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dalishstormOriginal prompt: M!Cousland needs more love, seriously.
Rough, hard, and fun love, that is.
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Zevran slipped into the tent with a devious little smile on his face, one that Aedan knew well by now, and he felt a gathering heat in his groin in response. But beyond that initial glance Aedan pretended to be absorbed in his reading some ancient tome found in the temple of Andraste's Ashes—they would be venturing back up the mountain to take care of the dragon, now that they were resupplied. He could hear Zevran undressing behind him, and made a point of ignoring the elf, even when Zevran knelt behind him, draping his arms over Aedan's shoulders, pressing his warm (and, of course, quite nude) body against the warrior.
“How are the lessons going?” Aedan asked, conversationally—he wanted to see how far he could push this game, which one of them would cave first.
Kissing a line across the sculpted muscle of Aedan's shoulder, Zevran murmured, “Well enough,” into Aedan's skin. “I could show you.”
“Oh?” Intrigued, Aedan turned his head to catch the elf staring at him hungrily. “You know I'm always interested in an academic demonstration.”
Reaching over Aedan's shoulder, Zevran picked up the book on his lap and closed it, carefully setting it aside. He reached around with both arms to trace the hard lines of Aedan's stomach while kissing at the back of his neck, nibbling at the sensitive flesh along the Warden's spine, taking devious pleasure in the strange and surprised sound he earned from the warrior, a sort of “hn” high in the man's throat. When he tweaked a nipple Aedan leaned forward into his touch, simultaneously slouching, trying to reveal more flesh for Zevran to tease with his mouth.
So much for the game, but Aedan wasn't disappointed, honestly. Zevran's hands found his shoulders again, gripped him there for a moment, then slid down his arms to cover his hands. Then Zevran began kissing his way around Aedan's neck, searching for other sensitive spots, and Aedan regretted keeping the lower half of his leathers on, now a restrictive prison, almost painfully tight. Grasping Aedan's wrists, Zevran drew his hands back to settle them on his hips, and Aedan pulled Zevran forward into him a little further. The grip was awkward, but enticing all the same, this apparent need Zevran had to feel Aedan's hands on him.
When cold metal slipped around his wrists Aedan jerked, trying to pull away, but Zevran was quick, had already locked the manacles in place. “Zevran.” Aedan couldn't quell a tinge of panic or a rising anger his voice. “What--”
“Leliana tells me I am in need of more practice,” Zevran purred, leaning up to kiss Aedan's ear, stroking a hand down his back in a soothing gesture. “And I thought to myself, perhaps some inspiration is in order. I can think of little more inspiring than the thought of you at my mercy, unable to influence my pace or touch back, completely at my whim. And since my whim is to please you,” Zevran tugged at the manacles with his off hand, testing their strength, “I see no reason for you to be upset. You trust me, yes?”
“Yes.” But Aedan remained uncertain, his shoulders at an uncomfortable angle from the manacles holding his wrists so close together. In an academic sense he understood that this was Zevran's idea of playful, but it was hard to trust a man who shackled you before playing sweet and coy.
Zevran set about seeking every sensitive spot, every erogenous zone, lingering kisses and swirls of his tongue between Aedan's shoulders, mixing those light touches of his mouth with insistent ones, hands gripping Aedan's shoulders with a sort of need, fingers hungry for the lines of Aedan's muscles while his mouth was passionate and soft. Such a contrast was strange, made Aedan feel almost as if he were being devoured in a sexual sense, frightening and intriguing at once. Those fine, dextrous hands snaked around to tease their way down his stomach to the laces of his leathers, brushing over his recovering hardness (because in spite of his trepidation, Zevran knew just how to make Aedan react), cupping him through the leather with one hand as the other tugged at the laces, and Zevran moved back up to trace the line of Aedan's shoulder with his lips.
“This,” Zevran murmured, nuzzling at the flesh just behind his ear, “is something I have longed to see, this view. Tell me,” Zevran finally freed him from the confines of his leathers, sliding down his small clothes just far enough, and Aedan gasped as long fingers wrapped around his girth, warm flesh a sharp contrast to the chill air, “what do you think of when you take matters into your own hands, so to speak?”
Ever coy with his words, and Aedan smiled—he loved that, someone his equal in word games, and capable of rendering him speechless with a glance and a touch. “You,” Aedan said, and Zevran slowly began working him, setting a leisurely pace.
With a little sound of approval, Zevran asked, “And what of me?”
