AHHHH HELLOOO sorry i usually dont request much, haha this is actually my second request in all of my tumblr story ever but...i saw you decided to write for gaming and i just couldnt resist, i love your writing a lot and i just think its so immaculate hahaa. Could you write an scenario where male reader is stressed from work (imagine he has an important job like a doctor or something whatever you want is fine :)) because he has been working days nonstop, so much that his boyfriend is all worked up and horny for him so when reader comes back he finds himself straddled by him while hes begging for fucking? With cockwarming, breeding kink and cowgirl position. Could that be with Gaming, Lyney and Gorou? SORRY IF IM ASKING MUCH I DONT WANT TO BE A BOTHER😭😭 i just dont know how to request but thanks for reading all of rant. And again, thank you and sorry for bothering😔 have a nice day/afternoon/night!
"an unnamed player has invited GA-MING, LYNEY, and GOROU to play . . .
an apple a day
✦ㅤㅤ 【 CW 】 dom!top!male!reader, sub!bottom!ftm!characters, vaginal sex & riding, breeding kink + creampies, creaming (lyney), gratuitous praise + petnames .
A/N : aa u are never a bother !! i am SO SORRY this took so long for me to get to, omg . . . but i had sm fun with this (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)
"do you want to watch, [PLAYER]? press KEEP READING to spectate the match."
Patient after patient after patient, each one with a more downright stupid trouble than the last. Your day had started with a young man, clearly fresh out of Millelith training, complaining of a tummy ache, of all things! He had clutched his stomach and moaned and groaned, and all you could prescribe him was bedrest. It’s not like you were going to waste medicine—medicine that some people needed—on someone who ached because he didn't eat fucking breakfast.
The next patient was an older woman, here only for her biannual check up. You'd greeted her, said a sweet, “Good morning, madame,” but all she did was turn her snobby nose up at you and demand you not waste her time.
“Madame, you have a serious—”
“I know, young man.” You had heaved a sigh, letting her boss you around for the length of her appointment before sending her off with the exact same specifications as last time: take vitamins, get ample rest, stop talking back to people just doing their jobs. (Though, that last one there was merely something you wished you had said.
Too bad the customer—in this case, patient—is always right, huh?)
But, by the end of the day, you wish, instead, that you had simply elderly after elderly; their disrespect pales to the absolute headache that the rest of your patients put behind your eyes, pounding at your skull—bam, bam, bam.
Wham bam-thank-you-ma'am, all throbbing incessantly behind your eyes and making you wanna hurl—except, god, you’re the fucking doctor, and who’s there to take care of him when he’s a little under the weather? You’ve got your boyfriend, of course—your perfect boyfriend, light of your life, apple of your eye, yet he’s home, and you’re here, and you’re bloody exhausted.
“I need to go home,” you murmur—quiet, lest your own voice make you lose the last of your thin-threaded sanity—, already stripping yourself of the itchy scrubs you wear during the long days.
“But sir—” the nurse asks, meak, but her voice is still too loud, too shrill for right now.
You huff. “I’ve worked for fourteen hours.” The tired gruff to your own voice makes you cringe. You can feel the way it tumbles from your chest, rattling you, your overly sensitive eyes and brain and head and fuckin’ everything, at this point. “Refer to the doc on duty, now.”
The nurse nods, once. “Have a good night, doctor.”
You bid farewell—a kind apology with a promise to make it up to them, to bring them coffee, maybe, or some cookies—, and you take the slow walk home. The sky is dark and the fireflies are out, the gentle glow illuminating the path. With nothing but your own thoughts and the night to accompany you, you feel your headache gradually ease. It throbs, still; but each bump in your skull is gentler, now: it’s easier to ignore.
Although the porch light is too strong—the lantern bright and attracting the nighttime bugs and moths—, the foyer of your home is dark. Your aching head is grateful for the reprieve—for the silence that envelops you in totality the second the door clicks quietly shut behind you—, but something other than tiredness pulls at your heartstrings: your sweet boyfriend, clad in only a shirt of yours, toeing into the entryway.
“Honey?” He wipes the sleep from his eyes, softly smiling at you. “Hi.”
“Ga-ming, honey—” honey, because Ga-ming unabashedly stole the pet name from you, first, “—you didn’t have to stay up for me.”
As if on cue, his jaw cracks open in a yawn: this, you do not need the lights on to see. Your heart aches with your head, knowing that he had stayed up just for you. “Honey,” you repeat, sliding off your jacket and stepping up to him. You take his waist in your hands, bunching up the shirt he stole from your closet.
“Quit with that,” he murmurs, tilting up his head for a soft kiss. You grant it; but when you go to pull back, to keep the kiss gentle and chaste, Ga-ming presses forward, darting that little tongue out to lick at the seam of your lips; his hips, too, come bumping against yours, pressing into your thigh, pant to skin—
“Ga-ming?” you repeat, breath leaving you in a low huff. “You’re—” bare.
