Chapter Text
The White Pint is a second-rate whorehouse masquerading as a third-rate grog house, and a rather unlikely place for the 12:09 Nevarran blue-fire whiskey Varric’s friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend swore they served.
The barkeep, a rather shrunken dwarf — probably — shortish and brownish, with a bald head and large ears, laughs uproariously when she asks for it anyway, and sets down a tall mug of… something in front of Isabela.
“And this is?”
“You want a drink. This is a drink.” The barkeep’s voice is heavily accented.
Navarran. She thinks, eyes narrowed, but she takes the proffered beverage without comment and tastes. It’s mostly ale, but it has some whiskey in it, at least, and something else that makes her eyes water. But it isn’t the worst she’s had, not even close, and, as the barkeep noted, she did come to drink.
She leaves a coin at the bar and turns, finds one of the bar patrons glaring at her with frank disapproval. She’s so startled she nearly drops her ale, and, never shrinking from a challenge, moves at once to sit as his table.
His glare, if anything, deepens. “What are you doing here?”
She inclines her head politely and inquires, “Knight-Captain Cullen, or is it Knight-Commander now?”
“It’s neither.” He growls. “What are you doing here?”
“Drinking.” She gestures, and a bit of the foam sloshes over the edge of her mug. “With you.”
Ferelden to the bone, he makes the sort of noise that would do a Mabari proud. “No, you’re not.”
“Don’t be difficult.” She rests her chin on her hands and looks at him.
Cullen’s thinner than she remembered, and slightly paler, and every bit as dour. He’s rather well groomed for a man drinking alone in the lowest part of lowtown; hair neatly ordered, and very clean. But he’s worn around the edges, not just tired, but frayed in a way she hasn’t seen before. Lost, a bit, she thinks.
But then, they are all lost, a bit.
“Your hair.” She decides after a while, “It isn’t really very curly.”
“No.” His expression twists, glare dissolving into something closer to amusement, but not quite. He falls silent too, regarding her with a matching intensity.
She watches him watch her, and reaches down a hand to stroke the coins at the base of her necklace. The gesture is little more than habit, and she doesn’t realize she’s doing it until his gaze drops to her breasts, then instantly he looks away, flushing.
Oh.
He takes a drink, still turned, to hide his embarrassment, and she watches his throat work as he swallows. This is the first time she’s seen him without his armor and plate. He looks strangely vulnerable this way, not just simply unarmored, but bare, like a pale forest mushroom newly exposed to the sun. The atmosphere of The White Pint is muggy, hot even, and his tunic clings to him, slightly damp. His shoulders are broader than she realized. His sleeves are rolled up a little, and she can see the muscles of his forearm move as he flexes his wrist.
She wonders what they look like when he touches himself, and how firm the grip he uses. What sort of sounds does the Templar makes when he comes?
“Isabela,” He looks at her, color still high. “Why aren’t you with the Champion?”
She considers him for a moment. “Leave it, Cullen. It isn’t your job to keep track of all the mages anymore.” She meant it gently, but it comes out sharper than she intended.
Still, he inclines his head. “Fair point.”
Despite his polite words, his eyes are troubled, and golden and deliciously unfocused. He doesn't really look it, but he’s quite drunk.
The White Pint is wedged perfectly between ramshackle, and falling apart. The men who directected her here had said it was at the ‘ end ‘o the street’ -- if by end they meant that someone, at some point, had ceased actual construction and instead simply leaned the establishment against the rocks; and by street they meant, definitely not a street.
The place was barely in Kirkwall.
“I’m rather surprised to find you here, Knight-Captain.” She sets her glass down and peers over the edge. “Though I grant not many of the other patrons are likely to recognize you.”
“You shame The White Pint.” Cullen mummers. “I should think the quality of the drink speaks for itself.”
She makes a sound like a purr, maybe it’s the swallow of ale she took, but he flushes and for a moment he won’t look her in the eye.
