bringspeopletogether

Alistair exhales another shaky laugh. "Barely started yet," he manages.

Still moving with care, he rocks his hips a little: settling in, testing out. It makes his breath catch and hitch, hard. "Yes."

As his fingers curl into the bedsheets and clutch tight, he finds his way toward a slow rhythm. His eyes fall closed, head tipping back as he savors it.

Maker, Alistair's tight. Cullen barely manages to bite back a cry; he's going to have to do better, if Alistair wants this to last.

He catches an arm around Alistair's waist, managing, "Hard to watch -- with your eyes closed, Theirin."

Alistair tries to speak, but nothing comes out at first but a soft moan. A few quick, deep breaths to steady himself; then he opens his eyes, focusing down at Cullen.

"Couldn't help it." One hand curls tighter, but the other works free of the blankets and makes a grab for Cullen's shoulder. "You -- Maker, yes -- " A dazed second to catch his breath again. "You feel incredible."

Cullen laughs, low and a little desperate, and firms up his arm around Alistair. "No." He leans in, sweeps his tongue where Alistair's neck and shoulder join, savors the taste of salt. "You."

To distract from his lack of eloquence, he shifts his hips up -- just a little. Testing.

"Ah -- "

Not so quiet that time. He digs his nails into Cullen's shoulder as he nods helplessly. "Yes. That."

With effort, he swallows down the please that wants to tack itself to the end of those words. If Cullen wants to...be used, that means Alistair can't ask or plead. He has to tell. Demand.

"Again -- "

Far be it from Cullen not to give the man what he wants.

"At your order," he breathes, and sets up a slow, careful, steady rhythm. To make matters worse -- depending on one's definition -- he wraps his free hand around Alistair's length. "Anything. Yes."

Alistair whimpers. The sound sweeps higher into a gasp; deepens to a shuddering moan; resolves, eventually, into Cullen's name, which becomes the last coherent word he says for a time.

He urges the rhythm a little faster. Along Cullen's shoulder, his fingernails scrape thin, stinging lines. I don't want this to end, he thinks, delirious and giddy.

Every time his head bows of its own accord, he lifts it again, forces his eyes open so he can keep watching Cullen.

What's there is a struggle for concentration, and the effort of maintaining self-control. (Alistair's nails aren't helping. Somehow Cullen doesn't mind.) Alistair first, he thinks, and growls without realizing it.

He can do this.

He tightens his hold. Steadies his grip. Thrusts a little harder, as though it could make up for the fact that he's gotten -- erratic.

He should say something. Are you close? Something -- good. You feel incredible. Something intense. (Maybe a little filthy?) But it's too much going on at once.

What winds up happening is Cullen, shoulders tensed with effort, and against the onslaught of sensation, letting out a steady stream of increasingly high-pitched profanity. Odds are he's not quite aware of it.

Alistair grinds down against him, helplessly, winding the bedspread so tightly into his fist that his knuckles pale. "I," he gasps. "Cullen -- "

Just a little more, just a little harder, if Cullen's hand twists and strokes just a few more times --

"Yes -- "

He can't keep up the rhythm any better than Cullen by now, he's too close, and he can't keep watching anymore either -- his eyes screw shut as the tension builds hotter, stronger, everything circling up to an impossibly high peak. One more thrust against Cullen's hand -- two --

His voice spirals up to a shout as his hand clamps onto Cullen, like he's been struck by lightning and can't let go. Shuddering, he spills across Cullen's hand, his stomach, trying in vain to catch his breath.

"There," Cullen breathes, and from somewhere manifests the ability to slow his thrusts. "There you are. Perfect. Take your time."

(It's a little strangled, to be honest.)

"I've got you."

He hears that as if from a great distance, and, still panting, just barely has the presence of mind to nod. Slowly, the surge carries him down its long, gentle slope, eventually depositing his awareness atop the bed; atop Cullen. Alistair draws a long breath and remembers to loosen his grip.

"Fuck," he breathes, dazed. Starting to laugh a little, very soft.

And, before long, starting to pick up the rhythm again, matching Cullen. (You'd have to be oblivious to the point of cruelty not to notice the strain to Cullen's voice, his face. Not to notice how close he's been for so long.)

"It's -- all right," he tries to protest. "Rest, if you -- bleeding Void, -- ah -- Alistair -- "

"No." Low, as his smile broadens. "You did very well. Your turn now."

He grinds against him a little harder.

"Let go. Show me. Let me see."

I can't wars with no; it surfaces as a moment of anguished indecision on his face before he hides his face against Alistair, breath hot against Alistair's chest.

Cullen is good at some things, such as chess and eating jam. Some things Cullen is not good at include having to exert a great deal of self-control and then shifting immediately and completely to hedonistic abandon. He ought to be taking care of Alistair, not -- rutting into him like a... something that -- a something. Not a someone. Not his someone.

It's a little late to stop it now, though. And it's not as though Cullen's good at self-reflection in the current moment. (He's bad at not being able to control his body at all times. He's bad at not feeling shame about that.) Whatever tangled thoughts he's having are substituted for a low keen, interrupted with each thrust. And make no mistake: Cullen is still participating.

"It's all right." Softer. "It's all right."

(He doesn't know what else he can say, after seeing that expression cross Cullen's face. Cullen isn't pulling away from him; there's no need for Alistair to stop, it seems. But maybe he should. Maybe -- )

In an unconscious echo: "I've got you."

There's no reason that should suddenly make it easier. It's completely absurd.

(When he gets so twisted up and bound into his desire to serve -- he can't just let go. Not without permission. Not without being told it's safe. That he's safe.)

Cullen takes in a great shuddery breath -- just a breath, that's all -- and tightens his arms around Alistair before renewing his efforts. It's not long at all after that until it's over; when he comes, Alistair's name is on his lips like a prayer, and he doesn't lift his head.

Alistair shivers.

"There you go," he breathes. He slows to a halt. One hand cards through Cullen's damp hair, settling near his temple. "There. Good. I love you. I love you so much."

Cullen slumps against Alistair, taking long, deep breaths.

After a moment he lifts his head just enough to kiss Alistair's neck before settling back.

Alistair smiles. After a moment, he lifts his hips enough to slide free of Cullen: the better to roll to the side and wrap his arms around him.

There's no sound but their labored breathing. For once, Alistair isn't inclined to break the quiet.

Cullen settles more comfortably against him, leans his head against his.

He's smiling faintly. The quiet -- it helps.

Alistair's own smile grows.

He goes back to running his hand through Cullen's hair, slow and gentle. Eventually he presses a soft kiss to Cullen's forehead.

Whispered:

"That was good, right?"

"Oh yes." It comes out on a long, contented sigh. "Very."

He squeezes Cullen a little.

"And for you?"

A small smile. "I enjoyed it."

Most of it, he doesn't say.

"It was... intense, wasn't it."

A lazy mm of agreement.

Then, curious: "Is that -- something you'd like to do more often?"

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