Time, as it is so wont to do, passes.
Months fly by in what seems like an instant. So much time away from Skyhold blends the days and weeks into a wash of forest and desert alike. Dorian finds himself away from the hold more often than not; the growing Venatori presence demands it. They crop up like weeds on every acre of land between Nevarra and the Amarantine Ocean, and he is one of the two people at Skyhold who has been trained in Tevinter fighting styles, giving him a tactical edge that few others hold. The war against Corypheus is coming to a head, moves and countermoves pushing towards the inevitable. Plans continue to unfold before them that need thwarted, and the Venatori presence rises exponentially to combat their meddling. At times Dorian wonders if they're doing any good, if any of this petty skirmishing on the outskirts of the Orlesian empire, but then he puts the blade of his staff through a cultists throat, helps save a group of refugees heading for civilization, and remembers that every battle counts, every move counts. Its gruesome and bloody work, but its worthwhile when a woman he's never met looks him in the eye and thanks him. Him, the dreaded Tevinter mage. Everyone knows he's with the Inquisition-even stable boys in backwater villages have eyed him askance-and even so, there are some who see him for who he is and not where he's from.
It's … he can't quite describe the feeling that swells in his chest but he holds it close in the night as he huddles in his tent, a flame to fight away the ever present darkness in his heart that tells him he's worthless and broken, a tool to be discarded.
I am still useful, is his mantra on those nights that are the worst, the nights where his mind is washed away in the currents of things long past, things he wish he could forget but knows he will fight for the rest of his life, I can change things for the better.
And he wraps himself in those words like a blanket, wishing he was back in Skyhold with Cullen's arms to warm him, to ground him, to bring everything back into focus.
But Dorian doesn't have the Commander to sooth the wrinkle between his brows that seems a permanent fixture now, so he presses onward. Onward through the countryside, chasing after anything the Venatori seem to have interest in. He fills the silence with little quips about their party, questions Blackwall's intelligence, even goes so far ask to ask Solas if he's ever tried wearing a wig. The last is enough to make Elena stop in her tracks and guffaw, laughing hard enough that she has to lean against a rock else fall on her face; the look on Solas's face is stuck between outrage and amusement, and Blackwall hides his laugh behind a cough. It's enough to ease the tension in their shoulders, clear the air of the near constant coppery tang of spilled blood.
Until a missive arrives from Leliana requesting their return.
That is all that Elena will say about what's in the letter, and since she burned the message soon after receiving it, it's all the information Dorian has to go on as they press hard back to Ferelden. Whatever it was in that note was enough to make the woman's eyes harden in a way he hasn't seen since Adamant, and its clear by the brutal pace she sets that it's Serious Business. Not once do they stop to make camp. Instead they sleep on their mounts in shifts, changing out horses at every Inquisition outpost they pass.
The lack of information leaves Dorian to wonder and speculate and, in dramatic fashion, he jumps to the worst conclusions. That Skyhold is no more, razed, a pile of ash and smoke and rubble. That, in their extended absence, Corypheus let his dragon have its way with the hold and its people, have its way with Cullen, when theres so much still left unsaid, so much left to do-
The thought is enough to make his hands shake, dread weighing him down in his saddle. So, as he does, he turns to reading to escape from his fears, losing himself in romantic purple prose.
And time, as it is so wont to do, continues to pass.
And they continue to ride.
After weeks in the saddle, Skyhold comes into view, whole and complete and quite possibly in better repair than it'd been when they left. All the built up tension and fear and worry drains away, leaving Dorian feeling boneless; his white knuckled grip on the pommel is the only thing that keeps him toppling sideways from his horse in sheer relief. The horn announcing their return sounds and they ride through the gates. They are greeted by a group, ready to take their horses and their packs. Usually the advisors are there as well, usually Cullen is there to help Dorian from his horse, so easy with his affection and obvious favor in public, but instead they all stand on the stairs leading to the main hall.
Dorian meets Cullen's eyes. Even from this far he can see the tightness at their corners, the furrow to his brows that reveals the headache that's surely pounding in his skull. A smile softens Cullen's features for a moment but then Elena is running up the steps two at a time to meet the advisors and soon they all hurry away into the main body of Skyhold.