“Your skin,” Aedan answered, “golden and glistening, tracing those tattoos with my hands, oh, Maker,” as Zevran squeezed just so. “Of feeling you pressed--” he stuttered, because Zevran was quickening his pace, and for a good, long moment Aedan wasn't sure he could force any more words out. “--pressed against me, writhing against me, you--” Groaning, Aedan leaned back, trying to arch his hips up into Zevran's touch, unable to get any real leverage without putting some weight on the elf, and his shackled hands brushed against Zevran's own hardness, but the angle was wrong, he couldn't do more than touch and tease. Zevran slowed, refusing to let Aedan get an advantage between them, and he grit his teeth in frustration, managed, “The only way I'll ever win is to put that wicked tongue of yours to good use. That's what I want.”
Chuckling, Zevran moved around to Aedan's front, pushing him back. It pinned Aedan's hands behind him, put too much weight on his shoulders and arched his back, exerted his muscles in strange ways, but he was strong enough to hold the position for a brief while without really hurting himself. Zevran tugged off the leathers and everything else, finally, then laid himself out against Aedan, pressing their lengths together and kissing his way up to to lay nips and harsh, sucking kissing along Aedan's throat, over the stubble on his chin, hovering over his lips to whisper, voice husky, “Is this what you wanted?” and thrust against the man.
Aedan responded in kind, wordlessly bucking his hips, grinding against Zevran, who chuckled and began working his way down, dragging his toned body over Aedan's length in an inexorable descent, teasing both nipples to hardness with his tongue, tasting the sweat gathering along the lines of Aedan's abdomen, leaving a love bite in the hollow of the Warden's hip, before finally nibbling his way up the bottom of Aedan's hardness, then taking it into his mouth.
This was precisely what he'd fantasized about lately, too nervous to ask it of the more worldly Antivan, the feel of Zevran's mouth sealed around him, that clever tongue working at the bottom of his shaft, the sight of his head bobbing in a pace that was just a little too slow, leading Aedan up to a delicious ache, the growing heat and pressure forming at the base of his spine and the tightness of his skin almost unbearable. Desperately he wanted to reach out, to sweep back Zevran's light hair for a better view, to take a handful of it, to urge Zevran just a little faster, because this felt amazing and torturous at once.
But Aedan had no control, totally at Zevran's mercy, because he could only buck his hips so many times before his shoulders began to give out. He was strong, yes, but unused to working his muscles in such a fashion, and as his climax approached he was shaking with the effort of keeping himself up, keeping the manacles from pressing into his back, from putting overmuch weight down on his hands in such an awkward position. It kept his mind off what Zevran was doing just enough to make this last, and that occurred to him shortly before climax, how calculated and deliberate this was, all toward drawing out his pleasure. He finally came with a long, low groan, spending himself in Zevran's waiting mouth, and as soon as the elf pulled away Aedan rolled onto his side, collapsing in exhaustion—holding himself up in such a position was as strenuous as any battle, but it had been so good, each ache mingling with the ache of anticipation until that long, drawn out sensation had consumed his every muscle, and now the relief was similarly distributed and compounded.
Zevran didn't take his own pleasure right away, but began working at the manacles, taking the quaking of Aedan's shoulders for what it was—he needed to be released from the manacles to keep from doing any injury a quick massage wouldn't cure, and much as that display had inspired an ache, an urgent need, he wanted no harm to come to Aedan, in hopes that they could repeat this or some iteration in the future. Eventually Aedan's muzzy afterglow faded, and he asked, quietly, “Zevran?”
“A moment, my dear Warden.” But he was quickly beginning to fear that the manacles might be beyond him. Inconceivable, as he'd been toying with them all night in Leliana's tent, but now it seemed he couldn't pick them even with his excellent tools and growing skill. Even as his lust began to wane, no longer a distraction, he couldn't unlock the manacles, but persisted, until-- “Joder macho!”
“That sounded positive,” Aedan said, tone questing. “Is everything well?”
Closing his eyes, Zevran took a deep, slow breath, and answered, calmly, “I broke a pick.”
“You—you did? Well, you can still get me out, right?” Aedan grinned, gritting his teeth. “Right?”
“Given another set of picks and an infinite amount of time, yes.” Sighing, Zevran shook his head. “I am deeply sorry, my dear Warden. I believe Leliana has the key, though—I will go retrieve it from her.” So Zevran tugged his breeks back on and left Aedan there, moments dragging on into a frightfully long silence. His shoulders were really starting to ache.
On hearing the tent flap pulled back he craned his head to look, and saw Leliana in time to hear her giggle. “No,” he moaned, and buried his face in the bed roll, trying to pretend this wasn't happening.
“This sort of thing happens to everyone at some point,” Leliana said, but he could still hear the laughter under he voice. “Well, everyone worth knowing.”
“I'm not everyone,” Aedan growled. “Zevran, why did I let you talk me into this?”
And by the little smiles and giggles Leliana directed his way the next day, Morrigan's superior and mocking look, Wynne's extra disapproval, and the way Alistair pointedly avoided looking at either Aedan or Zevran, word had gotten around.
