Sandalwood. Elderflower. And something else, something exotic, mysterious in its allure. The trio of aromas, fused into expensive soap, has been playing around his nose, tickling his senses.
It's not his love - he knows her scent well enough by now to find it just mildly distracting.
No- he knows where it's coming from. Couldn't forget if he tried. Though not intrusive, this particular fragrance is branded into his conscious, forever linked to the man across the war table- to his jovial chatter, his melodic cadence. Inextricable from those memories of last night (and this morning) that have been taunting him ever since this meeting started.
For all of those fifteen minutes, Cullen has been trying his utmost to focus on the all-important discussions with King Alistair of Ferelden. The negotiations, the strategy, the keeping of peace.
But he's failing. His Order-steeled resolve is faltering at the sight, the sound, the smell of him. The conversation is fading out, his focus shifting under the suspicious stares of His Majesty's advisor- along with, he's certain, the more subtle attention of their spymaster.
The Inquisitor is standing by his side, not letting on whether she's noticing his struggle. Cullen's throat has been dry, his palms damp and now he's sweating under the fur mantle he had to insist on wearing. He's fighting a losing battle against the images bullying their way into his mind, ousting any notions of trade posts and contracts.
The three of them curled up on the bed- upstairs, right above where they're conferring now.
Him and Alistair pleasuring the Inquisitor. Watching her with him, under him.
And of course his first time ever touching, let alone kissing another man. A little game to tease her, or so they'd thought. Not even planned- it just happened. Their hands, lips, theyjust found each other.
A heavy, parched swallow encompasses all of his will to focus on the here and now- the war table, his colleagues, their discussion.
On anything but those eyes where wit and charm veil a lifetime of hurt and solitude. That ginger head of hair, unruly yet soft to the touch. The bob of his Adam's apple, in time with the silly jests. Those plump lips, curving into wry half-smiles.
And Maker, anything but that tongue, which keeps darting out as he speaks- pink, moist reminiscence.
His tongue that had stroked along the length of Cullen's scar, awakening a whole world of want with a single touch.
The tip of which had so playfully dipped into the flute of sparkling wine, scouting for bubbly prickle.
Indeed the same tongue he'd watched disappear between her legs last night. And this morning.
Andraste preserve him, he wants to feel it again. He's starving for more.
In that moment Cullen realises he's staring right at the man- and Alistair back at him. Along with everyone else in the room.
His love, Lelinana, Josephine, Advisor Guerrin, the king's guards- all are looking at him, frozen in their tracks, the conversation faded into ominous silence. They must wonder what in the Void is possessing him to gawk at their esteemed guest like that. Nobody's yet daring to speak, but confusion, irritation and –most daunting- dawning realisation are written across their faces.
And then, in that moment of utter humiliation, of lurking scandal, something happens inside him. A sudden courage fills him, evoked by the memories, the voice, the scent.
"Oh, blast it," Cullen hears himself say. His feet, on their own accord, bring him across the room. Alistair turns to face him, his back now towards the table.
A second, or perhaps an eternity passes as they share a glance full of uncertainty and longing. But it's the overwhelming rush of sandalwood and elderflower that does it.
Cullen's hands find silky hair and stubbly skin, and he notices Alistair's eyes widen before his close. The touch of their lips is feather-light, hesitant and just as enchanting as before. There's no resistance, so he presses his mouth down, pries the other man's open.
Then doubt hits him with full force, and he withdraws abruptly. A frantic scratch of fingers through his curls is accompanied by the pathetic stammer of his weakest moments.
"I-," What is he even trying to say? "I…"
And Alistair simply nods, then smiles- warm, forgiving and welcoming. "I know." Hands calloused as his own pull him in, and their kiss is slow and unhurried. They take time feeling each other's lips- Alistair's are more weathered than his love's, the skin broken in places, yet they're supple and tempting.
Both sigh as their mouths open, and Cullen is enveloped by the heat of Alistair's body as their embrace tightens.
When their tongues meet in a tentative caress, it's everything he'd hoped for. Rough and tender, strong and soft- and…
Did he have cheese for breakfast?
His soft laugh becomes a faint moan, only for Alistair to hear, as a hand ghosts over his buttocks.
Both are children of the chantry, and what they're doing contradicts all they were taught was right in life. Somehow that makes the kiss, makes him taste sweeter.
Cullen's fingers grasp slim, firm yet inviting hips. Another quality of heat is beckoning now, and their groins press into each other as fading innocence gives way to curious hunger.
Alistair is no longer quiet, making endearing little noises in between heavy breaths.
Together they move in a gentle sway, languid, intimate and indulgent. Melting into each other as the world around them is forgotten.
They go for as long as possible before breaking kiss, gasping for air. Noses rub as they look at each other from under heavy lids. Over the hazel of Alistair's eyes lies a golden hue, radiating urgency and affection.
As they're holding each other tight, their lips touch once more. Alistair smiles, and ginger stubble rasps against his cheek, his scar. Cullen hopes he'll lick it again. But first he speaks, a hushed whisper, and Cullen relishes the vibration.
"Commander-"
He blinks. That's not Alistair's voice.
And then Cullen's mouth falls open as he snaps back into reality. His eyes widen, wandering from the Inquisitor beside him towards their ambassador across the room, whose polite smile is frozen into place.
This time everyone really is looking at him, in eager expectation of an answer to some question he didn't hear.
His right hand finds the back of his neck, and he rubs furiously, scrambling for words, a reaction, anything.
"My apologies," he manages at last, "I must have been daydreaming."
From across the table a smile flashes, and Cullen recognises the gleam in Alistair's eyes.
"Don't we all."