, do you think?" 

Dorian fought the urge to sputter in surprise. "What - me specifically? Why me?"

"They're youths rebelling against the strictures of the southern Circles," Cullen pointed out wryly. "I suspect they'd be more receptive to the influence of a renowned Tevinter magister than anyone else here. Don't you agree?"

Dorian did in fact agree, after a moment's consideration, but he was more than a little poleaxed to hear the Templar state it so baldly. "Quite probably, yes," he conceded, and then shrugged. "If you're certain that's an influence you want on impressionable young mages, of course."

Cullen gave him an exasperated look for the remark. "And would you have them?" he prompted. "Show them what we're doing here, teach them responsibility? Accountability?"

Dorian could hardly fathom what seemed to be happening. He'd tagged along to the meeting with little more ambition than proposing a visit to Val Royeaux's grand library. He was hardly prepared to find himself potentially appointed responsible for delinquent, destructive young mages. Gradually, he became aware that the others around the table were watching him too, awaiting his answer with perhaps the same sense of bemusement he himself felt. Vivienne looked exactly halfway between pleased she was getting her way and offended it was on Dorian's say-so. 

"I'm sure I can model any number of virtues you care to list," he said blithely, if only to disguise his own confusion. "Chess stratagem, for instance."

Cassandra let out an exaggerated scoff. "You can't be serious," she accused, looking between the both of them as though suspecting conspiracy.

Next to her, Leliana shifted her weight minutely, as much a signal of discomfort as she was ever willing to betray. "Cullen, are you sure this is a good idea? Perhaps we should -"

"I trust Dorian's judgement," Cullen said simply, dismissively, like it was mere trivial matter-of-fact, and not utterly devastating to Dorian's concept of how the world worked. His heart did a ridiculous little skip in his chest, like he'd tripped or missed a step, and for a few unguarded seconds he just stared at the man. Cullen didn't seem aware he'd said anything out of the ordinary, busy flipping through the collection of requisition orders he was holding.

Dorian didn't buy the performance for a moment.

Cullen had to know what he'd just done, he wasn't a stupid man. Far from it, he was a strategist. And he'd just declared his stake in this alliance of theirs, made it known among the inner circle of the Inquisition. Dorian scrambled to parse the implications of the development, trying to understand how Cullen benefited, what he was trying to achieve that Dorian somehow hadn't accounted for. But he couldn't see it, and at last could only conclude: Cullen didn't benefit. Only Dorian did. After all, among this particular circle of people, Cullen was already a proven source of stability and familiarity, a close friend to the likes of Cassandra and Leliana. He didn't need to barter favour here. Dorian was the newcomer, the potential risk, trailing a questionable reputation behind him no matter how charming and competent he showed himself to be.

Cullen was vouching for him, extending a measure of his own established security. And for no conceivable pay-off, as far as Dorian could determine, because there was very little of equal worth that Dorian could offer in terms of the bargain they'd made.

As the realisation settled over him, the Commander looked up, inadvertently catching Dorian staring at him. Their eyes caught and held, a strange flash of intimacy as understanding passed between them. Dorian's heart beat too quickly in his chest, making him feel alert and excitable, suspended on the edge of action without knowing what it was he wanted to do.

Then Cullen cleared his throat, ducking his head to break the connection. "If you are going to parley with the Whitepeake Enclave," he said at last, pointedly directing the comment towards the Inquisitor, "make our terms clear upfront. They do penance during their time with the Inquisition, they submit to the tutelage of Vivienne and Dorian, and we will not compromise in accepting those who practice blood magic. If they're unwilling to cooperate, we know we offered fair terms."

And just like that, conversation returned to pragmatic concerns, with no one but Dorian seemingly the wiser about the act of political gallantry he'd just witnessed.

Dorian had made it something of a sticking point, refusing to be cowed by the reputation of these fearsome southern Templars. He was, after all, a scion of Tevinter, and as such free from the ingrained deference that plagued his fellow mages here in Fereldan. He had been raised with privilege and liberties and a magical education some would quite literally kill for, thank you very much.

So he most certainly was not intimidated to be facing Commander Cullen across a battlefield. That much he would defend to the death.

Still, there was always something to be said for honest, pragmatic self-preservation, Dorian allowed, as he glanced across to their audience of a half-dozen junior Templar recruits. They were the only members of the Order who had been successfully swayed from Corypheus' thrall as of yet, likely because they hadn't completed the full rigours of Templar training, and with it the barrage of mental programming and lyrium corruption that went with the job, these days. As a result, the Inquisition found itself in proud possession of six untested, untrained, but no less dangerous Templar warriors who seemed at a loss about how they should regard the liberated mages with whom they now allied.

As the only veteran Templar at Skyhold, Cullen had generously volunteered to host demonstrations of Templar abilities in the name of finishing their education.

Presumably in petty retaliation for the outcome of their latest chess game, he'd also nominated Dorian to assist with the endeavour.

"There will undoubtedly be mages allied with Corypheus," Cullen was saying to his recruits, currently. "Amongst them blood mages and Venatori cultists, probably others. It is therefore imperative you know how to defend yourself and your allies against magic."

Dorian did not miss the several nervous glances which slid across to him at mention of the Venatori, and just about managed to resist rolling his eyes. He stood lounging against the wooden fence which separated the training grounds from the rest of Skyhold's courtyard, trying to exude a certain casual competence while refraining from any sudden movements that might spook the collection of very tense, very indoctrinated young men holding swords nearby. He was not at all convinced this was a good idea, and couldn't for the life of him fathom how or why he'd agreed to it - remembered only that Cullen had been doing that lovely, earnest thing with his face as he'd proposed the idea, and Dorian had found himself agreeing before he'd regained the use of rational thinking.

So here he was, awake at a truly obscene time of morning, about to be set upon by mage-hating, sword-toting brutes because a good looking man had asked him nicely. Dorian let out a short, faintly self-deprecating sigh, watching his breath mist in the frigid air. Dawn was still a hazy grey light in the distance, and frost glistened across the field. By all rights Dorian should still be buried snugly beneath a veritable mountain of blankets, not indulging this madness.

"Ready?" Cullen called.

Reluctantly, Dorian straightened to attention. He picked up his staff from where he'd left it propped against the fence and stepped further into the training field, idly rotating his arm to loosen the muscle and make sure the straps of his armour allowed for sufficient movement. He was conscious of the young Templars watching his every movement, standoffish and tense. Well, this looked like it was going to be just heaps of fun.

He came to a stop opposite Cullen, judging it sufficient distance for him to be able to cast safely. Bizarrely, Dorian found himself feeling uncomfortable. Cullen stood motionless, presumably waiting for Dorian to initiate the first attack, and all Dorian could think was how horribly undefended he looked. The Commander was wearing his armour, of course, but for the duration of their sparring match he'd taken off the big fur cloak to free up movement, and he looked smaller for it. He'd also foregone the use of a physical shield, explaining that his recruits shouldn't become reliant on such a defence if they wanted to grow comfortable with their own innate abilities. Instead, he'd armed himself only with a dull, weighted wooded sword - to avoid hurting Dorian, he'd said, looking far too smug about the statement.

