#aeluris

fixed it for u

[ @aeluris ]

He says nothing. Just reaches out to press his fingertips to the nape of his neck, to pull him in until their foreheads touch, the tips of their noses rubbing together in gentle accord. There’s raki on his lips, his breath, but Cicero doesn’t mind. There’s no judgement in his eyes beyond the usual telegraphed soft reproach of Fenris’ admittedly-questionable taste in boyfriends. If they can even be called that.

The boy of the moment is tugging at his sleeve, and Fenris follows after, but not without lingering fingertips curling under Cicero’s jaw as they slip away. In the vertiginous shadow of the bushes, there’s little pretense. The boy does not kiss him on the mouth. His lips dance just beyond his, brush along his jaw, press unwittingly close tot he corner of his mouth, but he does not kiss him properly. His attentions are elsewhere, anyways. Impatient hands fumble rudely at his own jeans, and Fenris knows that exigency, that selfish need, but he keeps his eyes closed and pretends that the kiss he wants is still just a kiss away.

But before Fenris could continue his prodigiously foolish reverie, there’s a noise, a sound, a shout, a growl. His body processes the sound before his brain can. He knows instinctively by the timber that it’s Cicero, and he’s pushing the boy away, righting his belt as he scrambles back to the other side of the hedge. His fists are clenched, his teeth are bared, and his entire body is drawn taut as a weapon, ready to fly to his friend’s aid, but he’s disarmed at the sight of his four brothers crowding around the much smaller Cicero.

There’s blood from his nose, and he’s wearing that irritated expression, as if he can’t be bothered to suffer a beating today. Aamir has his hand around his neck, while it’s Ajmal who has his hair in his brutal grip. Arkam is the one who is shouting, while Anwar delivers a series of little slaps to his face.

Cicero’s eyes cut slowly to Fenris’s direction, and his brothers catch on to the follow the trail of his eyeline, but Fenris is quick enough to disappear without being spotted. “Tell us where he is, haramzadeh,” they insist. “We’re taking him home.” 

[ ᵀˣᵀ ᵗᵒ﹕ ᵀᵂᴬᵀ 🚭 ] guess what fucker

meme.

Send me “that’s dirty” and I will generate a number for what my muse will say to yours.

24. This is one night only, don’t get any ideas.

@aeluris ][ accepting

It’s just a touch. Just one of his scouts tugging at his sleeve, offering his commander a drink, but Cullen flinches anyways. Back pressed to the wall, head pitched downward like a menacing and mistrustful beast, he looks every inch the part, brooding in the shadow of the flickering torchlight overhead. 

He wills himself to tear his eyes away from Dorian, but what is will to the immolation of envy that scorches and sears and scalds his skin like the bitterness of bile that sits deep in his throat? 

It’s just a touch. Just Bull’s heavy hand resting easily, comfortably, proprietarily on Dorian’s hip, as he spins a captivating yarn. The mage gesticulates grandly, jokes and cajoles the company into laughter, and the tavern whole erupts into laughter, and there’s not a flinch, not a fidget to indicate that the hand that slips down to grope assertorily at his ass is anything but welcome and warranted and wanted.

It’s just a touch, he tells himself as he lets out a metered breath, trying to concentrate on the sequence of numbers he’s counting down to slow his racing thoughts and his frantic heart. It’s just a touch.

But it’s not just a touch. It’s a world of familiarity he would never be allowed to know. It’s not within him to have the gall to think he deserves it, but he rues and laments that he cannot. Would not. He’d never be worthy of that annihilating wit, that pleasant sharpness, that devastating beauty. But neither does he think Bull does either. 

So what is it he lacked?

The autumnal winds blow just as cold as the winter winds do, bitter and vengeful, and Cullen marches out into the thick of them, and straight to the Inquisitor’s tower. He doesn’t knock, only silently pushes the heavy wooden door open and stalks inside. Nevermind the shards of oculara collected in a chest in the corner, or the candles of varying colors burned down to the wick ornamenting every shelf, the giant tomes of ancient magics dogeared and torn, the broadsheets displaying thaumaturgical illustrations that look vaguely demoniac to his untrained and devouted eyes. Cicero stands at some sort of altar, his back to him, and Cullen reaches out to touch just under the crook of his arm, just beyond his elbow. Just a touch. Nothing too assuming.

But Cicero turns, his wild curls framing the elegant ruggedness of his face, and his confusion gives way to a smile as resplendent as a Tevinter sun. Cicero’s eyes drop to Cullen’s scarred lips like an invitation, which he takes with full force, the only impetus he needs. His lips are smooth, Cullen realizes ruefully. But they open for him like a rose, encourage and entreat him, and that acceptance is everything to him in the moment.

“This is one night only, don’t get any ideas,” he mumbles into the juncture of his neck, accenting the import of his words with a resolute bite.