howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Alistair wrinkles his nose at the hair-ruffling, but it's all for show: he's smiling, contented, as he rests his head on Cullen's chest.

"At the risk of insulting Skyhold's resident wordsmith," he says, "I'd rather hear your words than any of his."

"I won't have any metaphors," Cullen warns, threading his fingers through Alistair's hair in an attempt to make it stand on end. "Of course, Varric won't have any good ones... but he'll have them."

"Probably something about love being like a trebuchet filled with livestock."

Beat.

"...Don't ask me to continue that metaphor, I've no idea where I could possibly go with it."

"...messy, disorganized, and frequently leaves a stench upon its logical conclusion?"

Alistair cracks up.

Somewhere amidst the laughter, the words so romantic can just barely be heard.

Cullen is laughing too, despite himself.

"Better all round if Varric knows nothing."

"Indeed," manages Alistair, before lifting his head to kiss Cullen soundly.

A pleased mm, as Cullen tightens his hold on Alistair.

"...you said there was pie."

This, in contrast, is a little shifty.

Alistair laughs.

"There is," he says. "There are several pies, in fact. And a bottle of wine if you're in the mood. Shall I fetch the basket?"

Cullen... isn't letting go. And also considering this carefully.

"Difficult decision."

"I'm telling you," says Alistair, as solemn as he can. (He's not moving, either.) "Borrow some of Lel's ravens and train them to bring us food. We have to make it happen."

"Absolutely not." Peaceful.

"A complicated series of winches, then?" He settles his head back on Cullen's chest. "With the last one putting the food directly into our hands?"

"Much better."

Cullen idly massages Alistair's scalp with his fingertips.

"Less messy. Less prone to infiltration."

"What sort of dastardly deeds could Lel accomplish if she knew our drink preferences, I wonder," muses Alistair; his eyes drift closed as Cullen's fingers do their work. "The ravens could show up with ordinary grape juice if she's mad about something. Terrible. Just terrible."

"Joke's on her," he murmurs. "We'll just age it, and have our way after all."

"Mm."

Content.

"A farm, a kennel, and now a makeshift wine bottling operation. I like the sound of that."

"I thought that was our neighbors." Cullen lets his eyes close. "The ones with the stuff that warranted the mediocre wine for comparison."

"That's right, I'd nearly forgotten." Another quiet laugh. "Maybe that's how we get the mediocre wine. Aging the revenge juice Leliana inflicts on us."

Cullen begins to laugh. (It is perilously close to a giggle. Cullen would deny this to his dying breath.)

"'Revenge juice,'" he repeats.

"What?" he demands. (His impish smile's rather ruining the effect.) "It's juice, it's supplied as revenge, seems like the best possible thing you could call it."

"Would that make something that makes you hung over also revenge juice?"

Alistair considers this.

Thoughtful: "No, that's just cruel juice. Tricks you into having a good time and then bam!"

He nudges Cullen for emphasis on the last.

"Sneaks up behind you with a club."

"Sounds more like murder juice to me."

"Murder juice," he echoes, eyes wide with something close to delight. "Even better."