Notes: Cullen and Anwen show each other just how much they've missed each other.

This chapter is basically smut from start to end - I hope it was the worth the wait (eight month since my last update?! Sorry!).

Anwen's feet carry her quickly up the stairs to the battlements, taking the steps two at a time as she tries to reach her destination as quickly as possible. She doesn't even slow her pace to admire the view, as she usually does when walking along Skyhold's parapets. Beside her, the Frostbacks are draped fetchingly in the warm gold of the early evening sun, snow-capped peaks daubed in dusty pinks and purples as they reach into the sky. But she doesn't notice any of this, not the mountains, nor the puffs of violet clouds, nor the snow glittering in the sun like beaded silk - her eyes are too fixated on the door ahead of her.

She gives the door a knock but doesn't wait for an answer, barrelling into Cullen's office with an impatient frisson of excitement.

He's sitting behind his desk, back hunched awkwardly as his hands sort through an unwieldy stack of paperwork. His head jerks up at the sounds of the door opening, a scowl on his face and his mouth opening as if to shout some reprimand at whichever messenger was foolish enough to barge in while he's working. But then he sees her, and his mouth splits into a goofy grin instead. "You're back!" he cries in greeting, letting a stack of papers drop from his hands as she steps nearer.

His desk is covered in missives, and from the wrinkles in his shirt and the disarray of his usually slicked back curls, she knows he's been working for far too long. "You're supposed to be resting," she snaps, scowling at him as she approaches.

He still smiles, his shoulders lifting in a shrug that's too aggressively casual to be genuine, but Anwen doesn't miss the momentary flash of guilt behind his eyes. "I am resting."

She stands on the other side of his desk with her hands on her hips, leaning forward in what is an impressively close approximation of looming given her stature. "No you're not; you're working."

"Yes but I'm sitting down while I work."

There's a pause as she glares at him disapprovingly, huffing through her nose, then her frown cracks into a reluctant smile as she shakes her head. "You're full of shit, Cullen."

His smile quirks into a smirk, his eyelashes fluttering in feigned innocence, and though she's trying very hard to glare at him with an appropriate level of surliness, she feels a traitorous rumble of laughter bubbling up. From his smug expression he clearly knows he's won this little stand-off but he adds a ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows just to push her over the edge. It's enough to break her, her stern facade crumpling away as snorts of laughter break through. He follows her lead, chuckling softly in return as he gazes at her unguarded expression with open, unabashed affection.

"I missed you," he says as he watches her laugh, words quiet but forceful with his sincerity.

"Don't change the subject," she responds with an attempt at sharpness, though her laughter drains the words of their scorn. "I'm trying to be mad at you for disobeying a direct order from her mighty Inquisitorialness. I told you to rest." She manages to get her laughter in check long enough to force out a glare.

He just glares in return. "That was weeks ago." He stands from his chair, walking slowly around to her side of the desk so that he can take her hands, entwining her fingers with his and giving them a reassuring squeeze. "And, I promise, I have been resting."

She squeezes back. "Good."

There's a moment of stillness as she studies their enjoined hands, his – large and scarred – easily dwarfing hers. When she looks up he's already looking at her, his warm, golden eyes immediately locking onto hers. Holding his gaze, she's struck with the realisation that they have been apart for far, far too long.

"Maker… has it really been weeks?" she sighs, breaking their eye-contact to look sheepishly at her feet. "Time flies when you're fighting a shit-tonne of demons, I suppose."

He shifts to perch on the edge of his desk, legs wide enough that he can pull her close, bringing her hips flush with his. "Yes – it really has been weeks." He places her hands on his shoulders, lets his own slide gently along her arms before falling and coming to rest on her waist. "How was the Emprise du Lion?"

She glares at him with pinched brows."Cold. Wet" Her nose wrinkles. "And did I mention the demons?"

He chuckles, and she would be offended by his apparent lack of sympathy for her demon-y plight except there's so much fondness in the sound. "Yes"

"There was a shit-tonne"

"So I gather."