Cullen clears his throat and shifts on his stool. “I…” He shakes his head, cutting himself off, clamping down on the thought. Hard. A muscle in his jaw leaps. “This is where I belong now.” He says instead.
Damn the man.
She’s caught mid-sip and the horrible ale floods her sinuses and goes straight to her brain. She gets a better sense of it this way. It’s nearly as raw as it strong, and under the sharpness it tastes mostly of feet.
She laughs, but it probably doesn’t sound like it. Cullen’s looking rather alarmed instead of offended. She keeps wheezing, and sputtering and laughing long enough the wizened barkeep totters over the inquire if she might be dying. And, to demand that, if she is that they throw her body off the docks, for she wants no trouble with corpses.
She’s not really sure what happens then. She not really getting enough air, and the laughter is still tickling at her sides, and Cullen seems to be arguing with the probably-dwarf, but she’s not sure who’s winning. She coughs so hard she nearly retches, and wonders if she really is hysterical now, because it feels like Cullen has lifted her up and is carrying her up the stairs.
Eventually she calms down enough to actually breathe -- though she’s still giggling a bit -- and to take in the room he’s brought them to. It’s small, and cramped, and clean. The afternoon light spills in from the single window, open only because the frame has warped.
There’s hardly anything inside. Cullen perches on the narrow bed, taking up most of the space in the room. He’s deposited her onto a char in the corner, no doubt pilfered from the bar below. A small shelf is tacked to the wall, sporting a candle, a book, quill and ink, and a small wooden box. His sword and shield are -- pride of the Order -- under his pillow.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve heard anyone laugh. Though I am not entirely sure what I said.” Cullen speaks carefully, as if the sound of his voice might set her off again.
It nearly does.
A grin splits her face and she bites down on her lip. “Oh, Cullen…” The little bubble of laughter at his name subsides. “You do know this is a whorehouse, yes?”
His face floods, white, then red, and it’s his turn to sputter. “No! It’s… it is...” He stops, obviously thinking of something, and sighs deeply. “Andraste preserve me. That would explain some of the… um… lady bosoms.” He blushes even harder and covers his eyes. “Maker, Isabela… That’s not why I brought you up here… Just - you should leave. Please. Now.”
She moves to the door, but deliberately latches it, instead of leaving.
Cullen’s mouth drops open, then quickly shuts. He looks annoyed, and slightly surprised.
“Not used to having people disobey you, I see.” She muses.
“Actually, it’s quite expected behavior from Hawke and the rest of you.” Cullen glares at her.
She doesn’t reply, simply reaches up and begins to unlace the front of her bodice. Slowly. “Well, Knight-Captain. You should know I aim to exceed expectations.”
She holds his attention as she opens her bodice, but when her breasts spring free, heavy and tipped with small gold rings, he tears his gaze away with a visible effort.
“Isabela, there’s no… you really… I must insist.” He stammers.
“Cullen. When was the last time you’ve been with a woman? Or a man, for that matter?”
That gets him to look at her. Startled, it takes a moment for his gaze to drop to her bare breasts, and another before he looks back at her face. When his eyes, hesitantly, return to her breasts again, and linger, she’s sure he’s forgotten the question.
She arches a brow, and steps towards him, with as much sway as she can manage in the cramped quarters. He looks a bit mesmerised, honestly. She’s almost upon him when he reacts, putting his hands up. It’s almost a defensive gesture, but she arches, fills his hands with her breasts. They overflow. She feels her nipples tighten against his palm.
Cullen makes a half-choked, desperate sound.
“Poor, lonely Knight-Captain,” She folds her hands over his, urging him to squeeze her.
“Isabela, I-I… am too drunk for this.” He remembers himself, briefly, and moves his hands to her hips, trying to still her as she straddles his lap and grinds down. “Or… not drunk enough.”