Now, Dorian rubbed the tips of his fingers together nervously, considering his options. Cullen hadn't even bothered to raise a neutralising forcefield yet, and if Dorian came down on him with the full strength of his magic then the Inquisition's Templar Commander would be seared to so much twisted metal before the eyes of their riveted audience. Not an outcome Dorian was particularly keen on, if he was honest.

"Lord Pavus?" Cullen prompted, the slightest lift of a smile lingering around his mouth. "Whenever you're ready."

Dorian let sparks of purple electricity gather in his palm, purposely telegraphing the spell he was using and hoping that Cullen took the hint, then extended his hand towards his opponent. Lightning crackled across the field between them, sudden and startling in the early morning stillness.

Cullen hardly moved. One hand flicked dismissively at his side, a casual neutralising gesture that swept aside the magical lightshow, so that it fizzled out harmlessly a few inches in front of him.

Dorian blinked, his hand falling in a moment of genuine surprise.

Across from him, Cullen inclined his head with mild disappointment. "While it can always prove an advantage to be underestimated by an enemy," he called, ostensibly addressing his recruits, "I had hoped to be met on equal footing by my allies. No matter. It seems we must give our mage friend a moment or two to warm up."

Dorian gaped, no doubt wearing an unflattering expression in his state of bemusement. Cullen was taunting him, and being none too subtle about it.

Dorian promptly cast another lightning strike, and this time didn't give the decency of a warning.

Cullen raised a hand, palm-out, and met the spell with a barrier of his own that rippled in the air as it absorbed the assault.

"Better," the Commander concluded, nodding approval. "But certainly not the worst our forces will be facing. Shall we try for a little more ambition?"

Thankfully, Dorian had recovered some of his composure, and managed to resist throwing back a childish, undisciplined remark. Still, his pride bristled. He'd only been thinking of the wellbeing of one of the Inquisition's figureheads, after all. There was no call to question his competence.

"I was under the impression the purpose of the exercise was to demonstrate magical attack and defence," he observed archly. "I was merely providing opportunity for your Templars to follow the exchange."

"Ah," Cullen said with apparent understanding, although he still wore that little suggestion of a smile. Dorian wanted to wipe it clean off his face. He watched as Cullen spun his sword overhand in an impressive, casual display of dexterity that somehow seemed calculated to insult.

While he was still performing the trick, Dorian planted his staff into the earth and sent crackling magic missiles streaming outwards. They streaked through the air towards Cullen. Dorian used his free hand to steer them, fingers clawed with effort as he forced them into a tightly spiralling arc. Cullen threw up another lazy shield, and there was a quick succession of flashes as the missiles hit it. But three of them steered clear past him, and then Dorian's hand clenched into a fist as he wrenched. The three magical darts turned back on themselves, and hit Cullen square in the back of his plate armour.

The Commander grunted in surprise, stumbling forward a step and just managing to brace himself before his knee buckled. He looked shocked, and more than a little annoyed at being caught out, but his wary attention never deviated from Dorian as he watched for another attack.

It was Dorian's turn to smirk. The spell hadn't been at full strength, and would have been weakened further by Cullen's armour, but he had no doubt it had still hurt.

After a moment they both relaxed. Cullen gave a wry twist of his mouth as he glanced towards his recruits. "Let that be a lesson. Magic is never a simple frontal assault, you must always keep your guard up."

The six young Templars looked on grimly. If Dorian wasn't mistaken, their expressions had turned distinctly cold as they regarded him now, not at all pleased to see a mage get the better of their Commander even momentarily. Dorian released a cynical breath, wondering if he'd been expected to play docile target dummy, instead.

Cullen seemed to sense the sudden tension. He cleared his throat, recalling focus back to himself. "Of course, it should also be acknowledged that Lord Pavus is a particularly skilled and experienced battlemage." His gaze drifted towards Dorian, catching his look of surprise before he could successfully conceal it. "My own fault, for forgetting."

Despite himself, despite recognising a manipulation tactic when he heard one, Dorian preened. He found he quite liked the new glitter of interest in the other man's eyes, liked the way Cullen watched him like a threat now. Liked that Cullen watched him at all, really. Dorian's blood was starting to pump in earnest after the few quick exchanges, and with it came the tantalising, base awareness of his own body and what it wanted.

He tried to shake it off, and return his attention to the matter at hand. "Shall we do this properly then, Commander?"

Cullen planted his feet further apart in the frosted grass, tested the swing of his heavy sword a last time before bringing it up in readiness. He nodded.

Dorian dredged up his magic, mantling it round himself. There was a slight hiss as mist and frost seared into steam in a neat sphere around him, marking the radius of his own barrier. His free hand shaped a quick, intricate pattern into the air, weaving his magic into elemental wards, and then he brought his staff down hard to slam them into the frozen earth. A metallic, ozone smell permeated the air as magic settled heavy over the training field. In his periphery, Dorian saw the gaggle of Templars shift restlessly at the nearness of power. It had rather abruptly become a different game.

He supposed he should give Cullen the chance to play role model to his recruits, so Dorian threw another lightning spell. He wasn't at all surprised when the Templar blocked it again, but this time he didn't give Cullen the chance to recover so easily, instead sending a barrage of rapid, mid-level spells reigning down on the man. Dorian drew on elemental magic, utilising fire and ice and electricity, and the air soon became thick with soupy, concentrated atmosphere as the temperature fluctuated enough to create a miniature weather field between them. He was showing off, enjoying the chance to use his body as he shoved strength into each spell, his staff spinning above his head to generate power before he cast. He brought the weapon down with a last flourish, sending a shockwave of magic across the field that made his hidden wards blaze to ominous red life all around Cullen.

The Commander had weathered the assault with a stoic, solid kind of strength, refusing to give ground even under the buffet of elements. As the last spell died against his shield, he appeared only a little windswept, with his blond curls blown into disarray by the hot gusts of magic and high spots of colour on his cheeks. He looked exhilarated and bright eyed as he stared back, and Dorian's heartbeat kicked in his chest.

Then Cullen brought his hands together around the hilt of his sword, the blade angled downwards, and dropped smoothly to one knee as he plunged the tip of the weapon into the ground. A Purge shot from the point of contact, tearing a path through Dorian's wards and shattering them with an ugly flash of light. Dorian flinched back, throwing up an arm over his face to protect himself from the backlash.

When he looked again, Cullen was already up and striding towards him along the pathway he'd carved.

Dorian scrambled backwards. It was instinctive. Cullen was an indomitable neutralising force, his expression intent and ruthless, and if he got close enough he'd bring all Dorian's defences crashing down. The Commander kept coming, and Dorian understood without needing to be told that the rules of the practice match had changed. To win, Cullen only had to reach him.

Changing tactics, Dorian reached instead for his necromancy. He cast Terror, and hurled it towards the other man.

It seemed Cullen had been braced for something else, and didn't react quickly enough to adjust his defences. The curse made contact, and Dorian saw him inhale the wisps of purple-black magic like vile smoke. For just a moment, he felt a twinge of conscience at so unsporting a spell.