They're standing so close together it's easy for Anwen to drop her head until her forehead rests against his chest. She can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath and it's oddly comforting, steadying. She always needs this when she gets back to Skyhold – after rifts and Red Templars and too much spilt blood and too little sleep – needs to feel grounded. And Cullen has always done that for her. Even from those early days in Haven when she was just a strange mage with too many opinions, an extensive vocabulary of expletives, and the remarkable ability to survive the unsurvivable.

"I missed you," she murmurs into the space between them, so quiet she's not sure he'll hear it.

She feels him press a lingering kiss to the crown of her head. "I missed you too."

His words sound so soft, so heavy with longing, that Anwen's head snaps up with a bubble of guilt. "I didn't want to leave, you know, so soon after your injury-"

"I know," he cuts in in an ill-fated attempt to stop her guilt-fuelled babbling.

"-but I've been out of action for so long and there's so much that needed my attention-"

"I know," he repeats, a little louder, releasing his hold on her so that his hands can run up and down her arms in what is probably meant to be a comforting gesture. "I understand, Anni... I... I know. You're her mighty Inquisitorialness." He puts undue stress on the title to mock her for her earlier choice in words (and, Maker, she really has been spending too much time with Sera). "I can't keep you all to myself. No matter how badly I want to. You don't have to feel guilty about that." He leans back to look at her mournfully, then smiles before adding a little brighter, "and besides – I had Dorian looking after me."

A small frown creases between her brows. "Dorian is a piss-poor healer."

"Haven't you heard? Dorian is excellent at everything; I'm pretty sure he's told me that himself."

She laughs, if only a little, but it's enough to banish the buzzing urgency of her guilt, pushing it away until only a tiny niggle of regret lurks at the back of her mind.

"Can I see?" she asks as she disentangles herself from his arms and steps back, hands reaching for where his shirt is tucked into his trousers.

"Excuse me?" he says with a surprised little squeak, a delightfully endearing blush coming to his cheeks.

"Your wound," she says with a knowing smirk. "Can I see your wound?"

"Ah – of course," he says, trying to look composed but utterly failing, the blush in his cheeks stubbornly staying put. He tugs his shirt loose and holds it up to reveal the knotted scar low on his stomach. At first glance the wound certainly looks better; the red completely gone, only a faint silvery starburst where the dagger pierced through his skin.

She kneels down to get a better look, grimacing at the puckered and pinched edges of his scar. Her guilt comes roaring back – she's better than this. Better than this jagged line of raised flesh, better than haphazardly knit-together skin. It was only a small stab wound; she should have been able to heal it easily. There shouldn't even be a scar. But she'd been so drained of mana, so scared and shaking as Cullen's skin had turned pale and the front of her trousers had become warm with his blood.

"It's… better," she sighs, "I suppose." She drags her fingers over the raised line of scar tissue, frowning intensely as if she can maybe scare the skin into healing. Then her fingers start to wander, circling, soothing. Without really thinking, she leans her head forward, hesitates for only a moment, before pressing her lips against the scar.

A kiss to make it better, that's what her nanny used to say to her as a child – whenever she'd fallen and scraped her knee, or bashed her elbow. A kiss to make it better. Although she's not sure it works on near-fatal stab wounds.

She feels Cullen stiffen, hears the sudden intake of breath. When she glances up through her eyelashes, she sees him staring at her with surprise but also a wide-eyed wonder. She kisses the scar again, a little higher this time, and again, higher once more, rising from her knees as she peppers tiny kisses up to his ribcage.

He lets go of his shirt so that he can reach for her, one hand splayed across her back to pull her closer while the other hand buries itself in her hair, canting her head back so that he can bend down to capture her lips in a kiss. There's a neediness to the way his mouth presses so forcefully against her own, something hungry and eager – edged with the sorrow of too many nights spent alone. She responds in kind, leaning eagerly into the kiss, her back arched so her breasts press against his chest. She nips at his bottom lip, then soothes with a quick swipe of her tongue before parting her lips and letting him deepen the kiss.

