"Anything to add, Commander?"
Leliana's question irks Cullen, and he does not bother to hide it. Even if he had been listening closely enough to form an opinion, she was the one who had summoned him straight from the road to this room; the Spymaster is well aware he hasn't even had time to visit his office yet, much less catch up on the latest political drama pouring out of Orlais.
"No," Cullen says, with a stiff shake of his head in Leliana's direction. "Not at present."
His curt tone elicits a raised brow from Josephine, and he's fairly certain Leliana's pale blue eyes flicker with mirth—but he doesn't care. Were this any other war council, he might try to hide how he hears without listening, and looks without seeing. He might try to hide how he only has eyes, and ears, and everything else for her: Elloway, alive, and well, and standing so near—
But he is weak-willed and road weary, and finds no shame to spare for how hard he stares. And so he resumes his self-imposed silence, content to drown out their political prattle with far more pressing thoughts of his own.
She looks as well as her letters promised, he decides, as he watches the Inquisitor like a crow from across the war table. Her sharp-featured face is flush from the cold, and she's bundled up tight in her thick woolen jacket (the hems of which she's embroidered with little green leaves)—but her smile is warm, and bright, and she moves with the lithesome ease that comes with extended rest.
The sight soothes him considerably, even as his body roars at the injustice of it. The weeks since their victory at Mythal's temple mark her longest stay in Skyhold to date, after all—and what he would have given to spend that time here, with her, instead of leading their forces back from the Wilds…
For even now, as she stands so close he can smell her (and Maker how he longs to move closer, so he might press his lips to her sage-scented fingers, bury his face in the honey sweet heat of her neck, and willfully drown in the lavender-oiled sea of her hair) he still feels the cold grip of fear that's filled him for weeks now, ever since her party stepped into that temple, and never stepped out.
It wasn't the first time she'd disappeared during battle. (Though Cullen has spent considerable time since praying it will be the last.) He remembers Adamant with a tight swallow, the shame growing like weeds in his gut—for when that damned dragon sent her party plummeting toward death, he'd been disgracefully quick to give in to despair.
What did you expect would happen? That dark voice inside him had sneered; all too eager to die broken-hearted. You were never worthy of that woman, nor the bright future she fought for. She is dead, with your cause soon to follow.
And yet it had been less than two hours later when she'd tumbled tear-streaked and shaking, but very much alive after their long fall—and fight—through the Fade.
Later that night, she'd led him away from the celebrations to make feverish love under a sparkling sea of desert bright stars. Once their battle-bruised bodies had said everything words could not, he had cradled her close to his chest, pressing reverent lips to her sweat-studded brow as he thought, as he so often did, of Andraste—a human far too in love with an untouchable force much greater than she.
By the light of the Lady, I will never doubt her again, he had vowed then, his heart so impossibly, unbearably full he feared it might burst; She was, is, a miracle made mortal, and she has always, always come back.
Cullen meets Elloway's eyes as he thinks it, and his gaze softens at once, his next breath coming out as a sigh. The war room is bright with the pale glow of fresh snow, but Maker, her gaze is even brighter. And as her sly little smile spreads, tugging at the Dalish paintings inked onto her cheeks, he can't help but wonder if she too is remembering that fiery, fear-fueled reunion.
Warmth pools in the pit of his stomach, and he grips too hard at his sword hilt, steel-clawed gloves creaking as he struggles to maintain his composure. Her face—and his secret, silent oath—have been all he has desperately clung to these long, agonizing weeks since that bloody-faced runner had found him on the front lines, bringing the news no one wanted to bring: The Inquisitor is gone. Not dead, so far as they knew—but vanished without a trace from that mysterious temple, and her whole party with her.
And now he stands here before her, heart fluttering as her cheeks flush at his attention, the sudden lilting melody of her laugh leaving him breathless—for after weeks without word, and months since they'd last been alone, he is finally, finally sure she is safe.
Maker, if she still wants him, he will go so, so slowly, he thinks then. He will do everything he has spent so long planning to do, as he laid alone in his tent and tried not to think of how much could go wrong—
And Void take him, he will take his time in the doing, til she is made liquid in his arms, leaving no room to doubt she's chosen well to let him love her.
"What do you think, Commander?"
