howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Alistair puts up his eyebrows.

Drier, but still amused: "That's a little too far out in the middle of nowhere for me, I expect."

Cullen puts on an expression of Great Understanding. "So you want to be closer to Orlesian civilization. Well, there's always Montsimmard -- "

"Ugh," says Alistair, emphatic, and pulls away.

(Still grinning.)

Cullen laughs, softly, and takes the opportunity to get up. He saunters toward the bedroom, not bothering to look back -- just takes off his boots, and starts with his shirt. Muffled: "You've forgotten the most vexing problem, Theirin."

That's all the invitation Alistair needs: he's on his feet a moment later, trotting to keep up with Cullen.

"Oh?" Briefly, he hops on one foot as he works at his own boots. "What's that, then?"

Shirt gone, Cullen settles his hands on his own hips, looking at Alistair with calm intent.

"However are we going to manage to get a proper hole in the ceiling?"

Immediately: "A maul."

He succeeds in yanking off his boots and chucks them aside.

"Or throwing heavy rocks at the ceiling. Or getting an even heavier rock, handing it to a dragon, and letting it drop it on the house once we're both clear."

Cullen folds his arms across his chest.

"That would preclude," he says, "getting a cover for when it rains, Theirin. A problem."

"Hm."

He ambles closer, eyeing Cullen's bare chest with interest.

"Could always do a trap door like the one we've got at Skyhold. If not, just tame the dragon so it'll sit on the roof and shield us with its wings."

Cullen sees Alistair eyeing him and holds firm.

(Smirking.)

"That exposes us to dragon farts, Theirin."

Alistair nearly chokes. With effort, he recovers -- Cullen is not going to win this game -- and, schooling his face as best he can, steps closer still.

"Cullen." Very seriously, as he brushes a fingertip along Cullen's collarbone. "Are you doubting my dragon-taming and training abilities?"

Cullen is very determined to win this game.

He merely arches an eyebrow.

"I count a Pentaghast among my closest friends, Alistair. You're good. But you're no Cassandra."

"You're assuming she didn't tell me all her Pentaghast-y secrets."

He flattens his palm against Cullen's skin; smooths his hand down his front, as slow as he can, and around to the small of Cullen's back.

Damn that ex-Templar focus: Cullen takes a breath, lets it out, smooth and even.

And says, simply:

"She would never."

"Hm."

He walks around Cullen, letting his hand continue to slide around his torso; soon he's behind him with his fingers splayed over Cullen's belly. Alistair leans in to touch his lips to Cullen's shoulder, excruciatingly light.

"Maybe she agreed to train the dragon for us then. As a wedding gift."

Dammit.

Cullen can't quite repress a shiver. He can fold his arms tighter, though!

"More probable would be a shield, or a new edition of the New Cumberland Chant."

Hah. Alistair smirks.

"Maybe I ought to start talking about my desire to train a dragon whenever I'm in earshot of her, then." He begins to work his way up Cullen's neck, sliding his other arm around him to hold him close. "Very loudly and obviously."

The best way to discomfit Alistair, Cullen figures, is to do the opposite of what he expects. Alistair probably figures that Cullen will resist. The best strategic option, therefore, is to lean back into him, head falling back against Alistair's shoulder.

(That this yields other benefits is beside the point. This is strategy.)

"If you want her to spend hours explaining why that's a terrible waste of time and limbs," he murmurs -- his arms still folded tight, mind -- "then yes. By all means."

Hmmmm. Interesting strategy indeed, Rutherford.

Not that Alistair has any complaints: smirking, he nips lightly at Cullen's neck, and strokes a hand along one of Cullen's arms to trace out the ample muscle there.

"I expect I could cut that down to fifteen minutes with enough stupid questions. She'd just make one of those disgusted noises of hers and stomp off."

Cullen stifles a small sigh of pleasure, and closes his eyes.

"And you still wouldn't get what you want out of her."

"That depends on how soon I deploy the stupid questions," he murmurs against Cullen's throat. The hand not busy at Cullen's arm slips an inch lower, teasing. "I might be able to get a thing or two out of her first."

Cullen flexes. Just a little. Perhaps in warning?

"And then you'd be eaten by a dragon."

"Or," says Alistair, in tones of great enlightenment, "we could simply cut a hole in the roof with a saw."

He curls his fingers at Cullen's belly, venturing no lower for now.

"Some sense," Cullen says, cheerfully.

And turns his head just a little -- enough to meet Alistair's eye. "And now that we agree..."

"We can skip this charade, I can throw you over my shoulder, and we can go about consummating our marriage?"

Equally cheerful.