Work Text:
Theresa hears Cullen long before he reaches her quarters. She’s heard him bounding up the tower steps, that cadence and weight of bootstomps echoing off the hollow interior, too often not to recognise it from two floors down.
The sound interrupts her focus, prompting her to glance out the windows with a flash of mild panic. It was already well into twilight. How had she completely missed the sun setting?
Wonderful…
She frowns down at her incomplete notes, measuring them against the text remaining. She’d hoped to have finished this translation long since, but her Orlesian was rustier than she’d cared to admit, even to herself.
Since there’s little point trying to disguise it, she doesn’t bother, picking up the stylus she’d dropped and resuming where she’d left off. Though truthfully, her focus is now fixated on the sound of Cullen’s approach.
He pauses outside her door for a brief but friendly exchange with the guards stationed there. Theresa smiles. Cullen likes to know as many of his soldiers by name as possible. Especially those assigned to guard her quarters. By the time their relationship had progressed to sharing beds, they’d both come to appreciate the benefits of a loyal barrier at their door to turn would-be interrupters away.
Him taking the time to make nice with them now implies a very specific purpose behind tonight’s rendezvous.
He finishes his conversation and wastes no further time entering. Theresa listens for the expected latching of the lock, already feeling her pulse jump in anticipation. She disguises it behind a facade of casual boredom, leaning on her hand and tapping idly on the desk as he tops the final steps.
At first sight of his slicked-back hair and broad shoulders, however, the mask melts away and something within her eases, as it always does in his presence. He smiles warmly when their eyes meet, but then his fall to the pile of pages spread across her desk. Annoyingly, he doesn’t look in the least surprised.
“You’re still working,” he declares, rather than asks.
“Don’t start,” she warns, though there’s little bite to it. “It’s just busy work while I wait for you.”
But Cullen glances at the cold plate of food at her side. At the unlit sconces, despite the fast-fading light. The low-smouldering embers in the hearth, dying of neglect. And gives her a pointed look.
“Busy work, is it?” he snarks, with that amused look he always wears when he knows he’s caught her in a lie.
“Well, it’s not as if you’re on time,” she argues.
But he cedes no ground. “We agreed to stop at sunset.”
“Yes, and it’s technically just after sunset.”
He chortles with fond exasperation as he crosses over to the hearth and begins stoking the dwindling fire back to life. “Are you really going to hold the walk from my office against me when you’re waist-deep in… what is it you’re working on?”
Theresa, who’d been watching his hands capably manipulating the fire poker, blinks and shakes off her rambling reverie of what else they were capable of, answering, “A translation of a treatise on the Veil’s effects on directionality, by an enchanter in Val Royeaux.”
“Riveting.” His response drips with sarcasm.
“It’s for Dorian.”
That seems to genuinely surprise Cullen, pausing his attention on the fire to glance sidelong at her. “He doesn’t speak Orlesian?”
“The scholar’s tongue of choice in Tevinter is Antivan. He barely knows enough Orlesian to flirt with diplomats, let alone comprehend scholarly texts.”
He studies her. “And yours is enough?”
She huffs, offended. “I should think so!”
Too late, she spots his sly grin, the glimmer of intent in his eyes. She knows that look—she’s fallen under its sway many times. Even now, an answering heat pools in her belly.
“Shall we put it to the test, then?” he asks with a voice full of promise. Promise he’s more than capable of fulfilling.
She schools her features into a hardened stare. “You want to spend the evening testing my linguistic skills?”
“Practising,” he amends. By now, he’s got the fire roaring again. He lights a taper and stands to begin a circumference of the room, lighting sconces along the way. He takes his time, seeming to relish building the anticipation. “In fact, why don’t we both practise our… linguistics?”
Theresa erupts in abrupt laughter. She can’t help it—his absolutely lurid grin is far too blatant for the seduction he’s attempting. “ This is how you propose a rematch?”
Their little race, as they’d come to call it, had been her idea of a punishment—though only in the loosest possible of definitions, and certainly not a successful one. But if her goal had truly been to discourage him from working every petty task to completion, she wouldn’t have made the consequence working him to completion. With her tongue.
No, what she’d really wanted was just to get him to relax for a few precious moments. Victory had never tasted sweeter. Even if it was actually quite salty.
