dalishstorm

Someone wanted Fenris being fascinated with and perhaps lusting after Hawke's beard. I was morally obligated to fill this to the best of my abilities.

( A Place to Hide )

For a crossdressing prompt on the kmeme.

( Cherry Lips )

Current Music: Garbage--Cherry Lips

Them's the Breaks

It was delicious, one of his favorite things, the way Fenris stretched over him with both of Aodhan's wrists held securely in one hand, pinning them over his head. The elf had caught him by surprise, sneaking in from the balcony while Hawke was undressing after one of those insufferable parties, as this game often went. His fine silk shirt was thrown open, his pants and underthings pushed down around his thighs to serve more as a shackle than anything resembling clothing, and the glare Fenris had him pinned with already had him half-hard. Aodhan hadn't been playing along, wasn't submitting tonight, and that glare was a promise-this wouldn't be gentle tonight.

"Be still," growled in that delectable voice, Aodhan could taste the agitation and the lust in those words on his own tongue, bitter and sweet, and Aodhan's jaw was already aching in anticipation, he wanted to take Fenris in his mouth tonight. So he disobeyed, arched up, acting like he was far overstimulated and seeking friction.

And suddenly he was curled up on his side, blinking away tears, his left shoulder agony incarnate-he'd only been in more pain twice. "Aodhan?" Gentle, frightened, concerned-Fenris laid a hand on Hawke's shoulder and the mage screamed through clenched teeth.

And then he started laughing through the tears, because this was such his luck. "You're too strong," he groaned.

"What...?"

"Dislocated my shoulder. Hang on." A wash of magic numbed it, but didn't fully fix it-he didn't want to use too much in such close proximity to Fenris, but it was enough that the pain no longer made him nauseous. He was still laughing, though. "Oh, that was... hah. I think we're done for the night. I need to find something I can freeze..."

The Only Way to Win...

After a certain amount of alcohol, it had seemed like a marvelous idea—to some of them. Fenris excused himself from the table, murmuring, "The only way to win is not to play." Anders made excuses about an early morning at the clinic. Aveline had yet to arrive, and Donnic didn't want to leave before she showed up.

Which explained very neatly why Merril was wearing nothing but her leggings, her scarf and a happy drunken smile, why Varric was shirtless and bootless, why Donnic was down to an oversized shirt, and why Isabela was wearing her boots and her underclothes and not a stitch else. And Aodhan suspected she'd spiked his drink at some point, because everything seemed much slower, much fuzzier than it should've.

Isabela won the next hand, and everyone had to take something off. Merril removed her scarf, and draped it over Isabela's head, giggling, which Varric protested. "No fair giving her more clothes! That's an advantage!"

Aodhan and Donnic exchanged a look of exacerbation, sighed resignedly when Isabela slammed her winning hand against the table and shouted, "OFF WITH IT!" They stood together, Donnic embarrassedly shucking off the shirt and flushing. "Oh, my." Wielding the hand of cards like a fan, Isabela covered her wide, cat-like grin. "Well no wonder Aveline is so pleased with you, big boy."

Donnic wasn't looking at Isabela's hungry eyes, though, but at Aveline, who was leaning against the back of Isabela's chair with one hand, face red with anger. "Would you care to repeat that, whore?"

Before anything could start between them Aodhan stepped up into his chair, nearly tipping over from intoxication, and shouted at the top of his lungs, gaining the attention of everyone in the tavern (except Fenris, who was in a corner and hiding his face in enough embarrassment for the both of them), "You want a show? Fine!" And shucked his underthings off.

Rolling on the floor in laughter, it turned out, was suitable distraction to keep the two ladies from fighting.

Close Enough to Perfect

The broken down little bed shoved into a far corner of the only room of the mansion Fenris really used was lumpy, soft in all the wrong places and hard in worse ones, the sheets threadbare and the room suffused with a damp chill as the fire burned down to embers. How Fenris remained so hale while living in such conditions was beyond Aodhan, and he made a mental note to bring over some better bedding, have something done about the leaky roof and the broken windows upstairs-maybe try to buy the place, even, to make Fenris' inhabitation legitimate and have workers come over to properly fix things?

Regardless of the conditions, Aodhan was more comfortable and happier than he'd been... well, he couldn't properly remember the last time things had felt so right. As if sensing the chill Fenris snuggled into him, leaning the back of his head into Aodhan's shoulder, the tattooed flesh of his lean body bare against Aodhan's own, the curve of his buttock shifted just so... Aodhan leaned forward, re-affirming his hold on the elf, nipped at the tip of one ear and ran his thumb along the tattoos across Fenris' chest. The elf didn't wake, didn't flinch away, simply nuzzled against him with an appreciative sound and drifted back into a deeper sleep.

These vulnerable moments meant even more than the words that had passed between them last night. It wasn't just idealistic sentiment on Fenris' part, it wasn't anything even the slightest bit untrue if Fenris was unconsciously behaving so against his programming. Laying here, able to hold Fenris, skin on skin, having spent at least some portion of the night sleeping peacefully together... Aodhan brushed a few stray strands of white hair away from Fenris' eyes. It wasn't everything he had ever hoped for, as so much of that was now beyond his reach, but it was certainly enough.

Response to the various reading lesson/voice!kink prompts on the kmeme. Fenris/M(age)Hawke, set sometime during Act III after things have been mended.

( Reading Between the Lines )

( You're about to view content that the journal owner has marked as possibly inappropriate for anyone under the age of 18. )

I would very much like Zevran and m!Warden of choice sexing in their tent.

Zev rides on top; kink is that they're trying very, very hard not to make any noise.
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I botched this one. Oops!
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It had taken no small effort, but Zevran—with a little help, of course—had finally talked their savage-natured leader into shelling out the coin for rooms at an inn, giving them a couple of days to recuperate after the grueling trek through the Circle Tower. Lucky, that, it was during a terrible rainstorm, one no one but Vanastin fancied camping in. Some of them had to share rooms, but they had a warm meal with none of Alistair's unwelcome “help”, comfortable beds... it was that latter Zevran was almost regretting now. Zevran and Vanastin had been sleeping together for a little while, and he'd grown quite used to Vanastin's hard lust, that sex with the Warden was more like wolves rutting. With a merry fire in the hearth against the Fereldan chill, Zevran wanted little more than to rest, for once. But they shared a room, naturally, and Vanastin was insistent.

Disrobing was utilitarian, no art or seduction in it, but Vanastin paused briefly to make that strangely affectionate gesture, running his fingers alone one of Zevran's ears and up into his hair. The Dalish elf leaned forward with the gesture to whisper in Zevran's ear, “Not a sound more than I would make. And if you come first, you'll find no rest here.” The growl in his dark voice sent a shiver down Zevran's spine, and it wasn't purely pleasurable.

Even as Zevran rifled through his pack for the little vial of oil he needed to prepare himself, he was contemplating Vanastin's threat. Did Vanastin mean they'd spend the night so occupied? Or that he'd turn Zevran out to find a bed elsewhere? The Warden kept a firm grip on the group's purse strings, which meant Zevran would be finding someone else's bed to warm or pitching a tent, since he was unlikely to get any charity from their companions. Before he'd come to a conclusion Vanastin had snatched the vial from him and pushed Zevran to the bed, straddling the backs of the Antivan's thighs and effectively pinning him.

Zevran spent a long moment in anticipation before Vanastin slid a hand up the inside of one thigh, touch light. The Dalish elf had obviously paused to warm the oil between his fingers, because the slick touch at Zevran's entrance was warm, strangely gentle, circling the ring of muscle, teasing..... Zevran was used to preparing himself, and had intended to make a show of it tonight. He'd experienced a light touch from Vanastin before, but it was rare, usually calculated to disguise some other cruelty or a rare reward.

But Vanastin took his time, and by the time Vanastin slowly pressed a single finger into him, well slicked, Zevran felt like he was on fire. He wanted more, he wanted it faster, he wanted... He had to bite back a moan, gritting his teeth against making any sound. Two fingers wasn't quite enough, even when Vanastin curled his fingers to press against him just so.... When Vanastin withdrew he was left empty and wanting, quivering with need, and pushed himself up from the bed's surface slightly to take his own aching hardness in hand.

Vanastin settled a hand on his back and pushed Zevran to the bed, trapping his hands and refusing him that release, before sliding in, agonizingly slow. And he kept at that, pace slow but angle perfect. Being pushed to the bed and trapped so rang all sorts of alarm bells for Zevran, but he quickly found he didn't want to move, it all just felt too good, and a certain heat was already curling in his belly.

Zevran had to gnaw at his lip to keep from making noise, and Vanastin even leaned down, brushing Zevran's hair aside to expose one ear, worked his way down from the tip sucking and nipping as he had before, sometimes delicately and sometimes savagely, the hand on Zevran's back supporting him and his free hand trailing down to grip at Zevran's hip, fingers tight.

By the time he drew back Zevran was contemplating the night spent cold and alone outside to keep himself from peaking too early, and the night's first clap of thunder disguised a full-throated moan that managed to escape him. It might be better, Maker, to succumb and be done with this torment and suffer whatever punishment Vanastin had in mind with his threat....

Vanastin finally spilled himself into Zevran with a gasp, coming hard, but as soon as he was spent withdrew, leaving Zevran on the verge of his own orgasm and wanting. The Antivan couldn't hold back a desperate, “What--”

But Vanastin was already urging him to roll over, and once he had nipped one of Zevran's ears hard, and Zevran drew a little blood biting his lip against crying out. “You can make all the noise you want, now.” Vanastin grinned wickedly, and worked his way down in a series of soft kisses and harsh bites and dark love marks, leaving Zevran hard but drawing away from the edge, even has his own aching need drew across Vanastin's sculpted body as the smaller elf ventured down. He took Zevran into his mouth and thrust two fingers in to fill that aching void at nearly the same instant, and Zevran made a little noise of surprise.

Somewhere between the third finger and realizing that Vanastin was swallowing around him, Zevran came blinding-hard with a harsh cry. When he surfaced from it, limbs trembling, he looked down to see Vanastin still crouched between his legs, a last splatter of Zevran's release against one cheek with a thin trail leading to Vanastin's mouth, the nearest bit of which was licked away once he had Zevran's attention. The sight sent another thrill of pleasure through Zevran, and he settled back with a sated, exhausted moan.

RL has really been kicking me in the teeth lately, so I'd like to make a request in the hopes of cheering up...

Zevran is blood-controlled by an enemy mage and ends up seriously wounding the Warden (who he is in a relationship with) while under the spell. This anon would like to see the hurt/comfort/forgiveness/guilt sex that occurs afterwards! (no preference as to which flavor of m!Warden, so long as it's a dude)
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The world disappeared under a red haze and Zevran knew only one thing: a sweet voice whispering, “Kill him,” gently into his ear. And it was all that mattered, that he please this speaker. It was a delicious sort of helplessness, freedom from choice, and falling on the other elf in a rain of blows, watching more red blossom under his knives, was one of the most satisfying sensations he'd ever known.

A hard impact threw him off, landing in a heap some distance away, and back to reality. It wasn't much different, really, his vision going dim for a moment as his skull cracked against the floor, ears ringing. It took longer than he would've liked to gather his senses. Zevran got to his knees, moving slowly because the world was still spinning. He saw Alistair standing over the Tevinter mage, flicking blood from his sword before sheathing it, and Morrigan somewhat nearer, kneeling on the floor, hunched over Vanastin's prone body. Zevran pushed himself up to his feet and stumbled over, almost forgetting his own sword and dagger.

The Warden had let go of the bow, but still held onto one arrow in a white-knuckled grip, his skin gone pale under so much blood. Zevran's strikes had all been true, mostly killing blows, and only Morrigan's meager healing magic kept Vanastin breathing. Dark eyes under half-lidded eyes rolled to him, acknowledged Zevran's presence. “Zevran.”

“Shut up,” Morrigan spat. “You can waste your breath on your fool lover later. Alistair! I need you to carry him.”

Si, amore? He almost said, but just reached down to wrap a hand around Vanastin's upper arm, heedless of the blood—his hands were already dark with it, anyway.

Quick as a flash of lightning, so fast even Zevran could hardly follow the motion, Vanastin wrenched himself up and lunged with the arrow in his hand, driving it into Zevran's arm. The Antivan cried out more in surprise than pain, and jerked away as Vanastin collapsed and tried to curl up around the wounds, gasping weakly but smiling. “We're even.”

Alistair carried the Warden back, but Morrigan kept a hand on the elf, kept pushing as much healing power as she could into him, which was just enough to keep him alive, never quite enough to stop the bleeding. So by the time they reached Eamon's estate everyone was covered in the Warden's blood, and when they entered Wynne happened to be in the front room, talking to Leliana. The elder mage immediately began ordering people around, telling a servant run for this, run for that, led Alistair back to the Warden's rooms all in a hurry—and they shut the door in Zevran's face.

He finally came out of his daze. I did this. He looked down at his hands, the arrow shaft broken off in his forearm and blood up to his elbows. And after we have just come to terms with our desires. This may as well be Rinna's blood.

Leliana's hand on his shoulder surprised him, and Zevran turned to her. “I'll do what I can for your arm,” she said, so he followed her to another room nearby. Alistair's, Zevran thought, but he didn't care at the moment. Leliana sat him down in a chair and carefully removed the arrow, her touch delicate and her hands steady, removed his bracers, then washed the blood from his arms in a basin. “You hurt him, didn't you?”

“There was a blood mage,” Zevran managed. “I could not fight him.”

“And that arrow is his,” she said, frowning a little.

“He said, 'We're even' after he put it there.”

“He'll forgive you,” Leliana said, frown dissolving into a little smile. “Vanastin is cruel, surely, but he is not so cruel. He will understand.”

If he lives. But Zevran said nothing, and let her finish by packing a poultice into the wound before bandaging it. Without magic it would scar, but this was one mark Zevran felt he'd earned. If Vanastin died.... Zevran knew now he would die with the Warden, whether physically or otherwise. They'd saved each other, after all.

He sat up all night, waiting for some word on Vanastin's condition. It was well past midnight when Wynne exited the room, drying her arms with a clean towel, and announced, “He'll live.” She didn't seem particularly pleased, and wearily trudged off to her room. Zevran slipped in as servants finished carrying out the supplies Wynne had used, and there was still so much blood--

None on Vanastin, now. He was pale as the bandages covering him, the tattoos across his face standing out starkly, and moonlight streaming in through the windows made him radiant and ghostly. He looked fragile, too, small against the large bed, but Zevran knew it was a trick on the eyes. Vanastin was anything but--

No, he was fragile. But Zevran had to see that weakness in himself before he could see it in Vanastin. They had so neatly shown each other the night Vanastin killed Taliesen that they were both vulnerable, and doubly strong for seeing it in each other. Standing here, watching his lover (they were now, after all, strange as it seemed) struggle to breathe and shiver in the chill night air, Zevran knew Vanastin would be angry, would probably unleash some of that cruelty their companions feared, but it wasn't the hunter, merely the beast he had become.

Zevran tugged the blankets up to Vanastin's chin, and the unconscious Dalish leaned into the warmth of an accidental touch.

