howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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."

"'M glad." Edging closer, his head on Alistair's shoulder. "That was the idea."

Alistair squeezes him, lightly, as he drops a kiss on Cullen's forehead.

"So glad I'm yours," he murmurs. "Can't think of anyone better."

"I could start coming up with suggestions." Thoughtful.

"Don't do that." Amused, but sincere. "You know I won't listen to them anyway."

"Krem, Cabot, Empress Celene..."

"Not my type, definitely not my type, and if you really want me to relay the salacious gossip about my brother and Celene that turned up at Ostagar..."

"Alistair."

Patiently.

"I can't have salacious gossip. I can, however, have useful intelligence."

Beat.

"And you're just mad Cabot never gives you the good stuff."

"Whereas you have shared the good stuff." He taps his fingers against Cullen's shoulder to emphasize. "Another point in your favor."

Beat.

"And considering Cailan's over a decade dead, the gossip's of no use to anyone."

Another beat.

"...And besides, Krem's got his eye on Maryden, spend five minutes in the tavern with him and you'll see."