At first all you feel is the heat and the sweat.
Slowly the rest of the details fill in the world around you: darkness broken only by an occasional flicker of green as the hand to which it belongs spasms in the sheets below; the muscular thighs held apart by your hands; the moans in Tevinter filling the air with a rhythmic regularity; the rocking of your hips which sets the rhythm.
Then the pieces all snap into place, and you groan as pleasure arcs through your spine. You thrust your hips forward, hoping to hear his deep, throaty moan when you bottom out. As you dig deep enough to make the bed shake, the flickering light of the Anchor offers an enchanting series of quick-set images of him writhing in ecstasy, lost in a haze of sexual bliss.
"More , please," he begs. "I need all of you."
You grin and set your hips to their task once more, shifting your grip on his thighs to hold him in place while you tease him by alternating the pattern and depth of your thrusts. When you suddenly press in and roll your hips, his hands fist in the well-rumpled sheets as he lets loose a startled shout that turns into your name. The sound of it runs down your spine and pools between your legs, adding an extra snap to your hips as you reward him.
Still, you don't want it to end too soon. Deliberately you slow the pace, moving one hand to wrap around his swollen length and please him in a different way. Your hand is still slick with lotus oil, after all, and you so very much enjoy seeing his face when you match your thrusts below with firm strokes above. Though he is near his peak, you are not seeking to finish him, but to torture him.
And, gauging from the moans and shudders beneath you, your victim is quite happy to be thus treated.
You lean down and claim his lips for a kiss, enjoying the sensuous sensation of his mustache brushing against your upper lip. The rhythm slows even further as you take the time to explore him as you did in the beginning, teasing the sensitive spot on the left corner of his lower lip until a shudder runs through him, then deepening the kiss as you mirror the motion of your tongue with that of your cock. You can feel his breath halt as he loses himself to the kiss, and when your lips part, he gasps for air even as he tries to chase after you.
"Someone's eager," you say with a chuckle.
"Festis bei umo canavarum," he groans, then bucks forcefully upwards even as he squeezes tight around you.
You growl deep in your chest. "Are you sassing me? Do that again, and there will be consequences."
Even in the flickering green light, you can see the defiant lift of his chin and the wicked mischief in his eyes just before his hips heave up into you once more.
With a playful shout, you pull out and use your soldier's strength to flip him onto his hands and knees. In the next breath, you push yourself back inside, then heave him up so that his back is crushed against your chest, mingling your sweat as you thrust up hard enough for him to shout your name once more. Your hand reaches around to take him in a firm grip, squeezing and stroking as you tug his earlobe with your teeth.
His hands reach up to sink into your hair, clutching the curls tightly as he whispers, "More, please, I need all of you."
"Oh, you'll feel all of me, I promise," you growl deep in your chest, then release the last restraint on your primal nature.
After that, you are only aware of the heat and the sweat and the pleasure, driving you both higher and higher. The green flickers grow in both frequency and strength, until finally it is time.
"Now," you whisper into his ear, then pull him down on you, hard. "Come."
And, with a long guttural moan, he does, his entire body arcing against you with wild abandon as the darkness around you is lit with a green light so bright it's almost blinding. Somehow you survive the first few moments of him tightening around you, long enough to coax what you can from his length onto your hand. Then your own world turns on its head, and your long-delayed moan mingles with his desperate panting.
When the initial sensual glow has subsided, you use your remaining strength to ease him onto his hands and knees, letting him slide off your length with a satisfied smile to lie on his stomach with arms akimbo. Leaning down, you press a gentle kiss to his cheek, chuckling as you notice his breath is already slowing to the pattern of sleep.
Then you look up.
The glowing red eyes are watching you, as they have been throughout this encounter, and you know that it is time to do as you have been commanded. You swallow convulsively, but you know you must obey.
"You two make a lovely pair," Amell muses. "I almost wanted to join in. As I recall, your ass is wonderfully tight. It must have to do with all that self-discipline in which you place so much pride."
"M-Master," you whisper. The word comes grudgingly, but earnestly, since you know you must obey.
'Yes. I'm glad you remember after all that." You hear a muffled thud as something lands on the blanket. "There. Attend to your task."
Your hand reaches out to the source of the sound, closing over the hilt of the dagger crafted for just this purpose. A shudder runs through you, but you know you must obey.
"At least I let you have one last fuck with him," Amell points out, his voice filled with amusement. "And it was a glorious one, wasn't it?"
"Yes, Master," you say woodenly. "Thank you, Master." Even that was not enough, since you can never have enough of the man lying on the bed, but you know you must obey.
"Well?" You hear the impatience in your Master's voice and quake inside, knowing what will happen if you delay too long. "Get on with it."