The rest of the companions drop from their mounts and make their way to their own areas, and while Dorian wishes to do the same, he's left in a bit of a predicament. See, he's a fully capable rider, having been trained by some of the best horsemasters Tevinter had to offer back in the day, but the best horsemasters Tevinter had to offer never prepared him for a twelve-day nonstop ride. The bone-deep agony is enough to make him hesitate. Maybe he can just ride his horse all the way to his quarters and flop off the horse onto his bed. It wouldn't eat too much in his room, he's , it'll shit a little. Okay, it'll shit a lot. He's not prepared to stay in a room that smells like horse dung; he'll leave that level of self-depreciation to Blackwall.
The process of getting off his horse isn't an easy one, especially considering he can't feel his feet and his skin is tingling with thousands of pinpricks, but make it off he does.
A runner waits for Dorian as he grabs a few of his things out of his pack, leaving the rest to one of the waiting stablehands. "A message, messere," she says, offering the folded paper to him. "From the Commander."
Dorian hums and takes the paper. A message, eh? He unfolds the paper, reads the words.
My quarters are open, wait for me. Cullen.
Dorian's eyes wander to the stairs leading to Cullen's little tower and he shudders at the idea of even attempting to climb them. Not if he wants to keep his dignity intact. He can already see his legs giving out, sending him tumbling down the stairs.
"Do you have something for me to write with?" he asks, and the messenger pulls out a small quill and ink pot from her belt pack, holding the pot while he unstoppers it and wets the tip of the quill.
Too many stairs. My door will be unlocked.
He blows on the ink to dry it quickly and hands it back to the messenger, who jogs off after the advisors to deliver it. That taken care of, he turns his attention to making it to his quarters in one piece.
Dorian's not quite sure how he manages to get to his room without incident, but manage it he does. Once the door shuts behind him he makes quick work of his clothes, hissing in pain as the cloth finally separates from his skin, leaving imprints of hems and wrinkles in his thighs. He's rubbed raw in places he hasn't been in a long time, the skin dark red and angry. But its nothing that a few potions and salves can't remedy, and sooner rather than later he is scrubbing the evidence of their travels from his skin. The bath is quick, not the usual luxurious soak he partakes in but Dorian would rather not risk falling asleep in the tub and turning to a prune. Once he's clean he looks himself over in his mirror, scratches at the scruffy beard he'd begun to grow on the road. He really should shave it off, clean up his mustache, but he's just too damn tired for that, and definitely too tired to shave the stubbly hair covering his chest
Dorian has just enough energy to throw on a loose pair of trousers before falling into his bed, asleep before his head settles on his pillow.
The smell of food draws Dorian from his blessedly dreamless sleep, bread and meat and other savory things that makes his stomach growl. He groans and rolls over onto his back, stretching slowly, enjoying being able to move without agonizing pain. He pulls his shoulders back and sighs as bones crack and realign themselves, scratches idly at his chest before finally opening his eyes and turning his head.
Cullen stands at the sole table in his room, organizing plates of food. It soothes something within him he didn't know needed soothing, and he takes his time unnoticed simply to watch. Dorian can hear glasses clinking and-is that a bottle of wine? "Dinner and wine?" he asks, enjoying the way Cullen starts just a little before turning.
"I didn't know you were awake," Cullen replies, smiling with that half-smirk of his that's both bashful and confident, that smile that's one hundred percent pure Cullen Stanton Rutherford. "I thought that you would enjoy a proper meal after spending so much time on the road." His eyes wander from Dorian's face, taking in his languid posture, the chest hair thats grown in, the dark trail that disappears into the waistband of his trousers.
Dorian smiles. A proper meal, indeed.
He would usually shrink under the attention considering how bedraggled he must look in his unshaven state, but instead he makes a show of getting out of bed, sitting up and rolling his shoulders, his head, exposing the lines and contours of his upper body before rising to his feet. He doesn't quite walk with his confident saunter-still a little saddle sore, even after his self care-but its a close approximation, enough to drag Cullen's eyes down to his hips as he crosses the room.
And, as is his luck, the moment is ruined by his stomach growling again. Loudly.
The grin on Cullen's face makes Dorian roll his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, but he can't help but grin in return as he delicately sits at the table.