Utterly, wholly bare: an expanse of warm, slick skin against your clothed leg. “‘m ready,” he mumbles while he takes to mouthing at your throat. His lips soothe you, somehow; it’s a reprieve, a stark contrast, to the pounding at your skull.
“Ready?” you whisper, tilting your head back, letting your hands guide the steady roll of his hips onto your lap.
He nods. “Ready for you,” he enunciates as he softly whines.
Ga-ming—your Ga-ming—, your boyfriend, your love and light of your life: right here in front of you, on you, all needy for you, offering himself to you, wholly ready for the taking.
“So please,” he continues, his cock dragging heavy across the seam of your pant; “fuck me.”
“Oh, honey,” you murmur; then again, an “oh, honey,” because you’re still half-dressed up in your clothes—though they’re only soft and bland, made to fit under the rough scrubs you had abandoned at the office—, and Ga-ming is naked save for the shirt draping across him, the low hemline covering the absolutely sinful way he grinds down. It’s a dirty move, a down, down, down that gives his sensitive cock friction against your pelvis.
“Please, please, ‘m ready, I said—” his words abruptly drop off, a high cry in his throat that sends him to hide his overly-warm face in your neck. His skin burns against you, a feverish-hot that makes you chuckle, makes the throb in your head go away, just-so. “I said I-I was ready, so, please!”
You coo, quiet, bumping your hips up once. The jerking motion makes him cry out, but he manages to keep himself upright, right-side up but entirely unmoored on your cock. “Go on then, little lion. Take what you need, yeah?”
Whimpering a quiet, “Y-yeah,” he begins riding you, slow, steady—but slightly off-balanced—rolls of his hips that makes him whine, makes you groan low n’ deep in your chest. You let your hands rest on his hips, the fabric of his shirt falling over your wrists, and gently guide his motions. Once you’ve helped him establish himself, he begins riding you harder, more desperate.
Silent tears—though, are they truly silent, loud as he is moaning out for you?—dribble down his cheeks, falling to his shirt and soaking the collar of it in salty evidence of his abject pleasure. His abdomen is tensing and relaxing and tensing and relaxing again, all in a rapid loop, in and out and in n’ out, and then there’s a fucking bulge right below his navel when he sinks down hard n’ deep on your cock; and you’re sent over the edge at the sight, moaning through your teeth as you fill Ga-ming up with hot, sticky cum.
“Oh, oh—” he cries, grinding down harsh to get all your cum in as deep as possible, deep ‘nuff to breed him— “bred me, bred me so well, oh—” You groan at his desperate babbling as his thighs jerk around your hips, just before they give out on him entirely. He falls bodily into your chest, heaving through his own orgasm as weak mewls tumble from his prettily parted lips. Each sound is smeared into your throat while you laugh, light and breathless, jostling his overly-sensitized body and making him flinch.
“Sorry, honey.” You kiss at his temple, and, the whole while, his small cunt is left to unconsciously milk your cock, left to assure that loud, insecure part of his brain that he’s wanted, that he’s bred all nice n’ full because he is loved. You’re long done, now, but the undulations make your body warm, soft, safe—just like Ga-ming is, comfy in your lap and wholly protected. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head against you, nuzzling into your throat with a heavy sigh. “You don’t have—hafta thank me,” he mumbles, a lick at your Adam’s apple to seal the deal. “I wanted ta.”
Tucking up the blankets around him, you grin. “Then can you warm my cock, lil’ dragon? Just for me?” You run your fingers lightly up his clothed spine, delighting in the shiver you can feel, one that runs the length of your cock as he’s snug on it. “Since earlier was all about you?” You raise the end of your sentence in a lilting tone, meant to tease, and Ga-ming huffs at you.
And, n further retaliation, he clenches around you; the soft squeeze—all wet n’ warm, smearing your own cum across the base of your cock and leaving the mess of both of yours to dribble down the minute space between your bodies—forces you to calm your breathing, to take in the delicate scent of what is undeniably Ga-ming mixed with the smell of your own shirt, your own cologne.
You laugh, then. “‘m sorry,” you say again amidst giggles, ones you’re careful you confine only to your upper chest lest the movement be too uncomfortable on both of your oversensitive groins.
He doesn't reply, snuggled up comfy on your lap and stuffed full of your cock n’ cum both. Instead, he only noses into your neck further before his breathing steadies, lulling you to sleep, too.
It’s in your final moments of consciousness that you realize your head no longer hurts.
(You suppose you now have the evidence that, yes, an orgasm is sufficient enough a cure for headaches.)
Under Lyney’s palm, a small floor lamp clicks silently on. The light is admittedly dim, but, to your sensitive eyes, the bulb is blinding. You cringe and cover your eyes; but it only serves to shield you slightly, because you’re still upright in the foyer, and your body is rather weak. “Lyney,” you tiredly murmur, lifting your palm just enough to see the ground lest you trip.