“Truth be told, I’ve been waiting for an opportunity,” he says, continuing his circuit with the taper. Once again, Theresa’s attention is drawn to his hands. “I didn’t want to distract you from anything of real importance…”
“Dorian will be crushed to hear you disparaging his academic pursuits.”
“...And I knew you’d reject any advances while working on something you actually enjoyed…”
She opens her mouth to protest, but one knowing look from him tells her any argument would fall flat. And truthfully, if she were enjoying the work, she wouldn’t be stuck on the same three sentences for the second night in a row. She closes her mouth.
He grins, triumphant. With the last sconce lit, he blows out the taper and tosses it into the fireplace. “Which means your only excuse for rejecting this challenge,” he finishes, approaching her desk, “is if you’re afraid of losing.”
She narrows her eyes. In sparring terms, that is what he would call a precision strike. She cannot allow such a taunt to go unanswered. And he knows it, damn him.
“I presume the guards have been instructed not to allow any disturbances?”
“Naturally.”
“Of course you would have this planned to the last detail.”
“I’m sorry, is that meant to be an insult?” He rests his hands against the desk, staring her down with an expression of open hunger. “So, do you accept?”
Theresa’s stomach does an eager flip. Maker , but that confidence is effective—mostly against her better judgement. She nods her agreement and scoots her chair out to allow him access. His face splits into a catlike grin as he settles between her legs.
Wholly concealed beneath her desk, he pulls her chair forward, and deftly loosens the stays of her breeches, sliding them down her legs to the floor. She does her best to ignore his calloused fingertips grazing her skin, and tries to force her vision back into focus. As she starts a new paragraph, he starts on her thighs, coaxing her muscles to slacken with practised, gentle kneading. She draws in a shuddering breath as his touch creeps tantalisingly higher.
“How are we doing?” comes his disembodied voice from below.
“I’m working .” She tsks , as if irritated, and resumes her reading.
“Out loud, if you please.” He nudges her knees wider, and she complies, having to come forward in her seat until she’s barely on the chair anymore.
“You want me to read aloud while you’re… working ?” The notion is far more arousing than it should be.
He hums an affirmative, punctuating it with a kiss to the inside of her thigh. The roughness of his stubble sends a delightful tingle up her spine and across her scalp. “Otherwise, how am I to know you’re working? Or when you’ve finished?”
When his fingers slip past her smalls, her hand stutters and a heavy drop of ink blots out the word she’d been writing. “Merde!”
“Alright?” His movements still with her smalls halfway down her legs.
“Fine.” She hastily dabs the mark dry with a nearby cloth. “Just smudged.”
“...Did you just curse in Orlesian?” His voice trembles with barely suppressed laughter.
Did I? She honestly doesn’t recall. “Nevermind.”
Her smalls join her breeches in a puddle at her ankles, and her hips arch forward at the feel of his breath so close to her core. She shudders with pleasure as his tongue begins drawing slow circles. Her free hand automatically tangles in his hair, dislodging the curls to pull him closer in gentle encouragement.
But he pulls back to remind her, sternly, “Out loud.”
With great reluctance, she opens eyes she doesn’t recall closing, and tries to focus on words already blurring in the haze of her pleasure. She straightens her posture, ignoring the low chuckle from below, and begins to read.
Progress is steady at first. Having to read aloud slows her somewhat, but it also helps maintain her focus—which is already fast eluding her. Cullen often laments that words are his weakness, but his mouth is far from unskilled. And the exacting attentiveness with which he approaches every aspect of his life also makes him a solicitous lover. He knows well what he’s doing, having learned by now where to touch, and how. And he’s employing every ounce of such knowledge for this little race, with the same single-minded focus he gives their chess matches.
A few lines down, she stumbles over a word—audibly as well as mentally—at a loss for an appropriate equivalent in Common.
“Tess?” Cullen speaks up, and Theresa swallows a frustrated groan at the loss of sensation. “Have we stopped?”
“Just thinking…” Or trying to, at any rate. “Not every word has a direct translation. How’s your jaw?”
“Not as sore as my knees,” he admits, but she hears the smile in his voice. “But I’m doing just fine. What word are you stuck on?”
“Dép—” Her response is choked off by a sudden gasp as Cullen delicately separates her folds and inserts a finger. “D… dépaysement…” she manages to grind out between her teeth. Her lids grow heavy and her head falls back as his finger curls, pressing in just the right spot. “It means— mmm —feeling out of place or lost in a fo—foreign land…”
His self-satisfied chuckle is equal parts vexing and erotic. “Homesick?”