They eat and drink in companionable silence, though Dorian can't seem to keep his eyes off the other man. He drinks him in, every wrinkle and freckle and curl of hair. It isn't until now that he realizes just how much he's missed his Commander during his time away from Skyhold, missed his rock. He is a rock that's been cracked and fractured by so many, yes, but also a rock reforged by the fires of the Inquisition to become a better man.
A man that, in this quite, intimate moment, Dorian wants more than anything in the world. Cullen flushes under Dorian's gaze, his ears turning a lovely shade of red but he's staring at Dorian with a look in his eyes that makes his cock twitch with anticipation. Perhaps it's his long absence that makes him impatient. Perhaps it's that this whole affair has been, by his standards, chaste enough to please Andraste herself.
Dorian sets down his fork, pushes his plate away half-finished. Cullen frowns at the remaining food.
"Not hungry?" he asks with the slight incredulity of someone who's seen how much Dorian usually eats in one sitting.
"Mm, not exactly." Dorian shifts in his seat (ignoring the way it makes his skin sting), crosses one leg over the other and leans back. It's the picture of easy confidence, because he is confident. This is the part of things he's good at, after all. "I'm still hungry, but for a proper meal." He clips the last two words, tilting his head and letting his eyes take in all of the ex-Templar before letting himself meet Cullen's stare.
The desire he finds there almost takes his breath away, but there's also contemplation there. Three heartbeats of silence, then Cullen blinks, decision clearly made.
"Perhaps I can help… satisfy this hunger of yours," Cullen replies as he stands, holding Dorian's gaze as he backs up until he's in the center of the room. That little smirk of his returns, all bashfulness long forgotten as he begins to remove his gauntlets, then his vambraces. He drops them to the floor, the clinking metal loud in the thick silence. He flicks off his cloak, the furred monstrosity pooling behind him. Never once does he break eye contact.
Dorian's heart races, heat pooling in his groin; unbidden, he runs his thumb along his lower lip, shifting to ease some of the pressure on his hardening member. And Cullen continues to undress, taking his sweet time. Such a tease. Pauldrons and greaves join the rest of his armor on the floor, and he reaches for the buckles on his breastplate.
"Allow me to help," Dorian murmurs.
He beckons for Cullen to step closer and the man obeys willingly, eyes hooded. Dorian doesn't bother to stand, instead reaching from below to help Cullen out of his breastplate. Cullen wears black under his armor today, shirt loose but pants exquisitely tight and once the breastplate is off and discarded, Dorian leans forward to nuzzle his nose into Cullen's stomach, breathing in that distinct scent of metal and and earth and wood that seems soaked into Cullen's skin. He mouths at Cullen's navel through his shirt, hands running along his chest and hips, lower to caress his thighs.
He can feel Cullen's groan a split second before he hears it and grins with satisfaction. His mouth travels lower, nipping through the thicker cloth of his trousers at his hipbones, one hand kneading Cullen's thigh right below the curve of his ass, the other sliding under his shirt and running up his flank, touch featherlight. Slowly, teasingly, he moves closer to the growing bulge in Cullen's pants, close, so close, but never quite touching the twitching flesh underneath.
A hand slides through Dorian's hair, from hairline to crown before tightening, pulling his head back. He can't help but hiss but the sound is swallowed as Cullen leans forward and captures his mouth in a searing kiss. It's not a slow sensuous thing, nothing at all like their first. There's power in this one, all teeth and warring tongues and it sets Dorian's veins aflame with want, with need.
Dorian palms Cullen's erection, giving him the contact he so clearly desires, and the other man breaks the kiss with a guttural moan. How long must it have been since Cullen's been touched in this way, by a hand other than his own? He's sure it's been quite a while-the darkness in his life before the Inquisition would have made it difficult to find a bed partner, he thinks. Leaning forward, he licks at Cullen's hidden erection. The sounds it draws from the man, the way his thigh flexes under his hand is enough to prove him right. It takes so little to get a reaction! How repressed his Commander must be, how tender. Blood rushes to his groin at the thought of drawing out more of those little noises, the little whines and involuntary cries.
Oh, how strong Dorian's desire to see such a composed man come undone.
The hand Cullen still has in his hair pushes his head further towards his crotch in impatience and Dorian chuckles, fingers making quick work of the buttons of Cullen's pants.
But a thought makes him pause.
