howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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.)

Alistair manages a nod -- and starts to chuckle, more than a little dazed.

"Perfect," he whispers.

Still laughing, Cullen leans over to snag the cloth hanging by the basin, and drapes it over Alistair's chest. "Take your time."

Alistair wrinkles his nose in amusement. "You're far too pleased with yourself, aren't you," he murmurs, languid, as he settles a hand atop the cloth. His gaze never leaves Cullen.

(Actually moving more than that will require another minute. Or maybe five.)

"As you should be."

"And why not?" Serene. "I thought that went all right."

"More than, I'd say." A contented sigh. "...Come here? I want to kiss you and I can't sit up yet."

By the end of that, he's chuckling again.

Cullen tsks, settling on his side. "Maybe you should save your strength, then."

(But he's still leaning in.)

"Mm, no," says Alistair, peaceably. "Much less fun doing that."

He stretches just enough to meet Cullen with a small, heartfelt kiss.

"Fun, fun, fun," Cullen parrots, punching the pillow up a little to tuck more comfortably under his head. "All you ever think about. That and food."

"Fun, food, and you," Alistair corrects, and finally sets to work cleaning himself up. "Not necessarily in that order."

"Sometimes it's food, fun, then me," Cullen agrees.

To which, ever a paragon of maturity, Alistair sticks his tongue out at Cullen.

To be fair, he's still in that pleasant haze where everything is rather sparkly and mostly on the monosyllabic side.

Cullen reaches out and presses the tip of Alistair's nose again. A proportionate response, he feels.

Rather than a squeak, that earns Cullen a raspberry this time.

(Hey, so long as his tongue's already out.)

Alistair finishes up and tosses the cloth aside, then settles back with another pleased sigh.

Cullen's eyes are closed; he still looks appallingly smug.

"Everything you hoped for?" he murmurs.

"Yes."

He shifts to drape an arm around Cullen.

Softer: "Exactly what I needed. Thank you."