Rough, hard, and fun love, that is.
--------------------------
Zevran slipped into the tent with a devious little smile on his face, one that Aedan knew well by now, and he felt a gathering heat in his groin in response. But beyond that initial glance Aedan pretended to be absorbed in his reading some ancient tome found in the temple of Andraste's Ashes—they would be venturing back up the mountain to take care of the dragon, now that they were resupplied. He could hear Zevran undressing behind him, and made a point of ignoring the elf, even when Zevran knelt behind him, draping his arms over Aedan's shoulders, pressing his warm (and, of course, quite nude) body against the warrior.
“How are the lessons going?” Aedan asked, conversationally—he wanted to see how far he could push this game, which one of them would cave first.
Kissing a line across the sculpted muscle of Aedan's shoulder, Zevran murmured, “Well enough,” into Aedan's skin. “I could show you.”
“Oh?” Intrigued, Aedan turned his head to catch the elf staring at him hungrily. “You know I'm always interested in an academic demonstration.”
Reaching over Aedan's shoulder, Zevran picked up the book on his lap and closed it, carefully setting it aside. He reached around with both arms to trace the hard lines of Aedan's stomach while kissing at the back of his neck, nibbling at the sensitive flesh along the Warden's spine, taking devious pleasure in the strange and surprised sound he earned from the warrior, a sort of “hn” high in the man's throat. When he tweaked a nipple Aedan leaned forward into his touch, simultaneously slouching, trying to reveal more flesh for Zevran to tease with his mouth.
So much for the game, but Aedan wasn't disappointed, honestly. Zevran's hands found his shoulders again, gripped him there for a moment, then slid down his arms to cover his hands. Then Zevran began kissing his way around Aedan's neck, searching for other sensitive spots, and Aedan regretted keeping the lower half of his leathers on, now a restrictive prison, almost painfully tight. Grasping Aedan's wrists, Zevran drew his hands back to settle them on his hips, and Aedan pulled Zevran forward into him a little further. The grip was awkward, but enticing all the same, this apparent need Zevran had to feel Aedan's hands on him.
When cold metal slipped around his wrists Aedan jerked, trying to pull away, but Zevran was quick, had already locked the manacles in place. “Zevran.” Aedan couldn't quell a tinge of panic or a rising anger his voice. “What--”
“Leliana tells me I am in need of more practice,” Zevran purred, leaning up to kiss Aedan's ear, stroking a hand down his back in a soothing gesture. “And I thought to myself, perhaps some inspiration is in order. I can think of little more inspiring than the thought of you at my mercy, unable to influence my pace or touch back, completely at my whim. And since my whim is to please you,” Zevran tugged at the manacles with his off hand, testing their strength, “I see no reason for you to be upset. You trust me, yes?”
“Yes.” But Aedan remained uncertain, his shoulders at an uncomfortable angle from the manacles holding his wrists so close together. In an academic sense he understood that this was Zevran's idea of playful, but it was hard to trust a man who shackled you before playing sweet and coy.
Zevran set about seeking every sensitive spot, every erogenous zone, lingering kisses and swirls of his tongue between Aedan's shoulders, mixing those light touches of his mouth with insistent ones, hands gripping Aedan's shoulders with a sort of need, fingers hungry for the lines of Aedan's muscles while his mouth was passionate and soft. Such a contrast was strange, made Aedan feel almost as if he were being devoured in a sexual sense, frightening and intriguing at once. Those fine, dextrous hands snaked around to tease their way down his stomach to the laces of his leathers, brushing over his recovering hardness (because in spite of his trepidation, Zevran knew just how to make Aedan react), cupping him through the leather with one hand as the other tugged at the laces, and Zevran moved back up to trace the line of Aedan's shoulder with his lips.
“This,” Zevran murmured, nuzzling at the flesh just behind his ear, “is something I have longed to see, this view. Tell me,” Zevran finally freed him from the confines of his leathers, sliding down his small clothes just far enough, and Aedan gasped as long fingers wrapped around his girth, warm flesh a sharp contrast to the chill air, “what do you think of when you take matters into your own hands, so to speak?”
Ever coy with his words, and Aedan smiled—he loved that, someone his equal in word games, and capable of rendering him speechless with a glance and a touch. “You,” Aedan said, and Zevran slowly began working him, setting a leisurely pace.
With a little sound of approval, Zevran asked, “And what of me?”
