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Cullen sets a brisk pace on their way back to Skyhold. He's been away long enough; he's ready to relieve Briony; he's ready to go about receiving full intelligence reports from Leliana instead of the truncated, heavily coded ones he receives in the field.

He is also ready to personally see to the laundering of his coat.

And Cullen is also ready to take at least half a day, and preferably more, to revel in solid walls and doors that lock.

As they ride through the sally port, Cullen glances over at Alistair. "I'll need to see Briony, and then I'll likely be called to the war room -- you're going to see Kieran?"

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Cullen runs his hands slowly up and down Alistair's thighs.

"At your order."

It's a little... too sincere.

Alistair can't suppress the shiver that runs through him.

(Something else, just out of reach of articulation: Cullen has said over and over, in word and deed, that Alistair will never take priority over the Inquisition. Here, like this, he can be a priority. He can demand, be selfish, give voice to his desire for Cullen to join him in that selfishness -- and for a few hours, Cullen will always say yes.)

He bends over Cullen, sliding his hands up his chest, putting a bit of his weight into it: nothing light or tentative about this touch. "Finish with your trousers then, Commander. I want to see them on the floor in ten seconds."

Like that, Cullen's shoving them down over his hips, using one foot to shake them further down.

They get stuck on his foot. It's a little more than ten seconds. It's the best he can do if he wants Alistair to continue touching him.

(He does. Very much.)

Alistair gets an uncertain, hopeful look. "I'm sorry I couldn't -- I should have been faster."

"It's all right," he's quick to say.

He's -- not entirely sure about the look on Cullen's face. We're playing, he wants to say. I didn't really mean it.

He smooths a hand over Cullen's hair, sliding down to cradle his cheek. "You did just fine. Don't worry."

Cullen closes his eyes. He's not aware of his own blissful expression -- but he nods.

His hands find their way to Alistair's thighs again. Murmured, as he turns his head into Alistair's hand: "I'll do better for you."

Alistair draws a quick, trembling breath. The moment of uncertainty passes; he draws his thumb along Cullen's lips, lets his hand slide down to his neck, fingers trailing lightly along his throat.

"Good," he says, no louder. "I'm very glad to hear it, Commander."

He curls his fingers just a little, letting the touch turn into an equally light scrape, as he leans down to kiss him as slow and thorough as he can. As his other hand sweeps to cup Cullen's side, he rocks his hips against him, equally slow -- once, then again.

Cullen gasps, moans; his grip on Alistair tightens. It's too slow -- Alistair started so fast, and now --

Now he's going to do what Alistair wants, isn't he.

Cullen breaks away for a moment, long enough to breathe, and slows. "I'll do better," he whispers, with a small smile.

They've spent weeks being furtive and quiet, when they've gotten a chance at all. Cullen's moan hits right at the base of Alistair's spine, shooting up his back like an electric shock; he arches involuntarily with a gasp of his own. For a moment, all he can do is nod, too dazed to remember the game.

"Good," he manages again. Then, as he finishes getting his bearings: "Do you promise?"

He runs his hands up Cullen's arms, curves his fingers loosely around Cullen's wrists.

"I'll give you more if you do."

"Alistair -- " Low, pleading, delighted. Eyes bright.

"I promise. Anything. I promise."

He laughs, low and breathless. "Wonderful."

Alistair moves Cullen's hands off his thighs, pinning his wrists to the bed -- lightly, so Cullen can pull free if he needs. He takes to kissing him again: fervent, mouth hot and wet against his skin, hips bearing down harder against him, promising more and more and better in the coming hours.

So long as Cullen behaves himself, that is.

He's very good at behaving himself, even without incentive. And very soon he doesn't have to think about it at all.

"What can I do for you?" he whispers, some time later. "Tell me. You need..."

"'M all right."

He mumbles it sleepily into Cullen's shoulder, a small, lazy smile on his lips. His hand traces an idle path along Cullen's stomach.

"Something slow, I think. Eventually. Need a moment first."

Cullen laughs: a soft, warm rumble.

"Yes," he agrees, settling a hand on the back of Alistair's neck. "That. Maker's breath."

His smile widens, full of cheerful (if still sleepy) innocence.

"I take it you enjoyed yourself, then?"

"You've killed me," he informs Alistair. "It was a good way to go."

With poorly-stifled laughter: "Oh dear."

Alistair draws a languid spiral around Cullen's navel.

"Well, don't worry, I'll be sure to say plenty of nice things at the funeral. 'Cullen Rutherford, brave and true, definitely didn't die from a vigorous bout of welcome-home sex with me -- '"

Cullen squirms a little. He is absolutely not ticklish, and thinking otherwise is the height of foolishness.

"Don't mention the bear, either."

"Not a word."

So much for stifling his laughter. (He got most of it out of his system when Cullen grumpily explained why his coat looked especially damp that day, but let's be real: as much as Alistair loves him, a cub with mange will never not be funny.)

He splays his hand over Cullen's abdomen. "Dare I ask how the, er, new recruit is doing?"

Dignified:

"I'll have you know I was right. She's proven a very capable agent in convincing other holds to provide aid to the Inquisition."

"What a relief," is all Alistair gets out before burying his face against Cullen's shoulder, snickering helplessly.

"Horrible, rude man," Cullen says into his hair, bringing his arms tight around Alistair. "Laughing at my pain."

"Am not," says Alistair, trying for some dignity of his own amidst the snickering. He snuggles close. "I'm laughing for joy that Storvacker's conquered such difficult obstacles to become a valued member of the Inquisition."

Beat.

"The obstacle in this case being 'she's a literal bear.'"

"She has an interest in protecting her people," Cullen says with a straight face. "Why wouldn't she join the Inquisition?"

"True. Very true."

He takes up tracing more patterns on Cullen's skin: his arm this time, following the curve of each muscle.

"In that case I should commend Lavellan for being such an excellent judge of character. Or maybe Sera for influencing her. Or -- however it happened."

By the end, he's back to laughter.

"Cassandra, I think." He sounds amused. "I'm given to understand she has a way with bears. Lavellan might have done it to irk her."