howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"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.

Carefully, Cullen settles down next to Alistair, propped up on his side, head in hand.

He ought, he thinks, to ask what else Alistair needs. (What Cullen needs is time to rest.) But maybe he can be -- a little selfish, a little while longer. Instead, he smooths his thumb over Alistair's chest, and doesn't say anything.

A soft, contented sigh. He tips his head so he can keep watching Cullen.

"All right?" he asks quietly after a moment.

Cullen nods, eyes lowered. He's calm enough, at least; easy to interpret as a lack of something to say. Given his taciturn nature, it's nothing out of the ordinary.

And like Alistair's said: he's learning how to enjoy the quiet.

His smile's gone smaller, but no less warm. He keeps their fingers linked; squeezes Cullen's hand, lightly, before rolling onto his side to face him.

With a soft sigh, Cullen lowers himself to rest, eyes closing all the way.

Quietly, he asks, "What do you need?"

"You're here." No louder. He smooths Cullen's hair with his free hand. "That's good."

A moment's pause.

Hopeful -- and more hesitant than he realizes -- "If we could make up for some of the time we didn't get in the Basin...I'd like that. If you could -- "

(The color in his cheeks is higher than he realizes, too. It's not like he's asking for anything scandalous; rather the opposite. It's the asking that's more difficult than he anticipated.)

"Take care of me?"

There. A task -- an enjoyable task -- with a clear start and finish. Something that will ease both of them into normal life again.

Soft, and deliberate:

"At your order."

He disentangles their hands so he can push Alistair's shoulder in the direction of the mattress.

So often, he feels like he asks too much from Cullen: that after everything Cullen's done for him, requesting even more would be greedy. Unseemly.

But if they're letting themselves be selfish with one another tonight -- if Cullen has promised to be here in full --

Alistair exhales a shaky sigh as he lets himself be pushed flush against the bed. He cups Cullen's face; draws him down into a long kiss.

When it breaks, he doesn't move far -- keeps his forehead touching Alistair's, draws his hands slowly down Alistair's chest.

"Look at you." Softly. "Too handsome."

His breath catches; he pushes up into the touch. Hoarse, "You think so?"

The instinct to deflect is still there -- twist it into a joke, turn it around into complimenting Cullen -- but he doesn't give in.

"Of course."

He flattens his palms, flexes his fingers.

"You're put together very well indeed." Another quick kiss -- open-mouthed, hot. "I like looking at you. Wondering what I can do to see more of this."

Alistair shivers. One ankle hooks around Cullen's, as if making extra-certain he'll stay close.

Still a little breathless, he says, "Just have to ask. Anytime you'd like."

"Mine," he agrees, and edges down further, thumbs spreading over Alistair's belly as Cullen holds on firm to his waist. "Mine to look at." Wet, rough kisses down his sternum. "Mine to touch. Mine."

Cullen's and no one else's. He belongs to him. He belongs.

Alistair grips Cullen's shoulders, fingers curling. "Yes," he breathes, as Cullen continues his path. "Yours. All of me. Ah -- "

He arches against him.

"Maker -- "

"Shh," Cullen whispers, slipping his hand between them, grip warm and firm. "Shh. Slow. Let me look at you. Let me see."

Alistair nods helplessly, fingertips digging into Cullen's shoulders, hard enough for his nails to leave dents. His breath rasps in his throat, escapes as another moan as his head falls back.

Slow, he tells himself. Slow.

He makes himself breathe deep. Lifts his head to watch Cullen work, his eyes wide and dark.

If Alistair's still got it together enough to try and watch, that means Cullen needs to step it up.

He shifts just enough to worry at a spot low on Alistair's throat; there'll be marks tomorrow. And all the while his hand moves, slow, deliberate.

Alistair curses, low and trembly and reverent. His eyes squeeze shut. Heat radiates from the spot beneath Cullen's mouth, rolling over him in a wave, making him lose all grip on coherent thought; it coils in his belly as he struggles not to buck against Cullen's hand.

(He's not really succeeding, there.)

His palms skid further down Cullen's back as he tries to find purchase. I love you, he's started whispering without realizing. I love you. Please. Yes.

He's praising Alistair, between kisses; praising and encouraging him to let go.

(Cullen's concentrating on his work, but also feeling very smug.)

"Look at you," he whispers against Alistair's throat. "Perfect. Come for me."

And if Cullen doesn't want him to go slow anymore -- if he's giving him permission --

The relief of no longer having to hold back grips Alistair in a rush of ecstasy. He arches higher. "Cullen -- "

He's lost in a desperate, singleminded awareness of Cullen's hand and Cullen's mouth. He's hardly aware of where they are any longer. They could be back in the Basin for all he knows, with thin walls and no doors and Cullen not giving a damn, telling him to let go anyway; Alistair's swearing again, thrilled, gasping and rocking harder against Cullen at the thought.

And finally --

Come for me.

-- he does, in a long shaky moan, burying his face against Cullen as he rides it out.

And Cullen is laughing quietly, speaking soothing nothings against Alistair's skin.

"All right?" he eventually murmurs.

(Just a little smug.)