Vanastin woke a few times during the next day, but never for more than a handful of minutes at a time. He was weak, disoriented, and Zevran did his best to keep the others out. Wynne's presence couldn't be helped, and she looked on both the elves, the one in her care and the one underfoot, disapprovingly. Vanastin had an image to keep, and letting the others see him like this would give them the impression he had vulnerabilities—he did, of course, but it would create some sort of sympathy, make him more approachable in their companions' eyes.

The others had just gone to bed, and Zevran decided to check on Vanastin one last time before retiring himself. He found the Warden leaning heavily against the windowsill nearest the bed, breathing hard, dressed only in his bandages and a pair of too-large linen trews. Zevran paused in the doorway, uncertain if he should go get Wynne or talk the Warden into getting back in bed.

Before he could decide Vanastin spoke. “Zevran,” his dark voice breaking on the gravel in it, wavering, but he clearly wasn't so bad off if he had heard Zevran's entrance. “Come here.”

Zevran obeyed, as surely as he had obeyed the blood mage's sweet voice in his ear, closing the door behind himself and stepping up to Vanastin's side. From his posture the Warden was putting most of his weight against the wall, and despite his pallor Vanastin was smiling, eyes bright. Seeing the Warden like this was unsettling, and Zevran was almost afraid to touch him. But he wasn't afraid of Vanastin's wrath any more, didn't care if this was some calculated move to lull him into a sense of complacency before Vanastin struck out.

Reaching out, Vanastin wrapped a hand around Zevran's upper arm, and pulled himself close, shaking with the effort. Zevran had to wrap his arms around Vanastin, afraid the smaller elf might collapse, and Vanastin buried his head in the crook of Zevran's neck, still smiling.

“You must be delirious,” Zevran said, “or playing with me most cruelly.”

“The former,” Vanastin muttered against his skin. “I don't have the energy to be cruel right now. You almost killed me, Zevran. Do you realize what that means?”

“That you will return the favor once you are well enough?” Vanastin just laughed, started pulling Zevran's collar aside, looking for the flesh beneath with his lips.

“I don't have to pretend,” Vanastin said. “You've demonstrated that you're my equal.”

“No more of this wolfish dominance, then?” Zevran asked, twining a hand in Vanastin's loose hair but keeping an arm around his waist to keep him upright. “What if I have grown fond of it?”

“Shut up,” Vanastin snapped, and Zevran grinned—that was more what he expected. “I want you. And I'm in no shape to fight about it, so--” Zevran's mouth closing over the tip of one pointed ear drew a sharp gasp out of the smaller elf, cutting off whatever else he meant to say.

It was too easy to work Vanastin into heavy gasping breaths, his attempts at a returned carress half forgotten, by drawing his lips down the smaller elf's ear, nipping and nibbling along the way, taking the lobe of Vanastin's ear into his mouth and sucking briefly. Kissing his way across the bottom of Vanastin's vallaslin, Zevran found the other ear and repeated his attentions in reverse, the hand in Vanastin's hair slipping down to tease the first ear with gentle strokes.

When he had wrung every soft sound he could out of these attentions, Zevran slid down along the artery in Vanastin's neck, following his thready pulse down to the hollow of his throat, the dip of his collar bone, tasted all this skin as if it were new. For how often they'd enjoyed one another leisurely, it more or less was new. His hands slid down to Vanastin's hips, passing over bandages with a feather touch, and the trews needed no more than a nudge to come sliding off. With his lips Zevran followed the line of a bandage from Vanastin's shoulder down over his collarbone, caught another one high on his breast, ended up teasing a nipple with his tongue.

That was when Vanastin swayed in his grasp, hands suddenly going to Zevran's shoulders in a shaky grip. Zevran's grip around Vanastin's hips tightened, bruising hard to keep him up, and the smaller elf gasped, “Zev....” Not the nickname, but too breathless to manage his full name.

Straightening, Zevran wrapped his arms around Vanastin and hoisted him up, leaving the trews behind, and he carried the smaller elf, who wrapped his legs around Zevran's waist with a wicked, if dazed, smile, eager hardness rubbing against the leather of Zevran's clothing. It wasn't easy, of course, but the distance was short, and he managed to make the transition smoothly, laying Vanastin down on the bed and then drawing back, sitting between the smaller elf's spread knees. Vanastin gave a little laugh, a strange sound, at the sight of Zevran sitting there, such a delightfully predatory look on his face.

Delirious, indeed, Zevran thought, but running his hands down the inside of Vanastin's thighs found the skin cool, not fevered, and he followed the carress with a line of kisses, trying not to think about how very, very red the blood had been, how good it had felt, and how this submission was likely just some strange side effect of blood loss, that Vanastin would be back to himself soon enough. Zevran wanted to take advantage of the situation, wanted to tie the Warden down while he was willing to let Zevran have his way, and to tease him mercilessly, have him begging for an end in the same breath as he was begging Zevran to keep going. The Warden wasn't well enough for any such antics, though, if his breath was hitching so easily.

When Zevran's mouth finished trailing down his thigh and went lower still, a little nudge spreading Vanastin's legs further and exposing his entrance, Zevran's tongue flicked out against the circle of soft skin and the ring of muscle there, testing, tasting, and Vanastin made a little sound of satisfaction low in his throat. He teased like that for a bit, soft flicks of the tongue making Vanastin squirm with an uncharacteristic lack of restraint, but when he began to lap and press for entrance, tongue just barely wriggling in, Vanastin fully voiced a moan, as lascivious as the ones he'd given under Zevran's hands in Orzammar.

It so surprised Zevran that he stopped for a moment, listening to Vanastin gasp for breath. He repeated the motion again, pressing further this time, and though it wasn't quite as loud Vanastin voiced his pleasure again, making no effort to bite back those sounds at all. Once more, and Zevran drew back, earning a whimper. He sat up, looking down at Vanastin, who had fisted his hands into the sheets, ashen skin flushing with new heat, chest heaving with the effort to draw in enough air. When the pause had lasted long enough Vanastin's dark eyes slitted open to return Zevran's gaze, and he croaked, “What--” He didn't have the breath to finish the question, voice breaking on the gravel in it.

Zevran descended on Vanastin's cock this time, offering that same sort of attention with the smooth seal of his lips, working his tongue against the bottom of Vanastin's hardness. In no time at all Vanastin was coming hard, a harsh gasp half-voiced escaping him at the height of pleasure, and Zevran fancied he heard his name in it.

For a while Zevran nuzzled at Vanastin's hip, waiting for the smaller elf's breathing to calm, watching him carefully from his vantage. This whole occurrence had almost been too strange to believe, and it had him wanting to get away from Vanastin. It was one thing to find the same weakness in each other and to become proper equals,but Vanastin's behavior tonight had been wholly disconcerting. As soon as he thought it safe to leave Vanastin alone, Zevran stood to go.

“No,” Vanastin whined, and with some of his usual speed and grace he lashed out, grabbing Zevran's wrist. “Emma lath, stay, please.” He turned to find Vanastin looking at him strangely, dark eyes seeming almost wet, some intense emotion in them.

“Wynne will have my head.” But Zevran was already sitting down on the bed. Vanastin shifted his hand to twine his fingers with Zevran's, and his grip was tight, possessive.

“Don't care. Tell her I threatened you.”

“Have you? Was that a threat?”

“No.” Vanastin all but pouted, or what passed for the stoic Dalish elf, looking away and staunchly refusing to make eye contact again. “But she'll believe it.”

So Zevran stayed until Vanastin was soundly asleep, then slipped away to take care of his own aching need. But it wasn't to thoughts of how Vanastin had seemingly let go, or fantasies of tying the Warden up and making him plead for release. No, Zevran found that he came to the intense look in Vanastin's eyes and the need in his voice when he'd begged the Antivan to stay, and afterwards he somehow felt just as guilty as when he realized he'd nearly killed Vanastin. With a sigh, Zevran threw himself down against his own bed, staring up into the dark.

Vanastin's cruelty had been so much simpler, and Zevran almost longed for it.

Anon is in the mood for some fluffy smut.

Zevvy and Warden bathing in the river. Hairwashing and slow molten lovemaking plz.

Any flavor Warden, human preferred.
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An assassin's work was typically clean, and Zevran found himself ill-suited to the butchery the Warden's party often found themselves in. The killing itself was no problem, and he welcomed the challenge, but the gore—today, for example, the four of them stumbled into camp covered in darkspawn and werewolf blood, the two wardens insisting that Zevran and Leliana immediately clean up instead of helping out around camp. And that was something Zevran was infinitely grateful for—regardless of Alistair's personal hygiene, both Wardens were adamant about whoever traveled with them in a day as the advance guard being fastidious.

Camp was set in a bend of a wide stream with high, heavily entrenched banks, and as both rogues made their way toward the water, Zevran asked, “My dear Leliana, would you perhaps need some help with your hair?”

She smiled, but narrowed her eyes at him in a brief glance as she kept walking at his side. “I know your game, Zevran. So thank you for the offer, but I don't think I will need any company.”

“Such a shame,” he said, sighing and shrugging in exaggerated fashion. “I suppose when werewolves fall upon us alone and naked, we will simply have to accept our fates.”

“Do not joke about such things. And either way, you are not watching me bathe.”

Zevran didn't have the energy to continue the argument, so they parted ways, each going opposite ways around the bend. Wandering downstream, Zevran found a wide, flat blue stone jutting out of the bank in a jumble of smaller boulders, the water around it deep and still. He stripped quickly, and set about the boring, laborious task of cleaning his armor and padding and everything else of darkspawn filth, in hopes everything would be dry by the time he was done bathing. Not that he'd mind walking back into camp nude, but the protestation would be... less than welcome today. Wynne's nagging and Morrigan's disgust and Oghren's jeering and Alistair's stuttering blushing—most of the time their reactions were amusing, and exactly what he desired, but even Zevran tired of using his sensuality as a shield. The longer he traveled with these people, the less interested he was in keeping up appearances, but he wanted to keep most of them at arm's length. And this was easiest.

He got all but the worst of the ground in blood and other filth out of his armor and clothes and laid them aside on that flat sun-warmed stone, closer to shore. Slipping into the chill water, he resolved to bathing quickly, but still longed for a warm tub. Such indulgences had been rare in his time with the Crows, and rarer yet in his travels with the Warden, and it made them all the more precious.

The water came up to the middle of his chest at its deepest point, and when he undid his braids and dunked his head the water rolled off pinkish, distressingly so. He felt around carefully for any injuries but found none, and so repeated the motion, holding his head under for a while in the cold water. Something like this would've been much easier than seeking out the Grey Wardens. It wasn't as if he needed an honorable death, any sort of death would do. When his lungs began to burn Zevran resurfaced, slinging his hair back and gasping a deep breath. No, he didn't need an honorable death, but he was too much a coward to hold the blade himself, and now he was oath-bound.

Zevran felt the ripples in the water breaking against the backs of his thighs just seconds before arms encircled him, drew him against a solid, warm body, nude as his own. For a moment he imagined the hard flesh behind him, well-defined lines to be a softer, rounder body, slimmer in certain places and more robust in others, perhaps Leliana.... But fingers dragging gently across his scalp and a resonant voice whispering in his ear dispelled the image. What was said never really mattered, more the tone.

Zevran preferred the soft lines of a woman's body, but he was also used to lovers with a much harsher touch, especially in men. Before the Warden, he'd not really understood the term lovemaking, finding it no more than a poetic term, one he could occasionaly use to describe the sort of sex he had with overly emotional marks. There seemed to be no special attachment in the Warden's attentions, no smitten love-sick behavior as he would expect of one so previously inexperienced, and that made it extremely novel. There were no expectations, the Warden wanted only what he could give. And Zevran asked nothing more of the Warden. He could pretend, at times, that he wasn't oath-bound, that this wasn't simply to work his way into the Warden's good graces, that they were equals, partners of some sort who simply enjoyed each other's bodies.

A gentle tug with one arm encouraged Zevran to lean back against him, and Zevran obliged, putting some of his weight against the Warden. With Zevran braced against him, the Warden freed up both hands to work at the mess of Zevran's hair, and by the smell and feel of it he wasn't using the harsh soap Zevran had brought with him but some of Leliana's soft, foreign concoction. It would leave him smelling of herbs for some time, but pleasantly so. Wriggling slightly against the Warden, and getting the expected involuntary reaction, Zevran sighed in exaggerated contentment. “If this were a warm candlelit bath and you had a bottle of fine wine waiting for me, I would think you were trying to seduce me, dear Warden.”

A low, rolling chuckle from the Warden reverberated through them both. “I'm not so good with heat, you know, but I'll see what I can manage.” The Warden paused in his work on Zevran's hair to lean down and lay a kiss at the nape of his neck, a second further down, one squarely between his shoulder blades, all perfectly along his spine.... and by the time the Warden had straightened the water seemed much warmer, not as warm as Zevran desired but a great deal more comfortable. Closing his eyes, Zevran focused on the fingers dragging across his scalp, slowly working in the soap and oils, occasionally brushing the tips of his ears ever so lightly..... There were certainly advantages, at least, to bedding an accomplished mage, little comforts like the increase in water temperature, and Zevran issued an involunatry moan as the soft drag of fingers across his scalp ended.

The first handful of water to pour over his head was a surprise more in its warmth than anything else, a temperature a little closer to what Zevran desired. This sort of treatment was more than a little unsettling, as no one had ever paid him such care, and Zevran suspected the Warden had noticed his ill humor and carefully designed this encounter to relieve him of whatever burdens troubled him... he didn't like being manipulated, even thusly, but calmed himself with the thought that it was with no foul intent. What had the Warden said, just a few nights ago? I need nothing from you in return. Your pleasure is enough.

Zevran didn't even pretend to understand yet, but he wanted to. With the soap and the blood and the grime washed from his hair Zevran turned to face his Warden, taking in the mage's surprisingly sleek build, little beads of water rolling down the lines of his body, the auburn hair slicked to his skin and the wholly contented smile just curling his mouth but shining brilliantly from green eyes just slightly narrowed in some private mirth. Zevran quickly found himself backed against one of the smaller boulders in the stream, and beckoned Cadryn closer with a look. The mage obeyed, of course, leaning down to kiss him, running two fingers up the length of Zevran's jaw. It was a slow duel of tongues, and when they drew apart Zevran exhaled, “If your intent was to bed me, dear Warden, I think you have succeeded.”

“Whatever my intent was is unimportant,” Cadryn offered, trailing those two fingers back down Zevran's jaw and along the sleek muscles of his neck. “If you want me, well... here I am.”

Zevran took the grin from that cheeky response with a kiss, Cadryn's hands sliding lower and their hardening sexes brushing together, sending an electric sensation through Zevran's skin, deepening his needy ache. If this was the Warden's idea of oath-bound servitude, tender gestures and lazy sex, he'd take it.

Cadryn kept him pinned there, one hand bracing against the rock and the other tracing every scar he could reach with feather-soft touches. Slick, warm skin glided over slick, warm skin as they ground against each other, kissing until their combined need was too great and there wasn't enough air between them to get a lungful or breath. With Cadryn curled over him, panting heavily into his ear, wandering hand finally stilled on the small of Zevran's back and slowly drifting lower with every thrust and grind (and keeping his back off that water-smoothed rock), Zevran had the presence of mind to leave a little love-bite on the Warden's collarbone before the need to move and relieve this building heat overcame him.