She hums in response. Pulls a small bottle from her boot and tips a bit of the liquid -- rum, sweet and strong -- between his lips. He swallows, and the drink does seem steady him, a bit. Less so when she takes her own mouthful, and kisses Cullen, again. Then she parts her lips, and the drink flows from her mouth into his. He swallows, surprised.
She slides her tongue into his mouth, chases the flavor of sugar cane and burnt molasses. He’s hesitant, and awkward; easy to startle, slow to respond. But the sweetness of his mouth is not just the rum, and she can feel the hardness of his cock beneath her, and her own answering wetness.
“Maker.” He gasps, swears.
She’s not sure if he’s asking for forgiveness, or giving thanks.
“What do you want me to do to you?” She whispers into his ear.
Cullen jerks at her words. For a moment she thinks he just came in his pants. She can feel his heartbeat hammering in his chest, the steady pulse of it, strong and sure. He’s quiet for so long she’s sure he’s going to tell her to go -- again. But he takes a deep breath, and says in a voice that’s a little broken, and a little breathless…
“Get down on your knees and suck my cock.” There’s an edge to the request; from a life spent as a Templar, issuing commands. Cullen isn’t used to asking. Still…
There’s something hesitant behind the desire in his eyes, as though he’s afraid he might have been too bold. Too demanding.
She smiles. “You Chantry boys are all the same.” And slides down his thighs.
The laces of his trousers are hard to undo; he’s used a knot that would give the saltiest of sailors pause. When she finally gets the knot undone and peels his breeches down over his hips, his cock springs free, fully erect, and almost hits her in the face.
He chuckles, nervously.
She brushes her thumb from the base of his cock to the tip, and around the flared head. He hisses . How long has it been since someone touched him? She can feel him throb under even, such delicate attention, and a bead of pre-come forms. She licks it off of him, with small deliberate flicks of her tongue.
Cullen gasps, and his hips pulse, thrust a little in his eagerness.
It’s hard not to tease him.
She sucks the very tip of him, swirls her tongue around the smooth, salty head. “Delicious.” She grins, licking her lips.
“Wicked creature,” He breathes. His face is quite red, but it might just be the drink.
“I do try.” Still on her knees, she lines her herself up over him, opens her mouth, and pushes him down her throat. He’s beautifully built, longer than she expected. She gags, but only a little, she is, after all quite experienced at this sort of thing. She takes the last inch of him, slowly, slowly, slowly, and holds him there, listens to the sounds he makes as he falls apart.
Cullen is noisy in his pleasure. He gasps, sobs, moans, his breathing fast, and broken. And when she sticks out her tongue to lap at his balls, he starts muttering something that sounds suspiciously like the Chant of Light.
She pulls nearly off him, then down again, the slide is easier this time, and just as deep, as he thrusts up to meet her. She bobs in earnest, and he cries out, she can feel the muscles of his thighs leap under her hands. When she seats him in her throat again and swallows , Cullen makes an exquisite sound, and tangles his hands in her hair, urging her even deeper.
She reaches down between her own legs, and pushes a finger up inside herself, pumping rhythmically, coating herself with her own slick. She sucks, pulling from base to tip, hard and slow, and he groans, writhing beneath her. Her eyes open, find and hold his gaze. He’s already beautifully undone, flushed and panting.
This, she thinks smugly, may actually break him.
She reached up, high behind his balls and presses her finger, gently, against his puckered hole.
He clenches -- naturally -- with a warning growl. “Isabela.”
“You are no longer reciting the Chant, Ser.” She teases, presses in a bit, testing the resistance. “That won’t do.”
“Isabela…” Cullen’s hands grip the edge of the bed, bracing himself, arching away from her touch, but not , she notices, asking her to stop.
“What was it? Canticle of Andraste, hmmm? ‘Join me in heaven, and sorrow no more.’” She quotes, voice husky.
She presses up, her finger sliding in passed the first ring of muscle, catching on the second. Cullen jerks, crying out sharply, and indeed, continues to recite. She puts her lockpicking skills to use, cleverly working with nimble, patient fingers until she opens his ass. She pushes harder, still careful, and her finger slides in deeply almost to the knuckle.
