The Truth of Desire Ch. 02

For a week, Damon had wondered why he'd been subjected to such huge dildos over and over for long stretches. The moment he felt the head of the Templar's cock at his sphincter, he began to understand. Then he felt how hard this fucker was--and how hard he was being fucked. For three straight hours, that bed was soaked in sweat, spilled lube, and--when Damon no longer had the faculties or strength to keep it in--an abundance of drool. The Templar railed him like a beast--on his back, on all fours, on his face with his head smothered in a pillow. In an embarrassing display of strength, at one point Damon was lifted in the Templar's arms, legs tucked up against his own chest in full nelson, and bobbed on that thick cock over and over.

As always, every time Damon came on his cock, he had it fed back to him, though merely with fingers this time, as the Templar seemed utterly unwilling to be parted with his ass. Damon sucked his fingers, swallowed his own cum, wrapped his legs and arms around his captor when the Templar found a particular angle that made his eyes cross and tongue loll out. Between the Templar's seemingly endless stamina and supply of cum and the stretching he'd already received, Damon didn't feel a bit of discomfort the whole time he was fucked. And with his physical and mental conditioning, he had no strength or will to resist, either as he was bred halfway to insanity, or as his prostate was milked over and over until his mind broke.

Whatever cum had been stored up in Damon's balls had been replaced and then some by all the cum spurted deep in his ass and down his throat. By the time he was no longer speared on the Templar's cock, Damon had no capacity for thought of any kind. Only a distant awareness of warm liquid splashing against his face and chest and the faint tug of the leash around his neck. And a question.

"What are you?"

To which he'd replied, "Your fucktoy, sir."

Followed swiftly by his leash being pulled and cock jammed all the way down his throat until he was swallowing around it. It wasn't until he was pounding on the Templar's thighs that he started to panic. Then he looked up and saw the sadistic grin on his captor's face as he watched Damon succumb to the darkness.

When he awoke, he was back in the Knight-Commander's chambers, in the cot she'd arranged for him to recover after long sessions. Everything continued as usual after that, as if nothing had really happened. Though every time he caught a glimpse of the Templar, he tensed. Every time their eyes met, the Templar smiled--and Damon's ass twitched. Months passed like this, with this constant tension hanging over his head until it turned to anticipation, followed by frustration when nothing happened.

Then the Blight came, the Tower was attacked from within, and the Circle fell apart.

It took the years hence for Damon to recognize what had been done to him--the Templars' abuses of power, the blind eye the Chantry had turned to these events. All by nature of him being a mage. That he had found it immensely enjoyable was incidental and irrelevant. He doubted very much that he was the only mage such things had happened to--and he sincerely doubted everyone was as eager or willing.

When she'd heard this story, Cassandra had finally understood why Damon was so mistrustful--even hateful of most Templars until he got to know them. And she certainly understood why he feared them. Which made today's tasks make even more sense. Damon had commissioned Leliana's scouts and other troops to perform reconnaissance on a Templar stronghold they would be visiting soon. Presumably to ensure they had no surprises or ambushes ready for them. Cassandra would be part of his entourage, along with Varric and the elf Sera--three companions with no reliance on magic or innate vulnerabilities to Templar techniques.

And certainly no love lost between them and the Templars. After everything she'd learned of the Templars' past actions, Cassandra could perhaps say the same of herself.

Cassandra strapped her armor on and readied her weapons with haste. They were to leave as soon as the scouts reported back. So she descended to the kitchens and grabbed a tray of whatever was on offer without looking. She was a soldier; she could eat anything in a pinch. Surprisingly, she was caught off-guard by how pungently delicious today's meal was. Apparently, Varric noticed the look on her face and decided to remark on it.

"Damon ordered it special. Some kinda Ferelden specialty from his hometown--comfort food, he said."

"Comfort food," Cassandra mused quietly. She frowned. "Where is he?"

Varric shrugged and talked through his full mouth. "No idea. Pretty much disappeared after dawn. Think I saw him talking to Cullen a few hours ago, though about what I couldn't tell you."

"Probably discussin' ways to tell the Templars how to shove their own shite back up the chute," Sera interrupted, sitting way too close for comfort.