The question startles him, though he does his best to conceal it; he's heard little of the last quarter hour of conversation, but feels quite confident he'd rather not invite its rehashing.
"I trust your judgment on the matter implicitly," he replies, as firmly—and as finally—as he can. Leliana tuts in response, but he only has eyes for Elloway; and when her lips purse in barely restrained mirth his gaze lingers there for a breath, heat sparking at the base of his spine, his heart fluttering like a flock of pigeons on the chantry steps—
And then, because this interminable meeting has gone on long enough as it is—and because he needs to be alone with her, and now—he forgoes every last ounce of propriety to impulsively demand:
"Will that be all?"
—
Her back hits the war table—hard—and the smack of bare flesh on wood shoots heat down his spine.
He had intended to go slowly.
He yanks his gloves off as he braces himself over her, ravenous eyes raking her body—bare and laid before him, except for her smalls.
He had intended to be tender, and reverent, and most of all thorough; to relearn every curve of her body, retrace every line that decorates her back, and every scar that snakes through them—
But when has anything between them ever gone according to plan?
Tearing her tunic hadn't been part of the plan, either, but now that he has there is little room for regret; the two halves splay out behind her like a pair of cotton-spun wings, and he's spitefully pleased to find the fabric blocks a large portion of Orlais from view.
Cullen lets out an impatient growl at the sight, his cock already straining against the laces of his leathers—but when he leans forward to capture her lips once again, Elloway doesn't rise up to meet him.
He goes very still, breath catching when he sees her expression—
And everything goes cold all at once.
Elloway is staring up at him with wide open eyes, the worry written plain on her face—and the sight sends tendrils of shame up his spine. He winces, head dipping down; he knows he's not acting like himself—not like himself with her—but Andraste preserve him, he doesn't care about that right now. Right now she is here, and so is he, and he can finally see, and smell, and taste, and touch her; he can finally be sure—
"Cullen?" she breathes then, her lips parting slightly, her gaze ever so gently probing his. His heart pounds a belligerent beat all the same; he knows it's a question she's asking, that she's looking for… something.
But his body is roaring with a need that's been growing for weeks now, and the words for what he's feeling are not ones he knows—so all that comes out is the one thing that matters:
"Do you want me to stop?"
His voice is thick, and low, and she shivers beneath him, green eyes scanning his as her chest heaves. He does his best to hold her gaze, fighting to quench the flame that burns hot in his belly; he tries not to think of her breasts laid bare before him—of how he wants to twist a tight little bud with two fingers, and circle the other with his tongue, sucking and twirling til she's writhing against him—so instead he grits his teeth and holds her gaze, summoning every last ounce of self-control to think of something, anything else.
"No."
It is sudden, and fierce, and he blinks his surprise away as she shakes her head, looking up at him with a mirror-eyed stare. A fresh wave of need flashes through him as their eyes lock for one, two electric breaths—are you sure?—and then her hips rock against his, her legs wrapping around his waist, and his entire body surges at the sudden heat of her against his aching cock.
"Please, don't," she says then, auburn hair falling free from her braid as she reaches for him.
Good, he thinks to himself, before his vision tunnels, and he moves into her as though he were a man possessed; good, he thinks, as he finally, finally kisses her again, her lips so moist and inviting that he's already groaning.
This is what he'd been yearning for, after all, during those long, lonely nights on the road. He'd spent hour after dark hour thinking of her sighs, and her gasps, and her moans; thinking of how bloody good it felt to be the one bringing them, over, and over, and over again. He had let himself trust, this time, that her love was deep enough to endure his absence, and that he would give her cause to make such sounds again—
And that delicate, dangerous belief blazes through him like wildfire now.
In a sudden surge he nips at the tight little bud of her breast, staking his claim in how hard he bites—then showing his care with the soothing swirls of his tongue. She gasps, shivering, her hips rolling so hard against his that his spine seizes up; the incendiary drag of their bodies is almost too much—Maker, he's going to come in his leathers if he's not careful—and it takes everything he has not to rut her right into the table in response.
Cullen releases her breast with a regretful pop, his breath coming in short, desperate pants; Void take him, he needs to control himself.
