AN: Hey! Important! Mild spoilers for a little bit of Cullen romance, but if you have finished the romance, please don't spoil anything if you choose to review!

Less important, but if you're the sort that likes listening to music while reading, for some reason I enjoyed listening to Anna Sun, by Walk the Moon, while writing this.

Hope you enjoy!

It is not the first time they have played chess together, but it is the first time Cullen has won. He smiles at his vanquisher across the board, and the Inquisitor smiles back. She said once, in their earlier flirtatious days, that they should spend more time together, and so when she invited him to her quarters to play, he was quick to remember that conversation and quick to agree.

But now the night is approaching, and he should leave. He helps her pack the chess pieces away into their worn wooden box, their fingers occasionally brushing as they each reach for the same pawn. She laughs each time it happens. "Great minds think alike," she says the first time, but Cullen can't help but think no mind is greater than hers, no power or ability or talent even compares with hers, and the fact that she deigns to lump him in with her sort sends him grasping for words at every comment she makes.

So world-weary, and yet so naïve, he can't help but think.

She is a taller elf than Surana was, with darker hair and impossibly dark eyes, and of course those fascinating tattoos that mark her as one of the Dalish. But he thinks of Surana regardless when he looks at her, Surana not having been his first infatuation but his first ruin by lust. The Hero of Ferelden, he supposes he should call her; she's certainly earned the title. The regret he feels about his raging against the mages the last time he saw her, however, would be good for one of Varric's stories. Yet he can't stop seeing the desire demon taking her shape, her honey hair trailing across her unbuttoned bodice, her periwinkle eyes darkened with desire for him, her thin fingers beckoning him into temptation.

The others had submitted, but he, Cullen, had not. The others had died horrible, painful deaths, but Cullen had not. Had the others seen Surana, they would have cheered and thanked her and waxed lyrical on her beauty for days, but Cullen had not. It didn't matter anyway; there were no others anymore.

Someone snapping her fingers in front of his face draws him back into the present. The woman in front of him is not the woman he was thinking about, but he finds himself relieved that it is Caryth Lavellan, the woman whose cause he fights for. She grins at him when his eyes focus on her, and he realizes the chess game has been cleaned up, no thanks to him. He begins to apologize but she cuts him off by leaning forward a little, expectantly and shyly.

Shyness is never something he expects from such a formidable swordsman, but he supposes they're equal in terms of romantic experience, and besides, he admits he finds it charming. He leans in and gently kisses her. It's a good night kiss, he can tell she can tell, but her hands cling to his training armor before he has even moved to rise.

He wants to stay, but his mind is elsewhere, somewhere in between a dream and a nightmare of demons, Surana and lyrium. He can feel the warmth of her fingers even through his armor, it seems like, like the heat in her hands warms up the metal. He meets her gaze and notices a flicker of concern pass over her face, but it surprises him that it is quickly replaced by a mischievous smile. "Mischievous" is not a word he generally associates with the Inquisitor. She can be bewilderingly blunt and kindhearted to a fault at the same time, but neither of those sound very "mischievous." The idea that she has become playful when they are alone, in her room, the two of them, sends the urge to shiver through his body that his years of templar stoicism manage to repress.

"You don't want to stay?" she asks, false sadness imbuing her voice. She is no skilled temptress, no practiced flirt like Surana, but he knows he is no romantic rake ready to sweep an unassuming wench off her feet. The flirtation is obvious, the implication even more so, but he knows tonight is not a good night for…whatever she is promising. He's certain even if things were to progress, she wouldn't know what to do, nor would she want to, given that she noticed his lugubrious distraction.

But her eyes…

He is a weak man, but he is a man, and she is certainly a woman. A woman who perhaps knows what is on his mind.