You bump into him, laughing lightly, but his worried hands jump to your arm. “Hey—”
“I’m okay.” You’re quick to calm him, placing your free hand on his in a tender gesture as you make way to the living room. “Just a headache, ‘s all. Ya shouldn't have stayed up f’r me.” Earlier, it hurt to even think; but here, with him, the pain is easy to ignore, in the face of his own self destruction.
He grumbles at you, though, says something you can’t quite catch and drops his hands, pads over to the lamp to flick it off. The return of darkness is soothing.
He smiles at you, then; or, at least, you think he does. It’s difficult to see in the dark, and you can’t strain your eyes without hurting yourself. “I wanted to!” He takes three long strides before he’s standing in front of you, draping his arms across your shoulders. The position makes his (your) shirt ride up on his belly, and— ”I missed you, y’know,” he murmurs, suddenly all soft n’ deep, looking up at you and bumping his forehead against your chin. “A lot, really.”
“Lyn—”
He quickly silences you with a kiss. Against your lips, he pulls back, murmurs, “I missed your cock, especially.”
Laughing against him, you lean up ‘til he can no longer reach you. He pouts at you when you reply, faux-snark, “only my cock, huh?” Your bottom lip juts out—a mirror of Lyney’s own, a magic trick of his you took for your own; it’s a devilish trick, one you play right alongside puppy-dog eyes you know he’s soft to. “How cruel.”
He huffs at you, pulling you down by the collar of your shirt to kiss the mirth off your lips. “I was tryin’ to be seductive,” he grumbles, knocking against your chin and beginning to push you backwards into the living room. “But nevermind!”
You want to say, “Hey, now:” disagree with him and keep on pouting and go, “hey, hey, hey,” all offended, but the backs of your knees come into contact with the edge of the sofa, and you’re well and sufficiently distracted from that idea.
“Sit,” he gently commands you—merely the illusion of choice—, giving you no choice in the matter with the way he’s pressing you down into the cushions. You go easily; you sigh in relief when the softness begins enveloping you—a pillow’s snug right in the middle of your back, and you briefly wonder if Lyney had planned this. He murmurs, “there you go,” quiet n’ soft, and you’re taken by the way this man gives to you.
He wears his heart on his sleeve, truly; except, right now, the sleeve is yours (just like his heart belongs to you and yours to him in turn), and it's bare, and so is the expanse of his long, pale thighs, the hem of his boxers peeking out beneath the shirt. He stands in front of you, between your legs, makes sure you’re down and that you’re gonna stay down, but your eyes aren’t really tired, not anymore, staring at Luney—your Lyney—before he huffs and sits bodily onto you, straddling your lap with his knees sinking into the cushions on either side of you.
“Lyney,” you murmur, reaching out to take hold of his thighs. The position makes the shirt rise up on his belly, exposing the soft, rippling muscles there; but, in the dark, all you can go by is what you feel against your own stomach, his bare skin pressed to your thin shirt. “I was kiddin’, sweetheart.”
“I know you were,” he snaps at you, mean-like, but he brings his arms around your shoulders all sweetly and nuzzles into the side of your head. “But I wasn’t. I—I really did miss you; and your cock. If you—if you wanna, of course.”
“Of course I want to, Lyn,” you mutter, tilting your head up to kiss beneath his chin. “I’m just a little tired.”
“A little?” He huffs, again, before sighing. “Just—let me do the work, alright? I’m already...” he pauses, tilts his head to the side, breathes in and out sharply.
You hum at him to go on.
“‘m already prepped.” Oh.
“Oh?” You grin, bringing your tired arm up to cup his cheek. He leans into your palm and his eyelashes flutter, brushing against your skin. “Go ahead then, sweet thing.”
And go ahead he does, smiling into you before he abruptly leans back ‘nuff to chuck off the shirt. You whine, say, “hey!” but there isn’t any bite left on your tongue when Lyney starts tugging his boxers down, too. He’s impatient, pulling at the seam and groaning curses at the fabric—as if it’s the damn boxers’ fault that he’s in a position that prevents him from taking them off.
He relents, tilting this way and that and finally—after painstaking minutes later, ones that, under no circumstance, should be arousing, but the anticipation, the wait: it all makes your dick chub up in your own pants—Lyney’s left naked in your lap. The fabric hangs off his foot, and you reach down to tug it the rest of the way off for your sweet boyfriend as he busies himself unbuckling your own belt, loosening the tough leather enough for your pants to droop and enough for him to reach a hot hand into your briefs.
“Eager, huh?” you tease, lifting your hips—and, subsequently, him—to let him get your dick out of your pants. Neither of you bother pulling down your own pants, not after Lyney spent so long on his boxers alone. He doesn’t dally. “My sweet Lyney.”
He sighs, again—he’s rather dramatic tonight; but, then again, when isn’t he? It wouldn’t quite be your Lyney without some theatrics—, spitting into his palm and lathering up your cock with it while he makes to straddle you more fully. “Thought you were tired,” he grumbles, hovering his, indeed, wet n’ slicked up and entirely prepped cunt over your thick cockhead.