Which of them came first, Zevran decided afterward, was completely irrelevant; they were both certainly an enticing sight with their shared release spread across each other's stomachs, and it meant more tender attention from the Warden in cleaning up, which Zevran did his best to return. No one had ever treated him like this, how Cadryn treated him at every opportunity, and they were far beyond the point of leery suspicion. Whatever the Warden's game was with this gentle manner but insistence he needed no promises from Zevran, the assassin couldn't fathom, but he found with each passing day he didn't care, so long as they could keep playing at it.

Zevran/M!Warden, domestic bliss: M!Warden (preferably elf, but I'm not that picky) and Zevran are living their happily settled post-game life. M!Warden is doing some banal household chore (washing the dishes, doing laundry, wiping the floor, whatever floats your boat!) and Zevran is being more of a hindrance than a help.
A sexy hindrance~
--------
Lumbering gray clouds blocked out any sign of sun or blue sky, and a heavy mist hung over the hills, the glass of the window under his hand cold—a chill day, for certain, and poor weather by late afternoon. Just thinking about it made him shiver, the long walk in the cold and wet, the mist seeping into everything in their packs and making camp doubly miserable. It was more than a day to the next town, after all.

“Would you stop that?”

Zevran half-turned to look at Cadryn, who stood on the opposite side of the bed from him, very efficiently packing their bags. He never complained about being left to it, and Zevran had noticed it helped keep him sharp, remembering where everything was as if it was all precisely cataloged. “What?”

“If you put some clothes on, you wouldn't be shivering so much.” He said nothing about the window, but green eyes flicked for a moment to look out it, and Zevran knew the blatant exhibitionism of standing in front of the window irked him, however slightly. “I never should've said anything about the bracers,” the mage muttered, and went back to packing, movements exaggerated with annoyance.

Indeed, Zevran was standing there quite nude, save for his armored bracers, dreading the dreary day ahead of them—if he failed in this gamble. Of course, if he succeeded they'd be delayed long enough that he could easily persuade Cadryn to stay here another day, and spend a lazy day making love in the warmth of a well-appointed inn. They were only just out of Ferelden after Cadryn's retirement, and money wouldn't be a problem for a while yet, so Zevran saw no reason not to take this journey leisurely. He turned back to the window, hands against the sill and leaned forward slightly.

“Damnit, Zev!” Broad hands suddenly gripped his hips, warm lips traced his tattoos from neck to one shoulder, and Zevran smiled in victory, looking Cadryn in the eye in their reflections in the glass.

By the time Cadryn had stripped and gently spread him with a practiced, knowing touch, Zevran had to brace himself against the window frame. One of the locals stopped outside to stare up at their third story window slack-jawed, shortly followed by a pair of women who whispered behind their hands. Cadryn took him just like that, on display for the people outside, and Zevran reveled in it, the looks of shock and desire on their faces, this sensation of being wanted but just beyond their reach... teasing them with this vision of ecstasy in the window. A strong, full laugh at the thought dissolved into a moan of pleasure when Cadryn's hand closed around his length.

It didn't take long, and Zevran would've been embarrassed at his own lack of stamina if the orgasm wasn't so shattering. It had been a long time since he'd done something like this, not since Cadryn had come to him in Antiva, a certain night on the balcony of his apartments. Cadryn followed soon after, pressed tight to him and gasping out his own release as Zevran's dripped from his hand and rolled down the window.

“Looks like our adoring public enjoyed the performance,” Zevran said, grinning triumphantly down at the small crowd outside. He caught Cadryn's gaze in the window again briefly, watched him nip at the tip of one ear and slid his lips down along the helix of it, making Zevran shudder.

“We'll give them an encore later,” he murmured, and led Zevran away from the window.

Morrigan woke, stretching languorously, from a most delightful dream of her virile lover--she stopped mid-motion, muscles twitching at the interrupted stretch, and looked down--well, doing what he was doing now.

He hovered over her naked breast, grinning wolfishly, the blankets and furs of their shared nest pushed down far enough to expose the soft muscles of her lean stomach, a tantalizing curve, and she could imagine the motion he'd made, a soft and slow caress, because she'd known it in her dream. But he ignored it now, and after catching her eye descended, rolling one nipple between his lips, sucking lightly and then teasing with his tongue with that vaccuum still applied, and she couldn't hold back a satisfied sound, a little growl deep in her throat. Oh, but he was marvelous with that wicked, witty tongue.

"Do not mistake me," she said. "I am not complaining, but must you wake me in such a fashion daily? I imagine it may be," she paused for effect, quirked an eyebrow when he looked up, lips still fastened to her breast, "inconvenient, one day."

He detached, but remained close, breath wicking up the moisture left by his tongue and leaving her with a delicious chill in spite of the heat. "I'm an addict, what can I say?"

Original Prompt: Post Origins, the Warden and his/her LI are separated for whatever storyline reason is appropriate. Alistair is at Weisshaupt/building Duncan's memorial/being King, Zevran is slaughtering crows in Antiva, Morrigan is off doing her thing, etc. One night, the two happen to meet up in the Fade while asleep, and they both believe they are just dreaming of the other person. Dream sex ensues.

Here's the kicker: they miss each other terribly, and one or both of them take the opportunity to say or do things they they normally wouldn't (Hey, it's just a dream, right?). Maybe Zevran or Morrigan says something unusually sentimental, or Alistair has a hidden kink that he's never revealed before.

The reaction of the other party, the Warden's origin, the LI, and whether either of them eventually figure out that the other person is not part of the dream is up to anon. Will take any pairing, but Anon admits a preference for Zevran/M!Warden (specifically M!Mahariel). I guess that, technically, dwarves won't work just because they can't normally enter the Fade, but if anon really wants to use a dwarf and comes up with some reason for them to be there, I won't complain.
-----------------
Waking inside a dream was always strange, like surfacing from cold water into a hot, muggy evening, the dream air still oppressive around a waking mind. And this certainly wasn't any simple Fade construction, still within the structure of the dream, and absolutely fascinating for it. Cadryn had never heard of anything like it, let alone experienced it himself, and the scholar in him wanted to observe and catalog. And the dream was so very vivid! Surely it was from the lyrium, but such dreams were usually marked with haunting visions and strange, deluded imaginings. This was a secluded strip of fine white sand at the base of a high cliff, gentle waves spilling up towards them, a delicious breeze countering the supreme heat of the day. The only thing too strange to be real about the dream was how intensely blue the sky was, a perfect lyrium blue.

Of course, it was hard to take all this in with academic detachment with Zevran intimately familiarizing himself with the tattoo across Cadryn's shoulder with lips and tongue, in particular enamored of the part that seemed to twine around the very edge of his clavicle. “This is new,” Zevran muttered. “And it suits you. I approve.”

Since it was a dream he almost didn't respond, but Cadryn reasoned it couldn't possibly hurt to indulge. “Someone left me with a taste for ink,” drew a smile and a satisfied purr, Zevran's breath across his skin was warm compared to the cool sea breeze. He couldn't remember anything of the dream before this, and in fact seemed to remember a completely different dream, so he had no idea how they'd ended up naked in each other's arms on an Antivan beach—for some reason Cadryn was certain this was Antiva, in the way only dream logic could provide—and didn't much care. He simply relaxed into the soft haze of emotion here, running a hand through Zevran's unbound hair, knowing the assassin enjoyed the tingle of those fingertips running across his scalp (again, dream logic providing him this information) as Zevran worked his way down to the tattoo at Cadryn's hip, exploring that as well.

There was a certainty here, strange, almost an empathy, that Zevran did appreciate these little gestures, didn't find them foolish or embarrassing or weak, when Cadryn ran his fingers through the assassin's hair, or reached down and traced that tattoo across his cheek. “I've missed you,” Cadryn said, throat suddenly tight. “So much.” Zevran looked up at him, caught Cadryn's gaze with hooded eyes, shifted slightly so that he was running his mouth parallel to Cadryn's hardness, breath playing hot across sensitive flesh, and tracing a single finger up the opposite side, those hard hands using such a light touch it was hardly more than the breath or the breeze. At the apex of his motion Zevran paused, a hungry little flick of his tongue across his lips, but before he could lunge down to take Cadryn in mouth Cadryn gasped out, “Together. Please.”

A brief moment of rearrangement and caresses, pausing to exchange a kiss and Cadryn murmuring, “Even absent, you carry me through all this,” as they parted. It was a dream, of course, and dream-Zevran didn't need to understand what Cadryn referred to, but he looked appropriately confused for a moment, briefly concerned, before accepting the statement for what it was.

“I will return to you,” Zevran responded. “You must believe. And whatever 'this' is, I will see it pass.”

And then they were each laying on his side, faced with each other's need, and their height difference seemed less of an obstruction in this dream scenario. But Cadryn was beginning to doubt, because the dreamscape was too detailed to be anything less than a memory, and Zevran's actions and reactions were too perfect. He certainly had a strong impression of Zevran's appearance and personality, but had a hard time believing he'd captured the elf's unpredictability so well. Zevran often knew what Cadryn wanted before he'd realized it himself, and aside from that there were a scattering of new scars across his lover's skin, a long, thin one across his ribs and four punctures, relatively fresh, across the flat plane of his hip.

But Cadryn lost the thought, lost himself in the wet heat around him and the hard flesh in his mouth, and eventually decided that since this was a dream he would try, for once, to make Zevran come first, and since this was a dream he could take his well-gifted lover down to the hilt, unlike in the real world where this was always an affair of hands and pauses for breath and terribly unsexy on Cadryn's part (though Zevran always told him it felt marvelous, no matter what Cadryn thought of his own performance). So for once his hands were free to roam, to trace all the hard lines of his lover's sleek body, to linger in sensitive places. Many of these soft caresses he timed with flicks of the tongue or variations in movement, and Zevran seemed almost to forget what he was supposed to be doing.

And it would've worked, save Zevran was making the most amazing sounds around the fullness in his mouth, making it almost impossible not to simply thrust into the smaller man's mouth and finish himself right then. Cadryn did make a gentler motion, bringing that aching need to his lover's attention, and he felt Zevran's lips stretch in a smile, felt the soft laugh around him jolt down to his very core.

Later Cadryn wouldn't be able to recall which of them came first, because the sensation was too intense, but it happened in quick succession, one after the other. And they lay like that for a moment after, each with his head on the other's thigh, struggling to catch their breath in the heavy air, before before moving again to properly embrace each other, Zevran draping himself over Cadryn's chest and burying his face in the crook of the mage's neck.

“I love you.” Soft, in Antivan, because he never could say it in Fereldan.

Cadryn smiled, hands trailing down from Zevran's shoulders to unconsciously trace the tattoos across the assassin's back, patterns so familiar he sometimes found himself tracing them unconsciously on the nearest convenient surface. “You don't have to say things like that,” Cadryn told him. “I already know. And I know that it hurts.”

“I should be telling you every day we are together, and whispering it to the dawn every day we are apart. I think I will try that, when I wake. It will be a secret between us, the sun and I.” Zevran pushed himself up, looking down at Cadryn with a soft smirk. “This is a dream, certainly, a dream both of us would enjoy. You are a more confident lover, enough to daze even me, and the poetry that comes so naturally to you does not stick in my throat.” Zevran kissed him, just a light touch, their tongues only met for an instant. “I will miss this when I wake.”

Cadryn sat bolt upright in his bed in Vigil's Keep, staring wide-eyed into the dark, and the dry cold was terrible because he could still feel the Antivan heat on his skin, could still smell Zevran's musk and taste his release, though none of it had been real.

But it had, in a way. He didn't know how, and the prospect that they had somehow reached across the Fade to each other (though Cadryn got the distinct impression Zevran had called him, and by some instinct the mage had found his way to his lover's arms, taking his dream-self's place in a dream in progress) seemed at once utterly ludicrous and exciting. And clearly, it had been real enough--the evidence of that was spread across his tangled sheets.

He lay back, smiling, closing his eyes and imagining that heat and his lover's touch. That one moment would surely sustain him for some time—and the hope that it might happen again.

Original prompt: Zevran/M!Warden.

Neither are great at talking about their feelings [for each other]. They would rather use different words and leave it to the other to interpret and are better at showing it than...saying it.

OP would like to see a situation where they have to, for whatever reason, overcome that uneasiness and talk. Fluff and reluctance-to-talk-about-feelings and h/c maybe?

...and then I guess they could get past the awkward moment and skip right to the steamy bits. Yep.

---------------
Fort Drakon had been unkind to Neirin. They all knew the story by now: Loghain wanted a confession out of the de facto Warden Commander, that the battle at Ostagar had been planned to lead Cailan astray, and now they sought to undermine Fereldan sovereignty, inciting rebellion and raising an effectively foreign army right within their borders.

Their attempts to wring these lies from Neirin were written in his skin, in welts and burns, in his crushed right wrist and his dislocated shoulders, written over the evidence of his thorough trouncing at Cauthrien's hands, the cracked and broken ribs from her shield and the eye swollen shut, all manner of disconcerting colors in the bruising, the one Wynne still wasn't sure she could save. And that angered him, the thought of Neirin marked in a way they could not cover up and forget, so he pressed Wynne on how unacceptable it would be for Neirin to lose the eye, that she must try harder or find a better healer.

Worst, of course, was the mark written across Neirin's heart. They'd done nothing sexual to him, but the memories were already there, the pain and the helplessness. Any sleep that was no magic or drug induced was far from restful, a smattering of taint-fueled dreams and those where his life in the Tower was slowly merging with what had happened in Drakon, and from his deluded mutterings everyone knew Neirin's business, now.

And Zevran had rejected him. That was his chief concern, watching Neirin doze quietly in a drugged state, clean white bandages far from stark against his pale skin, small and frail amidst the human-sized bed at Eamon's estate--Neirin had finally propositioned him instead of the other way around, blushing and eager, had pleaded most convincingly for his touch. But Zevran had turned him away, and when Neirin questioned had snapped, pushed him away.

So now he sat at Neirin's bedside—they took it in shifts, so someone was always with him in case he woke or needed help—unable to tear his eyes away from the heavy bandage over one eye or the bandages peeking over the covers, the bruises on his shoulders so large he could see the very edges of them curling up around Neirin's neck, hideously dark for the mage's snow-pale skin. What if that had been the very last they knew of each other? If Neirin had died? He had been afraid, before, of being too attached, but now he was terrified by what could have been.

Towards the end of his shift watching Neirin roused, murmured sleepily, “Zevran?” He sounded surprised.

“Si, I am here.” Zevran sat a little further forward in his chair, leaning towards Neirin. “How do you feel this time?”

“You're here,” was all he managed, a soft whisper. “I thought I was dreaming. That I had dreamt you—that I was back in the Tower and all of this—you could still be a dream.”

With a gentle smile Zevran reached for Neirin's undamaged hand, took it up in his. “I assure you, I am quite real.” Though the smile came easy, such talk frightened him. The very last thing they needed, he needed, was a Warden unhinged.

