Alistair hums softly. He kisses the underside of Cullen's jaw; his hands keep roaming, slow and deliberate, like he's mapping the contours of Cullen's back by touch alone. Where he finds the stripes and divots of old scars, he traces them with a fingertip, lingering a moment before he moves on.

It's hedonism, in the purest sense of the word: simple enjoyment of the physical. Of how Cullen's body feels under his hands.

(And his mouth, as he presses more soft kisses to Cullen's neck.)