Cullen wavered, his steps slowing until he came to a grinding standstill halfway across the field. His hand on the sword clenched hard, knuckles white, but he managed to keep the weapon held steady between them. A slight dew of sweat appeared on his forehead as he stared intently at Dorian, eyes brighter than usual but just as watchful. But he didn't retreat, and Dorian swore in irritation as he poured more power into the spell, determined to win the clash of wills. A nasty tactic for a practice match, but he felt irrationally provoked.

Cullen snarled, and shoved himself forward, and Dorian's hold on the spell broke as the Templar's mental guards snapped back into place. The mage backed up another step in faint alarm. Both of them were breathing hard now. Dorian's blood was singing in his veins like he'd downed a quart of unrefined lyrium. He felt hot all over, chafed by the confines of his armour.

The Commander gave a narrow, mean little smile. "A fear spell, Dorian? Did you really think that would work, given my history?"

"Fasta vass," Dorian hissed resentfully, and readied himself for the next volley.

Cullen didn't give him the chance. It seemed he'd been pushed beyond temperance, because he raised his hand above his head and called down genuine power. Dorian had only a second to sense it coming, and could do nothing but hurl himself backwards to avoid the Holy Smite that crashed down right where he'd been standing. He landed hard, left reeling in the mud as the pillar of light rent the air. Dorian gasped as intense heat rolled over him and scorched the back of his throat. He kept blinking, trying to clear his dazzled vision even as the light faded.

Cullen was moving again, boots crunching closer in the grass. Dorian struggled up onto his knees to meet him, furious and desperate as he flung a clumsy spell. It went far wide of the Templar, so Cullen didn't bother to raise a shield. Since Dorian hadn't been aiming for him, that was just fine.

There was an intact ward off to one side that Cullen hadn't managed to destroy. Dorian's spell broke the seal, and magic rushed outwards.

Cullen staggered as fire exploded from the trap, buffeting him sideways. He ducked away with his arm curled protectively over his face, belatedly raising a neutralising barrier. It was enough that Dorian could regain his feet, baring his teeth as he raised his staff over his head and called down the weight of his own power in retaliation. The sky directly above the training field darkened as a storm began to build, flashes of eerie purple lightning visible within the blackness. The air grew still and heavy, almost uncomfortable to breathe, as Dorian's magic gathered above them.

Some dwindling voice of reason screamed in his head that what they were both doing was madness. They'd escalated wildly beyond a demonstration of skill and technique, were verging rapidly into outright insanity. They should have set limits, he realised. They should have had healers on hand for one or both of them.

Recovering his stance, Cullen looked up grimly at the storm, then back at Dorian. His face was stony, a mask of calculation and glacial determination. He raised his sword to a readied stance, and the glimmer of a neutralising shield took shape around him. Again he began to move forward.

One hand still raised skyward, keeping precarious hold of the tether on his magic, Dorian took his staff in the other and swept it down in front of him. Bright flames roared and leapt from the earth, stretching out in a searing line between them to block Cullen's path. Dorian clenched his teeth at the effort of managing the two spells, desperately trying to narrow down his concentration to hold them in place. It was a feat few mages could attempt, let alone accomplish, but he felt both reckless and inspired. Cullen was among the strongest opponents he could recall facing, but Dorian knew he was a match for him, knew he could prove -

Cullen charged through the wall of fire and slammed bodily into him, and Dorian's tenuous control of both spells shattered with the blow.

He was dimly aware of the thunderous rumble and flash of light from above as his spell promptly dissipated, but found he couldn't process much more than that as he found himself crushed back against the fence that edged the training field. He grunted in shock, immediately trying to struggle free, but the Templar just snarled and shoved harder against him to pin him still. They grappled for a second as Cullen twisted his wrist hard enough to make him lose his grip on his staff, and Dorian tried to get a cheap shot in by bringing his knee up. Cullen rumbled a wordless warning, and then the wooden sword was up under Dorian's chin, pressed hard against his throat until the mage was forced to arch backwards over the fence to be able to breathe. He grabbed at the sword to keep his balance, angling a furious glare up at the other man.

Cullen looked equally incensed. His eyes were dark and fixed, burning as he stared Dorian down. A muscle kept jumping in his jaw as he struggled to control himself, almost vibrating with the force of his self-restraint. The scar on his lip tugged upwards to show a flash of teeth.

Entirely against his will, Dorian's gaze dropped down to the Commander's mouth. They were so close that he could feel Cullen's panting breath against his face, feel the heave of his chest where they were pressed together. He imagined feeling the shove and strain of muscle in other circumstances, and his own lips parted with a sudden flash of want.

Then he caught himself, and forced his eyes back up to meet Cullen's, but the lapse had already been noted. The Commander drew a quick, sharp breath, and the strength of his hold on Dorian faltered.

They stared at each other in stunned consideration.

The moment dragged, and once again Cullen didn't retreat. So, Dorian shifted a little. His hands flexed restlessly around the wooden sword at his throat, using it as leverage to stretch himself higher. He kept his eyes lowered, fixed on Cullen's mouth in obvious suggestion. The wild fantasy flitted through his head that the Commander had beaten him fairly, and deserved to take his winnings.

They were already crushed together nearly head to toe, but after a breathless few seconds Cullen dug his boot harder into the mud between Dorian's feet and shifted forward, like he was testing a theory. Immediately, Dorian's eyes fell helplessly closed, as they both realised he was hard in his breeches. They went still like that, hips slotted tight, arousal slowly flushing through Dorian like a fever. He didn't dare move. He shivered as he felt Cullen's shocked breath gust across his cheek, felt the heated rush of pumping blood wherever they touched.

"Commander?"

Cullen's eyes went wide at the abrupt recall to reality. He stepped swiftly away from Dorian, leaving the mage to scramble for equilibrium as he was dropped without ceremony.

They both turned to look blankly over at the scattered group of Templar recruits, who in turn were staring at them slack-jawed and pale-faced. It took Dorian a paralysing few seconds to realise that was most likely in reaction to the near lethal magical scrap they'd just witnessed, and probably not because Dorian's libido had chosen an inopportune moment to make itself known. Still, he sidled further behind Cullen's shielding bulk, discreetly trying to get himself under control.

But before either of them could fathom what they were possibly going to say to make this a salvageable teaching moment, a rough wolf-whistle split the morning air. Dorian jerked a scandalised look towards the sound, craning his neck back to eventually locate Sera perched atop the second-floor roof of the tavern, where she appeared to have crawled out of a window to watch the spectacle. Tousle-haired and blurry-eyed, still dressed in her nightclothes, she'd apparently also crawled straight out of bed.

"Nice show," she called to them around a yawn. "Could have stuck it on later than the arsecrack of dawn, mind. Get more punters, for future ref."

Slowly, horrifyingly, Dorian became aware that she wasn't their only uninvited observer. Cole crouched next to her, his arms wrapped tight around his bent knees as he peered down at them. Below the pair, Varric was leaning on the sill of an open window. His hair wasn't tied back yet, and kept falling into his face as he scribbled away in a notebook. Mortified, Dorian averted his eyes, only to take note of a trio of elven servants clustered at the far edge of the training grounds, whispering between themselves. Higher up, patrolling soldiers had stopped to watch from atop the battlements, even going so far as to offer a polite smattering of applause as Cullen spotted them.