She shakes her head. Then, remembering his view is blocked, says, “More positive. Culture shock, but—whimsical.” She sucks in her bottom lip and bites back another moan as a second finger is added to the first.
“Not exactly how I would describe the Fade…” he mutters.
Theresa grins. “Ah, so you have been listening.”
“I enjoy listening to you read.”
The confession is strangely intimate, in a way she cannot describe. Unable to resist, she reaches down to stroke his cheek, enjoying the feel of him leaning into her touch to leave a wet kiss against her palm. Right at the edge of the Anchor. Another profound intimacy for which she has no words.
A swell of love rises in her, intertwined with the heady pulse of pleasure at the slow stroking of his fingers, leaving her dizzy and…
“Hmm. Disoriented?” She can think of no better option, so she jots that down. More progress.
While their first race had been a sprint to the finish, this is a marathon. Theresa has to pace herself carefully, using every ounce of her will to maintain focus through Cullen’s deft touch and skilled tongue. A paragraph goes by, then three, then a page. Her writing scratches in fits and starts across the parchment, and her mutterings are frequently interrupted by gasps and moans.
“Mages qui f—flânent l'Immatériel sont—Créateur!” She nearly breaks the tip of her stylus when he closes his mouth around her and sucks. Her head falls back and her spine arches. Her left hand rakes through Cullen’s hair, prompting a low groan from him that she feels all the way down to her toes, and brings her perilously close to losing her grip.
Maker, she’s in trouble. Normally, she’s a grateful beneficiary of his impressive stamina. The man is the very definition of perseverance. “Making up for lost time”, he calls it, always with that shy smirk and lustful glint in his eyes. Now, however, it leaves her at a distinct disadvantage. He could go for hours, while she feels her limit fast approaching.
As if sensing her desperation, Cullen pulls back slightly, slowing his pace. A slew of epithets slips past her lips, and she doesn’t have the wherewithal to recognise whether it’s in Common or Orlesian.
Whichever it is, Cullen clearly understands the tone, because he snickers and says, “Feeling a bit frustrated, are we?”
“Don’t sound so smug.” She clears the rasp from her throat and tries to relax her thighs, quivering with unsatisfied need. “You’ll be making it up to me later.”
“Assuming you don’t succumb sooner.”
His fingers trail up and down the curve of her calves in a cruel tease, and despite her impatience she smiles fondly at his compulsive need for physical contact. She runs her hand through his hair again, softer this time. His scalp is warm, the curls damp with sweat. She loves him like this. Dishevelled, pliant and open to her touch. The trust it implies never fails to make her throat swell with emotion whenever she ponders it.
“You’re not yielding, are you my love?” he asks, his voice a sultry provocation, supple as the softest leather gloves.
Part of her wants to. To discard their game and pull him up into her arms, to kiss him until she tastes herself on his tongue. But such an admission would leave them both, ultimately, wanting.
Her smile widens. “Never.” She scans over her work, and her determination is renewed. Only half a page left. She will not cede victory with the end so close at hand. “Now, where was I?”
“I believe you were at ‘mages who wander the Fade’...”
What’s this? She cocks one eyebrow. “Since when do you speak Orlesian?”
“I’ve picked up certain phrases here and there.” He rests his stubbled cheek on her thigh, and the friction sends another thrilling tingle through her. “Enough to know when the useless gaggle of nobility in the main hall are gossiping about me.”
“I’ll remember this next time you try to plead ignorance to avoid a diplomatic meeting.”
“Merde.”
His accent is so flat, coloured by his rural Fereldan intonation, that Theresa snickers. But it swiftly turns into a gasping cry as his fingers tease at her entrance, then a whispered string of endearments that pour out of her in a senseless and ardent blending of languages.
Focus! Only a few more lines.
She forces her breaths slowly in and out, urging the muscles in her legs to unclench—a nearly impossible task as Cullen’s fingers probe with torturous strokes.
“Mages who wander the Fade sont vulnérables…” Her eyes drift shut as Cullen’s tongue replaces his fingers. Circling. Delving. Drinking deeply of her. She bites back a hungry moan. “Sont… are vulnerable to l’aaa—l’appel du vide…”
Her thoughts are jumbled, fast approaching total incoherence, and her writing is little better. No matter, she’ll make a fresh copy later. With one hand gripping the edge of the desk to brace herself, and the other scratching out a nigh-illegible script, she presses on.