She's surprised when he suddenly moves, flipping their positions so that she's the one with her bum pressed against the edge of the desk. He's still pressing forward against her, as if trying to banish all the space between their bodies, and while she loves the feel of him against her – strong and steady – it's beginning to get a little painful the way the edge of the desk digs into her. She wriggles a little as she tries to lift herself onto the desk, smiling against Cullen's lips when he drops his hands to her bum and lifts her easily into place.

"I missed you," she says again, words gasped breathily against his lips.

"I missed you too," he replies without a beat.

He frowns at her when she breaks the kiss, confusion mixed with irritation at the sudden change. But then his expression shifts into something intrigued when he sees the crooked grin on her face, the heat in her hooded eyes as she leans forward. Her hands curl into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer, bringing her lips to his ear as she whispers, "show me how much you missed me."

There's a brief pause as he considers, looking at her, then his desk, then back at her, eyes falling from her eyes to her mouth to the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she tries to catch her breath.

Then he reaches out and sweeps everything from the top of his desk – papers flying and a stack of books tumbling, a long forgotten teacup smashing to the floor. It's such an unexpected move, so distinctly un-Cullen-like that Anwen gasps in surprise. That gasp soon turns into a groan as he pushes her further along his desk, clambering up to join her and –

Fuck.

There's just so much of him. As Cullen settles above her, his arms braced on either side of her head to take his weight, Anwen can't help but marvel at the size of him. Tall and broad, he eclipses everything, his office disappearing from notice because all she can see and feel is him.

"Is this... all right?" he asks, suddenly shy, his face searching hers for any sign that he's overstepped with his rather dramatic display of passion.

She smiles, shakes her head fondly. "Just shut up and fucking kiss me," she says, leaning up from the desk until her mouth slants against his. Her words are apparently enough to assuage his concerns and she can feel him smiling against her lips, pressing forward until her head is resting back against the hard, rough wood of his desk.

This kiss is just as hungry as the last, a messy tangle of lips and tongue and teeth, and it's almost too much, almost making her light-headed. But then Cullen breaks the kiss to press his lips against her jawline, then again against her neck, then down and down until he's pulling the front of her dress down with his teeth and pressing open-mouthed kisses to her breasts. She'd hoped to catch her breath when he broke the kiss – but now each press of his lips and swipe of his tongue against her skin is leaving her gasping and panting, her body arching off the desk as she pushes herself into his touch.

He shifts a little so he can brace his weight with only one arm, then brings the other down so that his hand can slide slowly up her thigh, rucking her skirt up as he moves. He doesn't stop when he reaches the top of her leg, hand dipping into her smalls to press one, long finger inside of her.

She swears – loudly and filthily – her hips rising from the table to meet the hard press of his hand. She can feel him smiling as he kisses the skin between her breasts. Smug bastard.

He waits a moment for her to settle before he starts to move his finger inside of her, each small movement enough to bring a litany of moans and gasps to her lips. When he adds another finger, she swears again, and her hands, which had been happily exploring the expanse of his chest, suddenly clasp into his shirt, grasping so tight she fears she might rip the fabric.

Anwen can feel a building heat, coiling and pulsing in rhythm with every stroke of Cullen's fingers, and when he strokes his thumb at just the right spot – something shatters. Her body snaps taut, back bending like a bow, body lifting from the table and head falling back with a heavy thud against the wood.

"Fuck," she manages between desperate gulps of air, "that was – I mean. Fuck." She bites her lip before she can say anything else stupid and incoherent, and from the gentle chuckling she can feel against her neck, Cullen is clearly amused by her struggle for words. Cullen has always had this way of leaving her speechless.