The Commander stiffened, and then slowly looked back towards him, and Dorian could see from his face they were both experiencing the same awful moment of icewater shock. It felt like they'd just been interrupted in flagrante by half the castle - and worse, no one even had the decency to notice, all too busy offering spectator commentary. Dorian gave serious consideration as to whether he had enough magic left to open up a convenient hole in the ground.

"Right," Cullen said, helpfully. He cleared his throat. "Well then."

Stiff-backed, the Templar turned and started to walk back to his recruits, picking his way across swathes of scorched earth as he went. Dorian bent carefully to pick up his staff, taking the opportunity to dedicate deep concentration to the grain of the wood under his thumb.

Right.

Well then.

The opulence of the Winter Palace was something to behold, all glitter and gilded finery, silk and lace and crushed velvet, music and gaiety and a thick haze of heady perfumes. It reminded Dorian nostalgically of parties he'd attended in his younger days, although the critic in him insisted Tevinter fashion remained superior.

He reached the top of the stairs which led to the ballroom mezzanine, pausing a moment to scan the crowd. Up here resided the men and women who were taking respite from the energetic dancing below, to instead participate in no less energetic political machinations and social rivalries. He plucked a wineglass from a passing servant, then waded back into the fray.

The Inquisitor had brought him along tonight specifically for his experience in similar arenas, and Dorian had spent the last three hours playing the Game to the best of his ability. He'd danced with débutantes and gossiped with dowagers, charmed admirers and sceptics alike, played the performing magician for those who were tantalised by such things, and the aloof magister for those who weren't. Already he'd acquired a small arsenal of observations, intrigues, rumours and secrets which he'd passed to Leliana to do with as she pleased, only to be heartlessly deployed back into the field again for his efforts. He was tired, and the exercise had long since lost its novelty.

Nevertheless, he had sights set on a trio of young women who'd been eyeing him curiously all night, when a flash of garish red diverted his attention. The Inquisition uniforms were truly an offence before the Maker, but never let it be said they couldn't pick each other out of a crowd without issue.

Cullen hadn't spotted Dorian yet, and the mage wavered on whether or not to approach. There'd been a subtle caution between them since the practice match they'd hosted a week ago. Dorian wasn't exactly surprised, given what had happened, but he was at a loss as to what exactly the Commander thought of the whole thing. If Cullen had chosen to place a more formal distance between them, at least the message would be clear. He hadn't done so. Rather, he'd resumed their tentative arrangement hardly missing a beat. They still played chess together, either in the garden or the library. Occasionally, if they were both around, they ate together in Skyhold's Great Hall, exchanging updates about Cullen's Templar recruits or Dorian's newly acquired cadre of teenage mages. They did not, however, participate in any further training exercises, and they certainly didn't say a word about it.

"You evaded your suitors, I see," Dorian teased as he took his place at the balcony beside Cullen.

The Commander looked over at him with faintly pleased surprise, then tipped his head in acknowledgement. "For the moment. Lady Laurent has been noticeably ruthless in hunting me down tonight."

Dorian snorted softly. "I'll stay a while, then, and defend your honour. I believe she's avoiding me, after a particularly painful faux pas she made in commenting unfavourably on the mages of my homeland."

Cullen lifted a dubious eyebrow. "She didn't realise you were...?"

"Oh, not for some time," Dorian admitted, allowing himself a humourless smile. "I confess, I did enjoy dropping it into conversation several minutes later."

That won him a rare grin from the other man, and a small gesture which he interpreted as an invitation to stay. They settled into companionable silence, watching the synchronised movement of the dancers below. Dorian kept half his awareness on their immediate surroundings, and couldn't help but take note of the men and women who glanced their way more than once. The Orlesian nobility weren't shy in disguising their interest. He himself was an object of intense curiosity, Cullen a valuable conquest. What a covetous sight they must make together, Dorian reflected wryly.

Cullen held a glass of amber wine, barely touched, and turned it between his hands self-consciously. As though becoming aware of the lack of conversation, he slid an apologetic glance towards Dorian. "I'm no good in places like this. Out of my element, I'm afraid."

"That's quite alright," Dorian allowed magnanimously. "Having witnessed you in your element, I agree it would be a rather inappropriate display for this evening." He paused, considering. "Although not wholly unappreciated, as I'm sure you noticed."

Cullen shot a startled look across at him.

Feeling defiant, Dorian only arched a brow in answer. It was the closest either of them had come to acknowledging that anything remotely untoward had passed between them. He'd never done well edging around a subject for any length of time. Better to force an outcome than prolong uncertainty - or so said the alcohol currently lending him courage, anyway.

Cullen cleared his throat, almost comical in his flustered discomfort. He hesitated, then took a deep sip of his wine, colour touching his cheeks.

Dorian permitted himself a smile, not particularly surprised by the reaction. He didn't harbour any expectations about Cullen returning the mild flirtation, but at least it was said now, and Dorian could proceed to make light of his otherwise mortifying crush.

Besides, he'd been thinking about the practice match itself, astonished in retrospect how far they'd pushed each other, how close they'd both come to doing real damage. It had been foolish, of course. It had also been utterly exhilarating, and Dorian had lingered over the memory every night since. He wanted to talk about it. He wanted to ask if Cullen had felt the same.

It seemed the Commander's thoughts followed a similar track, now that they were finally broaching the subject.

"It was a good match," Cullen said carefully, like Dorian had granted him permission to comment on the matter at last. "You're a formidable opponent, Dorian."

The mage turned an amused look on him. "I lost," he pointed out.

Cullen tipped his head, and allowed graciously, "It could have gone either way."

Dorian snorted, but felt a glimmer of pride nevertheless. It was good to be recognised. He almost wanted to propose they go again, to prove his skill really was equal to Cullen's. He certainly wouldn't make such novice mistakes, next time.

"What did you mean?" he asked abruptly, as curiosity finally got the better of him. "When you said a fear spell wouldn't work with your history?"

For a moment Cullen looked surprised, and then his expression shuttered closed. "Surely you can work it out."

"I'm quite sure I couldn't begin to guess." Dorian gave a playful frown, trying to disguise how truly baffled he was. "Don't tell me you're hiding a dark and sordid past, Ser Rutherford?"

The Commander's expression remained perfectly polite, but some inner guard slid neatly into place behind his eyes. Dorian could only watch the subtle transformation in astonishment, immediately regretting having spoken the irreverent question but not knowing how to call it back.

"Not hiding," Cullen answered tonelessly. "Only under the impression it was common knowledge already."

"Ah," Dorian said, in a small voice. He looked down at the glass in his hand, watching the swirl of tawny wine for a few seconds. "I confess, not many at Skyhold have seen fit to sit me down for any quality heart-to-hearts, gossip sessions, or, indeed, personal history lessons which might have steered us clear of this rather awkward conversational pitfall I seem to have stumbled into." With force of will, he plastered on a jovial expression and dragged his gaze back up to meet Cullen's. "I blame your boorish Fereldan manners, personally."