“Mhm.” You set your hands on his plush thighs once he hooks the head of you into his loosened hole, groaning low and pleased in your throat while he softly whimpers at the barely-there stretch. He prepared himself well. “But when you’re lookin’ so pretty for me, I can’t help being wide awake. Wouldn’t wanna miss this sight for the world.”
With your eyes now adjusted to the light—and, oh, you consider how the throb of your head is a bygone memory now—, you can see the way his cheeks darken just-so, puffed up in exertion as his groin meets yours. You’ve got your cock stuffed up balls-deep in him, and he leans into you once he’s fully settled.
He moans, less out of outright pleasure and more out of total contentment, comfy and warm on your lap as your arms knead at his thighs. His arms squeeze around your shoulders, and he quietly asks, “Gimme a minute.”
Nodding, you simply bask in the steady heat of him, letting him adjust and recognize that, yes, you’re home, now, and you hadn’t really left him at all. “I missed you,” you murmur rather suddenly, your voice quiet but still stark in the silence of the night. “Thought about you durin’ my shift.”
“You did?” His voice is rough but wispy, a little out-there and entirely gone. He’s slipping into that mindset he always does when he’s left to warm your cock—regardless of if it were by his volition or your own—, but he begins to subtly grind his hips against you, mewling at the hot sparks of rapture from his cock rubbing just right against you.
“‘Course I did,” you continue, moving your hands to his hips instead to help move him along. His arms tighten around you and he moans directly into your ear.
From then on, it’s quiet: quiet, that is, save from the obscene slick noises of the lube Lyney used to prep himself earlier with his own slick, your pre-cum mixing up and making a mess of thick liquid between both of your thighs. His moans are barely audible, these soft, gentle lil’ uh, uh, uh’s punched out of him with each tender grind down.
You think, even, that you’ll both cum like this: quiet, nothing but the sounds of your connection and heavy breaths, moans, groans as you fall over the edge. But then Lyney starts bumping his groin against yours even harder, grinding down deep on your cock and rubbing against your full balls, and he starts babbling for you to “breed me! Please—”
“I-I’ll breed you,” you groan, leaning your head back into the sofa cushions and chasing your release, chasing the release you both want, the one he wants so desperately stuffed up deep inside him. “Gonna fill you right up, just like you want, sweetheart.”
He babbles more—a mix of syllables and words, more pleas for you to breed him—until he’s silenced by his own high-pitched whine, cumming around you and slathering you in creamy-white. The steady clench and release of his cunt forces you to your own end, thick cum slowly leaking out from the edges of his cunt and your cock. (You can hardly tell what’s your leaking cum and what is his own.)
“Thank you,” he mumbles, already beginning to doze. “Th’nk you:” quieter, more muddled against your ear.
You grab the throw you have across the sofa’s armrest, rucking it up around the two of you; you cocoon Lyney safe in your arms and on your softened cock. He’s nodded off, now, and he misses your words: “You don’t have to thank me,” you say anyway, even if he doesn’t hear you, “I love you.”
The cum’ll be sticky, later, when you wake up; but for now, it’s perfect. It’s perfectly warm and entirely cozy, wholly snuggled up with the love of your life. Your headache, the stressors of the day—they’re all forgotten in his presence.
You’re so, so glad to love him.
“Hi, puppy,” you coo. The sound of your own voice grates you, but you ignore it to sweetly smile at your beloved. He stands there, motionless for a moment right there at the threshold before the foyer, until he shakes his head with a barely-there laugh. “Gorou?”
He tilts his head to the side—this you can see, the silhouette of him in the moonlight—before he takes a tentative step forward.
Then another. And another. Another, another, another, ‘till he’s standing in front of you and leans up to kiss your jaw. “Hi,” he repeats, voice ruff (hah!) and hoarse, a little too much so. “Missed ya.”
You tilt your head back to let him mouth at you, and your hands subconsciously come to clutch at his hips, and— “Oh, Gorou,” you mumble, pleasantly aghast, because your hands come into contact with bare, slick skin. “Pent up?”
With a quiet whimper, he tilts his hips forward, into you, pressing against the contact of your fingers on him. You slowly slide your one hand around, sneaking a large handful of his ass before you dip into his cleft, shuddering when your fingertip easily glides across his slicked, open cunt.
“I-I wanted you, so bad,” he starts to mumble, shy, tucking his head into the meat where your shoulder meets your neck. Without any prompting, you adjust your stance, pressing your knee into his cock and making him jerk forward with another whimper high in his throat. “Oh!”
Slowly, his hips begin grinding—it’s a weak movement, testing, making sure you're really okay with this, right now. He moves unsure against you until you begin bumping your knee, letting his slick make a mess of your pant leg. “Go on,” you goad him on, soft, holding him snug against you. You can feel his cunt clench even through the fabric of your pants, a rapid rat-a-tat-tat against you that is oddly reminiscent of the headache you can feel begin to dissipate. “Take your pleasure, pup.”
