fadewalk | RP: Daylen Amell

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A clean shirt, probably too large. A pair of pants and a belt to hold them up. Clean socks - Maker, he knew how much he'd missed those while slogging through the Deep Roads with Cousland. Boot polish, and wood polish for the man's staff , and soap. Alistair inhaled the green, foresty scent and smiled to himself. His best memory of Orzimmar was sinking into the huge, sunken tub in the bathhouse attached to the Tapster's Tavern, finally able to relax after the long trek back from Caridin's Cross. He hoped that Daylen would appreciate the find.

A handful of basic lyrium potions, and another of elfroot potions went into a small pouch, and was set atop the pile. Alistair surveyed the supplies with a careful eye, and then nodded. Should try not to overwhelm the man, he thought and then winced. Too late. "I do that just by existing, apparently."

The supplies went into a basket, and Alistair set off to find Daylen, a look of determination on his face.

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"Yes, really." Alistair held on to Daylen's hand, and let him pull him towards the bed. As Daylen tossed the shirt on to the nearby chair, and began to deal with his belt, Alastair went to work on his own belt and boots. The laces on his boots were tight and and tied into hard knots - it took him more than a few moments and they create a sweater to get them to come undone.

Alistair looked up as he finished, to find the Daylen had already called into the bed. The site was incredibly inviting - soft sheets, it warm bed, and a very attractive man curled in the sheets. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and reach a hand out towards Daylen, letting gentle fingers run from the nape of his neck down his shoulders then back up. "I don't mind watching your back." Alistair's voice was warm, and indulgent.

He eventually, reluctantly, removed his hand. after a moment though he slid into the bed next to Daylen, one hand gently resting on Dalen's arm – an open invitation, if Dalen wished, for the man to scoot back in the Alistair's arms.

(OOC: I am so very sorry for my horrendous spelling and grammatical mistakes. I am trying to respond on my phone and my phone is failing me. )

Every time Alistair reached for Daylen it helped. Helped his shoulders to stop riding so high as if he were mid-flinch. Helped him believe that he was giving the other man something, and not taking. His eyes dipped shut as Alistair's fingers ran over his neck and shoulders, a little frown of disappointment creasing his brow when the hand dropped away, but it smoothed when Alistair slid in closer to him.

He took the invitation, lying down on his side and scooting closer, careful not to press too much, not to invade the other half of the bed too thoroughly, no matter how much he suddenly wanted that. It made his breath hitch in his chest, the feeling of Alistair's bulk settling behind him, the smallest things ringing with razor sharp nostalgia.

"So, please tell me your snoring has gotten better with age," he teased softly, mostly to break the silence, to distract himself from the want to press back until the entire line of him would be resting against the other man's body.

(OOC: Oh I know that pain. My mobile browser hates the fadewalk theme and it makes it really hard to edit. You're doing great considering! And let me know if you need to take off, I understand. :) )

(OOC: No - it's fine! The phone is just being incredibly stubborn. *snort* Deep Toads, gods.)

"I'm afraid I haven't had anyone who could tell me. Servants aren't trained to report whether or not their lord sounds like a sawmill while he sleep, after all." Alistair responded with good-natured humor. As Daylen settled in close to Alistair - but not quite close enough to satisfy Alistair's desire to feel the man against him - Alistair was somewhat tense. He'd kept his own shirt on out of some strange sense of propriety, and he now regretted having done so.

Finally, with a quiet growl from frustration, Alistair wrapped an arm around Daylen's waist and pulled him back against his chest. Alistair buried his face in Daylen's disheveled, clean hair and breathed in the scent of piney soap. The tension left Alistair's body immediately - it really was like being pleasantly drunk touching this man. Warm and solid and pleasant, intoxicating magic mixing with the satisfying touch of human skin.

Daylen's tension mirrored Alistair's, furthered by the implication that Alistair had never had anyone he was close to. He felt ill right up until Alistair's arm circled his waist and dragged him into his chest.

The noise he made was again completely ridiculous: not exactly a squawk, because there was no protest in it, but Daylen wasn't going to admit to having made that sound, a little bit a grunt, a little bit a whine, later. Nor the way his whole body responded to the warmth of the breath in his hair or the strong, calloused hand on his stomach. He rested his own hand over Alistair's, fingers stroking into the valleys between his knuckles with a light touch.

As he felt parts of him stir that hadn't shown interest in anything other than teasing nightmares and the lies of dreams in nearly nine years, he was deeply glad Alistair was behind him.

"Good?" he asked quietly, hoping the answer was yes and that maybe they could just stay in this bed until the world finished ending or whatever was going on. Daylen found himself caring far less about the mystery of this Fade realm than the warm trail of tingling ease that Alistair's hand brushing his skin brought him.

(OOC: Deep Toads made me giggle, ngl. :D )

Alistair chuckled at the undignified noise that escaped Daylen, but he remained curled around Daylen, his clothes chest pressed against Daylen's back, his legs tucked up against Daylen's legs. He let out a tiny purr as Daylen's fine hrs traced his, that hand very gently petting the skin of Daylen's stomach.

"Good. Hmm, yes. You?" His voice sounded more relaxed - deeper, rougher, almost intoxicated. Alistair nuzzled the back of Daylen's head. "It's like music in my head," he murmurs quietly. "Like alcoholic music."

The hand on Daylen's stomach was distracting, but the intent wasn't enough to keep the tide of exhaustion from tugging at his mind. He was comfortable, for the first time since he'd lost his Voice, and he was relaxing all in ways he'd forgotten it was possible.

The quiet murmur about the music sent little warning bells off in his mind, but he couldn't get a handle on it, half-drunk himself with the warmth and the weight of Alistair's arm. He was half asleep before he even answered the question. "S'good. You're..." he trailed off, arching his spine a little to let every point of contact along his back shift and resettle against the body behind him, reminding himself that it was real as he fluttered between sleep and waking. "...perfect. Night, love," he breathed.

Alistair, as comfortable as he was, was quick to follow Daylen down into sleep.

(OOC: Would you like to end this thread here, and start the next thread when they wake up?)