The moment remained poised on the edge of discomfort for almost longer than Dorian could stand, and then at last the corner of Cullen's mouth tugged up in reluctant amusement. He turned his head, purposely directing his attention out across the grand ballroom and leaving Dorian to admire the slight curve of that smile in profile. The wine must have gone to Dorian's head, because he suddenly felt both victorious and meltingly soft all at once. He wanted to do mad things, like reach up and brush his fingertips against Cullen's jaw, cradle the little suggestion of a smile like it was something infinitely precious.

So he forced himself to look away instead, before Cullen caught sight of his cracked-open expression.

"Leliana and Josephine seem to have the ballroom well observed," Cullen commented, bringing him back to more practical concerns. "Shall we head upstairs?"

Dorian blinked, his brain stuttering helplessly over the phrasing, before he realised the other man was suggesting only that they take over surveying the smoking parlours one floor up. Hoping to cover his mistake, he followed Cullen's attention across to where the women in question stood together in an alcove, watching the room with sharp eyes and weaponised smiles. "Alright," he agreed automatically. It lacked his usual wit.

They navigated their way across the mezzanine, out through the ballroom door and up the vast stone staircase that led to the next floor. As they went, Dorian thought there was a buoyant energy to the other guests they passed, little gales of laughter and excited chatter rising above the music, intrigued glances thrown their way. Dorian imagined they must make fine court gossip: the Templar Commander and Tevinter magister. Surely as scandalous a pairing as Celine and her elven mistress, by his reckoning. A smile tugged at his mouth at the thought, and he walked just a little closer to Cullen as they strolled into the open parlour rooms. It was a thoroughly self-indulgent fancy, perhaps, but it pleased him.

They drifted aimlessly together through the room. Dorian found he'd quite lost his previous sense of focus. He should have been observing the ebb and flow of social alliances around them, listening in for snippets of scandal to gift Leliana, insinuating himself into the more lively conversations. He had responsibilities he should be attending to tonight.

Instead he lingered at Cullen's side, unable to bring himself to forfeit the company so soon.

"I was -" Cullen began to say in a conversational tone, but faltered. He gave a short cough and started again. "I was at Kinloch Hold, my first year as a Templar. When the Circle there fell."

It took Dorian a belated few seconds to struggle through the warm, tipsy contentment that had settled over him, and another to recall his Fereldan history.

Then he did, and his stomach plunged. "Oh."

Cullen nodded absently at the moment of realisation, allowing Dorian to fumble through several awkward expressions by not looking at him. "It was everything you've no doubt heard," he confirmed after a while, sounding perfectly matter-of-fact. "Blood magic, abominations, possession, the Rite of Annulment. The very worst of mages, and the weakness of Templars."

They kept walking, strolling slowly through the plumes of smoke and perfume. Dorian let the other man steer him past the little clusters of guests, distractedly following his lead as he processed the information. Then he shot a guilty look across at Cullen. "I didn't mean to- That is, I hereby release you from your obligation to answer my question, Commander. I see it was... inappropriate."

Cullen inclined his head minutely, but otherwise didn't acknowledge the offer of escape. He continued to speak with remarkable calm, like he was keeping up the convention of small talk rather than recounting a trauma Dorian couldn't yet begin to comprehend. "Kinloch brought out the worst of everyone involved, myself included. It was brutal. I was brutal. And after it was all... over, I was sent on to Kirkwall."

Unnoticed, Dorian flinched.

Cullen let out a wry breath. "I'm sure you know the reputation of that city well enough. It was a tinderbox the day I arrived, and only got worse the ten years I stayed. The mages and Templars there, they -" He paused. "Suffice to say the abuses on both sides were horrific. And I certainly didn't do enough to stop any of them, at least until it was too late."

They gradually stopped walking. Cullen darted a hesitant glance across at him and then away again. The chatter of court guests and the delicate notes from the elven harpist abruptly seemed far too loud and too close, the room stifling. A nearby balcony door permitted in an evening breeze carrying the smell of hyacinths, and Cullen moved restlessly towards the promise of fresh air. Dorian followed after him as though compelled.

They were the only ones outside. Dorian closed the lattice door behind himself, hoping it would be enough to preserve the momentary illusion of privacy. The other man was already standing at the parapet, both hands resting on the chill white marble. Dorian moved to join him, setting down his wine glass next to Cullen's.

"My point," Cullen concluded without looking at him, an affected casual lilt to his voice, "was only that I've had ample exposure to magically induced fear. So it doesn't work quite as well on me, anymore. You were starting at a disadvantage."

Dorian had almost forgotten that had been the original question, and winced at the reminder. "It seems I can only apologise." All his usual eloquence appeared to have abandoned him, and he could only offer up the ragged excuse like it might be worth something. "Be assured I didn't know, I would never have - I wouldn't -"

The Commander ducked his head like he could escape Dorian's startled scrutiny. "It doesn't matter, that isn't why I'm telling you," he interrupted, not unkindly.

"Then why?" Dorian asked, bordering on incredulous.

If anything, Cullen seemed even more uncomfortable. He stared out over the palace gardens below them, spine straightening in that militant style he adopted whenever he wasn't sure what he should be doing with his hands. "I thought you already knew," he admitted quietly. "About my... 'dark and sordid past', as you said. When you agreed to work with me, when you - When we -" But he couldn't say it, and cast a faintly pleading glance at the mage as though imploring him to fill in the blanks.

"Oh," Dorian said again, and privately despaired for himself. The moment felt balanced on the edge of some unanticipated failure, as he watched the knowledge dawn on Cullen's face that Dorian had genuinely had no notion of everything he'd just described. He'd thought they were allies on equal terms, Dorian realised; he'd thought that Dorian had known the details of his past and entered into their tentative friendship regardless.

Cullen took a breath, wearing that terribly blank look of politeness. "I understand if you -"

Dorian darted a hand out, let his fingertips brush against the cuff of Cullen's sleeve. "No. Wait. It doesn't... It doesn't change anything." It was out before he could second-guess the sentiment, thrown down irretrievably between them. His heart was pounding in his chest like he'd done something drastic, not simply touched the man's sleeve. He almost laughed. Cullen, too, had gone still and watchful, like he was struggling to predict what came next.

So Dorian held his breath, and moved his little finger just enough to graze the bare skin across the back of Cullen's hand. For so chaste a gesture, it felt monumental. Cullen's gaze dropped, watching the point of contact intently. Dorian hardly dared anything further, terrified that too sudden a movement would startle the man into realising exactly what he was allowing. Dorian wasn't even sure what he was expecting, or hoping for. But he knew that Cullen had offered him something painful, a glimpse of something vulnerable and honest, and he felt compelled to pay it back in kind with the only truth he had to offer.

But Cullen remained utterly still as the seconds ticked silently by, becoming excruciating. The fluttering, nervous excitement in Dorian's chest gradually went still, becoming something cold and sharp instead. He lifted his hand, fingers curling close to his palm. 