His chest burns behind its thick-plated cage as he presses her back down by her hips, creating space between her soft, welcoming warmth, and the roaring threat of his wound up body. She groans her dismay as soon as they're parted, her hips fighting hard against his cold callused grip—but she is so small, and he is too strong, and soon she collapses to the table with a frustrated sigh.
He's trailing conciliatory kisses down her belly when her fingers start to thread through the loose tangles of his hair. He groans at the sensation, his lips traveling lower as she twirls her grip tighter, both of them teasing, testing, taunting—until he presses his lips to the inside of her thigh, and she yanks him away—
Hard.
Impassioned displays of desire are not uncommon for Elloway. She is an enthusiastic lover, sometimes bordering on impatient; Cullen knows this about her—he revels in this about her—but what she is doing here, now? The way she tugs at his hair so fiercely, making his scalp burn, and his eyes water?
This is something more than the sharp drag of nails in his back, cleaving their bare bodies together; this is something more than the dull ache of her teeth in his shoulder, urging them both toward the blinding blaze of release—
No, this is something else entirely. This is an order—and he is nothing if not very, very good at following orders.
Cullen heeds her command barely a breath after it comes, feeling like a hound dragged to heel by its master—though he hardly cares once he sees his reward. She is spread wide and golden before him, her bare body writhing wantonly all over the Western Approach—and Maker she looks so good beneath him like this, offering herself so fully, her gaze like sea glass glinting on a sunlit beach—
He kisses her again then, fiercely, and her answering moans ignite every last nerve in his body. A better man might hide how hungrily he swallows those sounds—but a better man he is not. He drinks her in like a beast gone mad without water, his tongue twining torridly with hers as he explores the deepest parts of her mouth. She tastes of tart cherries, and smells like fresh snow, and—and fuck, his cock is so hard in the warm cradle of her cunt—
With a sudden surge Cullen's hands slide down her belly, heat coiling tight as a spring at his waist. He wants to, nay needs to know how wet she is; needs to feel her slick heat clench tight round his fingers, first one, then two, then three, thrusting, and curling, til every last doubt is drowned out by her screaming his name.
He's fumbling with the fabric of her smalls when she breaks free from their kiss, her sudden groan of dissent nearly stopping his heart in his chest. He goes very still, hand hovering over the valley of her thighs—Is this too much? Has he hurt her?—but then her gaze captures his, and the flame he finds there melts all his fears away.
"I want you, Cullen," she breathes, her thighs wrapping tight round his waist. At first he just blinks at her, stunned; doesn't she know she has him—all of him—here, and now, and always?—and it's not until she starts palming his cock through his pants that he understands what she means.
And, once he does, something inside of him shatters.
He unlaces his leathers clumsily, hungry lips seeking hers as she pulls him down toward her. Their teeth clack when their mouths meet, and their foreheads knock when he drops to his elbows—but still, he does not stop kissing her. He does not stop when his cock springs free from its cage, bobbing against the soft plane of her stomach—nor does he stop when he yanks her smalls to the side, and presses his palm to her folds to find—Maker, she's so wet she's near dripping.
It hits him then, like a blunt blow to the chest: even when he is half-wild with lust, tearing at her like some kind of animal, she wants him. She wants him so badly he can almost taste her sweet tang on the brisk winter air—
And oh sweet Maker, how he wants her, too.
"Say it again," he demands then, impulsively, not caring how desperate he sounds; not caring about anything, save for the soft give of her flesh in his hands, and the ache of his cock pressed between them.
Her answer comes at once, so easily it sends spears through his heart:
"I want you," she gasps, color rising like dawn across her chest. "I want you so much, please—"
He is yanking at his breeches before she's finished her plea, his breath coming in pants as the thick fabric falls in a heap round his ankles. He doesn't even bother stepping out of them before he rolls his bare hips against hers, up, and then down, both of them groaning as his erection drags ever-so-slowly along the heat of her core.
Elloway's groans turn into gasps when he draws close to her center, teasing them both with the head of his cock in the slick of her folds. He's desperate to have her against him—to be free of the cold cage of his cuirass, and feel the plush press of her breasts on his chest; but removing his armor would require time spent not touching her—
And he's done far, far too much of that, as of late.
