There was something decadent about it: the slick slide of his hand over his cock, the curl of his fingers as he squeezed his balls, the rub of his palm over his belly as it heaved. It had been what seemed like ages since he'd had more than a moment to himself, much less more than a moment in which he had energy enough to indulge in anything other than fractured sleep.
It wasn't a frequent occurrence, pleasuring himself, and that made it all the more heady.
As he teased and toyed with himself, he let his mind wander. It drifted over Evelyn's gentle curves, the surprising delicacy of Cassandra's fingers. It wound through memories of Marian's undeniably-impressive arms and a long-ago night stolen in Kirkwall, even old fantasies of Solana during his naïve infatuation.
He let it build inside of him as he stroked himself, imagined it was not his hand but another, calloused after years of handling a sword or staff. It was smaller fingers that ran through the curls at his groin and tugged at his balls. He closed his eyes as he pressed his palm against his belly and imagined hair that spilled over slimmer shoulders to tickle against his chest.
He could practically feel the warmth of his phantom partner as he lost himself in the fantasy. Blue eyes, green eyes, brown in every shade, they all watched him as he pressed his head back against his headboard and rolled his hips into the grip on his cock, just a shade too tight—but, then, he wanted this to last. Lips trailed up his throat, kissed his open mouth, as hands—more than one person could ever possess—ran over his shoulders and sides, played with his nipples, tousled his hair.
There wasn't an inch of skin that didn't sing.
He could feel it as his balls tightened and squeezed his cock, panted as he struggled to rein in the orgasm that tingled at the base of his spine. It was many long, agonized breaths before he dared move his hand to circle a finger around the slit at the top, and very nearly undid himself again.
His toes curled as he clenched his eyes shut and pressed his hips into the mattress. Too soon, too soon—
In his head, pleased laughter echoed, but there was nothing feminine in the sound; it was a timbre far too deep to be anything but a man. Blue and brown and amber eyes morphed into a cool grey, while the corners of a wicked smile disappeared behind a meticulously-maintained moustache. The shoulders broadened, the hips flattened, and that was definitely a hard cock he imagined against his thigh. The hand that gripped him pumped firmly, hit all the right spots, knew just how much pressure was perfect to make him—
Cullen bit his lip and hunched as he came, spurted over his fingers as they stroked until even the touch of his own hand was too much. He gasped for breath and scrubbed his hand over thigh, until the wet abated into stickiness that left him feeling somehow less dirty than fantasizing about friends and comrades did.
Maker, that had been a bad idea from the start, a slippery slope of mistakes he shouldn't have made. It would be hard enough to face the Inquisitor when next they met, but he feared Cassandra would read him like one of her romances and remove applicable portions of his anatomy.
Dorian, though... Dorian would probably laugh and offer an experience to compare to the fantasy, and Cullen couldn't safely say that he wouldn't take him up on it.