"You'll have to forgive me," he said at last, managing a quick smile. "I only meant to say your history makes no difference to me, Commander. I know you as a good man, and a good friend. I hope nothing I've said or done tonight changes that." He took a purposeful step backwards, placing safe distance between them again. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have nobles to charm and beguile."

Cullen blinked, finally prompted into a response. "Wait, Dorian, I didn't -"

But Dorian had no wish to hear a pitying explanation. He turned, eager to leave before he could bring down any further humiliation on himself. He would spend the rest of the night throwing himself into the artificial revelry of the Winter Palace, he decided, and with any luck by morning he'd be able to edit out this nasty little blemish from his memory of the event.

"Dorian -"

Cullen caught his arm as he reached for the door handle, and suddenly Dorian was being turned, pressed back against the stone wall next to the lattice, and couldn't catch his breath as the other man kissed him.

Caught entirely off guard, Dorian drew a shaky inhale through his nose. He was off balance, not sure what to do with his hands. He kept his eyes open, too shocked to relax into it.

Cullen parted from him quickly, looking abashed. "I didn't... I didn't think you'd want..."

Dorian leaned forward and kissed him. Cullen gratefully stopped talking. His mouth moved softly against Dorian's, nudging closer. It was tentative, at first, as they both tried to figure out how to touch each other. Dorian reached up, the tips of his fingers brushing curiously across Cullen's light stubble, the hollow of his cheek, the groove of the scar on his lip. Cullen tilted his head so they fit better together. He opened his mouth, sliding his tongue gently against Dorian's, and immediately Dorian's whole body lit up in response.

"I wasn't sure you'd still want this," Cullen admitted in a guilty rush. "I haven't stopped thinking about you -"

Dorian kissed him again, not knowing how else to answer. They moved against each other, exploring, sharing quickened breath back and forth. Dorian leaned back, pulled Cullen with him until the other man covered him. He slid their open mouths together indulgently, humming satisfaction as Cullen squeezed his waist and pressed him harder against the wall. The breadth and weight of the other man made escape impossible. It felt glorious.

Cullen's thigh slotted inadvertently between his legs as he shifted. Dorian gave a muffled sound of surprise and reached up, blindly getting a hand buried in blond curls. He opened his mouth wider, turning the kiss messy and desperate as he licked back, dragging at Cullen's hair until he crushed closer and Dorian felt gratifying hardness press against his hip.

Cullen hissed at the contact, pulling back just enough to speak against Dorian's cheek. "Maker. This is. I'm sorry, I didn't -"

"Don't you dare apologise." He ran his fingertips down Cullen's side, over the edge of his belt, across the top of his thigh. He traced teasing circles against the muscle there, felt Cullen tremble with control as they kissed.

"Are you -? Do you want -?" Cullen couldn't seem to settle on what to ask, moving restlessly against him. "Can I -?"

"Yes," he said emphatically, barely caring what he was agreeing to. He took hold of Cullen's hand at his waist, slid it downwards so he could feel the exact extent of Dorian's shared enthusiasm.

Immediately, Cullen gasped like he was the one who'd been touched, mouth parting with want. His palm cupped Dorian through his trousers, carefully feeling the shape of him with little rubbing motions until Dorian arched against the wall, rolling his hips into the lovely pressure as his breath quickened. Cullen watched his face intently all the while, cataloguing each reaction. He looked entranced. His expression alone sent a slow wave of pleasure through Dorian, made him want to preen and perform and melt beneath the warmth of it.

A sudden jarring laugh from inside cut through the evening air, and they both froze at the reminder of how precarious their moment of privacy really was. Cullen slid a wary glance across at the door, wavering reluctantly.

"Shame," Dorian murmured sincerely, dropping his gaze to Cullen's mouth, then flicking the tip of his tongue across the scar there. "I don't want to wait."

Cullen's eyes closed and he released an unsteady exhale. A full-body shudder went through him, and he swayed helplessly towards Dorian, brushing their mouths together.

"There are rooms here," he rasped, and Dorian's heart leapt in ecstasy.

They found an empty room on the same floor, past where guests were supposed to wander. It was a study, Dorian thought in the brief moment he had to survey the space, before his mouth was on Cullen's again and they were staggering their way clumsily inside. Cullen shoved the door closed behind himself, plunging them into darkness as they grabbed at each other. Without breaking the kiss, Dorian flicked an impatient hand and loosed a burst of magic. Candles and oil lamps around the room flared to life, spilling low golden light.

"The lock -" Cullen grunted, too busy moving his mouth along the line of Dorian's jaw to see to it himself.

Dorian pushed, and Cullen let himself be steered backwards until he bumped into the carved wooden door. Forcing himself to concentrate past the sensation of the man's clever mouth at his throat, Dorian reached to the side and spread his hand over the ornate door handle. There was a brittle crackle as ice spread beneath his palm, filling up the cavity inside the locking mechanism and sealing shut the latch with glacial solidity. It was the best improvisation he could manage in his current state.

Then he was free to turn his attention where he wanted it, reaching both arms up to wrap around Cullen's shoulders. Cullen propelled himself away from the door, gathering Dorian up with him, stumbling them further into the room. They collided with the cushioned arm of a chaise, redirected without any real coordination, nearly tripping over the edge of a rug before Dorian aimed them towards the edge of the room.

Cullen's breath was hot in his mouth, wine-sweet and unsteady as he crashed them back against a frescoed wall, the heavy weight of him holding Dorian in place. A lantern sconce rattled in its settings at the collision, and Dorian tried to hiss a warning to be quiet. Instead, he found himself issuing a muffled moan at how it felt to have Cullen grab at him, strong and demanding and capable. One hand slid high up against the centre of his back, forcing him closer, while the other settled firmly over the curve of his arse and squeezed. Dorian gasped, clutching at Cullen's hair, the back of his neck, his broad shoulders. Cullen moved to suck another bruise against his neck, and it was all Dorian could do to bite back a cry as he arched in response, the back of his head knocking against the wall.

Cullen raised a hand, intending to hush him. His fingers glanced across Dorian's mouth, and Dorian opened for him instinctively, so that the very tip of his tongue brushed a finger. Cullen gave a little jolt of shock, pulling back enough to fix him with a glazed, astonished look. His eyes were fixed on where his two fingers hovered against Dorian's lower lip.

So Dorian parted his mouth further, let Cullen press against his teeth, the tip of his tongue. Cullen's breath caught, his eyes going dark as he watched. Dorian set his teeth against a knuckle and licked at him, lapping shamelessly around and between his fingers, taking hold of Cullen's wrist to keep him in place. He sucked indulgently, demonstrating exactly what he could do, gratified when Cullen's mouth dropped open on a stunned breath. The Commander slid his wet fingers free and then immediately back inside, pushing down on Dorian's tongue until the mage's eyes watered. Then he repeated the movement, stepping into Dorian like he couldn't get close enough.