“I know, I know.” Neirin looked away briefly. “A dream would not have turned me away.” Zevran could only stare dumbly, startled by the forward manner and the dry acceptance in Neirin's voice. When he heard no protests, Neirin looked back, met Zevran's gaze, and tried to explain. “What you've done for me is more than I thought I would ever have. I don't feel guilty any more, I don't hate that part of myself that lusts, don't feel like I need to bury it any more, and I'm grateful. You've made me whole. How could I not fall in love with you? I know you're used to a very different sort of lover, but you made those exceptions for me, and I... well, I took it too far, clearly, wanted too much. More than you can give. I know the part of you that loves is hurt as badly as I was, but I don't know how to help you, and I realize now it was presumptuous of me to assume--” the mage's voice hitched briefly, but he issue no tears, “--to assume that I could help you, that if I healed that wound you might love me back. I am sorry I can't help you, sorry I expected more, and you were right to turn me away.”

All this was too much, and he started, “Neirin, please--” uncertain of what he meant to say.

Neirin shushed him, smiling a little. “I've had a lot of time to think about this. It would please me if you stayed to see the Blight through, but you're free now, with Taliesen gone. I free you of any obligations to me, then, including those of the flesh, and if you wish to leave and seek your own way, I won't protest. That's your right. You've already been more help than any simple blade would have been.”

Overcome with a need to shut Neirin up Zevran leaned forward, laid a soft, chaste kiss against his lips, but Neirin turned away from it after no more than a brush, frowning. “You don't have to do that,” Neirin muttered. “I don't need your pity.”

Zevran settled down on the bed this time, close to Neirin, legs drawn up so he could turn on the bed and face the smaller elf, still clutching Neirin's undamaged hand. “I am no good at this, my dear Warden. At words. I only know how to speak with my body. I was confused, yes, when I turned you away, but I have had some time to think as well while you were gone and while you were sleeping. And what if you had died?” Shaking his head, Zevran looked away, unable to meet Neirin's impassive gaze. “I would have regretted those words that passed between us for the rest of my life. I realize now that I have been trying to say it to you all along, in the way I make love to you, and with the earring, but I am a fumbling idiot and you are so very dense in spite of your silver tongue.” Zevran looked back now, found Neirin's one good eye wide with shock. “I--You mean more--” Zevran swore, covering his face with his free hand, groaned in exasperation. “I cannot say it.”

“Please,” Neirin whispered, and when Zevran looked he was just as small and frail and weak as he seemed, trembling and wounded. “Please say it. I know it hurts you, but please.”

So Zevran leaned in, tangling his hands in Neirin's hair, kissed him softly on the lips, moved back down to his jaw, up his ear, because this gentle passion made it easier to whisper--in Antivan, of course, because it was still too hard in Fereldan--”You are everything to me, Neirin. A new beginning, life and death, the innocence neither of us ever had, and I--” He paused, nearly choked on the words, because a lifetime of being told it was wrong was still so hard to break. Zevran realized Neirin was silently weeping, for he'd understood the tone if not the words, and in a moment of exultant defiance Zevran managed, in Fereldan, “I love you. The scars will never leave us, but we have healed each other, made each other whole. How could we not love each other after all this?”

They kissed more deeply, and Zevran still tasted a faint hint of copper in Neirin's mouth, but pushed it to the back of his mind, focusing on the motions and the texture. Neirin still fumbled in this, but he was improving, and there was more emotion in this kiss than Zevran had ever known, a shared proclamation without words. Parting left Neirin breathless, and Zevran began kissing his way around to one of Neirin's ears, giving it gentle attention while Neirin gasped beneath him. One hand tangled in the mage's unbound hair, and the other traveled low, pushing the covers aside and trailing down his abdomen, skipping lightly over the bandages holding Neirin's chest together, across the smooth, taut skin of his stomach, dipping beneath the waist of his soft linen trousers to tangle in the curls down there, to fondle his half-hard need to something a little more urgent. He squeezed gently, stroked with just his fingers, kissed his way back down Neirin's ear to his neck, sucking at each familiar sensitive place until it reddened, teasing the darkened flesh with his tongue, and Neirin responded as expected, hardening in his hand with a soft moan, rubbing against Zevran's grip. But he fell back with an obvious wince, breath catching.

“Hurts,” Neirin whispered, voice husky. “I can't get enough breath, can't move around my ribs.”

“Another time, then?” Zevran asked, keeping the disappointment from his voice, only mirth. He was, after all, terribly pleased with this turn of events, even if Neirin couldn't engage in any celebratory activities, and drew back up to a sitting position. Neirin only nodded, trying to calm himself with shallow breaths, clearly still in some pain. “I still have the earring, you know. I want you to have it.”

“My ears aren't pierced,” Neirin said flatly. “And that sounds like a proposal.”

“Only if you wish it.” Zevran made no effort to contain his surprise and his hope at the suggestion.

“When I'm well,” Neirin said, “we'll have to pierce one ear. I think I'd like that, to wear your mark--we'll have to find something for you, though.”

“A tattoo, of course.” Zevran smiled impishly. “Your mark of choice on me. Across one ass cheek. A brand of ownership, of sorts.”

Neirin smiled, feigning a little disgust. “You only say that because it's the only place you haven't inked already.”

“Oh? There is somewhere more appropriate yet untouched.” At Neirin's open shock and revulsion, Zevran grinned widely. “It is not unheard of.”

“I think perhaps not,” Neirin said, settling into the pillows and soft bed. A contented smile broke over his face. “Maker's breath, Zev, you're perfect. I'm lucky--I love you. I hope you know that now.”

“Si, amore. I know.”

Original prompt: Unbelievably horny sex-deprived Zevran is tempted in Antiva during Awakenings; but he's faithful and wanks to m!Surana instead.
-----------------------

It had been surprising at first, to find allies in the Crows. Zevran had expected to be alone against the nation, his work grim and dirty—and that it was, lonely and hard work, but eased by the help. None of them knew how to be comrades, really, but they'd grown a strange sort of loyalty to each other, as men and women who are thrown together in desperation do.

This one was barely an adult, a young Crow whose Master had been Zevran's first target. The younger elf had followed him, thankful, looking for guidance and sympathy. Zevran refused to offer the latter, but the former—when the Crow had spilled his story, of being sold to the Crows after his loving parents were taken by plague and he was caught stealing--Zevran took him on as his first ally.

The Master had clearly used him for his youthful appearance, kept him hungry to keep him small, and had very specific tastes. The blacking washed out of his hair had revealed it to be a rather striking shade of red, very familiar, and his eyes were the wrong color, but it was close, so very close--

Zevran endured, and as they acquired more allies the younger Crow filled out and looked less a boy and more a man. But the younger Crow made no secret of his attraction, his desire for their “Master” (because that was what they became, the four of them, a Crow Cell with Zevran as Master). It finally came to a head after a painstaking month of information gathering as they stood in the Guild Leader's office, her still-warm body slumped across the desk, hand wrapped around a dagger in her aborted attempt at self-defense. Zevran's appearance had been too sudden, his strike too swift, and her allies already dead.

In giddy elation the younger Crow kissed him, and then they were against a wall, blood-slicked and sweat-soaked from what had amounted to butchers' work, each keeping a weapon in hand just in case, the other roaming free to touch and explore. For Zevran, more than anything it was that hair, how slender the other elf still was, and for a moment he could pretend it was his Warden, his dear mage. Nibbling his way up the younger Crow's ear to the delicate tip he could pretend, even if it wasn't quite the right shape, just a little too stunted—at least, until the younger Crow laughed. “I would never have pegged you for a soft touch.”

Zevran shoved him hard against the wall, and left him there confused and wanting.

~*~

Zevran almost didn't bother cleaning up that night. Things were more or less done, and for the first time since the drawn out bloodbath had begun he felt purposeless, unmoored, adrift—there seemed little point. Tomorrow he would decide what to do with the Crows, now that he was....

He opted for a luxurious bath to wash away the blood, rather than facing those thoughts in the dark. The Guild Leader's country villa was at least well appointed, and the servants understood who they worked for—slaves, Zevran surmised but he simply couldn't bring himself to care about their state amidst his own—so they scraped and bowed to the elf who was clearly their new master, at least for the time being. And they fled, terrified, to give him his peace.

The kill had been too clean to be satisfying beyond a smug assessment of his own skills, and now that he had slaked his blood lust on the Crows, what now? Once disrobed and in the bath he dunked his head before working at the blood in his hair, scrubbing and scratching so vigorously that his scalp began to tingle, and it mirrored the sudden violence of his thoughts. This made him leader, of a sorts. That meant responsibility. And change. He could mold the Crows to his own liking.

He worked quickly, and the blood dissipated, so the water was still quite warm when he finished, and with a sigh Zevran relaxed, letting the heat soak into his tense muscles. Leaning back, he closed his eyes.

The younger Crow was waiting for him there in the darkness behind his eyelids, pressed against the wall, writhing beneath him, warm mouth yielding to him, and that red hair twined in his fingers. But it wasn't the Crow, not really, but the Warden, and instead of that outburst laughing good naturedly and sighing contentedly when Zevran's lips found his ear.

That ache of earlier returned, and Zevran indulged, running a hand down slowly, teasingly, before taking himself in hand. If he went back, would the Warden welcome him? He had left with no warning, no explanation, and couldn't be certain the one letter he'd sent had arrived safely. A weakness, that—it could've been intercepted by Crows, and they might even had sent a detachment out to finish the contract on the Warden just to strike a blow at Zevran himself. Not that the Warden would be in danger from any Crow, but those around him could be, his new Grey Wardens and his Arling.

No, surely the Warden would welcome him back eagerly. He could imagine it now, the Warden's shocked expression shifting quickly to elation, rushing to embrace him—for the his little mage wasn't at all afraid of such displays—burying his face in Zevran's shoulder, maybe hiding a tear or two there while Zevran whispered his apologies and his promises to stay this time, reminded the Warden just what he meant to Zevran. That was what they had wanted after all, wasn't it? A new start, away from both the Circle and the Crows? They could have it now, perhaps trapped in Amaranthine, but different, together.

And that night, or perhaps sooner, with the road dust washed away, they would tumble into bed together, both eager to reacquaint themselves with each other's bodies—Zevran groaned, truly hard now at the thought of the Warden being too eager for any sweetness in that moment of physical reunion, to the idea of the Warden riding him instead, that tight heat around him, head tossed back and lips parted in a voiceless moan, pale body jerking to meet every thrust and needy cock bobbing with the motion.

Reaffirming his own grip, Zevran imagined reaching out for the Warden's neglected hardness, and began working his own as if it were the Warden's, and in this fantasy he imagined the Warden shifting his hips to improve Zevran's aim, finally voicing that moan in soft pants, sweat gleaming on his skin and a single bead, long in forming, finally rolling down the lines of his stomach. Maker, but the Warden was amazing, especially like this. These moments of abandon, when it may as well just be the two of them in existence, and this thrusting motion building momentum rolling on to a shattering climax--

In this fantasy, the Warden came beautifully, spending himself across Zevran's hand and stomach, clenching tight around him, driving himself all the way down, and the combination of sensations and sights was simply too much for Zevran, finishing himself in the Warden—finishing himself off in the cooling bath, those last vestiges of warmth in the water just enough to help with the illusion of being buried in the Warden.

And that settled it: back to Ferelden.

Original prompt: Zevran/Mage!PC awkward vanilla sex

PC was abused in the Tower (can be by either/both mages and Templars) and this is his/her first experience with sex that is remotely consensual/normal.
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The Warden was a maddening creature. Sleek, confident, with a presence that more than made up for his race and size and apparent frailty. No one seemed to notice his ears, or to truly look down on him as soon as he began speaking in his rich tenor. They saw only mage, and Grey Warden. He was commanding, handsome even in his delicate build, intelligent and quick-witted. And maddening, because nothing Zevran said or did could perturb him like the other companions. Neirin responded to every flirtation and barb with his own sharp tongue, always smiling.

And sympathetic. He asked all the right questions to work his way under Zevran's defenses, listened to every word with a soft smile and gentle understanding, never pity. Just once, Zevran wanted him to react in some other fashion, be openly disgusted or to laugh in Zevran's face at his weakness so that Neirin would seem normal by Zevran's standards, but it never happened.

Neirin sat with him on watches sometimes, and tonight was such a night. Their easy banter had fallen to a comfortable silence, Neirin staring into the fire with a faint, amused smile lingering from some joke or other Zevran could no longer really remember. Firelight made the sweeping tattoo across Neirin's face dance, gave his pale skin a little more color, turned his vivid blue eyes a strange shade and honeyed his light hair. Like this the Warden seemed more mortal, more approachable, and a little spark of lust tinged these strange emotions, made Zevran decide it was the right time.

Settling a hand on Neirin's shoulder, Zevran noted briefly the surprised flinch, but Neirin turned as he'd hoped. “Zev?”

Zevran didn't hesitate, leaning across the distance to kiss him, the hand on Neirin's shoulder sliding down to trace the fine muscles of his arm. When Neirin stiffened, uncertain, Zevran tightened his grip just a little, made this kiss more urgent, trying to more properly demonstrate his desire for the Warden. Neirin's lips parted to allow him entrance, so Zevran deepened the kiss, I will show you what you do to me, I must make you understand, must know if you feel the same--

But Neirin was suddenly fighting, pushing him away, and Zevran had to let go. Neirin stood abruptly, backing away, pale as fresh linen and shaking, eyes wide and lost. The mage tried to speak, mouth working around the words, but no sound came except, “You—I--”

And he bolted like a terrified halla, gone so quickly that Zevran wondered for an instant if he'd been there at all, sitting by the fire and trading witty little barbs and snatches of armchair philosophy all night.

The next day Neirin behaved normally, but Zevran was beginning to put together the pieces. Neirin was oh so careful about avoiding physical contact, even when injured, but subtle about it, so subtle even Zevran only noticed it in hindsight. Any serious discussion of physical intimacy shut him up almost immediately. And Zevran could not recall seeing the mage even partially nude, which struck him as very odd for so confident a man, and for their situation.

He didn't like the scenario this was forming one bit, so when he cornered the elder mage during their travels Zevran asked, “My dear Wynne, I have a question, if I may.”

Scowling down her nose at him, clearly expecting some trap, she said, “So long as it does not involve my bosom, I suppose I may attempt to answer.”

“Our Warden,” Zevran said, nodding to the elf, who was having some heated discussion with Morrigan at the head of their column, Alistair at his other side looking distinctly bored, “did he have many lovers in the Tower?”

“None that I am aware of,” Wynne said. “But he was always a quiet, bookish thing, painfully shy. I don't know where he found all this confidence, but it makes me happy to see him so full of life.”

Which told him very little, really, neither confirming nor denying his suspicions. And they were suspicions Zevran was loathe to test. So things continued as if nothing had happened at all, until Zevran made his proposition one night.

Neirin's smile slipped away when he asked, “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“If you are asking if it will go beyond a massage, well, let's just say you won't be disappointed with any of the techniques I've picked up over the years.” Zevran punctuated the line with a grin, realizing it wasn't his wittiest ever, but he felt it would serve best here.

“No.” Immediate, and Neirin seemed pale again, eyes dark. “This can't happen. Ever.”

For the next few days Neirin seemed a little more quarrelsome, and all their companions shot nasty glares at Zevran, making assumptions that he did nothing to discourage. But Zevran was frustrated with the other elf, confused, uncertain about what he should do or how he should behave now that he'd been rejected and Neirin seemed distant.

