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(Contains: nudity and sexual themes)

Orlesian-made pales in comparison to real Ferelden stock, she finds. But under his command, she only knows indulgence. || Cullen x F!Trevelyan Archer (One-Shot)


A Christmas gift for the lovely Chenria at deviantART of her noble archer Estelle.


Author: Illusionary Ennui

Disclaimer: If it's not in the games, codex entries, or the wiki, it's mine. All else, hail to Bioware.

Chapter Rating: M

Chapter Warnings: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, NSFW, Sexual Content

Edited: 12.18.2014


Hands and Hurts

No matter the hurts,

my hands are yours to command;

their strength, your promise.

The usual guards manned the battlements of Skyhold, their salutes barely seen in the dark. Along the stone walls, the torches cast enough light to wash their faces in a dull orange glow and nothing more. Estelle Trevelyan met them with a quiet smile, and a brief nod as she pushed forward.

Her body sang with the aches, and tender bruises hidden by her armour. A host of scratches were carved where her leathers had not be quite enough. Biting back a groan, Estelle cursed that damn high dragon. Crackling with lightning and a vicious streak, it nearly chased away the snowy wyvern that had been their quarry, but even now, its scales made themselves useful under Harritt and Dagna's care. With the heart safely in Madame de Fer's hands, all Estelle craved was another's, a breath of stillness among the growing chorus of hurts.

She wanted him.

The hinges of a heavy guard tower door squeaked as she pushed it open, but once inside, she felt her heart drop.

"Your Worship?" A broom in hand, the squire stood, torn between falling to his knees to bow or merely staring, awestruck. "My deepest apologies, milady… the Commander, he's given me a letter for you. I pray I've served well."

Hands shaking, the young man held out a small folded bit of parchment, the red seal of the Inquisitor softened from having been jostled within the boy's pocket. He dared not meet her sapphire gaze as Estelle unfolded and read the simple message. Calloused fingers, crooked too often around a bowstring, traced the familiar initial.

Your quarters.

- C.

</p>

A surprised squeal sounded as Estelle patted the squire's stiff, worried shoulder. Maker's breath, the poor thing would have jumped out of his skin had he not been under orders. Hardly a word of thanks was all she managed before the boy rushed away. Behind him, he could not see the spread of relief crossing the Inquisitor's features as it tugged on the scar that lined her jaw. Back into the winter night she sank, winding, again, through Skyhold's corridors. All around her, those who looked to her for strength and guidance slept like lambs. How could they be so peaceful? She cannot count how many times she questioned it, her shoulders feeling too heavy beneath that weight. Her sure but careful steps carried her onwards, each whimper and flutter of wind cutting deeper until she reached it, reached that one place where she might be free.

Outside that place, they bore only their titles, the burdens of their stations. But there, safe in her quarters or his tower, they were themselves, unmasked. The hard click of the lock followed her steps, her boots tracking mud across the rug meant to ward off the cold. Sandalwood wafted from candles burned low, mere stubs. But all she cared for was that moment of respite, a moment to breathe where neither templar, mage, nor darkspawn might find them. To see the Commander of the Inquisition at ease when she slipped into their sanctuary brought her heart some comfort. Head propped in a broad, scarred palm, golden-hued eyes slid closed, Estelle could not help but smile as the guise of Commander melted away to reveal the man beneath. Sleep came too little in those days, but indulgence and weakness sought other pleasures. He never slept, she imagined - even now, he merely rested, his fingers stained by ink and a half-written note to the blacksmith left without a signature, and another map labelled only by the local landmarks spread across her desk.

Her fingers curled in the soft fur of his tunic. He wore no armour, its cold weight set aside for a squire to polish in the morning. Even without its mask, the warrior's strength mapped itself in the broadness of his shoulders, in the tensed knot of muscles which twitched at her touch.

"Es-stelle..." Even marked by half-sleep, the sound of her name brought her lips to the Commander's temple. Thick, sword-worn fingers reached to cradle hers, its warmth radiating through her skin. "You're late."

"You should be sleeping."

Their play began, a subtle game.

"As should you," Cullen mumbled back. Still, the slight quirk of a smile pulled on his lips when he drew her down into his lap. Without his armour, he still wore his strength, his command writ into every word and act. "But there was work to be done."

Estelle winced, her bruised ribs protesting against the quick twist as she fell into his embrace.