“Your skin,” Aedan answered, “golden and glistening, tracing those tattoos with my hands, oh, Maker,” as Zevran squeezed just so. “Of feeling you pressed--” he stuttered, because Zevran was quickening his pace, and for a good, long moment Aedan wasn't sure he could force any more words out. “--pressed against me, writhing against me, you--” Groaning, Aedan leaned back, trying to arch his hips up into Zevran's touch, unable to get any real leverage without putting some weight on the elf, and his shackled hands brushed against Zevran's own hardness, but the angle was wrong, he couldn't do more than touch and tease. Zevran slowed, refusing to let Aedan get an advantage between them, and he grit his teeth in frustration, managed, “The only way I'll ever win is to put that wicked tongue of yours to good use. That's what I want.”
Chuckling, Zevran moved around to Aedan's front, pushing him back. It pinned Aedan's hands behind him, put too much weight on his shoulders and arched his back, exerted his muscles in strange ways, but he was strong enough to hold the position for a brief while without really hurting himself. Zevran tugged off the leathers and everything else, finally, then laid himself out against Aedan, pressing their lengths together and kissing his way up to to lay nips and harsh, sucking kissing along Aedan's throat, over the stubble on his chin, hovering over his lips to whisper, voice husky, “Is this what you wanted?” and thrust against the man.
Aedan responded in kind, wordlessly bucking his hips, grinding against Zevran, who chuckled and began working his way down, dragging his toned body over Aedan's length in an inexorable descent, teasing both nipples to hardness with his tongue, tasting the sweat gathering along the lines of Aedan's abdomen, leaving a love bite in the hollow of the Warden's hip, before finally nibbling his way up the bottom of Aedan's hardness, then taking it into his mouth.
This was precisely what he'd fantasized about lately, too nervous to ask it of the more worldly Antivan, the feel of Zevran's mouth sealed around him, that clever tongue working at the bottom of his shaft, the sight of his head bobbing in a pace that was just a little too slow, leading Aedan up to a delicious ache, the growing heat and pressure forming at the base of his spine and the tightness of his skin almost unbearable. Desperately he wanted to reach out, to sweep back Zevran's light hair for a better view, to take a handful of it, to urge Zevran just a little faster, because this felt amazing and torturous at once.
But Aedan had no control, totally at Zevran's mercy, because he could only buck his hips so many times before his shoulders began to give out. He was strong, yes, but unused to working his muscles in such a fashion, and as his climax approached he was shaking with the effort of keeping himself up, keeping the manacles from pressing into his back, from putting overmuch weight down on his hands in such an awkward position. It kept his mind off what Zevran was doing just enough to make this last, and that occurred to him shortly before climax, how calculated and deliberate this was, all toward drawing out his pleasure. He finally came with a long, low groan, spending himself in Zevran's waiting mouth, and as soon as the elf pulled away Aedan rolled onto his side, collapsing in exhaustion—holding himself up in such a position was as strenuous as any battle, but it had been so good, each ache mingling with the ache of anticipation until that long, drawn out sensation had consumed his every muscle, and now the relief was similarly distributed and compounded.
Zevran didn't take his own pleasure right away, but began working at the manacles, taking the quaking of Aedan's shoulders for what it was—he needed to be released from the manacles to keep from doing any injury a quick massage wouldn't cure, and much as that display had inspired an ache, an urgent need, he wanted no harm to come to Aedan, in hopes that they could repeat this or some iteration in the future. Eventually Aedan's muzzy afterglow faded, and he asked, quietly, “Zevran?”
“A moment, my dear Warden.” But he was quickly beginning to fear that the manacles might be beyond him. Inconceivable, as he'd been toying with them all night in Leliana's tent, but now it seemed he couldn't pick them even with his excellent tools and growing skill. Even as his lust began to wane, no longer a distraction, he couldn't unlock the manacles, but persisted, until-- “Joder macho!”
“That sounded positive,” Aedan said, tone questing. “Is everything well?”
Closing his eyes, Zevran took a deep, slow breath, and answered, calmly, “I broke a pick.”
“You—you did? Well, you can still get me out, right?” Aedan grinned, gritting his teeth. “Right?”
“Given another set of picks and an infinite amount of time, yes.” Sighing, Zevran shook his head. “I am deeply sorry, my dear Warden. I believe Leliana has the key, though—I will go retrieve it from her.” So Zevran tugged his breeks back on and left Aedan there, moments dragging on into a frightfully long silence. His shoulders were really starting to ache.
On hearing the tent flap pulled back he craned his head to look, and saw Leliana in time to hear her giggle. “No,” he moaned, and buried his face in the bed roll, trying to pretend this wasn't happening.
“This sort of thing happens to everyone at some point,” Leliana said, but he could still hear the laughter under he voice. “Well, everyone worth knowing.”
“I'm not everyone,” Aedan growled. “Zevran, why did I let you talk me into this?”
And by the little smiles and giggles Leliana directed his way the next day, Morrigan's superior and mocking look, Wynne's extra disapproval, and the way Alistair pointedly avoided looking at either Aedan or Zevran, word had gotten around.
