howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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."

"Technically," says Alistair, with all the dignity he can muster, "I called your husband-to-be a lout."

That dignity would be a lot more effective if he could stop beaming.

"Don't call him a lout, either." He gently tugs on a tuft of Alistair's hair. "He's the best man I've ever known."

"Ever? Really?"

Somebody remains just drunk enough to get a little misty-eyed at that declaration. Naming no names.

(Cough, cough, Alistair.)

"Ever." Now he threads his fingers through, slowly, over and over. "Brave. Kind. Valiant. Patient. All of that and more. And this isn't bad, either."

(His hand has drifted down to Alistair's rear end, and squeezed.)

Alistair barks a delighted laugh, and plants a solid kiss on Cullen's cheek.

"I'm glad you approve, ser," he says. "I worked very hard on it."

"I can tell," Cullen says solemnly. He draws patterns on Alistair's back with two fingertips. "Your singleminded pursuit of certain goals is also quite... admirable."

Without thinking, Alistair arches his back slightly.

Just as solemn, "What can I say. Attention to detail's a very valuable skill."

"Mm."

He draws a lazy spiral.

"And how would you like to be rewarded for your diligence?"

"Hmm."

Alistair glances down at himself -- and pulls a rueful face.

"I think the ale may have gotten the better of me. Damn it."

Cullen laughs quietly. "Give it time, Theirin. I'll reward you whenever you'd like."

"Oh good." He relaxes against Cullen. "More time to think of something suitably filthy. -- I mean fun. Yes. That."

Shifty look!

Mildly:

"I was rather hoping you'd fuck me, but whatever you'd like."

Alistair cackles.

"Filthy and fun." He nips lightly at Cullen's neck. "Perfect. Genius, even."

Cullen arches his neck, laughing quietly. "Flatterer."