"You're hurt." Even as he pressed his lips to hers, he spoke with an even tone, an automatic cadence. Estelle stared away towards the fire, knowing the reproach as easily as it lingered in his quiet timbre. His fingers fell into the pale golden curls, pulling the strands from their intricate knot. They fell around her face to hide the flush of shame where it crossed her face. Only Cullen saw this side of her, the human-side where only her desire and his marched together.

"I'll be fine," she murmured in return, heedless of discomfort. Her own fingertips traced the curve of his jaw, close-clipped nails scraping a week-old beard. What care had she for such hurts when her body demanded another, more pleasant ache? She tugged at the laces of his tunic. "I'll heal."

"So you say." Cullen fussed over every scratch, every mottled splash of colour upon her skin. It showed how vulnerable she was, how fleeting a breath could be. In his touch, she felt the clash of strength and worry, the flicker of hunger. His hands locked onto her hips and lifted her onto the desk, seating the Inquisitor on its edge. She gave him his reign, his fingers slipping under her tunic. Yet even their warmth could not ease the pain along her ribs. Gentleness carried only so much as she whimpered softly, the tunic slid over her head. Tentative fingertips mapped the rough, ragged line of the bruises where that patterned her middle, spreading up to disappear beneath her breasts' binding. The Commander shook his head, the heat of his hunger slipping into the haze of anger.

He should be there, fighting alongside her. But he knew his place as he knew her place. He let his mouth and hands offered their worries, their answer to her hurts. He served where she could not from the pedestal where they had placed her, isolated. Here, in that place, he could serve where others could not, where he would allow no other. That desire seeped into the fire brewing in his belly, his mouth hot against hers. He let those actions speak, a building roar.

Estelle threaded her fingers into the pale gold curls, giving him that one vice which she dared not take from him. This was all she indulged in, all that she held with fragile threads. She lost herself in it as his mouth marked her chest in its reverence, his kisses and tongue like silk and fire. They trailed downwards, warm against her sternum, stinging rib by rib. No matter how much it hurt, she gave him all of herself.

The desk rattled, a drawer open. The salve stung when Cullen spread it across the mottled purple and green pattern. How many times had they done this, that this act was now habit? Gentle, tender – each stroke made with care, the pot of poultice emptied. Her fingers stiffened as she bit back her cries. His kisses swept them away, eating away the pain. Little by little, the ache muted, her hurts singing a more sombre song.

And for a suspended breath, she hated herself.

"One of these days, you'll regret this..." Her forehead pressed to his, her eyes closed against a pain of a different sort. Emotions ran together, a tempest without a name. How could she torture him like this? It only hurt more when he cupped her face, pale strands cascading over his knuckles. "You don't need my madness in your life. You deserve someone who can make your life happy, someone who won't make you worry."

Silence answered, save for the shift of a coarse, battle-hardened palm over her cheek. His grip tightened on her hair, the curls wound near breaking as he bent her down onto the desk. Cullen's mouth brushed her pulse, a hot, hungry thing. Without a word, the other hand hitched her thigh around his waist, bringing them flush. A flash of white nipped at her ear before the rough, strained voice sounded. It rumbled like thunder, a storm reverberating on the edge of her bones.

"I deserve nothing; not when I have all I could want, right here." There it was, the unaffected smirk unchained from the Order and the chaos of their lives. "I regret nothing."

The man may have command of the Inquisition's armies, but in that moment, Cullen commanded every part of the rogue. Whatever pain, whatever hurt settled deeper than magic or herbs could soothe, became heat pooling in her belly. It filled her up, degree by degree, and she gave into him.

Hands blurred. Leathers. Buckles. Breeches. Clothes scattered or pushed aside.

The map tore but Cullen paid it little mind, heedless of the ink staining his fingers and marking his lover's milky canvas. He relished at the sound of Estelle's stifled cry buried in his shoulder, her nails dragging furrows into his back. It made him feel alive, feel his luck coalesce in her. He felt the desk shudder beneath them, his own fingers biting into the soft Orlesian lumber until splinters dug into his palm.

The Inquisitor's arms hooked beneath his, snaked up his spine and clung to him. Her thighs clamped onto his waist, begging him to fill that emptiness, to answer the heat as it coiled tighter and tighter. Maker, how long could they wait, walking so close the edge?

Her hair fluttered, a golden halo cast back to pool on the desk. It tore a stuttering roar from the commander's lips as he slid into her depth, a dangerous dive made painfully slow and steady until he reached her core. She engulfed him, throbbing heat and desire – all his. A heel spurred into his flank drove him – she needed more. The rhythm began, sure strides matched. Broad hands cupped her buttocks, lifting, hips flexing to make every stroke strike true. Faster, faster into the fray. Each press rocked them, creaking and cracking. They struggled to find purchase, to hold onto one another rather than drift apart. Between them, their mouths seared and suckled, tasting skin and sweat, seeking claim. How many bruises did she make? How many did he leave?

