She shrugged, "I only wish to give the people what they want."
"Blindness?" Cullen laughed to beat her to the self deprecation.
Gliding her head closer, Lana caught him in another kiss, her lips puckering against his lagging top lip and then sucking upon the bottom. How he wanted to do the same to hers, to lick both that outflanked his own. She broke away again before he could dare try and leaned back in his arms. When did he wrap them around her waist? Cullen couldn't even remember, the movement as natural to him as sheathing his sword.
"I want you," her husky voice was unflappable, as certain as the sunrise.
"That, uh, um..." Maker, he wanted her too; woke most mornings aching for her, spent his nights wishing for her to appear. "The door doesn't lock," Cullen gestured his head behind her at the armory entrance where his soldiers waited for him to return.
He expected Lana to slide out of his grasp, pick up her robe, and leave him to try and deflate himself before they began drilling again. Instead, she turned a cursory glance over her shoulder, lifted a solitary arm off him, and waved her fingers over the door. Ice exploded off the floor, thickening by four, five, six inches until they'd need an ice pick and a few hours to get through. Smiling at it, Lana turned back to him, "It does now."
"You are..." was as far as he got before he cupped her jaw and pulled her lips to his. No longer teasing, Cullen's fingers dug into her waist, guiding her tighter to him. She had to feel his own engorging reaction pushing against her stomach, it taking all claim upon Cullen's brain. Sliding up higher on her tortured toes, Lana's body rippled against his as if she danced to her own tune. The pressure building up through his loins cried out for relief.
Cullen's fingers canvased the back of her corset, then around the front, searching for the way in. He stumbled across the first knot and moved to untie it, but Lana grabbed onto his hands. "Hm?" he broke from their kiss, confusion knocking through his lustful haze.
She didn't snarl at him, or bat his hands away, only smiled, "I don't think there's time to bother with that."
"I...uh...?" For the love of the Maker, why are you so tongue tied around her? Why does your mouth dry out and your palms sweat when she smiles with mischief in her lips and tugs you close? It's just sex.
Oh Maker, it's sex!
Cullen suffered that same momentary panic every time his brain accepted what Lana intended, what he himself wanted. Sometimes he could shake it off without her aware, other times he stumbled around all the placeholder words in existence hoping his mind would wake up and form something coherent. He wished he had enough presence to whisper those fabled sweet nothings in her ear, to tell her how his whole body burned with desire when he rested his palms on her hips, how the sight of her naked back glistening with sweat fresh from him driving her to the brink soothed and excited a part of him he never thought lived. But all that came out was a pitiful squeak like a newborn kitten. What if he never could tell her?
Unaware of his internal struggle, Lana's fingers lifted off his frozen in place against her hips and she grabbed onto his sword belt. The woman knew far too well how to unknot it, the blade crashing to the ground with the rest of its broken brethren. When her fingers worked around to the drawstring, Cullen spoke up.
"Wh- What are you doing?"
Smirking, she cupped her fingers down his bulging shaft hidden behind the breeches. "Evening the score."
"Oh?" It took a few heartbeats before his blood-less brain understood -- her mischievous eyes smiling at him. "Oh! I, uh..."
She hopped up onto her toes, trying to catch his lips, but having to settle for kissing his chin. Lips raked across his stubble, her tongue dipping into the divot. Maker, her tongue. Her wet, hot, slippery tongue gliding along his jaw. The same one she intended to, to...
A moan rolled off Cullen's own tongue from her palm cupping the shaft of his cock through his pants. Carefully, with a slowness he'd never seen Lana exhibit before, she twisted her fingers around the drawstring. "Hm..."
"What?! What...I mean, what?" he un-smoothly panicked from her pausing.
"It appears to be stuck. Not a problem, I'll use my teeth." Then Lana, the Hero of Ferelden, and some other fancy titles he couldn't remember in his fogged over mind dropped to her knees in front of him. Cullen reached out to grab onto her shoulder, steadying himself for fear that he'd die on his feet in shock or joy. Perhaps both. Unaware of his internal struggle, she unearthed the drawstring and, true to her promise, put her teeth to work unknotting the rope. As it fell apart in her grip, down came his breeches.