Oddly enough, it was Shale who broke the silence between them. “It seems the Painted Elf seeks the attentions of the Grey Warden.”

Unable to contain a grin, Zevran glanced at Neirin leading them, that heavy braid swaying as he walked, the staff across his back all but dwarfing the small man, and marveled for a moment at the contradiction he presented—larger than life, a walking myth, and a puzzle Zevran was determined to figure out. “Indeed he does,” Zevran quipped, smiling foolishly. The thought of Neirin did weird things to him, uncomfortable emotional things, but try as he might he couldn't contain it sometimes.

Some of the swagger came back into Neirin's step after that conversation, and everything fell back into place. Awkward at first, but soon they were spending their watches by the fire together again in easy company. Zevran didn't press the matter, though it was to thoughts of Neirin he satisfied himself in the lonely hours of the night.

After meeting Ignacio in Denerim, telling Neirin about Rinna was a risk he had to take. The man was already skittish in matters of intimacy, and if Taliesen should suddenly appear as Ignacio implied he might, the other Crow's very presence might ruin what little progress they had made. It was a small thing, a silly thing to care about, but Neirin didn't shirk from a simple hand on his forearm, or from careless touches, any more, and at least it was something. It was more than the mage allowed anyone else.

And Neirin listened to him in the firelight with his usual understanding, taking Zevran's story in quietly, only prompting or asking questions when it seemed necessary. At the end Neirin said, “Thank you for trusting me with this, Zevran.”

They sat in silence for a little while before Neirin spoke, facing the fire. “I suppose I owe you something in return.”

“You owe me nothing, my dear Grey Warden.”

“An explanation,” Neirin continued as if Zevran hadn't spoken at all. “I've been cruel to you, in a way. You should know... I do want you. You're the first person to elicit such a response in me. Ever. I had thought that part of my heart and body long dead, buried for my own safety. But here you are.”

“Neirin--”

The other elf silenced him by holding up one slender hand, then lowering it to grasp Zevran's near hand, twining their fingers together. Zevran had never realized quite how thin and fragile the bones seemed. Still, though, Neirin stared into the fire, refusing, unable to look at him. “I was caught reading some forbidden tomes by an older apprentice when I was about thirteen—I don't know my exact age, so I can't say for certain. She promised to keep silent if I served her around my lessons. So I did. At first it was simple things, doing research for her, chores, all the minutia someone about to become a full Circle Mage would find tedious. After her Harrowing, the tasks became more illicit, more dangerous... she was involved in lyrium trade with the Templars, one of the dealers for them, and had me conduct the more dangerous parts of the transactions. I didn't go to anyone because I was terrified of her—she manufactured some proof against me as a blood mage, and used it to keep me in her service. Of course, if I'd known any blood magic, I would've used it to free myself from her grasp.”

Neirin grew quiet for a moment, and his grip tightened almost painfully in Zevran's hand. But Zevran said nothing—he had suspicions about where this was going, and the look in Neirin's eyes told him for lost again.

“She started offering me for favors. I was young, but I looked younger, because I was so small. At first, just other mages, and it was bad, but it wasn't—it wasn't like the Templars. The mages, they just wanted someone smooth-skinned and young. The Templars wanted a mage to punish.” Neirin's voice grew quiet and dark, thick with emotion, and Zevran caught sight of a few tears glittering in the firelight. I have been somewhere similar, he wanted to say, but he didn't dare speak or move, afraid of startling Neirin. “I was more afraid of being labeled a blood mage, though. I was more afraid of losing my place in the Circle. I wasn't afraid of dying, but I was terrified of being thrown out, of going to Aeonar or being made Tranquil. My body wasn't my own, but at least my mind was, and at least I could still feel. Not that the thought of becoming Tranquil wasn't tempting at times. I almost went to Irving to beg for it once, but she made sure I couldn't get away. It stopped when I made friends with Jowan. She tried to get rid of him, but she couldn't shake him, and that meant someone was around to wonder where I was at night, someone who was close enough that I couldn't hide the injuries from them.”

Silence fell between them again, just the crackling fire and the night sounds and the pressure of Neirin's hand. When Neirin finally turned to look at Zevran, he was smiling through silent tears. “I've never told anyone, because I was ashamed. I've always thought, if I had been stronger, it would never have happened. That it was my fault, somehow. I know... I know that similar things must have happened to you in your life, and here you are, strong and more or less whole in spite of it. That gives me hope. Thank you, for listening.”

“Thank you,” Zevran said, giving Neirin's hand a little squeeze back, “for your trust. I understand why you would be hesitant, and I will ask no more of you than you are willing to give.”

“That's just it, Zevran. I'm tired of this. Of being afraid every time you touch me, of being unable to—to even--Maker, I can't even talk about it.” Neirin covered his face with his free hand, groaning out his frustration. “I can't even touch myself without seizing up. Do you know what that's like? Andraste's Ass, I'm a man, and men have urges, but it feels so wrong. I want you. I want you to help me.” The hand over his face fell to his lap.

Zevran let his voice slink a little deeper, let his words roll out seductive, “What do you desire of me?”

When Neirin shuddered this time, it didn't seem to be in fear or revulsion. “I want you to—to make love to me.” As he said it Neirin grimaced, as if the words were distasteful. “I know I'm not supposed to feel this way about it. I want you to show me why. Tonight. I can't take this any more.”

And now Zevran's mind was racing. He wasn't sure how to deal with someone so clearly damaged, not in bed, at least. No one had ever extended him any gentleness or concern in such matters, but certainly he had made love in a romantic sense to marks before. “Leliana should be taking over for us soon,” Zevran said. “Until then, would you permit me to hold you?”

Momentarily Neirin stiffened, almost pulling his hand away, before relaxing and hesitantly leaning into Zevran. Zevran disentangled their fingers and wrapped an arm around Neirin's shoulders, taking that near hand up again with his other and stroking the back of it soothingly. After a while of this Neirin sighed, relaxed further into him, even going so far as to bury his face in the crook of Zevran's neck, nuzzling him experimentally. The Warden's motions were still awkward and jerky, but it seemed more our of unfamiliarity than fear.

When Leliana came to relieve them Zevran had abandoned Neirin's hand to make the same sort of motions along one thigh, and Neirin had looped an arm around his lower back. He was growing more comfortable with simple touch, but Zevran doubted the elf could go all the way, so to speak, in one night. But they would certainly try.

Leliana's only comment was a soft smile, a knowing glance to Zevran—he trusted she'd be discrete about this, so as not to embarrass the Warden later. So Zevran led him away to the Warden's own tent, stopping briefly for a most necessary item. Neirin didn't question.

He didn't encourage Neirin to lay back, but instead had the man stay on his knees once in the tent, standing before him in a like stance, kissing and caressing softly. Neirin fumbled to return the touches, but that effort alone pleased Zevran. He had expected many things from the Warden, but not trust like this. It became harder and harder to ignore his growing regard for the Warden, knowing now that it was almost certainly reciprocated.

That made it easier to be sweet and gentle, things he wasn't used to. Of course, Neirin was a terrible kisser, and Zevran wondered briefly if he'd ever been kissed at all, but it didn't really matter all that much. Zevran was more interested in instilling enough desire in Neirin that he could maybe forget for a moment, to make him feel wanted. Laying a trail of kisses up Neirin's neck, pausing to murmur, “I have desired you since my first night with the group,” catching the lobe of the other elf's ear between his teeth and softly nibbling his way up, caused Neirin to gasp and push against him, shuddering violently, and then to make a little choking sound. Zevran pulled away to find silent tears again, Neirin's eyes wide with some unreadable emotion.

“Do you want me to stop?” Zevran asked, cupping Neirin's cheek with one hand and stroking away the tears with a thumb.

“No,” he stammered. “Zev. I—I don't want you to stop. I....” Pausing, he closed his eyes, took a shaky breath. “I want to be so full of you there's no room for anything else, if only for a little while. No responsibilities, no memories, no pain. Just you.”

So Zevran dove right back in, worshiping Neirin with hands and lips, slowly working the robes off of him, occasionally pausing to discard something of his own. Neirin tried to return the motions, until Zevran stilled his hands by covering them with his own. “This is about you, Neirin.” Saying the Warden's name felt strange, but somehow right. “There will be time for that later.”

By the time they were both divested of their clothing Neirin had no tears left, but he shook slightly, still unnerved by the contact but clearly wanting more by the flush to his pale skin and his lusty gasps, and his clear arousal. Fear sparked behind his eyes at Zevran's size, but Zevran redirected his gaze with a hand on Neirin's chin, forcing him to make eye contact. “I assure you, that is one weapon I am most skilled with.”

The jest earned a small, nervous smile, and Zevran urged him to lay back with gentle pressure on the elf's shoulders. Underneath those robes he was so pale, so slim, so finely boned, marked by a few small scars in discrete places—it would be easy for someone to hurt him. Zevran had no interest in tracing those scars or adding to them, though, felt no need to add to the marks left by previous men and women. This wasn't a claiming or a conquest, after all. So Zevran focused on the natural lines of Neirin's body, tracing down the light muscles of his chest and abdomen with fingertips, stroking his hardness briefly, and Neirin gasp harshly and arched up into his touch.

Zevran gave him a moment to recover, and asked, “Are you certain this is what you want?”

Closing his eyes and swallowing harshly, Neirin nodded. “Don't ask me again.”

Zevran moved away just long enough slick both hands with the oil retrieved from his tent, and one he wrapped around Neirin's erection, stroking him slowly, with no intention to bring the mage to climax yet, only to relax him. Still, when he touched Neirin's entrance with a slick finger, the smaller elf tensed, tried to pull away with a fearful noise, but Zevran shushed him, murmured soft encouragement. For a long while Zevran simply stroked, circling the ring of muscle there, gentle touches, until Neirin relaxed enough to allow a single finger.

Zevran kept going slowly, working up to a second before he went searching, trying to acquaint himself with Neirin's body, fond the spot he was looking for—and Neirin made the strangest face, a weird, strangled noise. “What--” Zevran pressed again, curling his fingers, and Neirin threw his head back, moaning. Once Neirin was properly stretched and clearly enjoying himself, Zevran laid a kiss against Neirin's lips, and this time the other man responded enthusiastically. Neirin made a little sound of discomfort as Zevran finally slid into him, but didn't draw away from the kiss, only shuddered a little.

They took it slow, Zevran giving Neirin time to adjust, and once Neirin nodded for him to continue Zevran sat a comfortable pace. He kept one hand working at Neirin's hardness, matching that pace, and leaned down to continue kissing and whispering soft encouragement. When Zevran adjusted his aim to strike at the spot, Neirin gasped in surprise, as if he hadn't expected it again, and wrapped his arms around Zevran, arching into him and eventually responding to his thrusts with a like motion. As he drew closer Neirin's soft pants and sighs became little moans, and he even wrapped his legs around Zevran. Zevran had to readjust for the change in position, but Neirin's enthusiasm encouraged him—he urged Neirin to sit up with him, such that Zevran was kneeling and Neirin straddling him. It gave the smaller elf a little more control, was a less submissive position.

After so long unsatisfied Neirin had little stamina, but he came beautifully, tossing his head back and sliding himself fully onto Zevran, spilling himself between them, crying out his orgasm in a sound so intensely sensual that the sound alone nearly undid Zevran. Zevran followed, emptying himself into the smaller elf as Neirin sagged against him, burying his face in Zevran's shoulder.

They remained like that for a while, Neirin clinging to him desperately, until Neirin's shoulders began to shake and he gave a quickly-stifled sob. “I had no idea,” he moaned into Zevran's shoulder. “No idea it was supposed to be like that. Maker. Thank you, Zev.”

Zevran curled around Neirin to lay a kiss in his hair. “Thank you, Neirin. You were everything I had hoped you would be, and more.”

Original 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.

Original prompt: I'm used to seeing M!Cousland portrayed as a rough and tough kind of guy (particularly when paired with Zevran). For once, I'd like to see a shier M!Cousland. Maybe when he first asks Zevran to sleep with him after the whole Taliesin fiasco. Or when Zevran offers him a massage.

Whatever it is, less mean Cousland and more dorky shy Cousland, please!
-----------------------------

Zevran flirted with everyone, so Aedan thought nothing of it when Zevran launched his first few barbs the Warden's way. In fact, Aedan responded in kind, taking great pleasure in getting to exercise at wordplay and innuendo. Their exchanges clearly surprised much of the group, frequently left Alistair blushing and stuttering, Sten doing his level best to ignore them, Wynne shaking her head in disapproval, and Leliana and Morrigan taking bets on who would win a particular verbal joust. They were used to Aedan being quiet and reserved, bordering on moody, used to him speaking simply.

Zevran reminded him of the joys of life. The assassin clearly had problems of his own, a multitude of past hurts that had shaped him into what he was today, but he seemed determined to live happily in spite of it. To Aedan, it seemed the true purpose of Zevran's existence was to spit in the face of fate, and this exotic stranger now in his company rekindled passions forgotten in the name of duty and regret. Aedan itched for a few moments in a good library, for a deep philosophical discussion, and for the touch of another.

But Zevran had made it rather clear, their flirting was nothing unusual—he made advances on everyone else, after all—and that while he had slept with men before, it seemed more business-like from what Aedan could gather, and he preferred women. So Aedan didn't take any of Zevran's advances seriously, but he still enjoyed the flirtations, found Zevran good company, so he indulged the humor in it. And Aedan felt guilty about satisfying himself to memories of stolen glimpses of Zevran's shamelessly nude form, but the Antivan was truly a work of art. Aedan had honestly never thought of an elf in such terms, and felt guilty for that as well, but he had only lain with one other, who was dead for some months now—pleasing as Dairren had been, it seemed wrong, somehow, to use his memory in such a fashion. So it was Zevran's hands and mouth against him that Aedan fantasized about, Zevran's name whispered with his climax.

Aedan typically took first watch, and it was honestly no surprise the first time he saw Zevran sneaking into Leliana's tent. Strangely enough, he wasn't all that disappointed, either, simply thoughtful on the topic. Their affairs were their own, and none of Aedan's business. His evening watches were spent doing mindless, distracting work, caring for armor or applying kaddis or whatever needed to be done, and he tried to think little about what might be going on in the tent across the fire.

“Ah. For once, I have not missed you. This is good.” Aedan startled, dropping the piece of his own platemail which he'd been oiling the straps on, and Zevran chuckled, sitting down next to him. “You have seemed so very weary of late, my dear Grey Warden. So much more withdrawn than I am used to, and I have begun to wonder where the Warden whose tongue is sharp as his sword has gone. And I have thought about this very carefully—all this fighting and walking is getting to you. Do you know what you need?”

“Soft beds and warm flesh are in short supply in the Brecilian Forest, it seems. So surely you have something else in mind.”

Zevran chuckled again, looking away a moment, mirth reaching his amber eyes, and Aedan felt the laugh running down his spine as much as he heard it. “My thought is this,” Zevran began, looking back to the warrior and smiling suggestively. “We retire to your tent, and I will show you the sort of massage skills one only learns growing up in an Antivan whorehouse.”

“You--what?” Aedan sputtered, and Zevran openly laughed at him.

“Nervous? That hardly fits the mighty Warden. Do not mistake me—I do not mean to belittle you, I am simply surprised!”