The fingers that had mere moments ago been curled inside of her now pull feverishly at the laces of Cullen's trousers, and she's glad that he's struggling with only one hand because it gives her a little more time to catch her breath. She's feeling a little giddy, body still sparking with pleasure, so overwhelmed by sensations and heat and the feel of Cullen's weight above her – finally, after so many months of stolen kisses and hungry glances and responsibilities keeping them apart.

With the laces undone, he pushes haphazardly at his trousers, only bothering to pull them down as far as necessary. Then his hand is back between her thighs, though this time it's to pull her smalls aside, the fabric chafing a little as it's stretched.

There's no preamble, no teasing; just a shift of his hips as he slides inside her with a broken groan.

Cullen pauses, lips murmuring against her jaw – endearments perhaps, or a prayer – felt rather than heard. But it's only a moment, a few seconds of stillness before his mouth crushes against hers in another frenzied, clumsy kiss, and his hips start moving.

While their courtship had been slow and tender, this first joining is anything but. His thrusts are hard, the pace fast and a little erratic – frustrations and longing and emotions hammering out with every snap of his hips against hers. Anwen tries to roll her hips to meet him but his rhythm is too unsteady, too unpredictable, so instead she just curls her legs around him, holding him close as she lets her body shake and shift with his movements.

She gasps and mewls into his mouth, sounds swallowed by open-mouthed kisses just as frantic and clumsy as the pounding of Cullen's hips. The sensations are too sharp, too fraught – and there's certainly far too many layers of clothing between them – but Anwen can feel a delightful throb nonetheless, eddies of pleasure that swell and ebb every time Cullen moves within her. Her grip tightens as the sensations rise, her hands clutching vicelike at the collar of his shirt while her legs encircle his hips, heels digging into his backside in encouragement.

Cullen tenses a moment, their kiss broken as he takes a raggedy breath and roars, and then his whole body is shaking in a shuddering wave. His hips move in fits and starts, shallow little thrusts that are just enough to push Anwen to her own release. Her cry follows his, slightly softer but no less vulgar, and surely everyone in Skyhold must now know what the noble Inquisitor has been up to with her Commander in the meagre privacy of Cullen's office.

Not that she cares. Anwen has forgotten about the rest of Skyhold, about guard rotations or noble engagements or the pile of reports waiting on her desk. All she can feel is Cullen, the press of him against the cradle of her hips, the heat of his skin as a callused palm strokes against her thigh, the soft brush of his lips as he whispers I love you against her temple.

All she can feel is Cullen.

Cullen aches.

His forearm is digging into the rough wood of his desk, his whole weight supported on one arm so that his other hand can stroke tenderly against Anwen's skin. His thighs burn, muscles tired from maintaining such a punishing, stuttering pace with his hips. And the little clicking sound from his knees every time he shifts his legs is thoroughly disconcerting.

It turns out that desk sex is incredibly uncomfortable.

But his nerve-endings are still sparking with pleasure, a warm tingle spreading beneath his skin, and Anwen is below him, face pink and flushed and more beautiful than he's ever seen it. Her eyes are scrunched shut, overwhelmed and overwrought, and her chest rises and falls with hurried little breaths, and Cullen can't do anything except stare at her – utterly astounded that she's here, with him, beneath him, after so many months of longing for her.

"Cullen?" she asks, voice soft and breathy.

He nuzzles his nose against her neck, pressing soft kisses at the pulse point below her ear. Hmmm?

"Can you um… move?"

His head jerks up at the sharp tone in Anwen's voice and it's only then that he realises her eyes are scrunched in pain, not the lingering glow of passion. The forearm that's braced against the desk is trapping her hair, and in the aftermath of his own pleasure, he'd stopped carefully holding his weight off her and is now crushing her under his considerable bulk.

"Oh, Maker, sorry!" he cries as he immediately starts shifting, cringing when her hair gets snagged in the button of his shirt-sleeve. She swears colourfully, jerking away from the pain, but then her forehead bangs into his chin and she swears even louder. There's a litany of curses and pained hisses as the pair of them attempt to extricate themselves – too many elbows and knees and not enough space. When they're finally sitting next to each other at the edge of his desk, Cullen can't help but look at her a little sheepishly.

