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.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

Another soft laugh. He rests his palm against Alistair's face. "What do you want, Theirin?"

He closes his eyes, turning his head enough to kiss Cullen's palm.

Hoarsely -- without opening his eyes -- he asks, "If I wanted to fuck you, would that be too much athleticism?"

Cullen huffs an amused breath, brushing his thumb over Alistair's cheek.

"Not if we work up to it properly." Beat. "If we -- could you -- not...
rough?"

Even after all this time, it's still terrifying -- and not in a good way -- to make himself vulnerable like that. Even if it's Alistair. Even when they've got several hours in front of them.

"Not rough," he promises, opening his eyes. A soft smile curves his mouth. "Nothing of the sort."

Cullen wants closeness and peace; nothing adversarial. Alistair's perfectly happy to join him in that space.

There's still something a little hesitant in Cullen's eyes. "And you won't leave me alone after?"

Alistair's eyebrows tug together.

"No," he whispers. "I won't."

Of course I won't.

He traces the pad of his thumb over Alistair's lower lip.

"Then... let's work up to it." Crooked smile.

Alistair's own smile grows a fraction. Another kiss, lighter; he runs his fingers through Cullen's hair.

"You'll tell me if you need to stop?"

The thought of it closes his throat for a moment; it's what Alistair wants, and it's something Cullen can give him.

What helps, though, is the thought of Alistair's own feelings about that sort of thing. Knowing that if Cullen keeps his mouth closed, it'll hurt Alistair more.

He touches his forehead to Alistair's. Soft, a little thick: "Yes. I will."

"All right." He strokes his hand down Cullen's cheek; rests it there. "Good."

And slowly -- even gently, at first -- he resumes rocking against Cullen's thigh.

Cullen lets out a breath. "Like that," he murmurs against Alistair's mouth. "Yes. Please. Easy."

Alistair nods. He brushes his lips over Cullen's; shifts one leg a little higher to give Cullen more friction of his own.

"Is that good?" he whispers.

"Mm." It's an affirmative. He tangles his fingers in the hair on Alistair's neck, seeking purchase. Then, warmer, a little amused: "Clearly you've done this before."

Alistair chuckles. "Perhaps."

A little more pressure.

"Of course, we have been sharing a bed for some years now."

Cullen takes in a slow breath, and hides his face in Alistair's shoulder. Muffled: "Not nearly long enough."

"We'll have more years to come."

Gently, he cradles the back of Cullen's head.

"You and me. Whatever we want to do. Wherever we'd like to go. That's not just a story any longer, love; it's true."

Cullen's arms tighten reflexively.

Softer:

"Don't lie. Not to me."

Alistair slows to a halt. Pulls back enough to look down at Cullen.

"I'm not." No louder; bewildered. "I -- "

(Maybe it was a bad idea to try and initiate anything, if Cullen's thoughts have taken root here.)

"Yes, we don't know how many years. But we'll still have time. I promise you."

It takes a long moment for Cullen to nod against Alistair's shoulder.

Barely audible:

"I'm sorry. Keep -- keep going."

Frowning, Alistair settles his cheek atop Cullen's hair.

"Are you sure?" he murmurs.

"I can give you what you want."

His throat's closing up again.

"Please."

Alistair's eyes sting. He closes them, quickly.

"I'm not sure this is what I want." Very quiet. "But I do know I want you to be comfortable."

He cards his fingers through Cullen's hair: just the same two inches or so, over and over, as gentle as he can.

"I think we should stop for now."

"I'm never comfortable," he grumbles into Alistair's neck. "You know that."

But he also doesn't fight Alistair, which may say something.

That earns a pained twitch of a smile.

"Less uncomfortable, then," he says.