"Considering Cullen was a Templar, I think their conversation may have had a slightly different tone," Cassandra countered, none-too-subtly scooting away from the cantankerous elf.

"Either way, I reckon he's gonna tell 'em to pound sand. And if the daft cunts want to make a stink about it..." Sera grinned and held up a razor-sharp arrow coated in some congealed substance. "We'll just have to see how they like a little lyrium overdose."

"Sera," Cass scolded, "we are not looking to drive them mad."

"What then? If they step sideways, we're gonna be surrounded by fuckin' Templars in heavy plate, with powers than can straight up shut down our biggest weapon."

Cass frowned but didn't rebuke her. Sera wasn't technically wrong. Besides the Mark on his hand, the Inquisitor had time and again proven himself an exceptional mage, with unparalleled telekinetic and mental abilities that could easily turn the tide against any sapient opponent. On top of that, he didn't need a staff to focus his magic, and instead preferred a sword with a focus jewel grafted into the pommel. A sword that she knew from experience he knew how to use. Even so, she doubted his skill with a blade would be enough to repel an army of Templars should they turn, even with the other three backing him up.

They just had to make sure no Templar got within striking distance.

She doubted they would even need such contingencies. This was a meeting to establish where they stood on procuring a certain artifact needed to research the Fade tears. Damon had a theory about the one that brought Azarel to their dimension, and how they might use them to turn the tide against their enemy. If he and their resident mad elf mage Solas were correct, there were benevolent spirits they could use against Corypheus and his cult, fight fire with fire, as it were. At least, that was what he'd told her.

She doubted Damon had shared this plan with everyone, especially those still loyal to the Chantry. Hell, he probably wouldn't have told her before their experience with Azarel. That one day had called into question so many of her long-held beliefs, it was a testament that she was even considering letting him pursue this angle, much less helping him. With that uneasy thought, Cass scarfed down the last of her breakfast and went off to look for him. Ultimately, he wasn't hard to find.

Damon had retired to his office, as he often did when his duties required research or calm. Which was very often these days. Cassandra strode up to his desk, piled to the brim with thick tomes and scrolls, and stood there, waiting for him to notice her. He didn't. Irritation rose inside her before she remembered her conversation with Azarel and cleared her throat.

Immediately, he looked up and stared at her with prismatic violet eyes. "Cass. You're up." He finished marking something down, then returned his quill to its inkwell. "Are the scouts back?"

"Not yet," she said. "I actually came to talk about something else."

Damon blinked and set down the scroll he was unfurling, leaning back. "Okay?"

"I'm..." Cassandra stared at his expectant features, nervous now for reasons she couldn't explain. "Lately, I've been feeling like..." Damn it all, what was wrong with her? "Like...like we have been trying too hard to alienate the Templars."

Cassandra nearly cringed. It was absolutely the wrong thing to say, and not just because it wasn't what was really bothering her.

Damon's face immediately darkened. "How so? They made it clear whose side they were on, that they would never work for a mage who threw off their shackles."

"But that does not mean we actively discourage them from working with us. We are stronger together, you must see that."

"Of course I do. But no matter how I look at it, we are not on the same side." Damon leaned on his desk and sighed hard. "They will never trust us not to turn on them."

"Could the same not be said of you?"

Damon took a breath and stopped short, frowning.

"You both have ample reason to mistrust each other, but forgiveness and cooperation must start with an olive branch, with common ground." Cassandra moved to his side of the desk and knelt. "You taught me that."

He met her eyes, his gaze flickering down briefly as a smile tugged at his lips.

She swallowed and blushed a little. "You and Mommy."

Damon stayed silent a while. Then he sighed. "I know. I know you're right. I just...want to be prepared, is all."

"I know. Perhaps a gift would help smooth your visit over?"

"That's...not a bad idea." He frowned crookedly, thinking. "Didn't we recently retrieve a ceremonial Templar banner?"

Cassandra nodded and stood. "From a lost troop in Redcliffe. It's a start."

Damon smiled and rose from his seat. "Have it prepared. I need to get dressed."

"Or--" she laid a hand on his chest, "--perhaps undressed?" Her fingers played over his neck, trailing up to his cheek. "After all, we don't know when the scouts may return..."

