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Cullen leans against the railing at the library, waiting. The Inquisitor had tasked him with going over the battle plans with First Enchanter Fiona, stating she herself was too busy to get the mages up to date with their latest schemes. He sighs. Sometimes he wonders if the Inquisitor is doing this intentionally, sending him off to spend time with the mages to dispel his assumed attitude problems. It is unnecessary - his preconceptions have already been stripped. Years have passed since the fall of Knight-Commander Meredith and he’s had ample time for self-reflection since.

He stretches his neck, stiff from the countless hours spent bent over his papers. Fiona is late.

A spark of light catches his attention from the corner of his eye and he turns to look. Dorian is spread on a chair, a leg dangling over its armrest, one hand holding a heavy tome while another summons intricate figures of frost in the air. His eyes are firmly fixed on the book, his lower lip bitten between his teeth. Completely effortless, lazy twirls of his hand produce perfect circles, runes, and figures Cullen doesn’t have a name for.

He watches the show, breath caught in his throat by the masterful display of discipline.

His eyes, however, drift unbidden toward the man himself - him, too, a sight well worth watching. His sculpted face is drawn to a frown - no doubt scrutinising whatever the book is informing him of - his raven-black hair curling in shiny strands just at the edges of his forehead. His skin is impeccable - a beautiful hue of brown - and a small mole rests on his cheek, begging the question that if one was allowed to search, how many more of them could one find?

Cullen looks around, a heat climbing to his cheeks. That was a bit too far, he admonishes himself.

Fiona is still woefully absent and Dorian as deep in concentration as before, so he allows himself just a little more. After all, what could be the harm in just looking? If that includes a side dish of dreaming, it’s nobody’s business but his own. The mage is clad in dark pants, too tight to be comfortable. The dangling leg is constantly moving, the feet pumping air and causing the muscles of his calves to flex. Cullen’s tongue darts out to wet his lips as he wonders how it would feel to have those legs wrapped around his body. Is the mage the type to cling to his lover, allowing himself to be carried, or is he type that pushes his lover against a wall, assuming control and–

Cullen suddenly becomes aware that the idle magic has paused. His eyes drift upward and meet those of Dorian. Too astonished to react as he ought, the gaze holds, locking him in the situation. Goosebumps erupt on his arms as the mage regards him, a small smirk lifting the corner of his lips. He’s pinned to the spot, unable to break free from the strange spell, but it’s not magic - it’s something much baser than that.

Dorian’s eyes wonder, unhurriedly taking in the sight of him. His gaze lingers on his arms, an approving smile stretching his perfect lips. His eyes sweep the expanse of his chest, pausing momentarily to examine the length of his neck, finally coming to rest between his legs, punching the breath right out of Cullen’s chest. He stands absolutely still, hoping there is nothing there for the mage to see, hoping his armour pants are merciful to him.

Dorian darts back to his eyes, smirking again. An eyebrow quirks suggestively, perhaps asking a question Cullen has no response to, not right now, but–

“Commander Cullen? You wished to talk?”

Cullen nearly jumps, turning around to face First Enchanter Fiona. It may be just his imagination, but he can swear he hears a chuckle from behind him.