He nods vehemently against you, beginning to hump as his tail swishes side to side, side to side, hypnotizing you just slightly. It’s hard to parse it out in the dark, but the shadow of it is undeniable behind him. Each bounce of your leg makes Gorou whimper, and he’s quick to crane his neck up for a kiss to muffle himself. You grant his request easily, but only for a minute; after, you gently part from him to murmur, so quiet that only he could possibly hear, those big, soft ears of his twitching as he strains, “What else do you want, honey?”
“Want you,” he whines, grinding harshly once, twice. “Want you inside me, want you to breed me.”
You didn’t expect that, but you’re a doctor, after all; it’s kinda in the job description to roll with the punches, so you do. “You wanna get fucked full of pups?” you ask, teasing and light, but Gorou’s mouth parts as a loud whine crawls out of his chest.
“Yes! Please.” Thick tears begin to drop from his eyes, saltwater dribbling onto the bare skin of your throat. “Now, now—breed me now,” he begs, and you coo at him, bringing your hands to curl into his hair, rubbing soothing circles into the base of one puppydog ear.
“Patience, pup.”
And, because he’s Gorou, and Gorou is nothing but a good boy, he nods, rapid-quick movements of his head, and begins to slow on your thigh. Heat shimmers low in your belly as he steps back from you on shaky legs, a wet splotch across your leg from his cunt. You bring a hand down, meaning to scoop it up off your pant, but your finger brushes two distinctly different textures: his natural slick, and fuckin’ lube. “Did you prepare yourself for me?”
“Y-yeah,” he mutters, tail tucking itself between his legs. You almost cringe at that, knowing he’s smearing himself into his own fur, but if he doesn’t mind, then you won’t either; besides, it’s hard to truly care when your boyfriend is so bashful in front of you. “I—I missed you, ‘nd wanted to be ready for you.”
The image of Gorou, ass up on the bed with four of his fingers stuffed up inside of himself flitters across your mind, makes your cock throb in your britches. Your erection was easy to ignore, earlier; but now it’s abject torture.
However, it’s not nearly as torturous as it was for your boyfriend, and you know this. You know he didn’t cum, know his fingers are far too short to truly reach in deep and press against his g-spot, know his wrist can’t comfortably bend to jerk himself off and finger himself at the same time. So you coo, soft, “Sweet boy. Where’s your toy?”
“Charging,” he mutters.
You grin at that: it’s perfect. “Can you go get it then, puppy?”
With an audible swallow, he nods, rushing for your bedroom. You follow behind him, lethargic but so, so turned on; and while he’s grabbing the vibrator from the corner, you shuck off the rest of your clothes and plop yourself down on the edge of your bed.
He must not expect you to have followed him, however, because once he turns around, he jumps, ears flattening to his head in embarrassment. You only laugh and pat your lap. “C’mere.”
Quickly—and toy in tow—, he shuffles over to you. He stands awkwardly in front of you for a moment before you murmur, “I said c’mere,” and tug him to straddle your lap. The position immediately forces his cock—slick n’ thick, out of its hood and throbbing incessantly—against yours, and he mewls helplessly for a moment, grinds once, twice again, before he grabs the lube to the side of you.
You hadn’t even noticed it there, but now that he’s grabbed it, pointed it out, you feel other wet spots beneath you. He fuckin’ masturbated here, right on the duvet you both sleep under, thinkin’ about you and only you. You’re taking out of your musings when he slathers up your cock in lube, messy and sloppy, and then he’s rising, positioning you, and sinking right on down.
“Mm!” he cries out, swiveling his hips to take you in deeper, deeper, deeper. You groan at the lube-slick combination that smothers your cock in Gorou, Gorou, Gorou. “Breed me, breed me!” Each meak plea makes your cock pulse inside him, and he mewls at each throb inside him. “Please!”
“I got you, pup,” you murmur, your edge so close you can taste it on the tip of your tongue. “Just make yourself feel good, and I’ll breed you, okay? Okay, puppy?”
“Okay, okay—”
You grin. “Good boy,” you say, and then he’s tumbling over the edge and bringing you right down with him. You groan into his throat, feeling the vibrations of his whimpers n’ whining moans as he’s getting thoroughly bred. Your hands ruck up his shirt to hold his sides and soothe him down from his high. “You did so good for me, sweetheart. Bred you just like I promised I would, hm?”
He weakly nods. “Thank you,” he mumbles, nosing at your throat.
And, well. You’re bloody exhausted, and you promised to breed him, and he can’t keep on being bred if you pull out. You tell yourself you’re only upholding your promise as Gorou falls asleep on your cock, breathing deep on your lap: tell yourself that it’s the lingering tiredness that suddenly seems to hit you in full-force that keeps him warm and snug on you.
