howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"Filthy things."

He resumes massaging lightly.

"Fun things. Imagine you had an important meeting. Imagine you ordered me to do those things, in front of everyone." His tone is soft, speculative. Tricksy.

"I'd do them. Happily. With enthusiasm. Eyes only for you."

"Oh," says Alistair weakly.

His eyes have widened as he stares off into the middle distance.

"Oh?" he inquires, politely.

Smugly.

Evilly.

(He puts a little weight behind his hand.)

Alistair swallows, hard.

Hoarsely, "Tell me more?"

A low laugh.

"I'd go to my knees. Take you in my mouth. Make it last as long as possible, so you could conduct all your business in peace."

Slowly, he runs his fingers up and down Alistair's spine.

"You could make me stroke myself in front of all those people. And just when I'm about to come -- make me stop. And I just... sit there. Waiting on your command."

"Maker's breath, Cullen."

A shaky laugh. His fingers curl against Cullen's chest.

"You'd drive me mad. The whole time I'd have to conduct just enough business to get through the meeting, and all I'd want to do if I saw you pleasing yourself was throw you on the table and have my way with you."

Gently, his nails scrape Cullen's skin.

"Maybe I would. Shove everything aside, strip you naked right there."

For once, he thinks, he's damn well going to get and keep the upper hand. Alistair's nails scrape; Cullen inhales and exhales carefully.

"And I'd thank you for it." Low. "Thank you for allowing me to provide you some relief. And beg you for the chance to keep serving you. Every meeting. Every day and night. At your order. Anything."

Alistair's own breath has quickened considerably. "Yes."

He insinuates a leg between Cullen's. Damn it, why can't he sober up any faster?

"Having you any time I'd want you, anywhere I'd want you -- yes."

Cullen raises his thigh just a little -- enough to rub against Alistair. "Any time. Day or night. Only for you."

He gasps, softly, and hides his face against Cullen's shoulder.

"Keep doing that," he begs.

"Anything," he murmurs in Alistair's ear, and picks up the pace, rocking gently. "Any time."

It's not a true release, but it's an outlet: Alistair grinds against him, matching his pace.

That's better. He can think a little more clearly now. (A very little.) He's not so dizzy with overwhelming need, so long as Cullen keeps that up.

"I could strip you at the start of the meeting," he whispers eventually, breath hot against Cullen's skin. "Imagine what they'd think, you standing there naked. They'd see how beautiful you are and they'd know only I can touch you. No one else."

He digs in his nails again.

"Mine."

His breath hitches; his back arches.

Low, fierce:

"And what would you do when someone tried?"

"Push them away. Punish them. Make it very -- very clear that you're not to be touched. And if -- "

A brief, involuntary gasp; his grip tightens.

"If they ever do so again they'll suffer far worse consequences. I won't share you. I won't let anyone but me lay a finger on you."

Cullen shudders. Alistair's words wash over him like cool water on a hot day -- instant relief that promises to last forever.

Safe, he thinks.

"Please," he whispers.

"Please what?"

His thigh moves, reflexively.

"Keep them away. Let me serve you."

"Always." He grips Cullen's hair. "Always. Ah -- I promise, love. You're mine as long as I live and I'll always keep you safe."

Tears sting his eyes, and Cullen knows he shouldn't think about why that might be. Not right now.

Fortunately there's a reason for him to look away. He bares his throat, head turning with Alistair's grip. He runs his palms up and down Alistair's bare sides.

With a tremor: "At your order."

"Good." He kisses Cullen's neck -- for now, he doesn't add another bite to the growing constellation of marks. "Good."

When Cullen's hands reach his waist, Alistair catches one of them; guides it to his front. Laughing a little, "Want to see if we can get this behaving better so I can fuck you properly?"

All things considered, it's not very difficult to shove whatever horrid emotion that might be into the abyss where it belongs.

Cullen tightens his grip.

Peaceful:

"Oh, I suppose."

Another soft laugh, trailing into a hum. He pushes into Cullen's hand and winds his arms more firmly around him.

"No more drinking games with the Chargers while we're here," he says. "Promise."

Cullen (carefully) runs his thumbnail up the underside, and then grips Alistair more lightly, because he is a monster.

Gravely: "Did you win?"

Alistair shudders, ecstatic, as his back arches.

-- right, yes, Cullen asked him a question.

"Yes," he manages. "I think. If the point was to drink a lot, yes."

Cullen laughs, and gently twists his hand around Alistair. "My champion."