bringspeopletogether

It's taking a distressing amount of will to keep from bucking up into Alistair's hand.

"No." Feels like his back is breaking into gooseflesh. "No, Alistair. Please." Cullen brings a palm down, hard, on the bed, and twists the blankets tight into his fist. "Whatever you say. I'll -- please."

"Good," he breathes. "Good."

His free hand slides back into Cullen's hair. He curls his fingers, pulls: not enough to hurt, but enough for an unmistakable tension.

"Tell me what you want me to do. Tell me what you think about when I'm away."

Thank the Maker for that hand in his hair, because it gives Cullen an excuse to turn his face away, and close his eyes (with the possibly fortunate side effect of baring his throat). There's no way he could ever, ever say this to Alistair while looking him in the eye.

As it is, Cullen reddens -- not just his face, either.

"I want -- you to use me. For, for your own..." Even in the middle of this, even as he says it, his mouth quirks at his choice of word: really, Cullen? "Gratification." A small, swift sigh, then rushed: "I serve at your pleasure. For. Anything. Really -- really anything." He draws in a swift breath. "At your order."

He has just enough presence of mind left to swallow down the words my lord. Not now. Not like this. Not after what Alistair's just told him about his name.

The hand in Cullen's hair slackens, fractionally. Alistair's other hand doesn't stop moving, but it slows a little more, lingering in one spot.

Say something.

He bends his head to Cullen's neck, kissing his pulse point; lingering there, too, as his thoughts spin too fast to cohere. It's -- a lot. Alistair isn't sure he wants to be so unashamedly selfish, not after what they fought about, but a deeper, driving need snatches at the possibility with eager abandon. Yes. I want.

And the utter trust -- the faith Cullen puts in him, to ask this, to lay there with his throat bare and know he will be safe --

After what they fought about, it makes Alistair feel very small. Like he's in the presence of something too great to comprehend.

He closes his eyes. "All right," he whispers against Cullen's throat. Another soft kiss, and he draws Cullen's hair taut again. "Let me -- "

He can't quite stifle a tiny laugh.

"Let me think. Lots to do. Lots of time to do it."

Cullen's laugh has a distinct hitch to it, just a hint of hysteria. He arches up into Alistair. "I didn't mean -- right now. But you -- "

He is also very, very red.

"You did ask."

Still with that little thread of laughter, Alistair says, "I did."

He lets go of Cullen's hair, smoothing it down, and trails his fingertips along Cullen's jaw.

"Thank you. For -- trusting me with all that." Barely a breath, then: "Wow."

Cullen takes in a deep breath and does not point out that there are other things Alistair could be doing with that hand, such as what he is doing with his other hand.

Maybe if they hadn't fought -- if Rainier hadn't --

But they did, and he did, and Cullen -- well. Alistair struggles enough with knowing what's real. Providing what reassurance he can -- being a shelter, a landmark -- that's service, as well.

He aims that crooked smile up at Alistair. "That and more, Theirin. Far more."

Alistair's answering smile is bright, and warm, and still a little awed under it all. He drops a small kiss on Cullen's scar; moves to his mouth to kiss him properly, gentle at first, gradually deepening in intensity the longer he draws it out.

(Moment over. Back to the very pleasurable business literally at hand.)

"What I want," he says eventually in Cullen's ear, breathless, "is to ride you. And I want to watch your face as I do. I want to see how much you enjoy it."

Cullen lets out a choked laugh that's very nearly something else. He grips Alistair's hips tight (there'll be marks tomorrow).

"At your order," he says helplessly, and then nips at Alistair's shoulder. "I can -- yes. Yes."

Alistair gasps at the bite, hips arching reflexively, and then dissolves into soft laughter of his own. "Wonderful," he manages.

First thing's first. After one last kiss near the base of Cullen's neck -- there's teeth to it; turnabout is fair play -- he maneuvers lower, caressing Cullen as he goes. His hand keeps up its work until the moment he takes Cullen in his mouth.

(Not for too long. Just enough to make up for the lack of grease on hand.)

Cullen's head goes back, a curse hissed low.

"Alistair -- there's, I've got -- "

He indicates his side of the bed. "Oil," he manages, tomato-red once more. Despite that, he's grinning at the ceiling. "I got some. Just in case."

Alistair's head pops up, away from Cullen's hips. "Oh -- "

Sheepish, but grinning too.

"Right. Yes. That'd -- work better. Here." He holds out a hand. "Can you reach it?"

Cullen takes a deep breath and stretches back; he can just barely reach the vial hidden in the shadows of the bedside shelf.