Dorian almost feels like he has too much of an advantage over Cullen, as someone who has bedded numerous men and learned twice as many tricks. Templars were meant to be pure in the eyes of the Maker, yes? Surely this included base carnal desire, which leaves Cullen at quite the disadvantage.
He pulls his head back, leans against the back of his chair, and meets no resistance from Cullen; his hand relax in his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp. The tingles that run down his spine make him shudder but he fights through it and looks up at Cullen, whose brows are drawn together in confusion.
"Do let me know if I move too fast, dear Commander," he says, fingers tickling the expanse of skin just beneath Cullen's waistband. "I do not wish to overwhelm you. If you have any apprehension, do not hesitate to tell me."
Cullen's eyebrows shoot up, and that damned smirk makes another appearance. "I am no blushing virgin," he says, adding, "No matter how much I may blush," when Dorian quirks a brow.
Dorian hums, undoes the last of the buttons holding Cullen's trousers closed. "Just wanted to be sure, is all," he replies, though he is still skeptical. Sure, they are comfortable around each other, more comfortable than Dorian's ever been with another person, but that does not directly translate to any sort of sexual prowess. Though, there was that time in the bath, what seems like a lifetime ago…
His incredulity must be plain on his face because Cullen's rolling his eyes and taking Dorian's chin in his hands. "Must I prove it to you?" His voice is low, amused, as he leans down to capture his lips in another kiss. This one is deep, slow but not without heat. Dorian hands tug Cullen's pants down to mid-thigh, releasing his swollen cock, the head an angry red that demands to be touched.
And touch he does, hand taking hold of it at the base and drawing towards the head slowly.
Cullen breaks their kiss to groan open mouthed and Dorian takes the opportunity to swallow up his dick in the warmth of his mouth.
The noise Cullen makes is positively obscene, and he moans Dorian's name as he sets a relaxed pace. He takes time to lick and nip at Cullen's balls, to tongue and suckle his head, one hand always at the base of his shaft, a safeguard should Cullen begin to lose control and thrust into his mouth. All the while his free hand is in his own trousers, gripping his erection and pumping in time with his ministrations.
Thread by thread Cullen begins to come apart, and Dorian relishes every second. Every bead of sweat, every flexed tendon in his neck, every freckle that stands in stark relief against the flush of Cullen's skin. Dorian can tell he's close by the way he breathes, his stomach muscles twitching and contracting, his balls tightening, but suddenly Cullen is pulling him off his cock, taking him by the forearms and lifting him to his feet.
"Not yet," Cullen breathes, "not here." His eyes are hazy and yet he's still in control enough to guide Dorian to the bed, walking him backwards until the back of his knees hits the mattress and he falls, landing spread eagle on his back. Cullen's hands explore the planes of Dorian's chest and belly, every muscle and divot and smooth expanse of skin. Dorian squirms, making himself more comfortable, grinning all the while at the pure lust that clouds Cullen's eyes. It didn't take much at all to get the man to this point-he's rather proud of himself.
A hand takes hold of one of his nipples, gives a sharp tug. Dorian can't help but arch into the touch, hissing out a "Fasta vass" when the fingers are replaced with the warmth of Cullen's mouth. His tongue sweeps and toys, teeth gently pulling, and through the pleasure Dorian wonders if perhaps his ex-Templar has just a little more experience than he's assumed.
He runs his fingers through Cullen's curls, cupping the back of his head. Cullen looks up from his task, takes note of Dorian's slack jaw, and smiles.
"Not so smug now, hm?" He doesn't wait for a response, turning his attention to kissing and licking every part of Dorian, starting from his collarbone and slowly working his way down his chest to his stomach, following the trail of dark hair to his waistband.
"I am not so easily subdued, Commander." Cullen quirks a brow at the statement but makes no comment. Dorian's voice is only a little breathless, after all. He lifts his hips off the bed to make it easier for Cullen to pull his pants down, groaning in relief as finally his dick is freed from its cloth prison. It lays heavily against his stomach, warm precome drips onto his skin. He expects Cullen to take him into his mouth, to suck him down greedily, but he doesn't.
No, he hooks his arms under Dorian's knees and lifts his hips up even higher, pulling him closer so his thighs rest on his shoulders, his ass cupped in Cullen's hands.
Cullen looks at him then, holding his stare as he lowers his head to lick at the tender skin below his sack.
