Cullen (
howtoactfereldan) wrote2017-01-14 09:30 pm
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Cullen is fine in the field. He can set up a tent, build a fire, find water safe to drink, make something edible. But he hasn't traveled enough to get the knack of what's wise to bring.
These days it makes little difference, given his status: he helps to set up camp, but there are runners and adjutants to find and fetch things. And there are few enough of them, this time -- not the massed force of the Inquisition, but a patrol's worth of soldiers and scouts and accompanying support -- that in the evenings, Cullen finds himself... restless.
It's akin to the reason he doesn't frequent the Herald's Rest, but there's no office to hide in, and no paperwork to justify staying in the tent.
At least tomorrow he and Alistair will peel off to where Honnleath used to be, to spend the night and rejoin the rest again late the following day.
(This may also contribute to his fidgeting.)
These days it makes little difference, given his status: he helps to set up camp, but there are runners and adjutants to find and fetch things. And there are few enough of them, this time -- not the massed force of the Inquisition, but a patrol's worth of soldiers and scouts and accompanying support -- that in the evenings, Cullen finds himself... restless.
It's akin to the reason he doesn't frequent the Herald's Rest, but there's no office to hide in, and no paperwork to justify staying in the tent.
At least tomorrow he and Alistair will peel off to where Honnleath used to be, to spend the night and rejoin the rest again late the following day.
(This may also contribute to his fidgeting.)
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As he presses closer, one foot sneaks between Cullen's.
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He pulls Alistair properly on top of him. His weight isn't too much; rather, it's good. As though Cullen's being held in place.
Satisfied, he nips gently at Alistair's lower lip.
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Alistair stifles a groan of pleasure, badly. He rests an elbow next to Cullen's head so he can grip his hair again. His other hand slides down Cullen's bare side, fingers digging lightly into his hip.
It's suddenly become very important that Cullen isn't wearing a shirt. It may, in fact, be the best decision Cullen's ever made in his life, as far as Alistair is concerned.
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Cullen's throat is an open invitation -- one he accepts gladly. Alistair mouths a line across his neck, letting his teeth graze the spot over Cullen's pulse.
Maker, he wants to --
He tries to catch his breath. Manages to say, hot against Cullen's neck, "How much do you want?"
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(That question hits like a warhammer, with that moment of stunned do I still exist hanging on afterward.)
Hoarsely, as his hands grip Alistair even tighter: "As much as you'll give."
Freely.
"Alistair -- "
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His mouth finds Cullen's again, fastens on in a hungry kiss. When it finally breaks: "Everything. It's yours."
He gets a hand between their hips, with effort, to see about getting rid of those pesky trousers Cullen's still wearing.
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He tugs at Alistair's shirt with intent. "Unfair."
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"How," he says as he helps Cullen yank his shirt free, "did I end up wearing more clothes than you after trying to warm you up?"
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He drags the pad of his index finger down Alistair's chest.
" -- is my favorite view."
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"Your favorite? Out of everything? Really?"
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"Well," he murmurs, "I'm relieved I made the list, then."
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Softer: "You are the list."
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He leans down. The kiss is gentler this time, more tender.
(No less thorough, though.)
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When it breaks, he leans his forehead against Alistair's and breathes, softly, "Maker."
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"I can't begin to say how glad I am that you found me," he whispers.
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Buy some time. Cullen makes a soft, interrogative noise.
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He opens his eyes. Gently, he brushes aside a bit of hair that's fallen over Cullen's forehead.
"You've never doubted I could get better. I look at you, and I know I'm safe."
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So: something that has the benefit of being the truth.
"I'm glad," he murmurs. It's his turn to close his eyes. Easier to hide that way.
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So instead of saying anything else, he touches his lips to Cullen's forehead, and whispers, "I love you."
Believe that much, if nothing else.
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So he says it in return, and then: "Welcome home."
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Definitely better to act than speak, now: he kisses Cullen again, as if the overflow of emotion in his chest could pour into him, as if Cullen could miraculously know, by one action, everything Alistair has ever felt for him.
(As if he could, at last, see himself the way Alistair sees him.)
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It's all right, he thinks. It's fine.
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"It would absolutely ruin the moment if I tried to take off your trousers again, wouldn't it."
He's struggling not to laugh.
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