He should feel like a fool, bare assed standing in the armory closet while Maker knew how many people waited for them outside, but Cullen was euphoric. She hadn't even done anything and he almost wanted to break out into laughter from the very idea. Things like this didn't happen to him. And yet... Maker end him if it turned out to be a dream.
Lana's nimble fingers hovered a hair's breadth away from his trembling body, as she stared face to face with his cock. Then she turned her head up, her doe eyes reaching his. "You okay?"
Terrified what would happen if he tried to speak, Cullen nodded, his head bobbing adrift. She smiled, "Good." Before he could steady himself, her lips wrapped around the head of his cock. Groaning from ten years of discipline and repression shattering in a second, both of Cullen's hands braced himself upon her shoulders as her mouth slightly opened and her tongue rolled around it.
Not about to be left out of the fun, Lana's fingers gripped at the bottom of his shaft and she rolled them upwards, counter to her tongue's circles. Cullen gasped, dragging breath into his mouth as he feared he might pass out on top of her. His toes dug in deep inside his boots, anchoring him as a white hot pleasure seared through his skin. A flush crawled up his stomach, red and jagged like the silhouette of mountains from his body slipping deeper into the abyss.
Upon pressing her fingers tight to her mouth, Lana's hand broke away along with her mouth but she didn't leave him waiting for long. Starting at the bottom, she licked up his cock like it was a piece of stretched taffy. Whenever she reached the head, she smiled and kissed it tenderly. It was so silly, Cullen nearly giggled, the pressure abating even as she tended to him. She didn't want it over and done with quickly, she was enjoying it - an exquisite torture.
Maker, watching her suck upon him, he wanted to kiss her, to put his lips against all of her. The thought of it pushed through her light hearted strokes and Cullen groaned. Sensing he couldn't take more, Lana's lips opened over his head and she swirled lower and lower with her tongue while her fingers, slick in her saliva, jerked upward to him. Pounding against every rib, Cullen's heart raced while she glided him deeper then shallower down her throat, Lana handling all the thrusting. He bit into his cheek, his head thrown back, as he felt the rising tide swelling up through him about to burst.
Cullen pinched onto her shoulders, trying to warn her what was coming, but Lana didn't slow. She kept the same rhythmic rise and fall, pulling him inside of her until he lost his battle. Lights sparked across the back of his shut eyelids, every ounce of him firing deep into Lana's mouth. Instead of yanking her head away, she remained, taking it all and gently swallowing it, her tongue rolling across his still sputtering cock.
When the final vestiges fell to a drip, she slipped away, wiping off her mouth with her wrist. Cullen bent down to guide a hand under her elbow to help her to her feet. "I...that, I... Lana, you're, I..."
"Yes," she smiled, "You're I and I'm Lana." Leaning forward, she kissed him on the mouth, at first a peck, but he hungered for her lips and pulled her tighter to him. A hint of something foreign lingered in her mouth, biting and salty.
Still pantsless, Cullen wrapped his hands around the small of her back and pulled her tighter to him. "You didn't have to do that."
"I very much wanted to, if you couldn't tell," her warm body folded inside of his. In his euphoric state, he wanted to fully envelop her forever and never let this woman leave his sight for even a moment.
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Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he sighed, "That I can, well, I can pretend to understand. But I meant the, um..."
"Swallowing?" she smiled. "The warning was sweet, by the way."
He had no idea if he should but it seemed prudent either way. A few final drops of his sputtered out. He tried to wipe them onto his hand, but Lana slid it out the way as she hugged deeper into him. "What, uh, if you don't mind my asking, what does it taste like?"
Even with her cheek snuggled against his chest, he felt her eyebrows rise in surprise, "You've never tried your own before?"
"It seemed, I didn't think to, uh," Cullen stammered around, knowing the flush of desire ramped back to his usual blush of embarrassment. "No, I never have. Have you tasted yourself?"