Her toying hand started unlacing his jerkin, prompting him to bite his lip as he met her eyes.

Cass grinned. "And you look far too tense to be thinking straight."

Damon leaned into her touch as his breathing got heavier, brushing his lips against hers. "Cass..."

The office door swung open as a porter entered the room. They quickly pulled apart.

"Lord Inquisitor--the scouts are back."

Cassandra had never wanted so badly in her life to wring anyone's neck.

By the tense, red-faced smile Damon gave him, he wasn't too far off. "Thank you." He turned to her. "After. I promise."

Cassandra smiled and leaned into the hand he pressed to her cheek. "I'll hold you to that."

...

Hours later, they rode to the gateway of the Templar stronghold. Built into the side of a snow-capped mountain, it was all but a dead end made of palisades and cobbled stone walls. Still, with archers lining the walls and the sheer volume of plated Templars within, it would not be an easy place to take--or escape. Sera and Damon apparently realized this as soon as they stepped inside, because Cassandra could practically feel their unease.

"Easy," she whispered. "They know the consequences should they cross us."

And there would be consequences--a whole company of Iron Bull's mercenaries, plus the finest mage artillery the Inquisition could muster would burn this place to the ground. Damon calmed, Sera only mildly. At the door of the central dwelling, they were greeted by two spear-wielding Templars, one of whom saluted the Inquisitor at the sign of his Mark. They opened the door to allow them passage, and a Tranquil porter led them further in. This building was hewn primarily of stone, with some wood and tapestries breaking up the cold gray here and there. And it was much larger on the inside than it looked on the outside, perhaps even built into the mountain itself.

Damon nodded to Varric. "You think they hired dwarves to help build this place?"

"To excavate it, maybe," the dwarf replied. "This architecture isn't nearly up to dwarven standards."

One of the building's occupants shot Varric a particularly nasty look at that comment. He either didn't see or ignored it. Both were equally likely. At long last, the porter ushered them to a door adorned on either side with the Templar crest and guarded by two more Templars.

The porter turned to the Inquisitor and his party. "The Knight-Commander wishes to speak to the Inquisitor in private." He motioned to an adjacent hallway. "If they so wish, your companions may retire to our dining hall in the meantime."

Sera stepped forward, sneering. "You think we're daft, ya sod?"

"Sera," Damon interrupted, then turned to the Tranquil. "Why?"

"He prefers all negotiations to be handled one-on-one," came the monotone reply. "Prefers to look the other party in the eye without distractions or interruptions."

Cassandra tensed. Even she didn't like this.

Damon thought for a moment. "Let me discuss it with them."

As soon as they huddled out of earshot, Sera snapped.

"I say we clock those three, bust in there, and talk this shite out at the end of an arrow."

Damon's eyes rolled before Cass could scold her. "Of course you do. That's how you like to handle everything." He frowned and dug in his pocket. "I have a better idea."

He stretched out to Cass and gently brushed her cheek.

"Not that I'm complaining," Varric teased, "but is this really the time?"

Damon smirked and winked at him. It was when he removed his hand that Cass felt what he'd left behind--a pseudo-piercing on her right ear, innocuous enough.

"You know what to do," he said.

Cassandra nodded. Months ago, before they were even together, Damon had taken a trip forward in time to a dark future where they lost everything. Being separated from him, believing him dead even for a little while, was an exercise in panic she hadn't felt since losing Regalyan. This device was his answer--a link-ring that would vibrate if he felt himself in danger, more or less intensely depending on his mental state. It would shatter outright if he were killed. They didn't last long, only a day or so, but it was enough to provide peace of mind for a mission at least.

If all went well, they would enjoy the Templars' hospitality for a few hours while he ironed out the details with their leader. If not, they would fight their way to him and hold for as long as it took for rescue to come. And if it shattered...

No, she told herself.

She would not let herself go down that line of thinking.

"Get it done, milord," Cassandra said. "We'll be waiting."

Damon gave them all a sharp nod, and they followed the porter toward the smell of food.

...