"I'm, ugh, I'm really sorry about this," he mumbles.

"Don't be," she replies with a soft smile, though he can't help but notice that she's rubbing delicately at her forehead.

He shrugs helplessly. "This…" he gestures at the desk, "isn't exactly how I imagined our first time."

To his great relief (and mild surprise) she apparently finds his comment amusing, a lopsided smirk pulling at her lips as she lifts one brow in question. "Oh yes? And – pray tell me – how many times exactly have you imagined our first time?"

He blushes, only now realising what his words implied, but it's impossible to feel embarrassed for long when she looks so delighted. He smirks back at her. "More times than I should admit."

She throws her head back as she laughs, a light and twittering thing, and it brings him such joy to see her so open and unguarded, a blotchy flush climbing up the bare column of her neck, curls in disarray.

When her laughter has subsided she scooches closer to him along the desk, leaning forward to press a quick kiss against his jaw before murmuring against his skin, "and… all these times that you've… imagined us together – what exactly was it like?"

His blush darkens. "Well – I must admit – taking you here on this desk has crossed my mind… a fair few times." She laughs again, huskier and warm, puffing against his skin. "Also… up against the stacks in the library or… on the War Table."

"The War Table? Really?!"

"It has crossed my mind… once or twice?"

She looks at him wide-eyed, clutching her hands to her chest in exaggerated shock. "In front of Josephine and Leliana?!" Then there's a smile and a wink. "That's fucking kinky."

He gives her a withering glare – don't be ridiculous – but she only laughs harder.

"But, honestly…" he leans a little closer to tuck one unruly curl behind her ear. The teasing has gone from his expression - no smirk, no eye-rolls – just the kind of naked earnestness that usually leaves Anwen squirming uncomfortably. But this time she doesn't duck away or avert her eyes, she's looking at him closely, her eyes never once leaving his. "I wanted our first time to be special. I thought there'd be – I don't know – roses and candles and… well, at the very least a bed."

Her smile is gentle at first as she nods thoughtfully. But then it curls into something almost wolfish as she murmurs, "well… if I'm not mistaken… I do believe we have a bed… rather close at hand." She looks up pointedly and nods her head towards Cullen's bedroom above his office. When she looks back at him her wolfish smile is accompanied with a heated gaze, dropping for a moment to the golden skin exposed by his gaping shirt before returning to his eyes. She presses a quick kiss to his lips – too quick – a promise rather than a farewell, and when she leans away and hops off the edge of his desk, he can't help the embarrassing little whimper he makes at the loss.

She saunters toward the ladder with an exaggerated roll of her hips, pulling at the laces at the side of her dress. By the time she's reached the bottom of the ladder, the dress is loose enough that she can shrug out of it, the fabric billowing for a moment before settling in a heap of blue silk at her feet. The simple, white shift she wears underneath leaves little to the imagination, the flickering light of the wall sconces behind her enough to shine through the thin fabric and illuminate soft curves beneath. She looks at him over her shoulder, her wolfish grin curving into something softer, almost coy, before she starts to climb the ladder to the bedroom above.

For a moment he's just staring dumbfounded – transfixed by the sight of her, the thin shift revealing far too much of lean limbs as she climbs the ladder. But then she calls "coming?" over her shoulder as she disappears from view and Cullen lunges clumsily forward to catch up with her. He hastily divests himself of his clothes as he crosses his office, his shirt flung into a corner while his trousers join Anwen's dress at the bottom of the ladder. He hurries up the ladder – trying to ignore how often his feet stumble in his enthusiasm.

At the top of the ladder he finds Anwen's abandoned shift, and when he looks into his room to see her standing there dressed only in her underwear, he feels his feet falter on the rungs. She's wearing a matching set – naturally – brassiere and knickers in a pale mint green, edged with impossibly delicate lace and festooned liberally in tiny bows. By their ostentatiousness they're clearly Orlesian, unlike anything he's ever seen and undoubtedly mind-blowingly expensive, but they seem so very Anwen that he can't help but smile.

