howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

A shiver runs down Cullen's spine. He's not complaining.

Low, rough: "Inside, Theirin. Or we'll put on a show."

"Agreed," breathes Alistair.

He slides his hands around to Cullen's front; fists one of them in the patch of shirt just above his heart. Bracing himself on the chair, he pulls Cullen with him as he gets to his feet, his grin taking on a more wicked tilt.

"What was it you said? More than a little time?"

Cullen lets himself be hauled -- but he also smirks.

"And here I would have laid several sovereigns," he murmurs, doing his best to loom over Alistair, "on you forgetting all about that. Well done, Theirin."

"I almost did." He lifts a finger. "Almost."

And lays that finger beneath Cullen's chin, doing his best to mirror the smirk.

"Is that worth a nice reward?"

Cullen tilts his head to the side.

"We're not going to find out standing here." And with that, he steps away, shrugging out of his jacket as he goes through the door. "Double-time. Move it."

Right. Yes. Less talking, more -- things that aren't talking.

"Yes, ser," he says, cheerfully, and all but runs after Cullen, letting the door click shut behind them.

Jacket to the chaise. Cullen starts to kick off his boots. "Lock the door."

Alistair fumbles for the lock. It takes a couple tries, but he manages to get it fastened.

Working at the buttons of his shirt -- getting them undone isn't proving any easier than getting the door locked -- he wanders back to Cullen's side. "Damn things," he says, half-laughing, around the fourth or fifth time a button slips out of his fingers.

Cullen's hands cover his, and squeeze.

"Not your job tonight, Theirin." And with that, he slips Alistair's hands out of the way and sets to work. "You don't want to deprive me of the pleasure."

"Mmm."

Goosebumps rise along his arms; his hands drift to Cullen's waist, settling there idly as he watches him undo each button, one by one. Whispered: "That'd be awful cruel of me, wouldn't it."

"And not in the good way."

He murmurs this against Alistair's throat.

"If you feel motivated -- " A kiss, lingering. "You could mark me. Where everyone could see."

His breath catches. Shivering, Alistair tips his head back to give Cullen more room.

"Yes." He cradles the back of Cullen's head, sliding his fingers into his hair. "Everyone'll know you're mine. Even before we run off to the Chantry they'll know."

He runs his tongue over Alistair's pulse point. It'll be impossible to get Alistair's shirt off, but far be it from Cullen to interrupt what he's doing.

Instead, he turns his attention to the laces of Alistair's trousers.

"All yours," he breathes. "Please. Please mark me."

"Come here -- "

He doesn't wait for Cullen to finish untying his trousers: Alistair pulls at his hair, gentle but firm, to draw Cullen's head up and expose his neck. He tightens his free hand in the hem of Cullen's shirt and scrapes his teeth along the bump of his throat, tongue tracing the faint roughness of his stubble.

Just beneath Cullen's ear, he bites a little harder.

Cullen's grip is tight on Alistair's hips, his breathing ragged. "Yes -- yes -- "

And then Alistair bites, and Cullen cries out, going boneless for just a moment -- enough to need to lean against Alistair. "Please," he manages. "More."

Enough, too, to unbalance Alistair; he staggers, catches himself and Cullen both, and falls back into laughter.

"Bed, love," he manages. "Before both of us fall over. C'mon."

He pushes Cullen in that direction.

Cullen stumbles, and braces himself against the door jamb. He's a little slow to stand upright.

"Theirin," he says mildly, and moves toward the bed without looking back. "You'll be the death of me yet."

"Give yourself credit," says Alistair. "You're far hardier than that."

He winds a hand into Cullen's shirt again, and drops onto the mattress in something that's more like a slow, deliberate toppling than anything. Wasting no time, he gets back to work at Cullen's neck, nipping right next to the (already reddening) spot, moving an inch lower to suck out another mark.

Cullen whines, the noise sharp in his throat. He pulls his legs up, squeezing Alistair's hips with his thighs, rocking against him.

What was it Alistair just said? -- oh.

"No I'm not."

Oh that's nice. The ale's...inhibiting things somewhat, but if the sharp hitch to Alistair's breath is any indication, he's still enjoying himself.

"I'd argue," he murmurs against Cullen's throat, "but I think my mouth's put to better use here."

He strips off his shirt and starts fumbling for Cullen's, continuing his slow track down Cullen's neck as he does.

"You agree?"

Shivering, Cullen runs his palms up and down Alistair's back.

"To anything. Anything you want."

"Good."

He moves to the other side of Cullen's neck, tracing out a spot with his tongue before he bites again. "Help me with your shirt?"

If Alistair couldn't get his own shirt off, it was perhaps overly idealistic to think he'd be able to get Cullen's off.

Cullen blinks at Alistair; he's not quite able to process thought at the moment. "You mean...?"

Ah. He immediately starts squirming, tugging his shirt over his head.

"Yes." Laughing. "There you go. Good man."

Thanks to Cullen's earlier assistance, Alistair doesn't have nearly as much difficulty shucking off his own trousers. He pins Cullen's wrists to the mattress as soon as he's done; the next bite is at his collarbone.

"Fuck," Cullen hisses, writhing happily under Alistair. "Yes. That."