Cullen’s leaking steadily now, pre-come dripping down the length of his magnificently erect cock. She pauses to taste him, a single swipe from base to tip, and he makes a strangled, broken sound. Then she kisses his slit, smearing the salty-warmth of him on her lips. She fucks his ass slowly, but firmly, matches the pace she sets as she sucks and bobs.
His orgasm hits hard and unexpectedly. He cries out, a hoarse incoherent warning and she pushes herself down upon him fully, the moment before he comes. She rolls the flavor of his spend in her mouth for a moment before she swallows. There’s something tangy in his seed, something faintly metallic behind the salt and musk that must be the lyrium. She sucks him again, squeezing the last bit of come from his still swollen cock before pausing to survey her handiwork.
“Maker. I-Isabela…”
He’s splayed out in the chair, flushed and quivering, drunk on pleasure as much as ale. She kisses him softly, metal and musk still on her lips, and it takes a moment for him to respond, but he opens beneath her like a slow blooming flower. She savors the flavor of his mouth, the sweet burn of the rum and the bitter ale beneath.
The taste of sex.
She undresses fully, kicks off her tunic and pushes off her boots. He perks up a bit, plays with her breasts as she does. Cupping, and weighing, fingers gently exploring her piercings. There’s something hesitant in his touch, almost reverent and she raises a brow at him.
“How long has it been, Knight-Captain?”
“I suspect your ship was built in less time.” He sighs.
She shakes her head. “I will never understand why such gloriously virile men choose to lock their cocks away for the sake of blessed Andraste. The woman had two husbands, after all.”
“I suppose not everyone takes their vows as seriously as I do. Did.” He corrects with a frown. “I’ve spent my entire life since I was fifteen training, or in Circle. Didn’t leave much time for...whatever this is.” His hands still, but don’t leave her breasts. He raises his head. “What is this, by the way?”
“Sex, Knight-Captain.” She pushes him back on the bed. “Just sex.”
She kisses Cullen’s cock once, it’s flaccid and sticky now, tender head hidden beneath his foreskin. He smells like sin. She kisses her way up his stomach, pausing to pull his shirt over his head and bite at each of his nipples. He yelps, and she chuckles.
“A lot of sex.” She amends, admiring his chest with the tips of her fingers.
“Oh.” He says, breath hitching a little when she leans over and laves his nipples thoroughly. His hands raise, clutching at her ass, and he rocks his hips, a little. He’s not hard yet, but he will be soon if she carries on much longer. She nibbles and sucks her way up his throat, leaving marks like dark red fingerprints against the white of his neck.
She whispers, “I want you to fuck me with your mouth.”
His reply is only a groan -- nearly pained sounding. He doesn’t resist when she swings her leg over him, straddling his head and presses her sex against his face. She feels his tongue reach out, tentatively. A few light, exploratory licks before he beings to eat her in earnest.
She moans as his lips fasten over the nub her clit. Teasing. Tasting.
He’s not the best she’s ever had -- Zevran is, perhaps unfairly, the standard to which all pussy-eating is measured -- but what Cullen lacks in technique he makes up for in sheer enthusiasm.
He’s really quite good. She tells him so.
“So surprised.” He chuckles, murmuring into her folds. “I said it’s been awhile, not that I haven’t done this before.” As if in demonstration he drags his tongue in heavy strokes; over, and over, and over her clit. She buzzes at the attention.
She watches in fascination as his cock hardens, rising slowly, unfurling, until it’s pointing straight up from his body. The sight is so distracting she doesn’t realize he’s gripping her ass, spreading and lifting her -- not until he spears her neatly with his tongue. She grinds against him, head thrown back, thinking she should have done this much, much sooner.
“Knight-Captain,” She moans, then hisses when he bites her clit, a sharp reprimand.
