howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"What?" Cullen is grinning. "Didn't you say something about me being a cold wall?"

"Yes, and I could argue -- "

With minimal contorting, he brings Cullen's hands in front of him, folds them between his own.

" -- that, being the ray of sunshine in your life that I am, it's my sworn duty to warm the wall."

Cullen groans. "Awful."

"You love it."

He kisses Cullen's knuckles.

"Most of the time, anyway."

"The vast majority of the time," he agrees. "Between us we make one man with an appropriate sense of humor. Keeps us in balance."

"Yes." His smile softens. "Better together, as you're fond of saying."

Cullen, smile crooked, leans up for a brief kiss.

(Alistair has his hands trapped. He'll point that out when he needs to. But he doesn't mind it at all.)

Alistair's still smiling when the kiss breaks. Gently, he kneads Cullen's hands to warm them further. His thumbs follow the pattern of thin scars crisscrossing his fingers; pauses to circle the crooked knuckles.

He tips his head after a moment to watch himself work. To study Cullen's hands more closely.

(It's funny, how well he knows them now compared to a few short months ago.)

Cullen watches this, bemused but pleased.

Whatever Alistair's doing -- he's not inclined to interrupt it.

"Did you know," he murmurs eventually, "this was how I knew I was really back?"

He keeps circling his thumb around one of Cullen's knuckles.

With a brief chuckle, "Most of the day's a blur. But I remember this. You took my hand and I thought, 'No demon would put that much detail into his fingers.' It's how I knew you were real."

"...next time someone tries to tell you you're an idiot," Cullen says, after a moment, "remember this."

Quiet. And impressed.

"I couldn't have done the same."

Another tiny huff of laughter. Alistair meets Cullen's eyes.

He frees one hand, after a beat, so he can lay it against Cullen's cheek.

Another crooked half-smile. The scar above his lip stretches, twists. He raises his eyebrows in silent question.

Alistair shakes his head.

If they hadn't just fought badly enough for Cullen to literally throw himself in the lake, he might propose a deal, half in jest. I won't call myself an idiot if you don't call yourself a monster.

There is not a damn thing in the whole of Thedas that would make him say that right now. Or maybe ever again.

Instead, he presses a soft, lingering kiss to Cullen's scar, sweeping his thumb along the ridge of Cullen's cheekbone.

Cullen closes his eyes in pleasure. With his free hand -- warmer, this time -- he returns to questing for bare skin to touch, finally landing at the small of Alistair's back. Rough-textured fingers smooth up, down, around: exploring, dwelling.

Alistair breathes out, a bit shaky. His mouth moves an inch: he kisses Cullen properly, harder this time.

As he presses closer, one foot sneaks between Cullen's.

What a good idea.

He pulls Alistair properly on top of him. His weight isn't too much; rather, it's good. As though Cullen's being held in place.

Satisfied, he nips gently at Alistair's lower lip.

Oh, that's nice.

Alistair stifles a groan of pleasure, badly. He rests an elbow next to Cullen's head so he can grip his hair again. His other hand slides down Cullen's bare side, fingers digging lightly into his hip.

It's suddenly become very important that Cullen isn't wearing a shirt. It may, in fact, be the best decision Cullen's ever made in his life, as far as Alistair is concerned.

Cullen turns his head to the side with a sharp exhalation, exposing his throat. His hands move lower, pressing Alistair against his hips.

No chance of stifling a moan now. Alistair's back curves, without conscious thought, to push down against him in kind.

Cullen's throat is an open invitation -- one he accepts gladly. Alistair mouths a line across his neck, letting his teeth graze the spot over Cullen's pulse.

Maker, he wants to --

He tries to catch his breath. Manages to say, hot against Cullen's neck, "How much do you want?"

His breath stops. He shudders.

(That question hits like a warhammer, with that moment of stunned do I still exist hanging on afterward.)

Hoarsely, as his hands grip Alistair even tighter: "As much as you'll give."

Freely.

"Alistair -- "

"Yes."

His mouth finds Cullen's again, fastens on in a hungry kiss. When it finally breaks: "Everything. It's yours."

He gets a hand between their hips, with effort, to see about getting rid of those pesky trousers Cullen's still wearing.

"Alistair," he manages again -- but it's with a soft laugh. "See to yourself first."

He tugs at Alistair's shirt with intent. "Unfair."

Alistair pauses, then starts to laugh, too, quiet and sheepish.

"How," he says as he helps Cullen yank his shirt free, "did I end up wearing more clothes than you after trying to warm you up?"

"Because you're a cruel tyrant," Cullen says, sorrowful. "A cruel tyrant who doesn't care that this -- "

He drags the pad of his index finger down Alistair's chest.

" -- is my favorite view."