He fumbles for words, for explanations, and she shrugs his blabbers off. Literally shrugs them off—with a little toss of her shoulders, one sleeve of her tunic drops lopsided. Suddenly, a shoulder he has only seen bare one incredible once lies exposed, the skin a dusky hue in the shadow of the torchlight, and he finds his breath catching, his eyes staring. And yet the movement seemed natural, like a casual disregard for his nonsensical babbles, as if the sleeve just happened to fall. Someone must have taught her that trick—Leliana, perhaps? This woman is a temptress.

Get away from me! I will not submit!

Even the unwarranted memories cannot break his focus. Maker's breath, it's just a shoulder, a perfectly innocent part of the body, and there's no reason why he should be this distracted. But it's a better distraction, one much more pleasant, and he can't help but marvel at how her tattoos extend, can't help but remember how far they do.

"Inquisitor," he breathes, the title slipping unbidden, like a dare, from his lips, and she quirks an amused eyebrow back.

"Commander Cullen."

Something about the way she mocks his rather breathless tone with a much more confident-sounding whisper sends a jolt of warmth directly to the spot where his breeches have grown tight. He clears his throat and glances away, but he can't stop himself from smiling a little, though he tries to cover it up with a fist on his chin.

"It's late," he says, and it is. It is not the first time they have played chess together. It is also not the first time they have played this particular game: a game of late nights with no shirts but sheens of sweat. It is a much more exciting and, frankly, frightening game than chess, and he is unsure if he is prepared to indulge tonight. "You head for the Emerald Graves tomorrow morning."

She languidly rises from her chair and moves his hand away from his face. "Give me something pleasant to think about on my way." Her eyes bore into his when he dares look at her face, and immediately he is lost. There is that gleeful lilt to her smile, and when she tilts her head at him, the light catches in her irises and makes them burn.

"Maker's breath," he whispers hoarsely before sliding his fingers into her hair and bringing her close to him. His lips move impatiently over hers, sucking on her plush bottom lip, his tongue slipping into her mouth to taste the red wine they'd been sharing. Soon he is rising, his mouth still connected to hers, because even though she is so much smaller than he is, it's still an awkward angle to be kissing in. He feels her hands gently push against his chest, and he follows until he realizes she is directing him to the bed. He breaks away from her, gasping as she instead begins pushing his shirt up, peppering kisses on his neck.

"I don't—"

"It's all right," and she tugs on his shirt insistently until he allows her to pull the entire garment off. He loses sight of her under swathes of fabric for a moment, and then her face reappears, looking decidedly down at his exposed chest.

Before she can attack this new target with a much gentler hand—and mouth—than he hopes she treats red templars, he carefully holds her wrists in his hands to halt her progress. "I don't—not tonight," he stammers, looking her in the eyes. "I want—I've never—"

To his surprise, she doesn't look defeated. She only smiles at him, a promising edge to it. "I don't, either," she says, which equally surprises him. "But there are other things I want to do to you that require you in my bed."

That certainly sends most other thoughts reeling from his brain, except the only real random thought that he can't stop repeating in his brain while she kisses him again is his gratitude that lyrium withdrawal isn't keeping him exhausted, which will undoubtedly bother him when he's more clear-headed. But for now, she climbs into his lap and presses down on his chest so he's lying down. He doesn't understand at first when she doesn't join him, instead sending little licks and kisses across the sword and burn scars marring his chest, but comprehension dawns like a ton of bricks as her meanderings head south and she runs her tongue down the line of hair that disappears beneath his lacings.

He tries to tell her that she doesn't have to, but when he tries to speak up, all that comes out is a moaned "Oh, Maker," that he's sure he'll be embarrassed about later. He hears her giggle, then feels his laces being gently coaxed open, then his breeches tugged down a little less gently. His smallclothes are soon to follow, leaving his body completely exposed to her attentions, but the pause that follows makes him open the eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed. She looks uncertain, and with a jolt of comprehension, he begins to sit up. No manner of pictures or descriptions in romance stories could possibly prepare a sheltered Dalish elf for the look of a man's, a human man's, cock.