“What about Leliana?” Aedan finally managed. “Aren't the two of you involved?”

Laughing again, this time riotously, Zevran tried to speak between peals. “Oh, no, not at all! Leliana is lovely, yes, but neither of us is particularly interested in the other. No, you see, I lied about my skill with with locks, and she has been teaching me privately, so I do not make a fool of myself in front of everyone.”

That made a great deal of sense, and eased some of Aedan's concerns, but inspired entirely new ones. He was one night away from a virgin, and Zevran exceptionally experienced... for all his bluster, Aedan would come off as a fool, and to fail to live up to Zevran's high standards for sex would be an unthinkable embarrassment. “Zevran, I don't know about this....”

Another chuckle, and Zevran said, “What is there to fear, my Grey Warden? You deserve a little fun. However, if you're not of a mind, it is no matter.”

“No,” Aedan breathed, afraid to let go of the chance and afraid to take it. “I'm definitely of a mind. But....”

“But?” Zevran moved a little closer, such that they were almost touching, leaned in, face so temptingly close. “I will be blunt if I must, much as it pains me. I have desired you since my first night in camp, and moreso since, not simply for your body but for that sharp mind of yours. I have often wondered what sort of devious things must go on in there when no one is about to disturb you, what you whisper to the dark.” Zevran laid a hand on Aedan's thigh, smiling at the resulting twitch, the quickening of the Warden's breath. “I confess, I have thought of you, about what you must look like under all that padding and armor, if there are any more of those tattoos, about hearing you call out my name at the height of passion.” Still a little closer, and now Aedan could feel Zevran's breath against his neck, hot in the chill night air, and he wanted that lithe body writhing against him, gasping—but his mouth was too dry, his throat too tight to say as much, and he could only nod.

Zevran kissed him, caught his lips and teased them open with his wicked, marvelous tongue, seemed intent on making a physical interpretation of their frequent duels of wit. But here Aedan was inexperienced, far from his equal, and aside from a fumbling attempt to return that passion he had no idea what to do. Drawing away, Zevran shot him a look of longing from half-lidded eyes, but Aedan caught a flash of confusion there, too. “When your watch is over, I will be in your tent,” the elf said. “And we will finish this.”

The next hour passed in anxiety, nerves overriding his lust. Competence Aedan could claim truthfully or fake in most anything, as his education had been rather broad, but this... he couldn't possibly fool Zevran into thinking he'd had any experience to speak of in matters of the flesh. What was it the Antivan had said? ”My only requirement is that it be done well.” Aedan couldn't help but think the elf would be in for a night of disappointment.

When Alistair relieved him for the second watch Aedan only managed a nod in greeting, still uncertain of finding his voice. Zevran was waiting as promised, stripped to his breeks and kneeling aside the bedroll, golden skin luminous in the light of a single lamp sitting to one side of the tent. Fleeting glimpses were all Aedan had seen, too shamed to openly stare, but the Antivan was every bit as glorious as those glances had led him to believe. Zevran had his share of scars, as expected from someone who had lived as he had, but otherwise his skin was smooth, stretched over taut muscle that promised strength in his touch, his posture easy and almost feline speaking of confidence. For all his flirtations and strange affectations, very little about the elf was at all feminine when unmasked like this.

Zevran was rubbing his hands together as if warming something between them, which made his position almost seem to be one of supplication. “Strip for me,” he purred, and Aedan obeyed, trying to keep his motions smooth, but he knew his nerves had to show through in the slight wavering of his hands. With Aedan finally nude before him Zevran glanced over his body with an appraising, hungry look, a little smile turning the corners of his lips, an expression that stirred heat in Aedan's loins in spite of his nerves. “Lie down,” he ordered. “On your stomach.”

Aedan did as he was told, turning his head to one side to rest his cheek against the crook of his arm, and once he heard Zevran move he felt terribly exposed, his nakedness catching up to him. When Zevran sat astraddle the backs of his thighs Aedan tensed, so when Zevran leaned forward and began working his hands against the muscles of Aedan's shoulders, the elf made a tutting noise. “It is very good that we agreed to start with this,” Zevran said, the promise of laughter audible under his voice. “I think, were I to touch you in a more intimate fashion right now, you might simply snap, like a bowstring drawn too tight.”

After some time Aedan found he could relax into Zevran's touch, the ache and relief of Zevran's work lulling him into complacency, Zevran's manner at once sensual and business-like. Under lessening tension he could appreciate the feeling of Zevran, still in his leather breeks, pressed firmly against Aedan's buttocks in leaning over to massage his back. One spot in particular earned an appreciative moan, and Aedan felt him twitch in response, felt him hardening through the leather, and wasn't at all sure how to feel about being so openly desired.

When Zevran moved away Aedan made a soft noise, high in his throat, reflexive disappointment, because that pressure and desire was arousing like nothing else. Chuckling, with a breathy, “Patience,” Zevran started worked at knots and aches Aedan hadn't been aware of, hands moving deftly and strongly across his legs. By the time Zevran was done Aedan felt weak and boneless, but deliciously so. Fingers worked up the insides of his thighs, finding sensitive flesh Aedan wasn't necessarily aware of possessing, stroking, coming so very near but never quite touching.... Aedan moaned again at the teasing, and Zevran laughed, a deep and sensuous sound.

“There is yet more I could do,” Zevran said, “but it seems you might not abide much more.” Aedan could only nod, surprisingly breathless, and Zevran leaned forward, stretching up across his back to lay a line of kisses down his neck, along his spine, taking advantage of the sensitive flesh there by sucking and licking. Aedan shuddered beneath him, and then Zevran was nudging at one shoulder, encouraging him to roll—Aedan obeyed, as he had in everything else so far.

Watching Zevran shuck himself out of the breeks, leather peeling away like a second skin, like the rind of an especially tempting fruit, fully revealing himself, had two effects. Firstly, Aedan wanted him, missed that hard and sleek body pressed against him, those deft hands over his flesh. Secondly, Aedan thought, this is really happening, and even as he propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look he tensed, trying not to tremble. It felt like fantasy bleeding into reality, like a very vivid dream, and for a moment Aedan hoped it might be, if only so he wouldn't make an idiot of himself.

Zevran returned, kneeling, insinuating a knee between Aedan's thighs and leaning down to kiss him as he straddled Aedan's right thigh, and Aedan felt that slender, long hardness brush against him, his own growing heat and hardness becoming almost unbearable. He wanted Zevran, but had no idea how to go about it. When Zevran drew back, running the tips of his fingers through Aedan's short, coarse hair in a reassuring gesture, smiling softly, he asked, “My dear Warden, are you--”

“No,” Aedan said, before the word could escape his lips. “But I may as well be.”

With a little nod, still smiling, Zevran said, “Then we will stick to the familiar. Kneel with me.” So Aedan sat up, moving to sit on his heels as Zevran did the same. The resulting position had each straddling the other's right thigh, tender flesh pressed against tight, corded muscle. Overreaching himself to the left, Zevran rummaged around for the oil he'd used in his massage, and gave a little, “Ah-hah!” at his own success. When each of them had just enough on his right hand, Zevran tossed the vial aside, then instructed, “Do as I do.”

Those words took a good deal of the fear out of him, knowing that Zevran was comfortable with leading, with teaching—and if Aedan was good at anything, it was learning. Any further hesitance fled when Zevran's hand flexed around him, and Aedan groaned out his relief, earning a smile and a little nip at his neck from Zevran, reminding him to return the favor.

Feeling Zevran's hardness under his own hand was just as stimulating as Zevran's work, and while the elf wasn't particularly vocal he gave other cues, little twitches of his hips and a fluttering of his eyelids, involuntary changes in grip or pace, because Aedan was mirroring his ministrations perfectly. This must be how he satisfies himself, was possibly the most erotic thought of all, that this was a strange sort of shared voyeurism.

Aedan couldn't resist reaching around with his other hand to trace the hard muscles of Zevran's back, pulling him subtly closer, and Zevran returned the gesture, running his off hand down the warrior's spine in a feathery touch, then kneading insistently at the muscles of his flank. With a little gasp Aedan thrust forward, this touch spurring him on, until eventually they were standing on their knees and locked in an embrace, sexes pinned against one another but continuing to work at each other with their hands, and Aedan finally had that perfect, sleek body writhing against him, little breathless gasps in his ear, everything he had wanted and somehow more--he stifled the sounds of his release by leaning forward to nip at Zevran's ear, which drew a sharp, surprised sound from the elf, who buried his face in Aedan's shoulder and followed him into climax.

Aedan reveled in the feeling of Zevran's body pressed close, in the slickness of their shared release trapped between them, and groaned in pleasure, little residual shudders passing over him, at the thought of what that must look like, each of them covered in the other's seed. Of course, Zevran recovered himself first and drew away, so Aedan got a glimpse of it--Maker, that would drive him mad if he weren't already spent.

“We will try something different next time, yes?”

“Next time?” Still caught in the afterglow, Aedan couldn't school his surprise.

“Of course,” Zevran chuckled. “If you wish it. Why would I turn away such an eager and quick student?”

Oh, Maker. But Aedan could only grin dumbly, and nod. Next time.

Original prompt: This anon was a bit shocked to only find one Taliesin prompt in the archive, and none with Zevran!

Would like to see H/C of some sort with these two, back in the day in Antiva -- one of them gets injured, somehow or other, and the other offers their own brand of comfort or distraction. Bonus if the injured party is unwilling at first but soon changes his mind.

This anon would prefer no Rinna and her associated angst.
---------------------------

Two things came to Zevran's attention when he woke.

Firstly, this room was unfamiliar. This wasn't a room at a seedy inn or the cramped quarters he shared with Taliesen back in Antiva City. It felt clean, the air still but fresh, light filtering in through small glass windows with little white curtains high on the whitewashed walls, making the room bright, but it was delightfully cool even bathed in sunlight. He lay in a soft bed, blankets carefully pulled around him but not tucked tightly, and wanted to relax back into it, closing his eyes. This was strange, entirely novel, but he liked it.

Secondly, he'd been drugged. Everything seemed hazy over a dull, distant ache, his head full of stuffing and his thoughts flowing slow like cold honey. Dulled senses strained to pick up on presences in the room, on scents and sounds in his surroundings, and Zevran started to panic. The last thing he remembered was engaging a pair of guards at the top of a set of sweeping marble stairs in their mark's country villa after the deed was done, as they'd been unable to exit by their alternate routes. He'd killed the mage present, but in doing so activated a glyph of paralysis, and dimly remembered a great brute of a man hauling him up by his hair and throwing him down the stairs.

Of course, this didn't explain his current situation at all. Those remaining guards would've killed him, unless—Zevran shuddered. He had no qualms about using sex to get close to a target, but there were things he'd thought he'd never have to endure again when Taliesen hauled him out of the pool of apprentices a couple of years early. After all, he was attractive, barely marked, and he looked young, still. They both belonged to a Crow Master, and were theoretically his possessions, but as a team had some autonomy, some say in how they did a mission and who could take what privileges. Such a prospect wasn't a happy thought, but one Zevran had to entertain, so Zevran tried to sit in order to get a better view of his surroundings.

Gritting his teeth against the screaming pain in his chest Zevran managed to get one elbow under himself, but the other arm was bound to his chest, immobile. Blankets slid just enough to let him glimpse his own battered flesh, horrible blooms of color peeking around the edges of clean, soft bandages like a brutal tattoo. Every muscle in his back protested the movement, too, so stiff he didn't think he could sit up any further regardless of his tolerance to pain. When the door opened Zevran jerked his head to face his captor, expression carefully neutral.

Taliesen simply smiled, reading the expression for what it was, and shut the door behind him. The human came to stand, hips canted, arms crossed, at the bedside, Zevran craning his head back to look up at the taller man. Strangely, there was some sincerity to his smile, not just the sarcasm Zevran was so accustomed to. “And so the sleeping damsel awakens, no need for fairytale magic.”

With a grimace more at Taliesen's implications than any physical discomfort, Zevran asked, “Where are we?” voice almost failing him.

“This is a farmstead on the outside of town,” Taliesen explained. “I could get you no farther. We're safe here, though; we've been here two days now, and no one has been so much as curious.”

Satisfied with the assessment of their safety, Zevran laid back, the bed linens now blessedly cool against his skin. “Why should that be? That no one is curious over two strangers, one injured, when their local lord has died?”

“The farm's owners are convinced we're mercenaries of some sort, not Crows,” he said. “Crows don't look after their own, after all.”

So Zevran's injuries had been fortuitous, in a way—darkly amusing, and he smiled as much as he could through the lingering pain under the drugged haze. Whatever he'd been dosed with was fading, but powerful. “Two days?” he asked.

Nodding, Taliesen said, “Two days. I was starting to wonder if I would be in the market for a new partner. That was a nasty hit you took, apparently. It could've used a healer, but we've no money for one here, and I couldn't get you back to Antiva City like this. We're lucky you didn't break your neck, going down the stairs like that.”

Concern in Taliesen's voice was unusual, made Zevran shudder as if under a chill wind. The human moved off out of his restricted range of vision for a moment, returned with a roughly thrown ceramic cup, helped Zevran to sit up a little more properly and to drink. He honestly wasn't aware of his thirst until the offer was made, and both hated and appreciated Taliesen for enforcing moderation. In sitting up, though, other pressing concerns came to Zevran's attention, and Taliesen helped with that, too, no more than an amused, faintly sarcastic smile on his face. Being so weak shamed Zevran, but by the time all this was done he was too tired and achy to care.

“You were at the door,” Zevran muttered once back in bed, fighting against returning sleep. “Why did you come back for me?”

Taliesen sat down on the edge of the bed, still smiling, laughed quietly. “Don't get the wrong idea. We make a good team, and I don't fancy the idea of running solo again.”

With a little scoff Zevran rolled his head away to stare up at the ceiling. “Surely you could find some other pretty little elven boy to rescue from the apprentice's stockyard.”

“But I would have to train him,” Taliesen said, “and wait for him to be mature enough to understand all the nuances of what we do. And he'd probably blubber, too, instead of being mouthy and fighting back. I'll never admit to saying this, but sometimes I am wrong. Have you met another apprentice who has the balls to tell his betters they're wrong?”

Rolling his eyes, Zevran scoffed. “You are far from my better.”

Taliesen reached over to grip Zevran's undamaged shoulder, and Zevran winced anyway because hardly an inch of him wasn't sore or stiff or bruised. “You see?” Taliesen's voice was uncharacteristically light, though he pointedly ignored Zevran's wince. “They wouldn't be you, and it wouldn't be the same. It's you or nothing as far as I'm concerned, Zev.”

~*~

Two more days, and this farm was turning out to be a strange sort of paradise. Zevran made it out into the orchard with Taliesen's help, because the little cellar room was quaint and cool and stifling. The heat of an Antivan afternoon was twice as terrible, but a welcome change, even with angry clouds boiling off the distant coast and the air heavy with a promise of rain. They had some time before they absolutely had to report back, and Taliesen seemed intent on using every spare moment to allow for Zevran's recovery.

Zevran understood, and was quietly thankful. An assassin so injured he couldn't work was a dead assassin. If he returned in such a shape, their Master might simply be done with him, or demote him, and Zevran would fight to his last breath before he returned to the way things had been before Taliesen. After struggling to be free of that abyss, he would not be pulled down again.