It wasn't enough. The commander's body bore down until the rogue's spine beat against the desk. An overzealous hand snatched her wrist and locked it back, opening her further. Another adjustment, a newer angle made with the slight twist, the rolling snap of his hips and the cadence grew. She spurred it in him and drank his strength, stretched taut. Feeling him move inside her, sink to her depths and rise again only to plunge deeper still – she anchored herself in its tide, alive.

He couldn't stop himself, tearing at her, unable to steal enough of her for himself. He reached it almost too quickly. His head spun like the gears of a crossbow, too tight. His knees quaked, half-bent as she clung to him, took every part of him and made him her own. So close, teetering – they both were. Thick fingers, clever and learned, knew just how to play her, to bring her with him. The right crook timed, curled against her flower and he knew his name sung out into the night and the creak of wood rocking. The former templar let it fill him as he filled her, felt her velvet sheath tremble and writhing around him, her name painted across her lips by his own.

Every hurt fell away, every bruise and its sting forgotten - all Estelle knew were stars and the quirk of her lover's mouth. Her victory, his triumph. Maker, how could she not love the Commander of the Inquisition when he released her from her title for a moment to remember she was more – he made her bold. Perhaps she was the lucky one?

Cullen let his knees give way but he kept her safe – he would always keep her safe, keep her grounded. He knew her like he knew the balance of his sword, marked by a rightness without description. Spent, he collapsed into the forgotten chair, not slipping from Estelle's warmth as he brought that lithe, precious body to settle about him. Breathless, his mouth gave her every assurance, cooed whispers and gentle hands relaying reverence and greed set aside. Yet inside that haze, he could not halt a wicked grin as it spread across his lips.

"What are you smiling at, Cullen?"

She could not see it, the long streak cut along the weakness of the grain – good quality was so hard to find.

THE END

Hands and Hurts - CullenxF!Trevelyan archer (Gift)

Author's Note: Fanart always inspires and Chenria is such a lovely person to work with for commissions. I wrote this as a gift for her since she took my craziness in stride and made something beautiful.

Merry Christmas, darling, to you and all.

On a different note, buy Ferelden hardwood – better quality than any Orlesian fanciful scrollwork.

Don't forget to watch this precious sweetling: :iconchenria: :love:

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In which I make angst-y notes about Lady Trevelyan getting possessed...
It seems I do nothing but write as of late. I guess everyone just keeps me inspired.

Gotta love all of you.
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: nudity and sexual themes)

Just a little change, a taste of home. A hunger brews for the finer things, for beauty and for love. || Dorian x M!Trevelyan Mage.


A gift fic for a trade my dear Slugette, who kindly had painted me the most wonderful digital tarot card of my Inquisitor and her Commander. This fic centres around her mage Yvad Trevelyan and his lover.


Author: Illusionary Ennui

Disclaimer: If it's not in the games, codex entries, or the wiki, it's mine. All else, hail to Bioware.

Chapter Rating: M

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Drama, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, NSFW - Sexual Content

Edited: 12.15.2014


FINERY

Trappings, burdens made
Yet from my shoulders, lifted
Into your hands, free

"- What you had was hideous. Now this... this is truly a magnificent work of art. Go on."

Skyhold's bounty never ceased, the windows shut against the cold, yet the filtered light streamed through the stained glass. Behind the privacy screen, more for suspense than modesty, Yvad Trevelyan eyed the silken threads, ebony and rich purple woven like swaths of clouds across a twilit sky. Flecks of pure silver and gold caught the fading sun. Curious fingers traced the embroidery, traipsing along bands of broad trim and each stitched, sinewy spiral of dragons. So alien, so different than the well-worn leathers of his house clothes, the simpler finery which he often wore in Skyhold for the tedious work of delegations and decisions - oh, how he hated those trivial, painful trifles.

The Tevinter-made robes tapered perfectly to the Inquisitor's waist and the soft, velvety leather conformed to his shoulders. The sleeves reached just the right length. Even the bottom hem lingered loosely about his ankles, but not overmuch. It was a bit light for the southern weather but its comfort countered any discontent. He smiled, couldn't help its pull. He fiddled with the metal toggles, fastening them until all but the top three snapped closed. There, the robe gaped, the pale tunic beneath painted by the growing shadows. A heavy hand raked through the raven strands where they brushed across the wide collar.