Cullen feels self-conscious in a different way than he expected to feel the first time naked in front of a woman, feels ashamed of his insensitivity towards her, and he opens his mouth to apologize—for what, he's not sure—when a look of determination and something like excitement flashes across Caryth's face. She leans down, and his breath catches in his throat.

"You don't—" he begins, but she ignores him, letting her tongue slip out and slide up the side of his shaft. The unfamiliar sensation makes him moan again, though he tries to check it to make it sound less needy, and this seems to encourage her. She sucks the tip into her mouth, and slowly, tantalizingly slowly takes more and more in. She doesn't get as far as perhaps he needs, but he is so adjusting to the new feel of a hot, wet mouth instead of a shameful, dry hand around his cock that he finds he really doesn't mind. When her head starts to move, he sinks back into the cushions again, his hand raking through his short curls and eyes slipping closed once more, lost to her touch.

The tongue returns before he is ready for it, licking alongside his hardness in certain spots that she can't possibly know are this sensitive—not that he was entirely sure, himself—as her head bobs. He gasps and can't help thrusting into her mouth, but she seems to have expected to elicit this reaction, as her small hands touch his hipbones to steady them.

It feels good. It feels good, like a craving for lyrium being satisfied without the shame. It feels good, despite the flashes of unwelcome thoughts that keep appearing on the inside of his eyelids. One stroke of her tongue, one memory of old, now dead, templar brothers-in-arms. One lightning strike of pleasure, one recollection of Kirkwall burning. But before long, the memories fade into the back of his mind, and the only thing he's focused on is matching the movement of her mouth with the thrusting of his hips, maximizing his pleasure. The idea that perhaps he is being selfish only has a second to cross his mind before Caryth's tongue suddenly finds a previously unexplored part of his length, and he finds all other ideas of selfishness shattering.

The room is quiet, save for his occasional gasp of her name or the sounds of her attentions on him. He's certain that the emotion he is feeling is not love created by physical affection, but he does think he cares very, very much and he doesn't need to label it, especially not in this state. So instead, he reaches his hand down blindly, hoping she will take the hint, which she does. She reaches her free hand to entwine her fingers in his, and he grips her hand tightly. He opens his eyes just a slit to realize she is watching him, and the look of her with her mouth around him and eyes aroused and dark and observing sends a familiar heat coiling in deep inside him.

"Caryth," he says for what seems like the hundredth time tonight, but this time it is a warning. He is too focused on the way her fingers trail around, gently stroking or cupping alternately, to feel embarrassed at how quickly one mouth and hand have brought him to orgasm. His head sinks deeper into the cushion, his hand tightens around hers, and he whispers her name again as the world comes crashing down in a symphony of fire and pleasure and what seems like something holy. In one instant, all his fears and bad memories and unpleasant thoughts jangle around his skull, and in the next, they have completely vanished, leaving him panting for breath and staring down at a very pleased elven woman grinning at him.

She kisses the inside of his thigh and rises, releasing their held hands as she does so. He suddenly feels very bare, although he is also feeling very warm and tingly, and starts groping around for his clothes.

"You're not still thinking of leaving, are you?" Caryth asks, surreptitiously thumbing the side of her mouth. Cullen blushes, both at her words and at her movement. The words it would be improper to stay sound feeble even to his own mind, and so he shakes his head, smirking at her.

"Not if you'll let me stay," he says, finally finding his breeches, and she leans down to kiss him. Perhaps he should be more squeamish, but he relaxes into the kiss before pulling back and sliding into his pants. He watches, more than a little transfixed, as she removes her tunic and leggings, but they both know nothing further will happen tonight. Instead, they pull back the coverlet of the bed and slip underneath the covers together. The bed is cozy, to put it kindly, with a bulky human warrior trying to make space for a slender elven rogue, but falling asleep is easy and warm and far away from the troubles of the past.