"Of course," she shrugged, "how else would I know?" That thought ticked deep into the lustful part of his brain, and for a moment, he felt his cock stir as if it could go for seconds. "To answer your question, semen's a bit like a salty stew that's been overloaded in cooked bitters. Not the most interesting, kind of thick the way a chowder is, until this bite after. Can get a bit numbing too. And I have effectively destroyed the mood." Her voice fell as if he hadn't been the one to ask.
Cullen's fingers skirted along her cheek, brushing the one not pressed against his chest. "You've done nothing of the sort. I am in a state of disbelief which will carry for the rest of the day, two days, perhaps a week, but...you are- I can scarcely believe you find me acceptable."
Her lashes fluttered against his thin shirt as she blinked her eyes rapidly, then Lana pulled her head away to look up at him. "Acceptable? There are women fainting in the street when you approach. Declarations of duels happen on the hour for your hand. I heard talk of a very devoted fan club operating in Skyhold."
"No, that's, you're being facetious," Cullen blushed.
"I believe they called themselves Cullen's Cuties, no Cullenites? Something of that nature. And they meet every Thursday at the tavern," Lana mused to herself. At his scoff she tapped her palm against his chest, "What about the ball? You had dozens of women almost literally hanging off you for the entire dance. That doesn't happen to men that are only deemed acceptable."
"It's not, that was," foolishness enveloped up his legs. How could he explain it to her? From the first moment he saw her, when she was only seventeen, Lana was achingly gorgeous. If she suffered an awkward stage, either it occurred long before, or most likely, she pirouetted through it with grace. "I know intellectually what I appear as now, but there are days when I'm that young man with hair like steel wool and a spotty complexion."
"Cullen," her fingers, one by one, drew across his cheek, down his nose, and along his jaw. "I was smitten with that young man, adored your curls, and cared not a whit for the spots of youth. You were..." Lana swallowed, her pupils wide in the dim light giving her eyes an enigmatic depth. "You've always been adorable. Anyone who says otherwise can soak their head in the lake."
He scooped her up for a kiss, lifting her as high as he could manage until the tips of her toes drifted past the floor. Lana's arms knotted around his neck so she could match his fervor with her lips. Maker, by all that was holy, he didn't deserve her. Knowing what he did, who he was for so many years -- what kind of creator would see fit to give him even a moment of Lana's attention? He wished he didn't have to let her go, but there was a party of recruits hoping to prove themselves outside. Cullen released her back to the floor and bent down to lift up his trousers. After tucking himself back safely, he knotted on the belt and nodded his head.
"We should return to our work."
"Of course," Lana smiled. She turned back to her ice wall that'd barely dripped throughout their moment. Before her hands lifted up, she spun back, pecked him on the lips, then yanked the entire structure apart. It wasn't ice chunks that shattered to the wood floor, but a gallon or two of water splashing across the floor towards their shoes.
"Cullen," she knotted her fingers through his, gripping tight, "you're a good man. I've always had faith in that."
He started from her frank words, but before he could respond, the door cracked open. Lana slipped her hand away and stepped further from him as one of the recruits poked his head inside.
"Commander, and your Hero-ness. We're prepared to try again and fend off the sleep attack."
"That's good, because you won't be fighting a sleep spell," Cullen said. "Lady Amell will be whipping up something new. You have to learn how to think on your feet when fighting a mage. You all do," he lifted his voice so the others huddled around the door would hear.
"Right, right, uh," the soldier bobbed his head trying to not look terrified. Then a queer look twisted up his face and he peered downward, "Why is the floor covered in water?"
"You should be getting in line," Lana interrupted, covering for Cullen's stammering blush. She yanked up her robe and slipped it on quickly while walking back into the yard. After knotting her belt, she turned to him and asked, "Commander, after we are finished for the day, do you think you would have free time later in the evening?"
His eyes lingered over the eager recruits all waving their swords and shields in anticipation. "For, uh, what purpose...Lady Amell?"
Lana turned to face him with a delectable smirk, "To uneven the score."