His fingers join the dance, spreading her further, holding her apart for the bright, briny taste of her slick. He circles her entrance and she whines, tries to buck against him as he teases, but he holds her still. And licks, and licks, and licks.
She stops thinking entirely as her world becomes the touch of Cullen’s tongue in the wet warmth of her. She builds slowly, but steadily. When she comes it’s like a wave, the swell rising over her; rising, rising, and suddenly overpowered. She lets go completely, lost and overwhelmed by the tide. She shudders, buckling, and realizes she must be smothering him -- a good death for any warrior. But he gets a hand under her arm, and another under her arse and flips her as he sits up, so she’s facing him again, straddling his legs like she was when they first began.
She can feel the velvet heat of his erection nudging against her slickness.
He mummers a question, and she’s not able to comprehend words quite yet, but she knows what he’s asking. The breath tumbles out of her in a rush.
“Yes!”
Cullen growls and impales her on his cock, pushing on her hips until she’s fully seated. He kisses her deeply, smothering his own moan.
“Show me a Templar’s stamina.” She growls against the taste of their combined pleasure.
He does, thrusting. It takes him a bit to find a rhythm, unsure as he is. He’s afraid to go too hard, or too fast. Afraid, maybe that it’ll be over too soon. But he steadies, finds a pace that suits them both, and fucks her.
She angles herself against him, rolling her hips so he hits all the right spots deep inside her. She tucks her feet under her a little, starts meeting his thrusts so they slam together. The impact on her sensitive flesh tips her over, not once, but twice more. Little cliffs of pleasure, not as high or hard as before, but just as delightful.
It’s a bit of a blur then. The drink sings in their veins, lust climbing to a fever pitch. He’s unflagging, and she wonders if he took her words as a challenge, instead of mere encouragement.
Then he suddenly stands , still fucking, and flips her. She’s pinned under him, the bed creaks and complains under the assault, and she worries it might break under the force of his hips.
She shifts a bit, hooks her leg up and over his shoulder. Their eyes meet for a moment -- he looks a bit shocked, and she wonders if she’s just shown him something new, again, or if he’s just remembered that it’s her he’s fucking. She moans, calls his name, and the crease between his brows lessens, a little.
His hips stutter, breaking his pace for the first time. He isn’t going to last long. The litany of prayer he utters steadily degrades into a broken, incoherent babble, until only the words Maker and yes are understandable.
She clenches around him, squeezing her inner muscles like a vice.
Cullen pulls out with a startled cry, and comes even before he can get a hand on himself.
She feels his come splash against her legs, startlingly hot, and doesn’t take her eyes off him when he does grip himself, stroking through the last of his pleasure.
He manages to stay on his feet for a moment, panting heavily, face red and sweaty despite the chill of the room; before collapsing on the narrow bed beside her.
She can feel her heartbeat slow, until it beats, almost languidly, as if it too is sated. His takes longer to settle, somehow. They stare up at the ceiling in silence for long moments, their bodies pressed together along one side.
“I’m not a Templar anymore.” Cullen says finally, in a very flat voice. It’s a confession, a secret, a failing.
“I know.” She says. “I just can’t see you as anything but a Templar.”
He stiffens beside her.
It’s the wrong thing to say. Too soon. Parts of the gallows are still on fire. Suddenly she can almost smell the smoke through the open window. She wishes she could see his face to see how deeply she’s cut him.
The silence hangs between them, heavy with weight of death and failure and ruin. She opens her mouth to apologize, but he speaks first.
“Neither can I.” He admits. “I… do not know what to do with myself.”
“My ship sails in three days. You could be my cabin boy.” In that moment, she’s not sure if it’s a serious offer, or not.
Cullen hesitates, then, puts his arm around her. It’s an awkward gesture, cramped as they are. “No… thank you.”
“Well then.” She’s relieved, at least a little. “We’ve two nights left. I could just fuck you within an inch of your life.”
This time, the hesitation is because he’s forgotten how to speak.
“Yes,” He finally manages, voice hoarse. “Please.”