"Say it again," he breathes, this time blissful as he dips the head of his cock inside her. He hovers there for an infinite instant, his heart racing, their eyes locking as her hips buck impatiently against his grip.
"Mythal have mercy, I want you," she whines when she finds her breath, "Please, ara'lin, pleasepleaseplease—"
And this time, she need not ask him again.
He slips into her as easy as breathing, their hips smacking hard as he hilts himself fully. She cries out when he fills her, so loudly he nearly covers her mouth—but then her thighs cinch tight round his waist, urging him still deeper, and soon all thought spirals toward the silky slick squeeze of her heat round his cock.
She feels—fuck, she feels incredible, so warm, and wet, and tight—
"Maker, I missed you," he groans into her ear, his mind thick with a fog made of lust. When she answers in a breathless string of foreign sounds he laughs into her hair, drunk off of everything she makes him feel, his body roaring with a need he'd long feared unfulfillable.
And yet when he moves into her again, he moves slowly, pressing up to cradle her arched back with one hand, his every muscle straining to keep from becoming too much.
She is so small underneath him—so small, and soft, and good—and even while she sighs his name so sweetly he swears the heavens might shatter, Cullen knows he cannot, will not give in to the darkness drumming deep in his chest.
He needs to control himself; he needs to be careful, and gentle, and never let her meet the demons he's been too weak to banish. He needs to—
The thought cuts off abruptly when Elloway nips his bottom lip, so hard he tastes his own blood on his tongue. He breaks free from her grip with a grunt, body thrumming with pain mixed with pleasure—but she pulls him back down at once, tugging too hard at his curls, hips canting eagerly to meet his measured thrusts.
"Cullen, please," she gasps when he meets her gaze, his name on her lips sending sparks down his spine; "Sathan pa—pala em elvar'el—!"
He may not know all her words mean, but the heat behind them nearly immolates him from the inside out.
He's holding his earlier thought by a thread—gentle—when he hoists her leg over a steel-plated shoulder, bracing on one hand to press still deeper inside her. She gasps when their bodies meet, her chin tilted back, lips parting into a wet little O. The sight is so enticing he reaches down to cradle her jaw with one hand, his thumb grazing her teeth as he dips into the wet heat of her mouth—
And fuck, she sucks him in hard, purple-lined cheeks puckering as she laves her tongue down his thumb. His hips jerk, and then stutter, the sensation of her so maddening his breath comes in pants in the back of her knee; Andraste preserve him, he's not going to last long—but he is desperate to take her with him.
Cullen is reaching down toward the place their bodies meet when she pops his thumb free from her mouth, and a sudden hitch of her hips knocks his hand aside.
"Don't stop," she exclaims, exquisitely breathless, hands clenching into into tight little fists at her sides; "Please, please, don't stop—"
He lets out a low groan, fast losing any semblance of restraint. The shadow inside him is spreading, filling his mind with wicked, dangerous thoughts—for oh, what that dark part of him longs to do to her, for making him feel this way; for making him wonder, and worry, and wait, for weeks upon weeks without any word, til he's driven near mad from the hope she'll keep coming back—
His next breath is more like a sob, but there's no time to feel shame; she's already pulling him close, her fire-filled gaze like a beacon of light in the black buzzing hive of his mind.
"Harder, vhenan," she gasps, her keening cries punctuated by the smack-smack-smack of their hips. "Show me how much you missed me—show me how much you want me—"
His vision tints red as he grips her too hard, darkness seeping through the bars of its cage. He may be a battered, broken man, barely worthy of the air she now breathes—but she is twisting and moaning so beautifully beneath him, Elloway, this woman who would heal the whole world with the sheer warmth of her heart—
And if it's his want she wants, then Maker's wrath be damned—it's his want she'll get.
Elloway whines when he leans back to standing, needy hands grasping at the smooth steel of his cuirass—but her sounds turn quickly to sobs when he slams their hips together, again, and again, and again, so hard the table bangs rebelliously on the stone, and heavy metal markers clatter to the floor at his feet.
"I want you," he growls down at her, "too bloody much."
But she is writhing with her own want beneath him, nails raking down the bare skin of his lower back, hips swirling twice for every one of his thrusts—
"Then show me," she cries out, fiercer than she's ever been, "Please, show me, show—oh!"