Cullen awoke with a start, veins throbbing across his entire body as the dream clung tight and refused to let go. He reached over to grip his forehead and steady himself back to the present, when he felt it. Every hair on his body yearned for him to be further west. Digging madly into his pocket, he unearthed the pulsing red phylactery. Touching bare skin to it, visions of green floated through the back of his mind - and a coldness that dug into his core, but none of whatever that was mattered. It was Lana; felt of her, her sight, her mind, everything that was her. Forgetting where he was, Cullen let out a generous whoop! The other man sharing the room rolled over, smacking his lips like a roused dog, then the crimson light of the phylactery struck him. Alistair tried to leap off the bed, but overnight his dangling feet lost all feeling and he misjudged his attempt, smacking chin first to the floor.
Even with his mouth pressing into the wood and dangerously close to Honor's back half, he smiled, "Told you so."
"I...all right, you may have that one." Cullen was happy to give it to him, happy to have even an inch of hope gifted back from the void.
The king pushed up on his hands, turned his face towards Cullen, then whipped it back at the wall, "Guessing you were asleep when it lit back up."
"Yes...?"
"There can be certain, um, a lot of times I'd have memories flood back, you know. Certain kinds of memories that..." He waved his hand vaguely in Cullen's direction without moving his head to look.
"What are...?" Cullen glanced down and the blush stampeded across his cheeks. He raced to throw a blanket over his lap. "I uh, it was--"
"Don't want to know!" Alistair interrupted. "Never ever want to know in any way. I think I'll go see if our friendly Mayor has any breakfast," he said, crabwalking out of the room with his head still craned away from Cullen. "Meet you later to head out. Probably much later."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Griffins
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She shouldn't be alive - that fact resonated through her veins, across her aching fingertips, and over every inch of skin coated in spider ichor. The spiders -- or demons pretending to be spiders -- were endless, a bottomless cavalcade marching to destroy the only mortal in their vicinity. Lana refused to go down without a fight, her wards flaring almost the moment they activated, her fire hot enough to scorch back against her mutilated hair. And still, it was a drop in the bucket against the armies forming against her.
Why was she yet drawing breath?
Rather than face death by venomous pincher, she dipped beyond her mana ration - a dangerous tactic that on occasion paid off. In this case it didn't, the blood in her ears pooling as her head thundered and oblivion enveloped her. She should have died there, pas
sed out while a continual march of spiders chewed her apart. When she woke, the spiders were gone, only the corpses of the one's she'd obliterated remained - their legs twitching from the crackling fires fueled by hair across their blistered bodies. Staggering to her hands, Lana stared out at the horizon but it no longer wobbled, as if something or someone patched up the gap that allowed the multitude to attack. This was wrong. She was missing a slot in the puzzle, guessed the riddle wrong, or barely spotted the hidden rune.
While Lana chewed on that thought, she scissored her obsidian blade back and forth across her hair, chopping it back to clear out a knot wound around a spider's ripped off leg. There was no chance she'd get it free without help, as with most of the snarled knots she'd gained over the years she took to chopping them off. Her hair was the least of her problems. What she needed was...
"You have been rather busy," Wynne's voice echoed through the fetid battleground.
Lana finished off sawing through the ends and sat up off the rock she pressed her cheek to. "I need to talk to you. Actually, I thought you'd be the other one."
"Yes, that one. Interesting that it has taken no form. A curious question." Wynne wasn't dressed in her usual robes of the circle, clean and pressed in fabrics that'd tear in the wild. She wore armor crafted for the battlemages of old, metal gleamed off her shoulders, elbows, knees, across her thighs, and down her arms. A sheet of chainmail glinted below the fade touched wool enchanted to shake off a blade better than any leather could. She came dressed for war, the question was against who.
"Where is it?" Lana struggled to her feet. She'd anticipated being exhausted having drained every inch of her magic to slay the spiders, but she'd slept while in her faint. Unable to keep out of the faint, her body chose death in sleep. It should have revived her, even momentarily, but her thoughts drew sluggish across her brain, her limbs aching to drag her back down to the ground. Sleep no longer seemed to work upon her.
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