[sandbox]

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair surprises himself: he adapts to the Basin a lot quicker than he expected.

The camps feel -- snug, he decides. In a good way. Trees overhead, a limited number of egress points, a vantage point so high it puts every night by the ladder to shame: they're not the stone walls of Skyhold, but maybe they're the next best thing. After an initial restless night or two, he sleeps soundly.

(Knowing he's surrounded by lots of people with sharp, pointy weapons? Also helpful.)

Joining the patrol rotations seems like a decent next step. No point in being in the field, especially after all that training with Bull, if he's just going to twiddle his thumbs all day.

Comments

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen rolls his eyes to the ceiling (or what passes for it, in a tent), and brushes his hand over Alistair's head.

"You," he says, firmly, "are a very bad man."

[bringspeopletogether]

"I can't possibly know what you mean." Serene.

Right greave; left greave. Alistair runs his hands up Cullen's legs as he rises to his feet.

[howtoactfereldan]

"No?"

He rests his palm against Alistair's chest.

"No clue at all?"

[bringspeopletogether]

"None whatsoever," he says, in direct opposition to his knowing smirk. "Care to enlighten me?"

[howtoactfereldan]

"Pranks," Cullen says, sorrowfully. "Bad jokes. All those times you've tried to smother me with the bedclothes."

[bringspeopletogether]

"Mm. No mention of snoring, I notice."

He slips his arms around Cullen.

[howtoactfereldan]

"Those were my top three." Cullen does the same. "Snoring's fourth."

[bringspeopletogether]

"With a list like that -- "

Alistair leans his forehead against Cullen's.

" -- I'm surprised you let me into your bed every night."

[howtoactfereldan]

"I don't let you," he says, mild. "You just... show up. Then I'm too lazy to do anything about it."

[bringspeopletogether]

He snorts. Loftily, "Yes, yes, I see my strategy continues to work perfectly. Walk in like I own the place, look adorable, and hope for the best. Time tested by dogs everywhere."

[howtoactfereldan]

"Now, Alistair," Cullen says, reasonable, "you're much more adorable than a dog."

[bringspeopletogether]

"A high bar," he says, laughter eddying through his voice. "I'm lucky I cleared it."

[howtoactfereldan]

"Very few have what it takes," Cullen agrees.

[bringspeopletogether]

Still smiling, Alistair runs one hand up Cullen's back, settling it on the back of his neck.

Close as they are, he barely has to move at all to kiss him; he luxuriates in it much like he did while taking off Cullen's armor.

[howtoactfereldan]

If Alistair's goal was to get Cullen to melt against him, he's succeeded. A hand fists in Alistair's shirt. There's no possible way Alistair can touch him enough, he thinks, hazy.

(The armor's gone: work's over. It's -- safe to put things down. Even here.)

[bringspeopletogether]

That works out well. Without the earlier self-conscious restraint to trouble him, Alistair lets his hands roam freely along Cullen's back -- now trailing along the ridges of his spine, now digging lightly into the dip of his waist, now sliding beneath his shirt to delve for bare skin. True to his word, he stays quiet: nothing but ragged breathing when the kiss ends, before another one begins.

[howtoactfereldan]

"Well done," he murmurs low in Alistair's ear, when he pulls away long enough to begin struggling out of his shirt. "No noise at all. Beautiful."

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair chuckles, barely audible. Like Cullen said: he's a quick study with the proper motivation.

(It takes so much restraint not to say that aloud.)

He helps him yank off his shirt, dropping it atop the pile of armor on his desk; in short order, Alistair's own shirt joins it. As he kisses him again, more fervent, his hands venture lower to work at Cullen's trousers.

All the self-deprecating jokes about not being able to keep his hands off Cullen aside -- Maker, it's nice to finally give into this need.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen's hands run up and down Alistair's back, as though searching for something.

(Maybe -- answers. Why this? Why now? There's still that little niggling question that won't go away -- but it's easy enough to put it to the side.)

He nips at Alistair's lower lip, moves to his throat, spilling hot kisses over his pulse point.

(Definitely easy enough.)

[bringspeopletogether]

His breath stutters; his head falls back to give Cullen all the space he wants. "Yes --

(So much for that self-restraint.)

Alistair splays a hand over Cullen's abdomen, pushing gently, pressing even closer. The sooner they take this horizontal, the better, as far as he's concerned.

...The desk seems to be in the way, though.

[howtoactfereldan]

Yes, well, part of being a mighty warrior turned desk jockey is the ability to navigate around said desk in a pinch. Cullen pivots --

-- and takes Alistair down with him. Gracefully.

At least his laughter is mostly silent.

[bringspeopletogether]

Truly, such grace will be sung through the ages.

Alistair's laughter isn't quite as soft, but compared to his usual volume, it passes muster. Anyway, his mouth's occupied with doing other things soon enough. For one, it's much easier to run his tongue over Cullen's chest now, tasting salt and feeling out the smattering of scars -- and then to start venturing lower as his nails scrape lightly over his hips

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen shudders, back arching, head tilting back.

"Bad man," he mutters; the way he's gripping Alistair's arms suggest that this isn't an invitation to stop.

[bringspeopletogether]

A low laugh. Alistair looks up with the smirk of someone who knows exactly what they're doing.

One hand tangles with Cullen's; the other cradles his hip as he sets to work in earnest.

[howtoactfereldan]

The challenge then becomes silence.

It's the kind of thing he's loath to tell Alistair, but it's true nonetheless: the same strategies he uses to delay or lessen pain, the same rituals he uses in prayer -- they're what Cullen calls on now to make what he feels diffuse from the point of greatest intensity. It's how Cullen endures, this kind of dissociation.

It comes out in his hands, in the way his fingers clench Alistair's, in the way his other hand begins to tangle in Alistair's hair before Cullen pulls it away lest he inadvertently hurt him.

It comes out in his breath, ragged but striving for an even rhythm.

It's safe, in here. But it's not safe enough to let go of discipline, to turn himself wholly over to Alistair, body and soul. One clear thought, a prayer to no one: Don't let my failures hurt him.