howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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."

Alistair shivers.

"Your favorite? Out of everything? Really?"

"I have many favorites." Serene.

Alistair plants his hands on either side of Cullen's shoulders, smiling down at him.

"Well," he murmurs, "I'm relieved I made the list, then."

Cullen's smile is sudden, crooked.

Softer: "You are the list."

Despite months together, despite everything Cullen told him earlier today, Alistair's heart flutters like wingbeats against his chest. Maybe this will stop feeling so remarkable some day. Maker, he hopes it doesn't.

He leans down. The kiss is gentler this time, more tender.

(No less thorough, though.)

His hands slide up to frame Alistair's face with the care usually reserved for something fragile, precious, priceless beyond any measure.

When it breaks, he leans his forehead against Alistair's and breathes, softly, "Maker."

Alistair's smile has turned smaller, sweeter; he hasn't opened his eyes.

"I can't begin to say how glad I am that you found me," he whispers.

You found me first, he thinks; his smile flickers for a moment.

Buy some time. Cullen makes a soft, interrogative noise.

"You've always helped me remember who was I was before Adamant."

He opens his eyes. Gently, he brushes aside a bit of hair that's fallen over Cullen's forehead.

"You've never doubted I could get better. I look at you, and I know I'm safe."

Nearly everything he could say would ruin this. Or put a damper on it. And that's the last thing Cullen wants to do.

So: something that has the benefit of being the truth.

"I'm glad," he murmurs. It's his turn to close his eyes. Easier to hide that way.

Alistair pushed too far earlier. He won't make the same mistake twice in less than an hour.

So instead of saying anything else, he touches his lips to Cullen's forehead, and whispers, "I love you."

Believe that much, if nothing else.

That, he thinks, also has the benefit of being the truth.

So he says it in return, and then: "Welcome home."

A fresh lump rises in Alistair's throat.

Definitely better to act than speak, now: he kisses Cullen again, as if the overflow of emotion in his chest could pour into him, as if Cullen could miraculously know, by one action, everything Alistair has ever felt for him.

(As if he could, at last, see himself the way Alistair sees him.)

No miracle occurs. But Cullen does suspect that Alistair is -- overwhelmed. He wraps his arms around Alistair in as steady an embrace as he can muster.

It's all right, he thinks. It's fine.

When it breaks, he rests his forehead against Cullen's again. Takes a moment to right himself, emotionally speaking.

"It would absolutely ruin the moment if I tried to take off your trousers again, wouldn't it."

He's struggling not to laugh.