“Mages who aimlessly wander the Fade are vulnerable to the call of the Void, and should therefore p—procéder avec un but précis—ah!” Hot breath ignites hyper-sensitive nerves as the tip of his tongue flicks back and forth, back and forth… “Mmm. Should therefore proceed with—”
Another chuckle sends a low, delicious vibration through her core, nearly sending her over the edge. Her head lolls forward, her hand clutching at her armrest. “Putain! P—proceed with purpose so as not to…”
A bead of sweat trails down her spine. She’s barely even in the chair now, no longer in control of her hips as they grind against the friction and wet heat of Cullen’s shamelessly articulate mouth. So close…
“...so as not to fall prey to those— mmm —dark urges within…” She scribbles out the last few words and slams her stylus onto the desk in triumph. “Done!”
Cullen pulls away. “Well, that’s two wins for you—”
“Maker, what are you doing?” she cries, yanking him back down. “Don’t stop !”
She has no idea what language she’s speaking, but her desperate plea requires no interpretation. His mouth is back on her, no longer torturously gentle but devouring and greedy. He works her vigorously, and it isn’t long before she succumbs, shuddering violently into her climax, head thrown back to send her ecstasy echoing into the rafters.
Sight and sound come back to her slowly, colouring in her surroundings as the white hot flames of pleasure slowly dissipate. The edge of Cullen’s teeth just barely graze against its epicentre as he withdraws, sending an aftershock from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head. Her throat is dry and hoarse from overuse, and a pleasant ache suffuses her legs as she sinks back into the chair.
It’s the gentle prying of her hands free of Cullen’s hair that brings her back to reality.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, dazed, as she releases him, pushing the chair back.
“Don’t be,” he answers softly. He kisses the inside of one thigh, and she bites her lip on another moan. With an impish grin, he adds, “I’ve started rating my performances by how sore my scalp is afterward.”
She exhales into an airy giggle, caressing his cheek in apology. “Maker, Cullen, you could have said something!”
“What if I enjoy it? Knowing how well I please you.”
The vulnerability of such an admission steals her breath, choking off any reply she might make, as he leans into her touch with unthinking trust. She feels honoured, and can only hope her own raw honesty can match such a gift.
“S’entendre…” she murmurs, leaning back to gaze down at him with a satisfied sigh.
He’s rubbing his jaw, face reddened, hair dishevelled, and—Maker!—his chin and mouth are drenched with her . As their eyes lock, his tongue darts out to lick his lips. An unconscious gesture—he clearly has no idea what effect it has on Theresa.
“More Orlesian?” he teases with another kiss to her palm. “I’m beginning to worry that I’ve permanently reconfigured your thoughts.”
She laughs, tugging gently at his hair, knowing it will only stoke the desire still smouldering in his eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to believe it!”
“What does it mean?” he asks dazedly, allowing her to pull him to standing. His hands move absently to retie the stays on her trousers, but she stops him, walking backward toward the bed with a suggestive grin, tugging him along with her.
“It doesn’t quite translate.” The backs of her knees hit the mattress and she topples backward, pulling Cullen down atop her. She smiles at the feel of his hardness against her hip, but gently presses her forehead to his, letting his beautiful face fill her vision. “But the closest meaning is a mutual understanding, a connection.” Her fingers curl and flex against his cheeks. “An unspoken bond shared between two people.”
The apple in his throat dips as he swallows, and he smiles softly. “I rather like that.” He plants a kiss in the crook of her neck. “The Orlesians seem to love a good turn of phrase.”
“That they do.” She hums agreement. “Especially when it comes to the nuances of emotion and…” Her touch finds his length through his breeches. “...intimacy.”
He hisses as his hips buck against her palm. She strokes him until he’s panting and compliant in her hand.
“Shall I teach you?” she asks with silky promise.
“I think you overestimate my capacity for learning just now,” he says with breathless laughter. “But I’ll not refuse you speaking more Orlesian.”
“Don’t you want to learn more?”
“Let’s just say I’ll be relying on our… what did you call it?”
“S’entendre.”
“Sun-tawn…” he repeats crudely, groaning as her hand slips past his waistband.
She giggles, giddy, and drags him down for a kiss. “Close enough.”