howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Cullen arches his back, tightening his arms around Alistair.

"Tell me you're planning to make this last a while," he gasps. "We have -- some time."

"Oh yes."

He insinuates one leg between Cullen's; nips lightly at his neck; moves up to his earlobe.

"As long as you'd like." A beat, and then -- as he recalls a certain moment in the Basin -- a wicked smile. "So long as you're good."

His breath catches.

"Alistair -- "

Cullen's fist tightens in Alistair's shirt; his eyes are very wide, and very dark.

"Yes. Please."

(It all settled on him within twenty minutes of arriving back at Skyhold. If he could just do something simple -- )

A low, pleased laugh. He catches Cullen's mouth in another kiss; the hand not buried in Cullen's hair fumbles for the hem of his shirt.

"Let's start with you helping me get this off, then," he whispers in Cullen's ear.

He immediately starts wriggling out of it. Some corner of Cullen's mind notes that his pulse has quickened, considerably; part of him hopes Alistair doesn't notice.

A much larger part of him hopes Alistair does.

"Well done," he breathes as they toss Cullen's shirt aside. Alistair presses another kiss to his neck, feeling Cullen's pulse race under his mouth; he finds himself laughing again, soft and warm.

Doing this is -- different. Not bad, though; not in the least. Especially not when it excites Cullen this much.

And Maker help him, when he so often feels like he can't even control his own mind anymore...it's nice to feel in control of something for once.

He trails a line of open-mouthed kisses along Cullen's neck, then sits up, half-straddling him. Slowly, without breaking eye contact -- and without losing that little smirk -- he peels off his own shirt, putting a little more showmanship into it than usual.

(Cullen's being good. He deserves a little show as a reward.)

Still wide-eyed, and smiling, Cullen reaches out to trail his fingers down Alistair's chest.

"I get the impression," he says, and his voice isn't entirely steady, "you've been planning this?"

"Maybe a little."

He catches Cullen's hands, guiding them lower to the waistband of his trousers.

"Hard to think about much else on the way home."

Cullen's hands start working at the laces. "And you never shared with me?"

"I wanted to surprise you."

As soon as the laces are undone, he shimmies his trousers down his hips and flings them aside.

"Anyway -- " serene, more lofty, "you didn't ask. Shame, that." His fingers delve at Cullen's own trousers. "I'll have to demand you make it up to me."

Cullen runs his hands slowly up and down Alistair's thighs.

"At your order."

It's a little... too sincere.

Alistair can't suppress the shiver that runs through him.

(Something else, just out of reach of articulation: Cullen has said over and over, in word and deed, that Alistair will never take priority over the Inquisition. Here, like this, he can be a priority. He can demand, be selfish, give voice to his desire for Cullen to join him in that selfishness -- and for a few hours, Cullen will always say yes.)

He bends over Cullen, sliding his hands up his chest, putting a bit of his weight into it: nothing light or tentative about this touch. "Finish with your trousers then, Commander. I want to see them on the floor in ten seconds."

Like that, Cullen's shoving them down over his hips, using one foot to shake them further down.

They get stuck on his foot. It's a little more than ten seconds. It's the best he can do if he wants Alistair to continue touching him.

(He does. Very much.)

Alistair gets an uncertain, hopeful look. "I'm sorry I couldn't -- I should have been faster."

"It's all right," he's quick to say.

He's -- not entirely sure about the look on Cullen's face. We're playing, he wants to say. I didn't really mean it.

He smooths a hand over Cullen's hair, sliding down to cradle his cheek. "You did just fine. Don't worry."

Cullen closes his eyes. He's not aware of his own blissful expression -- but he nods.

His hands find their way to Alistair's thighs again. Murmured, as he turns his head into Alistair's hand: "I'll do better for you."

Alistair draws a quick, trembling breath. The moment of uncertainty passes; he draws his thumb along Cullen's lips, lets his hand slide down to his neck, fingers trailing lightly along his throat.

"Good," he says, no louder. "I'm very glad to hear it, Commander."

He curls his fingers just a little, letting the touch turn into an equally light scrape, as he leans down to kiss him as slow and thorough as he can. As his other hand sweeps to cup Cullen's side, he rocks his hips against him, equally slow -- once, then again.

Cullen gasps, moans; his grip on Alistair tightens. It's too slow -- Alistair started so fast, and now --

Now he's going to do what Alistair wants, isn't he.

Cullen breaks away for a moment, long enough to breathe, and slows. "I'll do better," he whispers, with a small smile.

They've spent weeks being furtive and quiet, when they've gotten a chance at all. Cullen's moan hits right at the base of Alistair's spine, shooting up his back like an electric shock; he arches involuntarily with a gasp of his own. For a moment, all he can do is nod, too dazed to remember the game.

"Good," he manages again. Then, as he finishes getting his bearings: "Do you promise?"

He runs his hands up Cullen's arms, curves his fingers loosely around Cullen's wrists.

"I'll give you more if you do."

"Alistair -- " Low, pleading, delighted. Eyes bright.

"I promise. Anything. I promise."

He laughs, low and breathless. "Wonderful."

Alistair moves Cullen's hands off his thighs, pinning his wrists to the bed -- lightly, so Cullen can pull free if he needs. He takes to kissing him again: fervent, mouth hot and wet against his skin, hips bearing down harder against him, promising more and more and better in the coming hours.

So long as Cullen behaves himself, that is.

He's very good at behaving himself, even without incentive. And very soon he doesn't have to think about it at all.

"What can I do for you?" he whispers, some time later. "Tell me. You need..."

"'M all right."

He mumbles it sleepily into Cullen's shoulder, a small, lazy smile on his lips. His hand traces an idle path along Cullen's stomach.

"Something slow, I think. Eventually. Need a moment first."

Cullen laughs: a soft, warm rumble.

"Yes," he agrees, settling a hand on the back of Alistair's neck. "That. Maker's breath."

His smile widens, full of cheerful (if still sleepy) innocence.

"I take it you enjoyed yourself, then?"

"You've killed me," he informs Alistair. "It was a good way to go."