Dorian can't help but gasp at the contact, at the lapping warmth, at the delightful press of tongue at lips and teeth. It's been so long, so achingly long, and it draws a thin whine from the back of his throat. Teeth nip at the insides of his thighs, fingers carefully caressing skin still red and sore from his ride, before returning to their work, moving lower inch by inch until Dorian can feel Cullen breathing against his hole.
(Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Dorian is glad he he had the foresight to take a bath.)
The first touch to the sensitive skin of his entrance is like electricity; his body thrums with tension and and need. The gasp it rips from him seems to be what Cullen is waiting for. He goes about his work with gusto, every noise and groan and hiss and occasional Tevine curse seems to push Cullen farther, faster. He's like a man given a feast after years of starvation, and it's all Dorian can do to keep himself from unraveling in Cullen's arms. He fists are balled up in the bedsheets, knuckles white, using the grip to stay in the here and now lest he fall off the edge into incoherency.
But he wants more, wants to be stretched and filled and fucked raw. He wants to be claimed and all of this is well and nice but it's not enough.
Dorian opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a reedy whine as Cullen pushes a finger into him. "Festis bei umo canavarum," he spits through grit teeth, bucking his hips weakly. "I am not-aah-" the finger twists, brushing his prostate, "-Not a-fuck-"
Cullen hums as he kisses Dorian's thighs, sucking at skin until its dark and bruising. "Were you saying something?" A second finger joins the first, and it burns so good that Dorian loses his train of thought for a moment.
"Cocky bastard," Dorian snarls before throwing his head back as Cullen's fingers crook within him, searching. "I am not a patient man, Commander."
He can feel Cullen chuckling against his skin and resists the urge to swat at the man. "Impatient? You? I wouldn't have guessed."
Dorian makes an exasperated noise and begins to sit up, pulling his hips away from those wonderful fingers and that wonderfully cheeky mouth of his. Cullen lets his hips back down to the bed when he realizes what Dorian's doing, though his hands still caress his thighs in a way that makes Dorian's heart flip just a little.
"If you were trying to prove a point," Dorian kisses at Cullen's jaw, a hand slides between them to ghost fingertips along the head of Cullen's penis, "then consider it proven." He grazes his teeth along a tendon standing out in Cullen's neck, bites it gently. "But if you aren't fucking me into this bed in the next thirty seconds, Cullen, I will set you on fire."
Cullen laughs at the declaration and captures Dorian's lips in another kiss. "Do you have any oil?"
Dorian snorts. "Have you known me to be a man who doesn't? Top drawer of the bed table."
Cullen pulls away and reached into the drawer, pulling out the first vial he finds. Dorian shakes his head. "No no, this one will burn, use the one in the plain looking jar."
Cullen frowns. "Why would you have one that burns?"
"For massages, of course! You have fifteen seconds, by the way."
He tries not to laugh at the slight panic that alights in Cullen's eyes-they both know he's just a little serious about the fire-as he rushes to grab the right container, rushes to liberally coat his dick. Dorian lets his legs fall open even wider, tilts his hips up to give the other man a better angle. Cullen presses his tip against Dorian's entrance, one hand holding him steady while his other grabs Dorian's hip in a bruising grip. Wrapping his arms around Cullen's shoulders, Dorian pulls himself close, presses their foreheads together.
And slowly, carefully, Cullen breaches him. Dorian watches the way Cullen's face shifts with each inch, his slack lips, the flutter of his eyelids, and Dorian knows Cullen is doing the same, relishing every expression. Cullen meets no resistance and yet still takes his time; Dorian's patience wears thin. "Five seconds," he breathes.
Cullen's response is to drive the rest of the way into him with the snap of his hips, which does a good job of shutting him up. The hitch in Dorian's breath is masked by the sound of meeting flesh as he finally gets what he wants; his nails scratch at Cullen's shoulder blades, leaving hot lines of red in his skin. They stare into each others eyes as Dorian adjusts, and the prolonged eye contact is so intimate, so magnificent, and Cullen watches him with such reverence that he's afraid to speak. Instead, he rolls his hips to spurn the other man to action.
"M-Maker, Dorian," Cullen stutters, and Dorian tightens around Cullen's member, rolls his hips again.
"Fuck me," he commands, and Cullen does so with enthusiasm.