The room is dark, the wall sconces unlit, and the only light comes from the shafts of moonlight that spill through the broken roof above, gilding her body with shards of silver. She looks beautiful. And ethereal. And so unwordly in her seeming perfection that Cullen can scarce believe that she's real.

But she's also looking a little awkward, fidgeting under his scrutiny, weight shifting from foot to foot.

"Maybe it's not exactly how you imagined it," she says, her voice quiet with surprising shyness considering the boldness she'd shown in his office, "no roses," she adds with a shrug, "but there is a candle–" She clicks her fingers and the lone candle on his bedside table lights in a puff of magical flame, "and there's a bed."

"It's perfect," he says quickly as he finally climbs fully into the room. He steps forward, raising his hands to frame her face, hoping to quell her restless shifting. "You're perfect."

It works; she stills, and she cranes her head up to look at him with the kind of naked, unabashed affection that he knows she saves only for him.

And then she tips forward onto her tip-toes – and she kisses him.

The kisses in his office had been heady and urgent, too hot and too frantic, but this kiss – this kiss. Each brush of her lips is tentative, achingly tender, but then her lips part with a sigh and he wastes no time in deepening the kiss, tongue darting forward to taste her full bottom lip, not wanting to ruin the slow, languorous mood but desperate for more. More of her, more of this.

Cullen is already hard again.

At first both of her hands had been buried in his blonde curls, pulling him down so she could more easily reach his lips, but now one starts to wander, lightly calloused fingers sliding down his neck and along his collarbone before sliding further down. Finally the hand comes to rest against his abdomen, fingertips playing gently against the lines of muscle there. His hands move to her back, one between her shoulder blades to pull her closer, while the other dips daringly low, brushing just above the round swell of her bum.

He would be content to stay like this for a lifetime, losing himself in soft lips and warm skin, but then she starts to take small steps backwards, towards his bed, and he is all to happy to follow. When they reach the bed she tries to climb on top without breaking the kiss – fails miserably – one leg rising at an awkward angle before she starts to sway and lose balance.

Cullen catches her as she begins to pitch to the side, lifting her easily in his arms and laughing a little louder than is probably polite at her surprised expression. He carries her forward as he clambers up onto the bed before settling her gently on top of the bed linens.

She glares at him, apparently not appreciating the laughter. "Shut up," she says with a playful nip at his bottom lip.

He nods at her with mock solemnity. "Absolutely, my lady, not another sound."

There's a frown between her brows, but a playful smile on her lips, and she pushes herself up onto her elbows to whisper into his ear, "well... I don't mind some sound. I do like to hear you moan." She finishes her words with a nibble to his earlobe and Cullen can feel a shiver of anticipation shudder along his spine.

He kisses her again – deep and slow and all-consuming – until he's left breathless and panting against her lips. Then he presses a kiss to her chin, another below her jaw, a whole litany of kisses whispered along her neck and across her collarbone. He can feel her shiver under him, softly sighing his name in encouragement as her hands tangle in his hair.

His hands unclasp her brassiere with surprising speed given how they shake and once the garment has been thrown aside, he can continue exploring her skin with his lips, his mouth hot and wet as he kisses her bared breasts. Her soft sighs turn into needy moans when he licks the hardened peak of one nipple and the sound is so arousing a part of him wants to stop in his careful ministrations and just rut into her mindlessly as before.

But he wants it to be different this time. This time he isn't going to rush things, he isn't going to lose himself to a desperate lust. He's going to explore every inch of her skin, going to discover every way to make her gasp, every way to make her shudder.

