howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

You'll have to make a decision quickly. Either don't come home and meet me in Halamshiral, or come home and have a day or two before turning for Orlais. They've called an Exalted Council. Josephine, Lavellan, and I must speak for the Inquisition in front of Orlais, Ferelden, and Divine Victoria. Two of those parties appear to be hostile to our continued existence. I will leave it to you to contemplate which two.

Be safe, Alistair, and go with my love.

Cullen doesn't bother signing it.

The library is silent. No one is in the rotunda -- Solas's rotunda, he thinks, even after all this time. There are always people in the yard, but many fewer than before.

(It's downright lonely, when Alistair travels. Cullen will never complain to him. Not after the last few years.)

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"Yes?" He smiles; cradles Cullen's cheek as he ends the line of kisses just beneath his ear; begins to work down the side of his throat. "Good."

Goosebumps rise along his arms.

"Perhaps we -- " A soft laugh as he shivers. "Ought to dispense with the trousers?"

Cullen laughs, quietly, and threads his fingers through Alistair's hair, seeking a good grip. "When all evidence indicates -- "

He limpets as best he can.

" -- you're cold? That seems... counterintuitive, Theirin."

"That's when we figure out all the fun and creative ways we can warm each other up," says Alistair, practical, as he traces his fingers along Cullen's spine. "...Unless you'd rather just do this instead?"

The last sounds genuinely curious.

Cullen arches his back -- and then freezes.

He knows better than to say whatever you want. Doesn't mean he doesn't have to fight the urge to do it anyway.

It shouldn't be this difficult to make his voice work. "I feel -- "

"We just escaped something awful. It's like that. I want to be -- close. And, and to try for peace. Or something like it. We just escaped," he repeats. "I'm not feeling... ambitious."

Edited 2018-02-04 02:19 (UTC)

Alistair breathes out.

"All right, love." Soft; gentle. "Come here, then."

He settles his arm around him, shifting a little higher so he can tuck his chin over Cullen's head: surrounding him the best he can.

Gratefully Cullen sinks into Alistair's arms, tucking his head against Alistair's chest.

"To be clear."

Thoughtful.

"I quite liked what we were doing. When I say I'm not feeling ambitious, I meant in the -- " How to phrase it? "-- athletic sense."

"Ah."

There's an audible smile in Alistair's voice.

"Well. If and when you'd like to return to a...less athletic sort of fun, I've no complaints about it either." He squeezes Cullen, gently. "But there's no rush."

Cullen nods a little.

"We could work out a deal." Still thoughtful. "Lose the trousers, gain the blankets."

A quiet laugh.

"That sounds like a perfectly acceptable compromise to me."

Cullen perks up. After another brief moment to appreciate how Alistair does his best to turn himself into a blanket when Cullen's upset, he wriggles up enough to kiss Alistair -- and reaches a hand down between them to tug at Alistair's laces.

"Blankets," he demands. "And no clothes."

The next laugh isn't so quiet. "Yes, ser."

He stretches to give Cullen more room to work; since they're lying atop most of the blankets, it seems easiest to grab a corner and try to roll themselves up in them like a particularly fancy pastry. Once Cullen's loosened the laces enough, Alistair wriggles out of his trousers and gets to work liberating Cullen of his own clothes.

Cullen is eyeing this pastry business as he does his best to shimmy helpfully.

"We need to be under, not inside."

"I'm working on it." Peaceably. "Give me a moment."

There. Trousers off. Alistair tosses them aside, along with his own, and rolls them both over to put the seam of the blanket-pastry underneath them. A few industrious tugs of the blanket to free it from their weight, and: "There."

Ta-da! They're underneath the blanket.

"Genius," he murmurs, pressing as closely against Alistair as he can manage. "Brilliance."

He winds his arms around him, just as snug. Lightly, "Every so often I have a flash of a good idea."

Alistair kisses him tenderly.

Deeply content, he insinuates a leg between Alistair's, and hooks his other foot over Alistair's ankle.

When he can manage it: "Oftener than you give yourself credit for."

"I'm glad you're around to remind me of it," he murmurs. Alistair threads his fingers through Cullen's hair. "Don't know what I'd do without you."

The words are light enough; the sentiment isn't.

"You'd get by."

Cullen rubs his thigh up against Alistair, very innocently.

"Probably have a bit less fun, though."

Alistair's breath catches. Without thinking, he rocks against Cullen's leg.

"Much less, I'd daresay."

Cullen laughs, low and warm, and nips at Alistair's throat.

"Not likely. I haven't let you get ninety per cent of the statues you want."

Another soft gasp, as his fingers tighten in Cullen's hair.

"Lots of wedding anniversaries coming up," he manages. "There's time yet."

Who's making noises now? Cullen thinks, smugly.

"And I keep rejecting your architecture proposals."

"I'll content myself with -- " His hand slips from Cullen's hair; Alistair curls his fingers, dragging his nails lightly down Cullen's back. "Building a small shed in the backyard and inflicting all my questionable architecture choices on it."

Cullen's shoulders come up around his ears; he shivers, a little, in Alistair's arms. He doesn't look as though he wants to complain about it, however.

"I look forward to the coming eyesore," he murmurs politely, and rocks his thigh against Alistair with lazy intent.

Alistair laughs, a little shaky, and begins to match the rhythm, grinding slow against Cullen.

His next kiss is hungrier, ending with the smallest nip of Cullen's lower lip.