howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

He laughs, softly, a light rumble at Cullen's pulse point. "Just a spoon and a jar, then? Hm. I suppose it'd be very portable if you couldn't finish your whole breakfast."

Just as lightly, he kisses Cullen's neck.

"Brilliant, Commander."

Cullen shivers pleasantly, and confides, "Not really. I just like jam."

Alistair dissolves into snickers.

"You know what I ought to do sometime," he says, before trailing another soft line of kisses along Cullen's jaw. "Ask them to make you a batch of shortbread sandwiches with jam in the middle. For a special occasion."

His fingers dig into Alistair's flesh; he sighs.

"Not every day?" Plaintive.

His back arches, just a little.

"Bit like our neighbor's wine, isn't it." No less gentle, he nips at Cullen's earlobe. "We have to have regular shortbread sometimes so we can appreciate the jam and shortbread better."

Cullen catches his breath, and protests, "Then it ought to be for more than just special occasions."

"We can make up our own special occasions."

He flattens his palm against Cullen; slowly draws it across his belly.

"Had a pleasant morning. Saw three birds in the sky. Didn't run across any druffalo in our barn."

"Jam and shortbread are useful by themselves. Very different situation -- " He taps the back of Alistair's hand. " -- from the whole wine thing. No occasion necessary."

"Hmmmm."

Alistair makes a great show of considering this, which has the (perhaps unfortunate) side effect of making him pause mid-caress.

At last, lofty: "I'm doubtful of your logic, ser, but since this means I might get jam and shortbread too, I won't argue."

"We've achieved an accord," he murmurs into Alistair's hair. "A landmark day."

"We should -- "

Alistair starts to snicker.

"We should celebrate with jam and shortbread."

"...are you going to go get it, then?"

"Not a chance." Cheerful, and punctuated by Alistair pressing a kiss to Cullen's collarbone. "I'm comfortable right here."

"Did you want me to go get it?"

His grin's more crooked, now, but no less cheerful.

"Did I not just warn you of the agony of putting on trousers?"

"Then come up with a better way to celebrate." Another light tug at Alistair's hair.

Alistair hums again, lower; his hand slips further down Cullen's abdomen to match.

Whispered in his ear: "You'll help me come up with something good, I trust?"

As low and resonant as he can:

"I've missed the biography of Kordillus Drakon."

Alistair stops.

"Aaaaand it's over," he declares. (Between snickers, it must be noted.) He lets go of Cullen, flopping to the side. "The moment's passed. Ruined. Gone forever."

Cullen pats Alistair's chest.

"The wonder isn't that the thrill is gone," he remarks. "It's that it was ever there in the first place."

Alistair rolls his eyes, and catches Cullen's hand so he can lace their fingers together atop his chest.

"Give it some time, I'm sure it'll return," he says.

"Until then," cheerful, "might as well read aloud. It's very edifying."

Try 'stultifying.'

"You're the worst," declares Alistair, "and I love you a very great deal."

He kisses Cullen's fingertips.

In response, smile gone very crooked, Cullen reaches out and presses the tip of Alistair's nose with the pad of one finger.

Alistair makes a tiny squeaking sound and wrinkles his nose. He rests their hands on his chest again; his own smile's warm and fond.