Really, clean-up can wait.
i got a lil' carried away on lyney's part ,, o(*^@^*)o also, none of these were really cowgirl 'cos reader was sitting up for it . . . i couldn't think of how to have him lay flat in these scenarios LOLL
13 MAR. 2024, @rosedom, rosey .
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More Than Words (Ch. 6)
The journey back to Skyhold had fortunately been event free which Cullen was especially thankful for since his armor was damaged. He had even gone straight to Dagna to ask her to repair his armor before he even asked for any reports of what happened while he had been gone. More paperwork was piled haphazardly on his desk and the sight itself started a headache at the base of his skull.
That had been what he focused on for the next couple of days, the first simply sorting them all out in the hopes that he could send them off to Rylen or Cassandra to be done but it was only a meager amount to his misfortune. But further investigation had him throwing at least half of them into the fire whether they weren't necessary to respond to or because they were a waste of his time.
Like some silly love note a visiting noble must have slipped onto his desk.
No thank you.
Dorian found humor in it though. The mage was a more frequent visitor to Cullen's tower, so much so that he procured a chaise from somewhere and positioned it behind the commander's desk but near the fireplace. If Dorian needed a break or simply didn't have anything he needed to research, he spent a lot of his time reading in Cullen's office. It was a balm to his nerves anyway. A part of him always worried about the man when he wasn't in sight because of the collective dislike of the Tevinter mage, but it had seemed to abate little by little once the people began to realize that Dorian wasn't the enemy and truly wanted to help their cause.
He also liked to pester Cullen when he felt that he had been working too long. Like now. Dorian was slowly growing persistent in poking and prodding at whatever part of Cullen he could reach, which happened to be his thigh.
He only grunted irritably for the first hour before he finally gave in and dropped the papers in his hands. "Would you like to get some lunch?" Cullen sighs.
Dorian closes his book with a snap and a victorious smile before placing it on the chaise to read later. Then Cullen was being led by his tunic out the western door and toward the tavern. It was a little embarrassing, but any soldiers nearby that happened to glance their way didn't seem to bat an eye. Perhaps it happened more often than he realized.
"Dragging me around is really unnecessary," Cullen huffs and straightens when the mage finally releases him. "I also could have sent a runner to fetch us some lunch."
Dorian turned on his heel to level an unimpressed look at the commander before grabbing his hand.
Just because you went on one of our little excursions doesn't mean you can hole yourself up in your office for days on end. It'll do you some good to get out once or twice a day and let your mind rest.
The mage pulls his hand away with a knowing glance and Cullen rubs the back of his neck with a sigh. Dorian probably had a good point. Being constantly hunched over wasn't helping with the symptoms of his lyrium withdrawal, and a brief walk at the very least could help.
"How could I hole myself up when you're around to poke and prod at me?" Cullen huffs humorously, opening the door to the tavern when they arrive. Dorian steps in first and walks down the stairs with Cullen close behind and they find an empty table to sit at. "I've been meaning to ask, and I apologize if this is…uncouth…but have you tried to find a way to reverse the damage?"
Dorian raises an eyebrow until Cullen motions to his throat and he reaches out to take his hand.
I've tried a couple of things, but Vivienne thinks she might have an elixir she can make that will help. She's in the process of making it and it should be done by this evening. Dorian glanced up at Cullen and smirks. Do you miss the sound of my voice Commander?
Cullen couldn't fight down his blush. "I'll admit…it has felt unnatural for you to be so quiet. I know you want to go back home to Tevinter and try to make changes but I fear you won't be able to if you can't speak your mind."
Dorian only gave him a fond smiles and sat back just as the barmaid came by with a couple tankards of ale and the food they were serving for the day. Cullen sent her off with a smile and some coin before digging into his meal with gusto. He always took advantage of having an appetite when he had one, courtesy of the withdrawals, but he began to notice little by little that his appetite remained more and more. Perhaps because Dorian pestered him into a somewhat regular eating schedule? When Cullen refused to eat because of a lack of appetite, the mage personally went down to the kitchens and hand picked what he thought would entice the commander to eat.
He was rather good at it too. Cullen did end up eating everything Dorian brought him, as well as the water, albeit slower than usual. But he did eat. Those instances were fewer and far between than in the beginning.
"Fancy britches got you to come down from your tower, eh?" Sera says, making herself comfortable on the bench next to Cullen…and helping herself to the bread the barmaid brought by moments before. "Been seeing more and more of you. Think it's good for you. Makes you less stuffy and less of an arse."
Cullen huffs. "Someone has to be."
"Leave it to Cassandra. Your pointy sticks do better when you're in a better mood and they actually see you." Sera cackles when Dorian snorts at the elf's description of Cullen's soldiers. "I'm surprised, you know?"
"About what?"
"That you haven't skewered the mage here–not like that." Sera says when Dorian chokes on his mouthful of stew. "Is sex all you think about? Don't answer that. I meant because even though he can't talk anymore, I'm sure he finds other ways to get your attention. Magic, right?"