You nod and lean over the sleeping man, pressing his left hand into the blanket as you set the blade at the midpoint of his forearm. The hand flickers into green life beneath your grip, but you know you must obey.
And yet, the dagger doesn't move.
You frown and try again, struggling to force the dagger down. You know you must obey.
No, a voice whispers in your mind. I won't.
You shake your head in confusion, arm trembling with the effort. You know you must obey.
Don't let him win. The words are a murmur in your mind, but compelling all the same. I won't let him win, remember?
You pause. Yes. That sounds right. And yet… you know you must-
I will never bow to his evil again! the voice roars, filling your mind with its fury, and suddenly your world turns white.
Cullen awoke with a great heave, tears streaming down his face and body curled into itself so tightly that he could feel his knees digging into his neck. Opening himself up from that position was no simple matter, either, since his arms had been wrapped around his legs for so long that he had to concentrate just to relax the joints of his fingers one by one. When his body did straighten, it was with enough force that the bed rocked on its foundation, leaving Cullen lying stunned on his back as he stared blankly at the stars.
And still, the tears fell. The horror of what Amell had wanted him to do overwhelmed every last vestige of strength he had managed to salvage before going to bed, opening wounds he had thought long dead and buried. He could not comprehend the evil of the man, but he felt the consequences of it with painful clarity. It seemed to be a special talent of Amell's, to turn something pure and beautiful into nothing but a twisted lie.
How long he lay there staring upwards he didn't know. The night was still dark when he finally stirred, so it couldn't have been that long, yet it felt like an eternity of guilt and rage and self-loathing. Somehow he found the strength and the will to push himself up, then looked down when something felt off.
He wasn't surprised to find his clothing in tatters, but he was surprised to find so many scratch marks on his chest and arms, particularly on the side of the hand which had held the knife in his nightmare. A close examination of his fingernails showed that it was self-inflicted, and he couldn't help but think it was his body fighting against the nightmare in its own way.
The thought woke a tiny bit of hope inside, and for the first time, his thoughts shifted from what he had done to what he had to do-and that did not include cowering in his bed.
Mustering what energy he could, Cullen rolled out of bed and stood, moving slowly but with great determination. Quickly he stripped the rags from his body and then, naked save for his mantle, descended the ladder so that he could use the still-hot bath to clean the jagged scratches in his skin. The water stung the wounds, but he barely noticed, focused as he was on what he needed to do next. Pulling on the clothes he'd removed before the bath earlier, he paused as he heard a rustle of paper in one of the pockets. It wasn't until he pulled out the sealed, folded paper that he remembered the letter Josephine had passed on from Dorian.
He stared at it for a moment, then slowly opened it with shaking fingers. The words were hard to make out in the dim light, but Dorian's strong, elegant hand seemed to almost jump off the page as his eyes scanned the message.
Commander, I feel I owe you my most abject apologies for not being present and accounted for in Skyhold upon your return. Though most people would naturally feel quite bereft without me, in your case, I can assure you that the inverse is just as true. I very much hope my task does not make me tarry overlong, and if it does, feel free to blame Varric when next you see him. Of course, when next you see me , I do hope that your scolding is held to a gentleness befitting my tender hide, which I shall present for your inspection upon request. Until next we meet, Your Inquisitor
The smile on Cullen's face when he reached the end persisted for only a few moments as he bowed his head and let the emotions roiling within spill over into tears once more. He pressed the paper to his chest as he silently wept, teetering between joy and despair as he realized the position his obstinacy had now put him in. All his excuses not to see Dorian earlier had now revealed themselves as just that: excuses, and nothing more. And yet what a difference, those few hours now made…
How had it come to this?
The question echoed in his mind without answer. In a sudden burst of frustration, he punched the wall, hoping the pain would provide him with the answer. Instead, the pain simply awoke something else entirely. Covering his face with shaking hands as the panic attack struck, he hunched over where he stood and struggled not to scream. At least before, the problem had seemed surmountable. Arduous, yes, but he had conquered lyrium before and, as Cassandra had repeatedly told him, he could do it again. But now…
Now he faced an entirely different problem. In Kirkwall Cullen had seen for himself what red lyrium could do to a person, and as far as he knew, no one knew how much-or how little-was too much. Maybe he needed to have it several times before he was permanently damaged.
Or maybe a mouthful would ruin his life forever.
His hands dropped as he slowly straightened, looking up to the stars for reassurance that at least they would always be there. "Maker," he whispered. "I can't do this alone."
And, just like that, the decision was made. In the next few moments, after setting his mantle in place as if preparing for battle, Cullen had left his office behind. He would not find the answer there, after all.
But perhaps a friend could help.