Such concerns seemed strangely distant, sitting in the shade of an ancient fig tree, breathing in the scent of wood and fruit and listening to the drone of insects, feeling the unforgiving sun softened to a lover's caress by the leaves overhead. A breeze would be welcome, but Zevran really couldn't complain when every other aspect of his surroundings seemed drawn directly from some florid prose.

Life with the Dalish had not been what he expected. He'd had low expectations for rural life in general, more so after his failed attempt to flee the Crows. This farm was orderly, as tidy as any of the streets in the nicer parts of Antiva city, the well water sweet enough that it didn't need to be cut with wine, all of the food absolutely fresh. Surely he wouldn't wish such a life, because the work wouldn't suit him, but he could stand to bask in it for a few days. It was strange and new, and not what he had expected, a pleasant surprise.

And Taliesen was not behaving as expected, something Zevran could hardly trust. Now, for example, the man was returning from some distant part of the orchard with a handful of the first of the year's main crop, settled down next to him and offered a few. They were just ripe, not perfectly so, probably missed by workers eager to get away to their break for the hottest part of the day. All of this being in the moment satisfied a need Zevran wasn't aware of having until now.

For a while they sat in silence, eating figs, Zevran trying to figure out what Taliesen was on about with all this soft touch behavior. So he asked again, cloaking his dismay in dark humor. “I wonder how long it will be before you decide you should have left me, how long before the pastoral life begins to grate on you, my friend.”

“Quite a while,” Taliesen said, glancing over at him. “I told you—it's you or no one, and I don't want to work alone again.”

“But this,” Zevran gestured with his good hand, taking in the orchard and their circumstances with a simple flex of his fingers and an open palm, “this doesn't bore you? This isn't holding you back? The time we were stalking that nobleman's son, and one of his men knocked me into a daze before we could kill him, you were so livid with me--”

“That's different,” Taliesen said, tone growing a little darker, eyes narrowing. “That was just an injury, and not one that should've hampered you. This time I almost lost you.” For a brief moment they fell to silence again, Zevran pointedly looking down at a particularly interesting bruise on his stomach, all to aware of Taliesen's eyes on him. He didn't like this, at all, because Taliesen was trying to imply that they were more than two men who murdered together, more like brothers—whatever that meant, because Zevran had no idea. This had to be a game, in his mind, because the only people who'd tried to get close to him after leaving the whorehouse had done so to use or hurt him in some brutal fashion. Taliesen was closer than he let most people come, but only by necessity, out of a thin sort of gratitude for pulling Zevran out of the life he'd been living as an undedicated apprentice.

A strong hand on his bare shoulder, “Zevran?” He finally looked up, to see Taliesen smirking. “Don't mistake what I'm saying. The time it would take to bring someone else to your level would be an even greater drain on my time. And they likely wouldn't have your aptitudes or your quirks—they make you easier to work with. I appreciate having you around.” Taliesen drew close, so close that Zevran couldn't ignore him any more, hot breath against his cheek, “I could show you how much I appreciate having you around.”

Scowling, Zevran pushed at Taliesen with his good arm. They played this game from time to time, and Zevran was in no shape to fight back, in no shape for Taliesen's often brutal lust. But the strange behavior made sense now, the soft touch—at least Taliesen understood he was fragile, physically, right now. But Taliesen only laughed, darted inside his guard, laid a hard, claiming kiss against Zevran's neck, surprisingly careful of the tender bruises as one hand trailed down to grip him through soft linen trousers. Zevran hissed, glaring down at him, “Taliesen,” put his good hand against Taliesen's head to push the man away.

Laughing, Taliesen ducked, squeezed him, pinned Zevran's good hand at the wrist with his free hand. Taliesen leaned in again, breathed against his ear, “Submit. Don't fight it, for once.”

Zevran struggled anyway, but Taliesen was larger, stronger, hale, so Taliesen laughed at him, dodged bruises to tease with his lips, refusing to let Zevran twitch away from any touch. In refusing to relent Taliesen eventually won out, Zevran stilling under his touch but refusing to relax. Taliesen was able to let go of Zevran's wrist, tugged the soft trousers and underthings down, finished teasing the elf to hardness. When Zevran hissed his name again, Taliesen glanced up, flashing a grin, before taking Zevran into his mouth, almost to the hilt in one smooth motion.

With that wet heat around him Zevran could hardly get a breath of warm, humid air, gasping breathless curses against Taliesen and his insatiable appetites and his wicked tongue, good hand digging into the grass at his side. The human smiled up at him with his eyes, never stopping in his slowly accelerating pace. Taliesen's fingers sought out all those places on hips and thighs left unblemished by the fall, dragging his calloused fingers up the inside of Zevran's thighs in particular, before he pinned the elf's hips in a hard grip with one hand to prevent any thrusting and cupped him with the other, stroking and fondling.

Finally, Taliesen took him all the way in, nose pressing into the soft blond curls at the base of Zevran's shaft. Zevran couldn't help but bring his good hand up to grip the man's head, taking as near a handful of the short, coarse hair as he could to exert some pressure and encourage this pace. At this Taliesen seemed just as enthused, just as eager for Zevran's release, and obeyed instead of playing with him as Zevran would've expected. He came with a strangled curse into Taliesen's mouth, tensing muscles and the involuntary motion of his hips painful, but that release worth it.

Taliesen, of course, swallowed every bit down, save what was left on his tongue when he removed himself and shifted up to kiss Zevran. Zevran understood this, too: if Taliesen didn't take his pleasure in some way immediately, it would be the thought of sharing this taste that he worked himself to later. So there was no affection in the kiss, only hard lust, exactly what Zevran was used to.

Still smirking when they parted, Taliesen asked, “Better?”

“I think I will require a few more such sessions before I am fully recovered,” Zevran quipped. “But it is a start.”

Original prompt: The Warden is always in charge, always in control, and always giving orders. And s/he just wants (or is convinced), for one night, to give that up and let his/her lover take command... in bed of course! Zevran should be ordering the Warden to do things, but nothing humiliating/embarrassing. How much you play up the dom/sub aspect is up to you. Bonus points if the Warden is not too keen on the idea at first but really gets into it after being convinced to try it.

Warden choice is up to the filler, but anon has a preference for M!Mahariel and Amell of either gender. Also, no dwarves or Cousland please.
-------------------------------
At any other time, Zevran slipping into his study and sneaking up to trail a line of kisses down the back of Cadryn's neck would be welcome, the elf draping his arms over Cadryn's shoulders to caress through the fine fabric of his robes, warm breath on his ear, “Time for a break, my dear Warden,” a teasing nip at the top of his ear.

At any other time. His seneschal had come down with some awful illness not a week prior, and so all the work of maintaining Amaranthine fell to Cadryn once again. He reached up with one hand to cup Zevran's cheek, but didn't look away from the ledgers he was comparing. “Not now,” Cadryn muttered. “I'll be lucky to get this done in time to sleep tonight.”

But Zevran wasn't satisfied with that answer, leaned forward to nuzzle his cheek and traced the very edge of one half of his tattoos. “Must it be done now?”

“No.” Sighing in exasperation, Cadryn drew away, shaking off Zevran's embrace with a little less care than intended. “But I'm meeting with some of the Banns tomorrow and having it done would be useful. Being able to offer financial figures for how much it costs to maintain the Wardens versus the--” Zevran kissed him, or tried to, fingers trailing up his chin and tongue seeking entrance, but Cadryn wouldn't have any of it, jerking away again and pushing Zevran back with a hand on his chest. “Are you listening? I don't have time for this.”

Zevran withdrew, and so Cadryn went back to his work, assuming the not-quite-argument over, at least until Zevran stopped directly opposite the desk from him, arms akimbo, hips canted in a very haughty but alluring posture. “My friend,” he began, head tilted forward ever so slightly, amber eyes deathly serious, maybe even a little angry. “I think perhaps in all your time alone you have forgotten a valuable lesson learned during the Blight.” Cadryn only glanced up to take in Zevran's posture, his expression, and while it always upset him to see Zevran angry he was somehow even more attractive, a smoldering fire, a snake about to strike, handsome in a terrifying way, and it stirred more than a little lust in the mage.

Focus, and Cadryn went back to his work, but Zevran would have none of it, starting at one end of the desk and sweeping everything off it in one swift motion. Of course, Cadryn bolted to his feet, drawing to his full height to look down on the elf, shouted, “Andraste's ass, Zevran! What was that? Do I pick the locks on your doors and sneak into your rooms and wreck your poisons lab when you don't immediately go bottoms-up for a hard fucking?”

Before Cadryn even registered that Zevran was moving, the Antivan had a fistful of his robes, jerked him forward so forcefully that Cadryn's thighs banged hard against the edge of the desk, kissed him. In his surprise Cadryn responded, too shocked to do much more than gape at Zevran's behavior. Zevran somehow got enough leverage to drag him down onto the desk, twisting as they fell, and when Zevran swung a leg over to straddle him Cadryn started fighting back again, bucking to throw Zevran off.

Laughing, Zevran drew away. “You see? I know what's good for you. You should listen to me more often.”

“Zevran,” Cadryn snarled. “I don't want to hurt you. But--”

Leaning in again, Zevran fisted a hand in Cadryn's hair, jerked his head down so it banged against the desk just hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to bruise. “Do you remember the night in Eamon's estate when I tied you down?” Zevran kept perfect eye contact, pinning Cadryn with his intensity as much as with his body. “How you begged for me to stop, to keep going, to do anything? How I had my way with you?” Cadryn shuddered beneath him, eyes drifting closed for an instant, so Zevran applied just a little pressure with his hips, just a taste, a promise. “I think perhaps you have forgotten what I can do to you, do for you.”

Mouth suddenly dry, Cadryn tried to speak, for a moment couldn't find his voice, but eventually managed, “When you put it that way, I suppose--”

A dark chuckle cut him off. “You suppose?” Zevran straightened, sitting up properly, but it shifted his weight against Cadryn's growing hardness and the mage just managed to bite back a groan. “You rebuffed me so firmly earlier, mi amore, I think perhaps I will require some demonstration of your desire.”

“Please,” Cadryn groaned, rolling his head to the side. “Don't play--”

A single finger to his lips silenced Cadryn, and the other hand brought his gaze back up. “You were about to say something foolish, my dear Warden. But that was a good start. Shall we begin again?”

“Please.”

“Good,” Zevran said, face schooled in careful thought but mirth betrayed by his eyes. “That is a good start, again. But please what? What is it your are begging for?”

“I want you.”

Shaking his head, Zevran tsked. “While I am certain I know what you mean, there is still some doubt. Could you perhaps spell it out for me?”

Cadryn made a noise of frustration, one that reverberated in his chest, so strong that Zevran even felt it where he straddled the mage's hips. “Fuck me.”

“Hm, that sounded like an order. And is just a little too to the point, I think. No, I need some more sincere demonstration, I believe.”

Finally, Cadryn sighed in exasperation, relaxed against the desk. “What do you want me to do?”

Gesturing down to the lacing on his leathers, Zevran said, “Firstly, this will have to go.” So Cadryn dutifully unlaced them, laying careless caresses as he did so. He peeled everything back and down just far enough to expose Zevran, to pull him out half-hard, wrapped one hand around the shaft. “Now, what was it you said to me in the hall a few days ago, when you were so eager to have me in your mouth? Ah, I believe it was, 'I'm Arl, I'll do what I please.' Well, Arl, it would please me to see a repeat performance.”

Zevran moved up until he was straddling Cadryn's chest just beneath the shoulders, and Cadryn reached around to work his off hand under the back of Zevran's shirt, to urge the elf forward. It was a slightly awkward position, Cadryn craning his neck up to bring first just the head to his mouth, laying sucking kisses and teasing licks in the most sensitive places. Zevran offered some support by digging his fingers into Cadryn's hair, grabbing a handful around back and applying a gentle pressure. “You should not have cut this.” Zevran ran his other hand through auburn hair, a tender gesture. “It looks good, but I can't get a sure hold.”

Cadryn glanced up at him, but said nothing, instead finally taking Zevran into his mouth, removing his hand from Zevran's shaft to grip the Antivan's left hip, pulling him a little closer still, until Zevran had to hunch over and plant his free hand against the desk. Awkward as the position was, it was good, somehow more intimate. This wasn't about controlling Cadryn, after all, not about domination or power play, but seeing him willingly surrender, setting aside his self control for a moment. It was the trust implied in the act, something Zevran had never hoped to gain after his assassination attempt and during his awkward face-first tumble into love with this man. That, and having Cadryn so senseless that he didn't know which way was up, just that he wanted more, those were the goals.

Cadryn took him in as far as possible with the awkward angle, still teasing with his tongue as he went, and with an appreciative moan Zevran said, “This is one thing you have not forgotten, at least.”

Zevran felt the amused hum in response all along his length, and Cadryn began to work him in earnest. The human was a little too eager, though, and Zevran feared he might not last long, all this build up leaving him as ready as Cadryn clearly was. Zevran drew away just as Cadryn reached the peak of his momentum, leaving a trail of moisture across the Warden's lips. “Zev?” He looked confused, perhaps even a little hurt.

Carefully, Zevran dismounted the table, keeping himself firmly in hand, and said, “Off with your robes.”

Much as Zevran wanted to unlace them himself, watching Cadryn do it while under the strain of anticipation, skin flushed and eyes locked on where Zevran had himself firmly in hand was somehow more tantilizing. For Cadryn it was that sensation of being a spectacle again, of being enough in sight alone to stir Zevran's desire, and he was shrugging out of his robes in short order, leaving them draped across the desk. Hands went to his smallclothes, but didn't remove them until Zevran nodded his assent.

“Touch yourself,” Zevran ordered, and Cadryn complied, keeping his eyes on Zevran the entire time, strong fingers wrapping around his girth and starting in on long, slow strokes, making a show of the motion and skin gliding across skin. This he had missed, the sight of Cadryn in such a state, and now that he had it again he didn't think he could ever drink in enough, all these little physical cues of their mutual desire and affection. “Harder.” A little twitch from Cadryn as he obeyed, and Zevran wasn't sure if it was the command or hearing the loss of control in Zevran's voice, that it was turning husky.

Approaching again, Zevran kissed the mage, let his hands wander, even briefly putting a hand over Cadryn's as he worked himself, controlling the pace and grip a little more directly. When Cadryn reached out with his free hand to touch Zevran in kind, the elf stopped him, muttered, “Not yet,” against Cadryn's skin.

Zevran got the mage uncomfortably close to release, then pulled Cadryn's hands away, out to the sides, gripped at the wrists. “Zev,” he begged, pleading just as emphatically with his eyes. Zevran just kissed him softly on one cheek, barely missing the bottom curl of the man's tattoos.

“Wait for me,” Zevran whispered, and then left Cadryn lying there for a moment, the man whimpering involuntarily at the loss of contact and even thrusting up a little, hands clenching to keep from reaching out for a caress of flesh.

Zevran shucked off his shirt on the way out of Cadryn's study, every motion calculated to tantilize, as he could feel the man's eyes on him, hungry and wanting. There was only one other room of consequence in the Warden's apartments: his bedroom. And Zevran found what he sought with ease, the little bottle of oil easily accessible (the Warden had learned his lesson early on). Zevran found a stray sash from a set of mage's robes as well, and on a whim took it, carefully folding it as he went.