Cullen ignores his own blush. "Not always," he admits.
"I thought you didn't like them. Letting him use any magic on you at all is still weird."
"...he's different." Cullen mumbles, shoving some stew soaked bread into his mouth.
It was true. Dorian was different but Cullen was exactly sure why. He was different before they kissed, and that had only confirmed the fact. He didn't know what they were to each other but he knew for a fact that they cared for each other greatly. More than friends he was willing to bet. Dorian flirted but he didn't kiss just anyone. And he especially didn't hand pick food for them. That was something others did for him. At least back in Tevinter.
"Have you crossed swords yet?"
Cullen groans and looks at her with a halfhearted glare. "Don't you have someone to prank?"
Sera cackles again and nimbly jumps to her feet. "Guess I could do something to your office again. But I won't tell you what. Takes the fun out."
As she practically skips out of the Herald's Rest, Cullen scoops up the rest of his stew and then washes it down with some ale. Sera was…a lot. He questioned her intentions when she first joined the Inquisition but eventually found that she was relatively harmless. As were her pranks. It did drive him crazy when he discovered she had been the reason his desk wobbled a few weeks ago. He was ready to tear out his hair and Dorian found the entire thing amusing.
Looking back on it now, it was what the Inquisition needed. If they were all too serious all of the time, some of them could die without enjoying what they had left of life. That's all Sera wanted to prove. The Inquisitor wholeheartedly agreed and helped her on occasion.
"If she makes something wobble again, I'm going to put my sword–" Cullen starts to grouse until Dorian chuckles and reaches over to pat his hand. "You laugh now, but I'm sure she'll do something to your clothes eventually." Dorian grimaced and Cullen smirks. "Are you satisfied that I've eaten now? I would like to get back to work."
Dorian sighed dramatically but nodded as they both stood and headed back up the stairs and towards Cullen's tower. The moment the commander opened the door though, he was surprised to see that Vivienne stood waiting by his desk.
"Ah. There you are dear. I've finished the elixir I promised you. I hope it works as intended." She says as she holds out a flask for Dorian. When he takes it, she frowns the slightest bit. "If it doesn't, I'm truly sorry. This is the only thing I believe can help you to my knowledge. But all you have to do is drink it. If it is going to work, it can within the hour or by tomorrow night."
Dorian nods gratefully and wastes no time in uncorking the flask and draining its contents as Vivienne tilts her head in acknowledgement to Cullen.
"Commander."
"Vivienne."
"Good night gentlemen." She says as she leaves the tower and when the door closes, Cullen turns to regard Dorian.
"Anything different?"
Dorian opens his mouth in an attempt to say something but nothing comes out and he shrugs. He didn't seem too worried that any results weren't instantaneous, but Cullen could only imagine that he was still frustrated. He was frustrated as well. The way Dorian spoke to him kept him on his toes, and also didn't insinuate that the commander was stupid. On the contrary, Cullen was surprisingly well-read and intelligent that Dorian had been pleasantly surprised to find out after their first initial meeting. It was what led to their frequent chess games. Their conversations could vary from embarrassing flirting on Dorian's part to questions about Ferelden history or something the mage had just read and wanted Cullen's opinion.
A break from military subjects that Cullen didn't realize he needed until then. He made it a point to schedule regular chess games with the mage, and that led to their current…relationship.
How is your shoulder? Dorian asks after grabbing Cullen's hand.
"Hmm? Oh…it's fine. Like it never happened." Cullen replies honestly, nodding when Dorian motions toward it in a silent request to check it. He had to remove his tunic so the mage could properly assess it, and he eventually heard a pleased hum from him. "Did it leave a scar?"
"No." Came a whispered reply. So quiet that Cullen wasn't even sure he heard it, but it had him turning on his heel so quickly, it made his head spin. He was met with Dorian's wide eyes.
"Did you…?"
Dorian touched his throat with the very tips of his fingers in just as much surprise and Cullen could tell that the man was afraid to test the possibility that the elixir worked in fear that they had both imagined it. The mage's throat bobbed as he swallowed, and then again as he met Cullen's eyes again.
"Cullen."
A faint whisper that felt like a scream in his ears, but in the best way. His name never sounded so sweet and he couldn't help but throw his arms around the mage and pull him to his chest with a surprised laugh. A happy one. It was then he realized how much the situation had weighed on him. Cullen felt responsible for Dorian's torture. Like if he had gotten to him sooner, none of it would have happened. A part of him knew it wasn't his fault in any way, and Dorian would agree with that part, but because he cared for the mage so much…
"Never again." Cullen nearly growls. "As long as I live, I will never let you get hurt like that again."
"The sentiment is appreciated but unnecessary," Dorian whispers slowly. The muscles in his throat were still getting used to working again. "I already told you amatus, you came and that's more than what most would have done."