Not bad, he mused. Yvad stepped into the remaining sunlight towards the mirror. Traces of his mirth quirking the corners of his mouth and crinkling at the corners of skin around the fetching amethysts that Dorian swore were the Ostwick mage's eyes.

"Well?" Those violet irises snapped from his reflection, the robe fluttering along the lengths of his legs. Dorian's smirk glowed, his own eyes narrowed, drinking in the sight. His wine glass, a fine vintage of aggregio pavali, lingered near his lips where sunlight stained them in the deepest crimson. A forefinger pulled away, turning in a languid circle. "Give us a turn, amatus."

For all his worth, Yvad's smile only broadened.

"Wanting to admire your handy work?" A sly grin shot itself towards his lover as he turned on his heel. He felt the magister's gaze, a slow burn like a smouldering match ready to spark back into flame. "I have to admit, you do have an eye for this kind of thing."

Dorian huffed, not yet moving from his seat with only mask of mystery marring his features. Still he held Yvad fixed in his sights as if studying, sketching him into his mind. He leaned back, a flash of mischief dancing across his lips. A breath, another sip of wine savoured…

What could he be thinking, Yvad wondered.

Did he approve? Or was this some elaborate scheme? Did it bring back memories best forgotten? Or perhaps memories of home, of the Tevinter he so loved?

The sofa creaked and the wine glass rang as Dorian at last stood. Yvad, without thought, took a step back. Dorian's steps were measured, careful strides carrying him across the Orlesian rug until the magister stood within reach. Those elegant fingers, accustomed to casting out spells with flair, stroked along the collar of the robe, straightening a wrinkle here, adjusting a toggle there. Not a word had he spoken but there was something entrancing in each slide of Dorian's fingertips. A moment passed, both stilled until a stray hand slid beneath the open collar, warm as it splayed onto his chest.

"It suits you. However –" A quick flick of those mischievous fingers, a toggle slipped open. "–despite my ability to make you so devilishly handsome to strut in a fine state – and succeeding, mind you – I fear I may need a comparison. Perhaps with a few… less trappings?" Another toggle fell away, one tanned hand left to creep up, growing hotter. The other make quick work of another toggle, then another and then another.

Instinct drove Yvad into submission the moment Dorian reached the belt of cloth and its ornate buckle. Dorian barely tapped the hidden catch before his mouth pressed to the Inquisitor's. A hunger filled them both. Seeking palms pushed the robe from Yvad's shoulders. The robe pooled onto the floor at their feet, a cascading treasure of obsidian and mauve left for another time. The same hands slipped beneath his tunic, bracing his spine. A kiss for a kiss traded, Yvad pressed back in kind, matching Dorian for every touch as the magister tore the away the shift. A shiver played across the lighter skin, but the steady heat chased away complaint.

Where Dorian led, Yvad followed. Leathers fell away, their bare feet and skin only warmed by the last bit of sun, the fire crackling in the hearth, and their own desires. A paused kept them still for but a moment, the box that held the princely robes tossed aside from the bed. With a playful smirk, Dorian let Yvad fall back, crawling after him onto the great expanse. Muscles stretched and tightened, barely touching.

"What are you waiting for?" Yvad eyed his lover, wide and longing.

"Amatus, you cannot imagine the sight you are," Dorian breathed, his words like the hot winds winding through the streets of Minrathous as they played across the younger man's taut throat. A clever tongue darted out, tasting the salty-sweet skin. He knew that body as he knew his own, every flutter, every trick. His mouth painted those yearnings, nipping along the skin. Below, Yvad stirred to them, answered them with a slow rise, his hips canting to match Dorian's press. Clever fingers danced, tiny flickers of fire and desire. They dug into his skin, held him tight. He had barely a moment before Dorian brought him to bear where the Tevinter flipped him onto his stomach. Again, those lips descended. They ghosted down the mage's spine, vertebra by vertebra. The altus's nails marked him, crescent moons etched into his flesh. The broad palms curved over the swell of Yvad's hip, their warm curling around his length. Yvad let slip his pleasured groan as Dorian pulled him up onto his knees. Beneath them, the bed creaked, its Orelsian silks pooling around them.