He dedicates his Templar-trained focus to mapping her body, lips and teeth and palms skimming across sweat-slicked skin. She sighs when he traces her ribs with his fingertips, moans when he mouths the underside of each breast, bucks wildly when he slips her knickers from her hips and licks a stripe at the crux of her thighs. He marvels at every reaction he draws from her, pleased beyond imagining that he's the one who's able to draw such sounds of wanton pleasure and desire from a creature who prides herself so much for her composure.

He teases her with tongue and lips and nimble fingers until she's begging for him to take her, tugging at his hair to bring his mouth to hers, wrapping her legs around him and rolling her hips in clear invitation. He answers her roll with a snap of his own hips and this time when their bodies are entwined, there's a spread of warmth, of wholeness, that wasn't there before. Without the rush and the frenzy he can really feel her, the heat of her, the clench of her muscles drawing him in.

He starts slowly, so slowly he can scarcely believe his self-control. He's steady, thrusting into her with a gentle, languorous rhythm that she matches with the steady lilt of her own body. His lips fall to her jaw, her temple, her mouth, murmuring praise between tender kisses.

At first her small hands had been tracing patterns along the muscles of his chest but as their pace begins to quicken, she starts to cling desperately to his shoulders as if trying to ground herself, head thrown back and mouth open as gasps and sighs escape her. He grips her hips to angle her, hitting her deeper, harder – faster and faster. She unravels with a keening moan, her whole body shuddering and quivering beneath him, her crossed ankles digging almost painfully into the small of his back. He loses his rhythm a little as she writhes and quakes but he manages a few last, deep thrusts before his own body tenses and trembles with the peak of his pleasure. He muffles his shout into the crook of her neck, nose nuzzling into her wild curls and eyes scrunched from the power of his release.

This time he remembers to roll away before letting his body collapse into a sweaty, spent tumble of limbs – careful not to crush her like he'd done on the desk. He's trying to catch his breath, gulping at the air like a drowning man just breaking the surface of the water, but his body still spasms with little tingling aftershocks and he can't quite get control of himself. He blinks through the haze of pleasure and lust, focusing intently on the sprinkling of stars he can see through the hole in his roof in an effort to centre himself.

The feeling of Anwen settling in beside him is what finally draws his focus – body stretched against his side, sticky and uncomfortably hot but it's her so he doesn't care. Her head rests on his shoulder, puffs of breath tickling at his neck, and as fatigue starts to settle in his limbs, he can't remember the last time he ever felt so satisfied or so at-ease.

They lie in silence for a time, their hands resting on his stomach, fingers entwined, letting the crisp night air cool their flushed skin. Occasionally he'll bend his head down and kiss her crown, just because she's there and he can, and she hums in return and smiles up at him, contented and a little dopey.

Finally, Anwen breaks the silence. "Cullen, can I ask you something?"

He looks down at her with a smile and eyes glassy with adoration. "Anything, my love."

There's a pause then, "what the fuck is wrong with your fucking roof?"

He laughs, the question so utterly unexpected for the moment and yet so typically blunt for Anwen. "Ah – the ever eloquent Lady Inquisitor!" he says with a snort.

She nudges him sharply in his ribs. "If I'm going to be spending more time in your bed then I'm going to need that hole fixed – we can't have the Inquisitor catching a cold and fucking dying because of shoddy roofing."

"Well I suppose there's always your bed?"

"At the top of the tower? With all those stairs? Pfft – too far." She waggles her eyebrows as she looks up at him with hooded eyes. "I'm not sure I can keep my hands off you that long."

He chuckles. "Well then I suppose there's always the desk again?"

"Or the War Table?" she suggests with a smirk and a wink.

They laugh, loud and hearty. But then there's a pause and the look she's giving him is oddly intense and intriguingly heated. The War Table has featured in his fantasies pretty regularly since their arrival at Skyhold – to the point that he often finds it hard to pay attention during their Council meetings, too distracted by the phantom images of her writhing and panting on the tabletop. From Anwen's expression, it would appear that she might be willing to make those fantasies a reality.

An interesting discovery – and one he's looking forward to exploring later.