It is not darkness, but light that flashes through him now, searing hot and so, so bright; Maker, he believes her, believes this is what she wants, and that she'll still want him after—
His body hums like a bottled up storm as he hoists her hips to waist height, no longer concerned about the constellations of proof his roughness might leave.
"Say it again," he demands the next time their hips smack; not needing to hear it. Wanting to hear it.
"I want you, Cullen," she keens at once; "I missed you, and I want you, I—I love you, and I'm not going to stop, please—!"
He lets out a long, low groan, tension coiling tight at the base of his spine—for he is fucking her now, pounding into her like time itself were about to end, and he couldn't care less who knows about it. He is helpless in the molten hot heat of her, Herald, Inquisitor, Elloway, Elloway Elloway—
And Maker have mercy he is fucking her hard, here, on the war table, in the middle of the day, with his pants round his ankles and her smalls in the way; he is fucking her knowing the Maker is watching, and poor Josephine likely listening, but still, he does not care. She came back, again, not only to them, but to him—
So let them watch, he thinks to himself, as her cries suddenly increase in pitch, her body arcing like a bow as her cunt clenches tighttighttight—
And let them listen, he thinks to himself, shamelessly, sinfully, before all thought is lost, and he slams their hips together once, twice, thrice, and—
Cullen chokes off a cry when he comes, his hips stuttering to a stop as he fills her in hot, heavy spurts. For a blissful few breaths there is nothing; nothing, nothing, nothing at all save for them, here, now, with the sounds of her satisfaction echoing off icy stone walls, and the explosion of too good expanding everywhere inside him. Filling him to the brim as he spills his seed deep within her.
Fuck.
He falls forward to his elbows once he's fully spent, his vision clearing as he catches his breath. Elloway is still shuddering through her own release underneath him, loose hair fanned out like a golden-red halo, her face flush with the most perfect pleasure he's ever seen.
The sight of it—Maker, all of it was… perfect. More than perfect; it was real. Not a wish, or a dream, or a hope he'd fought too hard to hold on to; no, she is here, smiling because of him, with her lips still swollen from their kisses, and his come hot and slippery where their bodies meet.
Fuck.
Primal pride gives way to something much more as he dives suddenly forward, capturing her lingering sighs in a kiss. She meets him eagerly, tugging him down by the tangled fur of his mantle, nipping and humming through a smile that makes his whole body sing.
None of this makes sense—how could something so beautiful, so exultant, be so forbidden?—but there was no denying she had demanded everything he had, dark parts and all; and once he had given it—once he had fucked her, more freely than he's ever fucked anyone—she had cried out so loudly, and come apart so completely…
"Maker's breath, El," he says, his voice catching the next time their lips part. She blinks dazedly up at him, bare chest heaving as she smiles; smiles, and then laughs. The lilting sound is so bright and so free that it stitches together everything left unraveled inside him, and his heart is soaring when he presses their sweat-slickened foreheads together.
"I know," she agrees once she catches her breath; "I know," she repeats, as she stares up at him with near intolerable fondness, and her contented sigh tickles his cheeks.
You don't know, he thinks, as he buries his face in her neck, and fills his lungs with her honey sweet scent; You don't know how much this all means.
If he were a different man—a man who showed his love with art instead of war—he would capture this moment in a song, or a poem; he would paint a brightly lit portrait, or stitch the scene into the softest of silks, so he might carry it with him wherever he went.
But he is a man of action, not art—so instead he forgoes the clumsiness of words to pepper kisses down her neck, saying I missed you with the firm press of his lips, and I love you with how softly he cradles her cheeks in his hands.
Later, he will think of what this all means. Later, he will wonder if he's done something unworthy here, today; if he should have denied their desires—and his darkness—to appease the Maker's demand for restraint.
Later, he will ask even more dangerous questions—for what sort of god would call it a sin to give, and receive, so much pleasure? How could it possibly be wrong to make this magnificent woman, who gives so much to an ungrateful world, feel so good?
Later.
Later, he will wonder, and worry, and doubt. Now, his heart is as full as his mind is blank, and he kisses her with reckless, rapturous abandon—for he loves her more than he's ever loved anything, Andraste forgive him, and he feels so impossibly young, and light, and—and free.