"Do-ri-an…" Three breaths, three syllables stretched. Those talented fingers stroked, a steady rhythm. A thumb swept over his tip, swollen. Another moan shuttered through Yvad. His fingers clenched into the sheets, nearly ripping into the fabric. Dorian's fingers and tongue of him a whimpering tempest of need. Each stroke brought him closer to release, to the haze only Dorian could bring him… and then the heat was gone. "Dorian!" Yvad whined even as he fought the urge to reach out for himself. His fingers curled further into the silks, seeking some purchase, some anchor within the tide.

"There, there," cooed his lover, his accent pouring over his ear. "Savour –" Yvad's eyes slammed shut as a finger probed into his heat. "- the moment."

The Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste – whatever titles given – was no more than a man in that moment. He lost himself with every slide, every subtle crook opening him for that greater need. He felt himself slip into that aura of ardour, of lust to fill the void, the hollow place he kept hidden. Whatever those title, whatever his purpose – in that place, he was belonged to Dorian. He gave the altus his reign and in return, he found ease. There, they were themselves, unmasked.

His body tightened, anticipating. He pushed back into Dorian's hands, begging with action rather than words. Into those hands, he offered himself.

And Dorian knew it like the hunger brewing inside his chest, inside his belly where the coil reached its pinnacle, tripping towards the point where it would snap. Yvad's teeth clacked hard, his face buried into his pillow as Dorian slipped in.

Tight.

Warm.

Ready.

They poured themselves out and refilled themselves from the other. Shallow strokes rocked them in time, the bright light lingering on the edge of the periphery. An arm hooked around him, stretched him to his limits as Dorian's fingers threaded into his hair, the dark curls slick in his grip and his mouth sealed to the junction of throat and shoulder. Yvad's spine bent, arched to press against the smooth planes of his lover's chest. Their bodies swayed, a precarious balance held only by will, learned hands, and the sharp prick of teeth marking their claim.

The pressure built, faster and faster. Ragged breaths became their song, drumming its beat higher and higher. And then, they snapped. They shattered into sparks, silver stars falling across them as they fell into a heap of tangled limbs and sweat, silk sticking to their skin. Every nerve alive, every sense left open. Yvad pressed his lips to Dorian's and tasted the lingering cry of his name as it had poured from them, riding the climax as the magister's came from his own. Yet all he could see through that fog of warmth and flesh was that wicked smile and the black robes stitched with such promise.

"A pity. I'd rather like to see you wear it again." Over the chorus of blood, the thunder of pleasure, Yvad fixed Dorian with a glare only to find himself swept away by that handsome, sly smirk spreading like wildfire. "Perhaps a little show?"

"Next time." An accord, a promise – why deny what he craved?

And he had to admit: it was truly fine.

The End

Finery - Dorian x M!Trevelyan

Author's Note: Written as a gift for my dear Slugette, my first attempt at such a pairing, for a little exchange. I only hope it lives up to expectations.

Merry Christmas, darling!

:love: :iconslugette:

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  • Mood: Love
  • Listening to: Vertical Horizon, "Save Me From Myself
  • Reading: Tanya Huff's "Blood Pact"
  • Watching: Yu-Gi-Oh!
  • Playing: Dragon Age: Inquisition.
  • Eating: Angel Food Cake with chocolate pudding.
  • Drinking: Water.
Seriously, go play Dragon Age: Inquisition. Meanwhile, I've working on some fics, including one for an art trade with :iconslugette:

She's amazing, by the way.

And have I mention that I love the interaction with the characters and how much Cullen has grown. For all he's endured, he deserves a happy ending.

deviantID

illusionaryennui
M
United States
Current Residence: My head...
Favourite genre of music: New Age and Alternative.
Favourite style of art: Sketch.
Operating System: Windows.
MP3 player of choice: Philips.
Favourite cartoon character: Can't choose... and I prefer anime, thank you.
Personal Quote: "Indeed."
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:iconcharlottehintzmann:
CharlotteHintzmann Featured By Owner Dec 6, 2014  Student General Artist
thanks for the favorite :).
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:iconbluecaroline:
BlueCaroline Featured By Owner Nov 30, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Merci M!

Glass-hearts 
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kach-back Featured By Owner Nov 30, 2014   Traditional Artist
Thank you very much for the :+fav: of my "Flooded" painting, it is currently being framed and will hang for sale in a gallery not very far from that spot I painted it from. :-)
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:iconrobleskazeppelin:
RobleskaZeppelin Featured By Owner Nov 26, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thank you for the fave(s)! :) Emoticon: Bow 
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pranDIV Featured By Owner Nov 9, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thank you for the fav!:)
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