The sense of urgency returned then, as Cullen's breath came quick against his cheek. He tugged at Dorian's collar, wanting better access to his throat and rumbling frustration when the stiff material wouldn't give. They struggled together to get the brass buttons of Dorian's uniform undone, Cullen hampered by his reluctance to remove his fingers from the wet heat of Dorian's mouth, Dorian just as unwilling to pause his ministrations as he sucked and licked. They managed to get his suit jacket open and drag it inelegantly off his shoulders, down his arms, discarding it somewhere so he was left in the loose silk undershirt he'd worn beneath. Cullen slid the material over his skin as he explored, slipping beneath it to touch Dorian's stomach, stroking until the mage trembled. He finally pulled his spit-wet fingers from Dorian's mouth, replacing them with his tongue almost immediately and swallowing down the wanting sound Dorian made.

Heat rushed through Dorian, made his skin sting like he was fevered. He felt lightheaded from the alcohol and the unexpected madness of what they were doing, rational thought unable to find foothold in the wild rush of arousal and emotion that flooded him. His whole body felt alive, oversensitised, singing like a wineglass.

"I want you to fuck me," he instructed breathlessly, without thought. He opened his eyes to watch Cullen, trying to communicate the importance of the sudden imperative.

The other man stared at him, shocked still for just a second. Then he nodded, haltingly, full of amazed agreement.

As one they both cast a searching look around the room, stalling momentarily, before their eyes settled on the grand mahogany desk that was the centrepiece. There was a collection of written pages atop it, bottles of coloured ink and a stack of books.

"...Oh that would be a terrible thing to do," Dorian said with feeling, an unwholesome excitement building in him at the very thought. He slid a look at Cullen, raising an enquiring eyebrow. "Shall we?"

They crossed the room without further discussion, almost rushing. Dorian braced his hands against the desk, and immediately Cullen pressed over his back, rucking up the silk undershirt to expose his spine. His hands circled Dorian's waist, ran up over the grooves of his ribs, pushed steadily on his shoulders until Dorian flattened down against the glossy wooden surface with a shiver. He felt Cullen's open mouth against the middle of his back, hot breath sending shocks of sensation through him that made him want to melt in utter compliance, let the other man do whatever he pleased to him. He sucked his belly in tight as Cullen's hands found his belt, working impatiently at the buckle.

It came open, and Cullen wasted no time in shoving Dorian's trousers down around his knees, making him drag a sharp breath as he was exposed to the cool air. But then Cullen's hand was on his cock, strong and calloused, sending heat coiling up through Dorian's body as he stroked. With a short groan, Dorian braced himself on his elbows, letting his head drop forward as he rocked into the contact. Cullen absently kissed his shoulder as he worked, fully occupied in working Dorian's foreskin away from the head of his cock, smearing the tips of his fingers through the slick that was beading there, then down lower, to cradle his balls. Dorian panted at the stimulation, watching his breath mist against the polished wood surface beneath him. He tried to spread his legs wider, hampered by the awkward restraint of his trousers. Cullen jacked him indulgently, sending shocks of pleasure up through his spine until the muscles of Dorian's thighs trembled with the need to thrust.

He realised he wasn't going to last very long at all, and he wanted to have the other man inside him. Without waiting to be asked, Dorian cast an oil spell and reaching back to slick himself with the clear liquid. Cullen continued to stroke him as he worked, making a low sound of appreciation as he watched Dorian press inside himself. He sounded breathy and reverent, and right now Dorian lived to please. So he dipped his finger shallowly in and out, slow and indulgent, before pulling all the way out and smearing the oil around liberally, making a show of teasing himself. Pleasure pooled through his body, both from the physical stimulations and the heightened awareness of Cullen watching him, the sense of exhibition it brought, the anticipation of what would come next. He bit his lip as he pushed a second finger into himself, tilting his hips up for a better angle. He listened to the clink of Cullen getting his own uniform open, and then his breath caught in surprise as he felt one of Cullen's hands join his, carefully gathering up the conjured oil and teasing it around the sensitive rim, helping to push it into him. After a while the other man grew more daring, and slowly nudged the tip of one of his fingers in alongside Dorian's, stretching him wide. The mage gasped, going lax against the desk as they worked him open together. It burned wonderfully, and their joined hands sliding in and out of him began to make liquid-slick noises that sent mortified arousal flooding through him.

"Come on," he heard himself demanding. "I'm ready, come on, please -"

Cullen withdrew, taking hold of Dorian's hand as well, moving it to the desk instead and pressing it flat, a wordless instruction to brace and hold himself still. Dorian spread his legs as far as he could, gasping slightly as the movement caused air to breeze across where he was wet and open. Behind him, Cullen stood up straight, stroking idly over Dorian's hip and thigh as he got himself into position. Dorian held his breath as Cullen nudged against him. The other man pressed slowly forward, the blunt head of his cock just beginning to ease into Dorian, but going no further. Cullen went still like that, circling his thumb over the slick, stretched rim sealed tight around him. Dorian dropped his head at the sensation, made desperate and shameless as he whined his impatience. Unmoved, seemingly content to admire the sight he made, Cullen took his time in complying. 

"Please," Dorian begged, and was at last rewarded as Cullen pushed all the way into him, slotting smoothly into place as deep as he could go. Dorian's mouth parted soundlessly. He fumbled at the edge of the desk for something to hold on to. His back arched, and a strained sound escaped him. Cullen hushed him, reaching forward to move a soothing hand over his chest and the base of his throat, bracing him as he began to move. He drew himself back, the motion slick and smooth with oil, and then quickly buried himself again with a relieved hiss.

"Oh - yes," Dorian breathed unsteadily.

"Quiet," Cullen whispered back at him, a reminder he sounded far too smug about as he thrust into him, making Dorian jolt forward atop the desk. The conspicuous sounds of creaking wood and their heavy breathing filled the room. Cullen's broad hand eased up the length of his spine, firm and forceful, guiding Dorian down completely against the desk. It changed the angle, made both of them inhale sharply. He kept his hand high on Dorian's back, purposely resting his weight over him to hold him down. Dorian bit his lip at the delicious feeling of restraint. He couldn't move as Cullen began to fuck him in earnest, fast and hard, jostling Dorian forward with every rough shove.

Dorian's voice rose helplessly with each thrust, until he had to press his mouth against his wrist to muffle the sound. If anything, Cullen seemed to take it as a personal challenge, angling himself to better inflict pleasure. Dorian wanted to writhe in desperation, the sensation almost too much to take as the man pounded into him, but between Cullen's restraining weight holding him still and the hard surface of the desk he couldn't move. He felt pinned down and open, made to take whatever he was given. Cullen fucked him brutally, hips slamming quick and hard until the desk shuddered with the force of it, little ink bottles tinkling to the floor around them. This was exactly the fantasy Dorian had indulged when he'd lost their fight: that Cullen would take him like he had the right to it

Pleasure crashed over him in a wave, blinding, and Dorian bit back a cry as he came in a sudden rush. He couldn't thrust properly with the edge of the desk against his hips, and he whined at the helpless, overwhelming feeling of not being able to move. Cullen continued to fuck into him and it was too much, a punishing rhythm that set his overstimulated body on fire, made him want to claw and cry with how good it felt. He turned his face against the crook of his elbow, clenched his fingers tight in his hair as he tried to take it.

