Alistair (
bringspeopletogether) wrote2017-07-01 04:58 pm
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[sandbox]
Skyhold gets quieter and quieter as the days move on. It's not a complete stand-down; there's cleanup to do, stragglers to round up, the same sort of business Alistair remembers from the months after the Blight. The Thaw, as Wardens call it. Thedas is thawing again, but the fortress only grows colder for it.
He won't lie: he'd feel warmer if Kieran and Morrigan were still there.
When Cullen suggests a vacation, Alistair lights up, only to deflate slightly when he realizes they'll be "vacationing" in Orlais. There's business to attend in Val Royeaux -- not the sort of business that'll keep Cullen occupied from sunup to sundown, but enough to require an in-person visit for a week or so. On the one hand: Orlais. On the other: he can't argue that time away from Skyhold, especially in Cullen's company, will help.
...So will the cheese, probably.
(Look, as Alistair has said many a time, he is a very predictable man.)
They room at a small place in the university quarter that's downright plain for Val Royeaux. Libraries for Cullen, a cafe around the corner for both of them, limited contact with people trilling about whatever stupid, petty scandal's hit the court this week -- it could be far worse. Alistair takes to writing his letters at the cafe, usually accompanied by some flaky pastry or another.
Today, they're cheese-filled. It's hard to descend too far into a personal funk when you've got a cheese-filled pastry.
He won't lie: he'd feel warmer if Kieran and Morrigan were still there.
When Cullen suggests a vacation, Alistair lights up, only to deflate slightly when he realizes they'll be "vacationing" in Orlais. There's business to attend in Val Royeaux -- not the sort of business that'll keep Cullen occupied from sunup to sundown, but enough to require an in-person visit for a week or so. On the one hand: Orlais. On the other: he can't argue that time away from Skyhold, especially in Cullen's company, will help.
...So will the cheese, probably.
(Look, as Alistair has said many a time, he is a very predictable man.)
They room at a small place in the university quarter that's downright plain for Val Royeaux. Libraries for Cullen, a cafe around the corner for both of them, limited contact with people trilling about whatever stupid, petty scandal's hit the court this week -- it could be far worse. Alistair takes to writing his letters at the cafe, usually accompanied by some flaky pastry or another.
Today, they're cheese-filled. It's hard to descend too far into a personal funk when you've got a cheese-filled pastry.
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He grinds against him a little harder.
"Let go. Show me. Let me see."
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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.
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(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."
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(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.
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"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."
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After a moment he lifts his head just enough to kiss Alistair's neck before settling back.
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There's no sound but their labored breathing. For once, Alistair isn't inclined to break the quiet.
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Cullen settles more comfortably against him, leans his head against his.
He's smiling faintly. The quiet -- it helps.
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He goes back to running his hand through Cullen's hair, slow and gentle. Eventually he presses a soft kiss to Cullen's forehead.
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Whispered:
"That was good, right?"
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He squeezes Cullen a little.
"And for you?"
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Most of it, he doesn't say.
"It was... intense, wasn't it."
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Then, curious: "Is that -- something you'd like to do more often?"
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Cullen sighs, soft.
"We should -- talk about it. Not now. And not without a bottle of something strong for me. I'm..."
Then, frustrated with himself: "Maker's breath. I can't -- words."
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He's -- not worried, precisely. Even concerned is a little too strong a word. But Alistair wants to be absolutely certain he has the right of all this, whenever Cullen is ready.
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"That's a relief." Mumbled. "Thank you."
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"You're quite welcome." Soft. "And thank you for all this."
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Alistair makes a great show of squeezing his eyes shut. A moment later, he peeks one eye open.
"Did it work?"
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Then, more sheepish, "Probably ought to get cleaned up soon despite the disappointing lack of hot springs, though."
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