The first thing that struck Damon about the chamber beyond was how minimalist it was. A simple desk, a few bookcases. It didn't look so different from his own office. The second thing he noticed was the dressing screen off to one side of the room, allayed with striped patterns and other trivialities that seemed...off for a Templar. Seeing no one inside, he paced about aimlessly until he caught movement from behind the screen. Then he heard the voice.

"The tales speak of the Inquisitor--a powerful mage with violet eyes..."

Damon stiffened, felt his blood run cold.

"But I just had to see it for myself."

All the blood drained from his face as he saw the taller man step out from behind the screen, grinning like a bandit.

"Captain Tyrell," Damon breathed.

"It's 'Knight-Commander' now," he countered, still smiling as he drew closer.

Damon couldn't move, couldn't breathe. "I thought you died in the Tower."

Tyrell turned his head. "Well, a rage demon left me with a few scars and a bit less hair--" he motioned to the left of his face and the half-hawk seared into his skin, "--but I assure you, I am very much alive."

With every step Tyrell came closer, Damon could feel himself shrinking on the inside. He clenched his fists so hard, his fingernails nearly drew blood from his palms. Damon set his jaw and hardened his voice.

"I'm here to discuss--"

"Yes, yes, I know why you're here." Tyrell waved dismissively and walked past his desk, waving to it. "My terms are on that parchment there."

Hesitant to get any closer, Damon forced himself to walk and pick up the sheet. His expression quickly went from tense to flabbergasted. "One thousand gold pieces, plus a regular monthly shipment of refined lyrium--" His head snapped to Tyrell. "You can't be serious!" He threw down the parchment. "No artifact is worth this."

"Your messengers made the mistake of giving away a hint of its true value--perhaps the key to your salvation?"

"Our salvation. Corypheus is coming for all of us."

Tyrell smirked and picked at his nails. "Then it should be a paltry sum to part with."

Damon's jaw was clenched so hard, it started to hurt. "Even if we could give you this, it would be an utterly impractical waste of resources better spent elsewhere." His eyes narrowed. "But you already knew that...didn't you?"

The Templar's smirk widened.

"You didn't agree to this meeting to ask for things, you want a favor. What is it?"

Tyrell paced the room, circling Damon like a buzzard while he picked at his nails. "I hear your companions remarked on the construction of this place. They're quite right; the dwarves only helped with the excavation. They built none of the devices we use to defend our home." He stopped at Damon's back, leaned in to whisper in his ear. "But they built quite a few other devices for me."

Damon gulped, felt the blood drain from his face again, and softly asked, "What do you want?"

When Tyrell was back in view, he held up an index finger. "One day. You remain with us for one day..." his lips twisted in a smile, "to help test them."

Damon stood frozen.

"Your companions are welcome to stay and enjoy our hospitality..." his eyes glinted, "or even join in the testing, if they desire." Tyrell stepped in, leaning well into Damon's personal space. "But all of your testing will be overseen directly..." he leaned in closer, bending to put his eyes just above Damon's, "by me."

Damon stared straight ahead, into infinity, unwilling to look him in the eye. With a shaky voice, he asked, "What assurance can you give that you even have what I'm looking for?"

Tyrell moved back toward his desk, finally letting Damon breathe, and retrieved a lockbox from a false panel. He cracked it open and lifted the lid, revealing a faintly glowing violet diamond the size of Damon's fist.

"I believe you mages call this a 'Fade-strider.'" Tyrell glanced at the gem. "One this big was deemed by the Chantry too dangerous for any mage to use." He locked the box again and left it on his desk. "But we both know the Chantry was wrong about many things." He paced around Damon again, hovering right behind him as he whispered, "And I know full well what a talented mage you are."

Damon let his eyes slip shut as he barely fought back the urge to shake. When they opened, his gaze alit on the lockbox. Briefly, he considered hexing Tyrell and stealing the box. But by the smug look on his face, Tyrell had already considered this and intentionally remained close enough to stop him. If he did, Damon knew from experience he couldn't match this man's physique. And it would only get worse from there.

"So...do we have a deal?" Tyrell asked, holding out his hand.

Slowly, like lifting a fallen tree with his bare hands, Damon lifted his eyes to meet Tyrell's piercing green. Then he let himself shake and quiver, let his voice tremble as he gave his answer.