Upon presenting it to Alistair, he's struck with the bizarre sensation of presenting some kind of prize for Alistair's approval -- like a cat bringing a live rodent into the house, expecting everyone to be pleased.

Augmenting that perception, perhaps: the way Alistair catches Cullen's hand a moment, kissing his knuckles, before sliding the vial free of his grasp.

Back to work: hands on Cullen again, with a palmful of oil. Alistair's moving quicker, breathing harder, a little clumsy with the impatience of need. He straddles Cullen once everything's ready and plants his hands on the mattress.

Then, carefully, he eases himself down.

Cullen doesn't bother with the Chant this time, in trying to regulate his breathing -- frankly the Chant is the last thing he ever wants to think about in this scenario, please and thank you -- but he's got to do something. This part has to occur at Alistair's speed; it's something Alistair must control.

(Which thrills him. It's just what he wanted. He's here for Alistair to use.)

Uneven, low: "Look at you. You're doing so well."

Alistair exhales another shaky laugh. "Barely started yet," he manages.

Still moving with care, he rocks his hips a little: settling in, testing out. It makes his breath catch and hitch, hard. "Yes."

As his fingers curl into the bedsheets and clutch tight, he finds his way toward a slow rhythm. His eyes fall closed, head tipping back as he savors it.

Maker, Alistair's tight. Cullen barely manages to bite back a cry; he's going to have to do better, if Alistair wants this to last.

He catches an arm around Alistair's waist, managing, "Hard to watch -- with your eyes closed, Theirin."

Alistair tries to speak, but nothing comes out at first but a soft moan. A few quick, deep breaths to steady himself; then he opens his eyes, focusing down at Cullen.

"Couldn't help it." One hand curls tighter, but the other works free of the blankets and makes a grab for Cullen's shoulder. "You -- Maker, yes -- " A dazed second to catch his breath again. "You feel incredible."

Cullen laughs, low and a little desperate, and firms up his arm around Alistair. "No." He leans in, sweeps his tongue where Alistair's neck and shoulder join, savors the taste of salt. "You."

To distract from his lack of eloquence, he shifts his hips up -- just a little. Testing.

"Ah -- "

Not so quiet that time. He digs his nails into Cullen's shoulder as he nods helplessly. "Yes. That."

With effort, he swallows down the please that wants to tack itself to the end of those words. If Cullen wants to...be used, that means Alistair can't ask or plead. He has to tell. Demand.

"Again -- "

Far be it from Cullen not to give the man what he wants.

"At your order," he breathes, and sets up a slow, careful, steady rhythm. To make matters worse -- depending on one's definition -- he wraps his free hand around Alistair's length. "Anything. Yes."

Alistair whimpers. The sound sweeps higher into a gasp; deepens to a shuddering moan; resolves, eventually, into Cullen's name, which becomes the last coherent word he says for a time.

He urges the rhythm a little faster. Along Cullen's shoulder, his fingernails scrape thin, stinging lines. I don't want this to end, he thinks, delirious and giddy.

Every time his head bows of its own accord, he lifts it again, forces his eyes open so he can keep watching Cullen.

What's there is a struggle for concentration, and the effort of maintaining self-control. (Alistair's nails aren't helping. Somehow Cullen doesn't mind.) Alistair first, he thinks, and growls without realizing it.

He can do this.

He tightens his hold. Steadies his grip. Thrusts a little harder, as though it could make up for the fact that he's gotten -- erratic.

He should say something. Are you close? Something -- good. You feel incredible. Something intense. (Maybe a little filthy?) But it's too much going on at once.

What winds up happening is Cullen, shoulders tensed with effort, and against the onslaught of sensation, letting out a steady stream of increasingly high-pitched profanity. Odds are he's not quite aware of it.

Alistair grinds down against him, helplessly, winding the bedspread so tightly into his fist that his knuckles pale. "I," he gasps. "Cullen -- "

Just a little more, just a little harder, if Cullen's hand twists and strokes just a few more times --

"Yes -- "

He can't keep up the rhythm any better than Cullen by now, he's too close, and he can't keep watching anymore either -- his eyes screw shut as the tension builds hotter, stronger, everything circling up to an impossibly high peak. One more thrust against Cullen's hand -- two --

His voice spirals up to a shout as his hand clamps onto Cullen, like he's been struck by lightning and can't let go. Shuddering, he spills across Cullen's hand, his stomach, trying in vain to catch his breath.

"There," Cullen breathes, and from somewhere manifests the ability to slow his thrusts. "There you are. Perfect. Take your time."

(It's a little strangled, to be honest.)

"I've got you."

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