Cullen made a choked sound, reaching up to clasp Dorian's shoulder and drag him back to meet his final few thrusts. A hissed curse escaped him, the quick snap of his hips stuttering out of rhythm, and then he bent forward over Dorian as he finished. Dorian grunted, relishing the obscene spill of heat he felt pulse inside him. Cullen panted against the back of his neck, gradually working his hips through the last of his orgasm. He clung to Dorian, hands moving restlessly as he held him. At last he went still, and they lingered where they'd come to rest, both breathing hard, feeling the bright aftershocks of pleasure. Cullen kept most of his weight braced on his forearm, pressing his face against the back of Dorian's shoulder while he recovered.

Finally Dorian shifted, wincing discomfort. Cullen took the hint and lifted up, pausing to carefully extract himself. Dorian flinched at the feeling of being left empty, and the indignity of his position now that the maddening haze of lust had cleared. He pushed upright, pulling his trousers back into place to cover himself and clumsily refastening his belt. He listened to the sound of Cullen doing the same thing behind him, suddenly feeling awkward and unsure of himself.

Eventually, Dorian chanced a self-conscious glance over his shoulder, then turned to face the other man. For all his earlier bravado and enthusiasm, he found now he didn't know what to say. It had happened too fast, with no real discussion. He couldn't tell what the other man was thinking, wasn't sure how they were supposed to act. Cullen, too, seemed at a loss. He was trying to compose himself, busy straightening his clothes, gaze darting around the mess they'd created of the desk. Dorian felt a belated twinge of guilt, half-heartedly reaching to straighten the stack of books as though it made any difference.

"I'm -" Dorian began.

"We should -"

They both stopped, watching each other warily. Dorian realised he was terrified of whatever Cullen might be about to say, not wanting to hear anything that would shatter the brief, frantic illusion of intimacy.

At last, Cullen's expression softened somewhat. "Dorian. That was..."

But he wasn't given the opportunity to say exactly what it was, because at that moment the deep reverberation of a palace bell sounded, summoning guests throughout the floors back to the ballroom. The sound was a rude reminder of exactly where they were, the risky insanity of what they'd just done. Dorian saw his own panic reflected in the look Cullen shot him, and without another word spoken they scrambled to salvage the room and whatever dignity they could still scrape together.

They took separate carriages when they left the Winter Palace, Cullen obligated to join the Inquisitor and his fellow advisors to discuss the events of the night. Apparently there'd been some drama involving Grand Duchess Florianne out in the gardens, and everyone seemed to be in quite the flurry trying to determine the political fallout for both the Inquisition and Orlais. Dorian felt yet another pang of guilt at having missed it all, but couldn't quite bring himself to regret how the evening had played out.

He took his place in the second carriage with Varric and Cassandra, all of them quiet and subdued with exhaustion. The Inquisition entourage had rooms reserved for the night in Halamshiral, before the journey back to Skyhold commenced in the morning. Dorian couldn't wait to sleep. His thoughts were reeling, and his body ached. He blamed the late hour for the unexpected dip his mood had taken, as he found himself staring sightlessly through the carriage window at the passing city, uninterested in the murmured conversation of his companions.

The mounting conviction came on him that he'd made unwise decisions, tonight. He'd been too honest, too free with his own unguarded fantasies. Too free with his body. He'd let himself be swept up in temptation and impulse, given into it before he'd thought through the likely consequences. He thought about them now.

He supposed he could soon expect a dissolution of the unorthodox friendship he'd briefly shared with the Commander. After all, the companionable alliance they'd first agreed to was one thing; the threat of being discovered indulging a sordid tryst was quite another matter altogether, and he knew it wouldn't be long at all before Cullen recognised the potential ramifications of associating with Dorian in such a manner. The mage smiled tightly to himself, adjusting and readjusting the rings he wore on his left hand. It certainly wouldn't be the first time Dorian had been incautious in his affections and paid the price. He was only surprised he hadn't yet learned the lesson.

The carriage slowed and pulled to a rattling stop, and Dorian dragged himself from his despondency to take stock. A glance through the window showed they'd arrived at the guest house where Josephine had secured their stay for the night. Sitting opposite, Cassandra stifled a yawn with difficulty, and Varric stretched. The carriage door opened and the pair shuffled forward, making the carriage rock with the shift in weight as they departed. Dorian sighed irritably, preparing to follow as he clambered awkwardly towards the door.

He faltered in surprise as he looked down to find Cullen already standing beside the carriage, waiting. The Commander raised his eyes to Dorian, and held out his open hand.

Dorian stared, not processing for a moment what was expected of him. Over Cullen's shoulder, he saw Varric and Cassandra looking back at them with raised eyebrows. It was their reactions, more than anything, that brought realisation.

Oh.

Dorian hadn't felt the butterfly flutter of true romance in almost longer than he could remember, not since he was young and naïve and in love with boys he shouldn't be. It was quite the humbling blow to realise that apparently not a thing had changed in all the intervening years since. 

He placed his hand in Cullen's, bemused and enchanted in equal measure by the act. His fingertips rested lightly in the warmth of the man's palm, the contact startling even after everything they'd done tonight. Looking up at him, Cullen gave a small, self-conscious smile, like the same thought had crossed his mind. He guided Dorian down onto the carriage step and then the stone cobbles, until they stood facing each other. Dorian stared up at him, heartbeat stuttering. He expected Cullen to let him go, but instead the Commander lingered. With quiet ceremony, he bowed his head above their joined hands, until a scant breath of space remained between his mouth and the back of Dorian's hand. The air itself felt charged with the current of potential. Dorian felt like his very breath had been stolen. In his adorned uniform and swept blond curls, Cullen looked every inch the courtly suitor stepped straight from the pages of a romance serial, or any one of Dorian's teenage dreamings.

At last, Cullen straightened with military decorum. "I hope this is alright," he murmured, quiet enough that only Dorian heard. "I wanted to say goodnight."

And what could he possibly say to that? That nothing had ever been more completely and astonishingly alright in Dorian's life? That is was so alright that Dorian was at terrible risk of doing something embarrassing and honest?! His hand still rested in Cullen's, the barest of touches that kept Dorian utterly anchored in place. Cullen watched him attentively, awaiting his answer.

Flustered, Dorian glanced aside, and saw immediately that they had an unsubtle audience. The Inquisitor was grinning widely, not seeming particularly surprised. Leliana, too, watched with sharp eyes and a gently lifted eyebrow, but eventually offered a nod to Cullen before she turned away, ushering a curious Josephine with her. An unsolicited pang of concern went through Dorian, as it occurred to him what the public display would mean for Cullen's reputation.

He cleared his throat, trying to regain even a semblance of composure. "Commander," he teased mildly, but pointedly. "I believe you've tipped your hand."

A slow smile tugged at Cullen's mouth. "That's a relief," he confided, thumb stroking over the back of Dorian's knuckles as he finally, reluctantly released him. "I was worried for a while I wasn't being obvious enough."

Then he placed his hand on the small of Dorian's back, guiding him gently towards the guest house, and Dorian let himself be swept along on a rush of wild hope.