howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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."

Just because Cullen has a preference for Alistair marking him in visible places doesn't mean every mark has to be visible. Laughing softly, he rocks his hips against Cullen as he works his way further down his chest, leaving a fresh mark every couple of inches.

"I love seeing you like this," he whispers against Cullen's belly. "Can't wait to do this when I'm your husband."

He licks a stripe from the waistband of Cullen's trousers up to his navel.

Cullen arches his back, hissing softly; his fingertips dig into Alistair.

Challenging (or as challenging as he can, under the circumstances): "What's the difference going to be?"

"I'll be your husband."

Laces: much easier to navigate than buttons. Alistair pulls Cullen's trousers down just enough to take him in hand.

Beaming up at Cullen: "That makes everything better."

Cullen gasps. The fingers of one hand tangle in Alistair's hair.

Another challenge. "How's that, then?"

(Because if Alistair can make it clear -- well. Cullen would like to hear it.)

"Those marks you'll have tomorrow."

Slowly, he works his hand up and down, up and down.

"Before now, if you had them, everyone assumed I gave them to you. Tomorrow, they'll know. Even people who've never spoken to us. 'Ah, the Commander's husband must have claimed him there.'"

A quick swipe of his tongue.

"Everyone really will know you're mine."

Cullen shudders softly. He makes himself breathe; no fun letting Alistair off too quickly.

"You old gossip," he manages, eyes glinting at Alistair. "You want to make them talk. Watch me -- ah -- have to walk among them, waiting to see who's noticed."

Serenely: "But they won't be talking about that handsome eligible bachelor anymore."

He touches his mouth to the inside of Cullen's thigh. In contrast to the bites along Cullen's neck, the kiss is downright gentle.

"No more asking after your lineage. No more Josephine pestering you to be nice to the fair maidens of Orlais when they try to chase you down. Just you -- " A kiss to his other thigh. "And me. For as long as we both shall live."

The kiss is gentle. Cullen runs his fingers through Alistair's hair.

"I have always been an ineligible bachelor, Theirin, and you know it."

And again, in a deliberate caress.

"You should also know that they'll just try to land the both of us."

Alistair hums, another wash of goosebumps racing down his arms. One hand keeps stroking Cullen; the other curls around his hip.

"Too bad for them. We've long established we don't like to share," he says, before taking Cullen in his mouth again.

Cullen groans. His other hand covers his eyes.

"We're very -- private people," he manages, and tightens his hold in Alistair's hair.

He chuckles, without pulling away, and hums agreement. Alistair pushes his palms flat against Cullen's thighs and runs his thumbs over the places he'd kissed.

When he finally comes up for air, he says in a low rasp, "Except when I mark you. And the other way 'round."

He's back to work within seconds.

Cullen makes a strangled noise. Without thinking, he does his very best to bring himself out of it by distancing his mind from Alistair's mouth (and tongue, Maker's breath).

But after a moment, he breathes. It's Alistair. Alistair has him. Alistair wants him to forget himself.

I love you, he thinks; he doesn't realize he says it (much less that his voice cracks). And in a moment he's blessedly not thinking of anything at all as he comes.

Alistair draws the side of his hand across his mouth. Smiling, he clambers up the bed to Cullen's side, wasting no time in snuggling close and draping an arm over his chest.

"I love you too," he whispers in his ear.

Cullen starts to laugh, low, and draws Alistair closer.

"Monster," he tells Alistair with affection. "Fiend."

Does Alistair look just a teensy bit smug at that? Perhaps!

"Your monster," he reminds him, resting his head on Cullen's shoulder. "Your fiend."

Cullen touches his lips to the top of Alistair's head. "My best fiend. My greatest fiend. My most superlative fiend."

"High praise."

A happy sigh.

"I'm so glad we met. And fell in love. ...a couple decades later, granted." Alistair traces a small circle on Cullen's chest. "Still. Took a while, but I can't imagine anyone else but you now."

Another low laugh.

"What, not some lovely farmer's daughter? A sweet barmaid, or a successful merchant?"

"Nah." Comfortably. "Just you."

He kisses the spot he circled.

"No farmer would think I'm good enough for his daughter. Barmaids deal with enough louts every day. And I'd be bored to tears living with a merchant."

"Hey." A growl. "Quit calling my husband a lout."