howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"Yes." He bucks against Cullen, breathing harder, voice shaky. "Yes. What do you think about? Tell me. Please."

With his other hand he smooths pathways up and down Alistair's side.

"You'd say -- " Alistair is hot in his hand, and for one wild and selfish moment Cullen thinks he ought to reach for the oil anyway. " -- that I'd disappointed you. That I should beg you for the chance to do better. And I would fall to my knees. Bend my neck. Beg you -- beg you -- to discipline me. Make me perfect for you, and you alone."

Another brief catch of Alistair's lower lip. "What if I spilled early, because I slipped and thought too much about how well you gave it to me? I'm for you, you'd tell me. All for you. What do you think they would do if you turned me over your knee right there? If you gave me the gift of your correction? Think about how tender I'd get under your hand with every strike. Think about how I could show you my gratitude for making me better. You could leave me there until I got hard again -- and then you'd have me stand next to your chair, where a servant stands, where they could all look at me and know how well you command me. How generous you are with your attention. How -- "

A twist of his wrist. " -- consummate your commitment to perfection. And later, if you saw fit to summon me alone... how red I'd get as I begged you for more of that correction. Please, my lord, I'd whisper. Please. Make me whole for your pleasure."

Cullen's hand twists; Alistair cries out, burying his face against Cullen's shoulder as he grinds helplessly against him. "Yes," he's gasping, "yes -- "

And separate from all this: tomorrow, Cullen will walk around Halamshiral, his neck ringed in marks declaring Alistair's ownership. No need to imagine that. It's true.

With a few more quick strokes of Cullen's hand, Alistair comes -- and Cullen gets another mark as he bites his shoulder in an effort to muffle his cry.

Cullen closes his eyes. (And winces, a little.)

He slides his other hand up Alistair to cup the nape of his neck, the back of his head, whispering small endearments all the while.

He would be lying if he said he wasn't smug. That... well. That surprised even him. He's going to have to think about all that.

At length.

In private.

"Wow," Alistair breathes after a long, long moment.

That was...that was something. That was good. Unexpectedly good; he didn't think Cullen's words would hit the base of his spine that hard.

(Later, he'll wonder why, and frown a little. Cringe back from how good it felt to think of treating Cullen that way. Now? He's far too dazed to care.)

Boneless, he curls up more comfortably in Cullen's arms, smiling a little goofily.

Cullen shifts to accommodate Alistair better, working his arm out from under and rubbing Alistair's lower back in small, smooth circles.

He doesn't say anything just yet, but leans his cheek against Alistair's hair.

Alistair closes his eyes, sighing quietly.

With a trace of laughter: "Consider me satisfied, ser."

"Noted." Smiling, audibly. "Added to the report on my progress. Submitted to the commanding officer."

"Isn't that you?"

He opens one eye, squinting up at Cullen.

Cullen raises his eyebrows.

"Aren't you the double commander?"

"That's right." With dawning enlightenment. "I'd nearly forgotten."

He shuts his eyes again and snuggles closer.

"That's all right, then."

Cullen laughs softly, and presses a kiss to Alistair's forehead. "That's a relief."

"Can't be derelict in my duty," he mumbles, still smiling.

Beat.

"...should probably get us cleaned up eventually."

Definitely not right now, though. This is good right here.

"Take your time," he murmurs. "I'd volunteer, but you've got me pinned."

He chuckles. "Just shake me awake if I doze off too soon. That was...really nice."

"There's no 'too soon,' Theirin."

Smoothing his palm up and down Alistair's back, slow, slow.

"Rest. I love you."

"...M'kay."

If Cullen insists. (Not that Alistair needs much encouragement at this point.) He leans up to kiss him, small and sweet.

"Love you too, love," he murmurs, and five minutes later, he's sunk into sleep.

Cullen exhales, slowly, and manages to wait approximately seven minutes before his mind begins racing.

The good news is that it's on a pleasant topic. He can try to track down Mother Giselle after Lauds. They could do it before the Council starts. The thought appeals, very much.

It's a much more pleasant reason than most for the delay in sleep. Cullen will take it.

The next morning, a slight groan heralds Alistair's return to the land of the waking. He squinches his eyes tighter against the encroaching headache.

Stupid sunlight. Stupid ale. Stupid Bull's stupid birthday and stupid Alistair for thinking he could out-drink stupid Dalish.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

This is, unfortunately, something Cullen overlooked while planning.

He is looking very resplendent in the stupid formal uniform, however.

When Alistair wakes, Cullen is leaning against the doorway, arms folded, amused.

Quietly: "Well, Theirin? Do you live?"

...Well, that's a sight for sore eyes.

(Sore heads, as the case may be.)

"Mrgh." He digs the heel of his palm against one eye. "Half-live, I should think. Whole-live once there's breakfast."

And maybe a healing draught before Bull finds him and tries to force that Qunari hangover cure on him.

Not this morning, then. Maybe once he's no longer needed in session.

"I've bad news." Lightly. "Downstairs your choices are porridge, and bread and cheese. What can I bring you?"

Alistair wrinkles his nose.

"Anything but porridge. Please. Don't inflict that on me," he says.

Cullen laughs softly, and shifts himself upright. "Never. Back soon."

He pulls up a smile, lopsided but genuine. "Thank you, love."

And once Cullen's gone, he flops back onto the pillows with a louder grumble as he tries to will the hangover out of existence.