"The Inquisitor would have."
"As a friend," Dorian nods. "But you…you didn't come out of duty."
Cullen clears his throat and his face heats up at the obvious insinuation in Dorian's words. Just because he knew there was a chance because Dorian returned his kiss all those weeks ago, it wasn't confirmation. There was…hope? In Dorian's eyes. Cullen truly hoped his months of reading the mage better than others wasn't failing him now.
"Tell me." Dorian requests softly.
Tell him? Cullen was awful with words and Dorian knew that. It was why he preferred to speak with actions. He could be hot-headed with words, a loose cannon, but with actions, they came from his heart. Surely Dorian knew that? Of course he did, but hearing it was still a different matter. Maybe he was just as insecure as Cullen was and wanted the confirmation too. The hope that why Cullen came for him was what he was assuming. The commander even admitted to himself that he wouldn't have done it for another. With an exception or two, but those retrievals would have been out of duty. Because it was his job.
Dorian was not on the list of duty. He was on Leliana's and the Inquisitor's. A member of the Inquisition worth the resources to find and rescue.
But Cullen did it of his own accord. Without a second thought or worry about his duties. Dorian was more important at the time. His heart screamed in terror when the Inquisitor's party came back and told them the news. All he could think about was that Dorian was unaccounted for and unsafe, and it spurred him into action. He was blind to everything else.
"I love you."
If everything he did and felt wasn't love, then he didn't know what love was. But the look of pure relief and joy that crossed Dorian's face quelled any more niggling thoughts. Any doubts that Dorian didn't actually feel the same.
"At the risk of sounding nauseatingly maudlin and saccharine, when you came…I was so relieved that my pain was the last thing on my mind." Dorian admits and tightens his arms around Cullen. "Thank you."
Cullen said nothing. Only tightening his own hold on the mage and inhaling the scent of roses and cloves. He noticed before that Dorian liked to switch between roses and cinnamon but he was sure that the mage would say something along the lines of how boring it would be to smell of one thing all of the time. As long as he was alive, Cullen might not have cared if Dorian smelled like nug shit…the mage on the other hand would want a bath no matter his condition.
"...tell me." Cullen says, mimicking Dorian's earlier request.
"I already have." The mage whispers in response, pulling back to cup Cullen's face and kiss him.
For once, Cullen's doors didn't fly open to interrupt him and allow a soldier in to demand his attention. He was granted the time to allow his hands and lips to explore the mage in his arms, which he did under the assumption that another time like this might not come as soon as he wanted. At least until he was quite literally shocked and he had to jolt away from the kiss purely on instinct.
"Ah…I'm sorry." Dorian mumbles. "Regaining my ability to speak has me in a mess of emotions. I hope I didn't hurt you."
"No. I was just startled." Cullen says. "Maybe it's best if you rest anyway. The potion may have worked but your throat isn't used to so much–Dorian."
The commander sighs when the mage's mustache quirks up in humor, making it clear where Dorian's imagination had gone.
"I'll have you know I'm quite put off that you've seen me completely in the nude but you haven't shown me the same courtesy."
"If you complain, you may never." Cullen chuckles and finally moves away to continue with the paperwork on his desk. It got an overdramatic, somewhat offended gasp from Dorian.
"You, Commander, are not a nice man." Dorian coughs after his small outburst and Cullen frowns.
"Please rest. The elixir will be meaningless if you over do it."
"Yes, yes. Alright." Dorian acquiesces and walks over to lounge on the chaise with his previously discarded book. "I suppose we have to look out for each other don't we?"
Cullen hums in agreement. Even he could admit that he forgot about his own needs while focusing on Dorian's health and vice versa. Although the mage would argue that Cullen was the worst of them. Dorian at least answered to his stomach's insisting grumbles. Which was why he was found poking at the lion when it was past time for him to eat. The first time it happened and the soldiers had seen it, they thought Cullen would turn at any second and bite Dorian's head off.
It never happened and they quickly got used to the fact that Dorian was an exception to many things. They actually went to the mage when he wasn't around to notice when Cullen was having one of his days. He appreciated his soldiers attentiveness, but was also embarrassed that he didn't take care of himself to set an example. Others had told him that the soldiers only appreciated the work he did and wanted to make sure he took care of himself while he looked out for them.
"Will you sit with me?" Dorian requested quietly a few minutes later, and Cullen looked behind him at the chaise.
It was obvious that was what he meant and not the backbreaking chair, I don't know how in the world you sit in that thing. It's no wonder you've been so grumpy.
"Very well." Cullen says softly, gathering up the reports he needed to read and sitting gingerly by Dorian's legs. "If you need to rest, you may use my bed too."
"You know I would."
"No wine right now Dorian. Let the potion do its work." Cullen says without looking up from the report in the top of his stack. He knew by instinct now when the mage was eyeing a bottle of wine. Specifically the one on his desk.
Dorian huffed, but didn't argue and turned his attention back to his book.
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