Cadryn was laying exactly as Zevran had left him, arms outstretched and fists clenched, body just drawing back from the edge, but now his eyes were tightly shut—likely trying to not touch himself in Zevran's absence. So Zevran started in kissing him gently, touching him insistently again, and Cadryn moaned into his mouth, which was a sure sign the man was ready.

Pulling him up into a sitting position, Zevran set about slowly shuffling them around until they were both standing, Cadryn leaning against the desk while Zevran continued his slow attentions, using them as a distraction as he tied the man's wrists together with the folded sash. When the elf ran his lips along a heavy collarbone, Cadryn gasped, “Please,” voice almost pained.

Zevran jerked on the sash like a leash, finally drawing Cadryn's attention to it, then moved nimbly across the desk, giving just enough slack so Cadryn could follow his command of, “Down,” before the leash pulled truly taught. Zevran ducked briefly to tie off the free end underneath the desk, tethering him in place.

“Zev?” Always with that worried tone in his voice when something like this happened, always making Zevran doubt for a moment.

“Amore,” Zevran murmured, stroking his hair soothingly, looking up into green eyes for a moment. “You need only say the word, and I will stop.”

“Never stop.”

Zevran took those words from his lips with a kiss, tangling both hands in what remained of the man's hair (there was just enough to grip now), and when they drew apart stood, presenting himself to the mage's mouth again. “Zev,” he groaned. “Please. Just--”

“I could leave you here like this,” Zevran said, looking down at the Warden with a wicked gleam in his eyes, just the faintest hint of a smile. “Stretched so lewdly across the desk, left wanting, for someone to discover in the morning.”

“You wouldn't.”

Quirking an eyebrow down at him, as Cadryn strained to look up and make eye contact, Zevran's smile only widened. “I wouldn't?” When Cadryn didn't rise to the bait, Zevran said, “You are very right. But I might simply take my pleasure of you and leave you to take matters into your own hands, as it were.”

“No. Whatever you want.” Cadryn strained against the bonds, trying to reach out for Zevran. “I need you.”

And from the way he sucked when presented with Zevran's hardness again Zevran believed it--need was the only word that could describe such a state, the dedication there, the complete attention in his ministrations. And the sight of him stretched so lasciviously across the desk—Zevran grew too near too soon, pulled Cadryn away a little more roughly than intended.

He was not as gentle in his preparations as usual, and wondered briefly which of them was really in control here, for the man who was tied up to have him fumbling and harsh and far too eager to be inside of him, to find a shared release. Cadryn's response to Zevran's rough manner in slicking and stretching him was to simply lean into the treatment, biting back a sound half-pain/half-pleasure.

Zevran slid himself fully in with one stroke, and Cadryn managed a breathy, “Finally,” full of sarcasm, almost as if he'd been saving up the will and energy for it. So Zevran made sure to set a quick pace and aim true, to keep Cadryn breathless and moaning instead of snarking. When Zevran finally came, too soon for his liking but at the same time not soon enough, it was intense, near to blinding, but he rode it out, trying to bring Cadryn to climax before before he finished, reaching around and taking the other man's hardness in hand to jerk him to completion. Cadryn joined him with a cry, sagging against the desk as his knees gave out, and Zevran pressed himself to the larger man's back, strangely exhausted, seeking strength in that contact.

There were a handful of moments Zevran treasured between them, moments he felt embodied their relationship in a single phrase or gesture. The needful look and sound around, ”Never stop.” was surely one of them—Cadryn had meant more than this physical thing between them.

Once he had some presence of mind Cadryn mumbled beneath him, “Zevran?”

“Si, amore?”

“These were some of my best robes.”

And now the fine silk beneath them was surely covered in the mage's release, ruined without careful work that Cadryn would surely leave no other to—Zevran laughed softly, cheek pressed against his back. “I have a reputation to keep, yes?”

Original prompt: In camp, they compete to see who makes the other scream first.
---------------------------

How delightful, that moment of shared release—Zevran clawed at the blankets beneath him, head thrown back in a silent cry, as Cadryn roughly thrust in and stilled, hands clutching the elf's hips in a bruising grip, filling him, coming hard with a throaty gasp. Spent, Cadryn lowered his head to Zevran's shoulder with an moan, somewhere between satisfied and exasperated.

“Ah, do not despair, my dear Warden. That was much nearer than your previous attempts.” Zevran settled a hand at the base of Cadryn's spine, ran fingertips lightly up to the nape of his neck, twining them lightly in auburn hair.

“Its impossible,” Cadryn muttered into Zevran's shoulder. “Not that I don't enjoy trying.” Chuckling, Zevran drew his other hand up to give Cadryn's shoulder a squeeze.

They'd been at this for two weeks now, this contest, and one of them would inevitably fold. Zevran had the advantage, of course, confident that he could tease the most lascivious cries from his Warden at his leisure. He drew the contest out for selfish reasons: Cadryn, a healer by nature despite the intensity of his rare emotional outbursts, was a gentle lover. And this was novel, unique, and honestly Zevran liked it. He'd experienced all manner of fetishes and kinks in his life as a Crow, but never this sweetness, this emotional depth in lovemaking. It frightened him, this near transcendental connection to the Warden during their intimate entanglements, but drew him back, craving more as if some irresistible drug. That didn't mean that he wanted to abandon any of his old preferences, no, and this contest of theirs drew a harshness from the Warden that he missed and sometimes craved. And he had plans, after all.

Plans he decided to enact at Eamon's estate in Denerim just before the Landsmeet. When not plagued by taint-induced nightmares Cadryn was a deep sleeper, and Zevran very quiet and gentle in his preparations. He only worried about the plan for a moment, and braced himself to face a moment of genuine panic from the Warden. That would pass, of course, and would be worth it in the end.

So Cadryn woke in the night to soft kisses trailing up his jaw, a nip at one earlobe, trailing back down to the hollow of his collarbone. With a moan he stretched, hands moving down to trail across Zevran's back--

Cadryn's green eyes opened wide and starkly awake as his wrists met resistance, and he tried to move them again to be certain. Arms outstretched above him, hands very nearly tied together, just enough slack that he could tug in resistance before the ropes started to creak against the wooden backboard. He craned his head to get a look at the knots, but slender fingers gripped him on either cheek and forced his gaze in a certain direction, familiar lips claiming his. Cadryn very nearly responded in kind, but the pressure on his wrists and a spike of fear stilled him. Neither resisting the kiss nor participating, Cadryn just let that tongue slide past his lips, exploring. Past that initial forcefulness it faded into passion, and Cadryn felt himself responding in spite of the circumstances, in spite of the fear.

When Zevran drew away Cadryn tugged at the ropes again, panicking. “Zevran--”

Zevran hushed him with a less involved kiss. “My dear Warden, you are always in control of everything around you. You deprive yourself of so much in this. Submitting to another's whims, relinquishing that control, can be a release in itself.”

“Fine,” Cadryn said, tone clipped. Tugging at the ropes for emphasis, he continued, “Then untie me. I'll submit. Whatever you want.”

Zevran tutted at Cadryn, shaking his head. “You misunderstand. I have removed that choice for you. What do you expect?” Green eyes still regarded him with fear, wide and following his every move in a twitchy fashion. Leaning over Cadryn, stretching his own nude body to give Cadryn a better view—green eyes flicked down and back up briefly—Zevran tested the ropes. “So many associate these bindings with pain,” Zevran mused. “I expect you to find no pleasure in pain, and so I will not offer you that. What I want is to still your roaming hands, to force you to experience. You will have no distraction from any sensation as I am free to do what I please to you.” In spite of himself, Cadryn shuddered, Zevran's tone felt in the base of his spine, and Zevran's smirk broke into a genuine smile. “Ah, yes, that is a nice start.”

Zevran started in with the kisses again, moving down his neck, almost unconsciously brushing his length against Cadryn's with each motion, light touches, never quite satisfying. By the time Zevran gripped Cadryn's erection in one hand, running his tongue down the side and looking up with half-lidded eyes for Cadryn's reaction, Cadryn was already quivering, partly still in fear from having so little control, partly....

“Trust me,” Zevran murmured, and Cadryn did his best to relax. He felt so utterly helpless, and it felt wrong. He was a leader now, a hero, and being at anyone's mercy tore violently at his self-expectations. Closing his eyes, Cadryn took a deep breath, then another, trying to remind himself that this was his lover. And when a familiar warmth enveloped him Cadryn jerked against the restraints, sucked in a surprised breath as that wicked tongue began teasing. Unable to tangle his hands in Zevran's hair, Cadryn grit his teeth against the urge to thrust up, but eventually couldn't help himself. Anticipating this, Zevran used the motion to swallow his length.

Cadryn came embarrassingly fast, finally opening his eyes in time to meet Zevran's, briefly, before their lips met once more. With a flash of hope he realized that he could taste himself on Zevran's tongue, and so returned the kiss with ardent fervor, eliciting a little moan from his lover. Some modicum of control returned with the ability to invoke such a reaction in spite of his helplessness. Zevran broke the kiss off before Cadryn could do much with this new-found control, but the damage was already done. It wasn't about domination, but about Cadryn relinquishing control, if only for a moment. With Zevran's weight off him briefly Cadryn inched up on the bed, trying to get a little slack in the ropes.

“You look amazing like this.” Leaning back, Zevran's tongue flitted out to lick his lips before one hand trailed down across taut muscles and golden skin to fondle himself. And that was the greatest turn-on of all, the thought that in such a state he was a spectacle. It was one thing to make love to someone and know that they found you attractive, but another entirely to see this sort of response. It drove Cadryn to try and imagine himself from Zevran's perspective, how he must look here, flushed and panting from his orgasm, still half-erect, clutching at the ropes—he knew what response seeing Zevran in such a state would pull from him.

Leaning forward, Zevran rubbed their sexes together, and Cadryn couldn't help himself, wanting to be a spectacle, grinding up against him when the opportunity came. And he just let go, carried away on a tide of sensation as Zevran had his way with him, all manner of incoherent cries issuing from him. He surfaced to a shattering climax, jerking at the ropes, Zevran buried inside of him, ”Zev!” tearing itself from his throat, fully voiced with all the volume he could muster. Zevran followed an instant later, leaning forward, grinding his teeth and then biting Cadryn's shoulder to stifle a similar cry.

He surfaced again to Zevran untying the ropes, laying soft kisses on the heels of his hands as if in apology. “That doesn't count,” Cadryn croaked, voice broken from yelling.

Looking down at him, Zevran made a curious noise, so Cadryn repeated, “That doesn't count. We're not in camp.”

Zevran laughed heartily, throwing back his head, laid another kiss against Cadryn's temple. “A technicality, my dear Warden.”

Grinning, Cadryn just said, “I can't win otherwise.”

Still chuckling, Zevran slid down to lie next to him, propping himself up on one elbow. “I propose this: we put it to a vote. I am confident our companions will declare me the winner after that lovely serenade of yours, if only to avoid a repeat performance.”

For the first time in recent memory Cadryn honestly blushed. “You win, then.”

“And I'll be sure to collect my prize in due time.”

Original prompt: M!Mahariel/Tamlen
--------------------------

It was a clean shot, the arrow taking her in the throat, and she tried to bolt, staggered, fell. As Vanastin approached her head whipped around, dark eyes glittering and large, rolling in the sockets as she looked for her unseen killer. Finding him, she struggled, tried to flee, but her legs betrayed her as surely as her panicked breath betrayed her.

He didn't let her suffer, soothing those last moments with a gentle touch and quiet prayer. For a moment she seemed to understand, in that instant before he ended it quickly as possible, that she would be a life-giver even in death, that though by her age she was certainly past the rearing of fawns she was still plump enough to fill a few bellies, to sustain and supply the roving stewards. So she died quietly, no fear or struggling in that last instant.

"Impressive, for someone who's vallaslin is hardly dry." Vanastin rolled his eyes before glancing over his shoulder to look at Tamlen, who approached with practiced silence otherwise.

"If a year and a half is hardly dry, then you're fit to serve as elder." The jab was light as he could make it in his dark voice, and Tamlen would surely understand.

"I've often thought so myself," Tamlen said, stretching languorously, just a hint of a smirk betraying his words for a jest. "But then I might have to do my own work instead of pushing it off on you."

Standing, Vanastin turned to him, stopped Tamlen with a hand against his chest. "In that case, you can carry her."

The undergrowth in this northern forest was too thick to rightly stalk prey, and they had waited so long for this deer that returning to the aravels would be more prudent than finding a new site and waiting for a second. True darkness was fast approaching, and they'd find little hunting then—best to return at morning twilight.

They'd passed a deep pool from a spring on the way in, and Vanastin stopped here to wash his hands of the kill's blood before it could dry. He would only dirty them again in dressing her, but it was a habit. Tamlen knelt to drop the doe's carcass silently as he could, because this was an opportunity he simply couldn't pass up. He stalked up behind Vanastin, quietly, then shoved him roughly. Vanastin toppled out of his crouch into the water, flipping as he fell and sucking down a lungful of air.

Too absorbed in his laughter, Tamlen didn't notice the deep breath, and Vanastin's descent into the pool kicked up enough mud to obscure him from the surface. Vanastin was a strong swimmer, and he counted on Tamlen's confidence in his abilities. So Vanastin touched bottom, easy in his armor, counted until his lungs had just started to burn, then relaxed, letting himself float back to the surface face-down. Though garbled, he could hear Tamlen's fading laughter. "Quit that. We both know better."

And Tamlen nearly called his bluff, because Vanastin wasn't sure he could hold his breath safely much longer, but a panicked, "Lethallin?" goaded him on. Tamlen splashed into the water, and then there were hands on his shoulders--Vanastin whipped up, taking in another deep breath to ease the ache in his lungs, then put all his weight down on Tamlen to dunk him. When he resurfaced Tamlen sputtered angrily, spitting water, but Vanastin retreated to shallower water to have a good laugh of his own. Pale hair slicked to pale skin, sky-colored eyes glowering, Vanastin couldn't hold back, "You look like a drowned halla," between laughs.

Tamlen joined him in the shallower water, the little waves of his motion lapping at the lower portion of Vanastin's chest, and seized him for a brief, hard kiss. On parting Vanastin asked, "What was that?"

"You know how I feel about your laugh," Tamlen murmured, and he leaned in to kiss his way up Vanastin's jaw, running his lips up the bottom of Vanastin's ear and nibbling at the tip. Vanastin mirrored this motion with his hand, running his fingertips up the bottom of Tamlen's ear and then sliding them into his soaking hair, pushing Tamlen closer as the taller elf descended to kiss at his neck, sucking and biting, but careful not to leave any visible marks.

"Don't tease," Vanastin cautioned. "You know we won't have time to finish this in camp."

"Then we'll make time now," Tamlen growled, biting down a little harder than intended, and Vanastin gasped, arching against him. They made short work of the soaked armor and padding, the motions of disrobing each other familiar, and carefully put everything ashore. By silent agreement they returned the water, an area shallow enough that Tamlen, taller by a few inches, stood more or less exposed, and Vanastin tried to return those intimate gestures, licks and nips of earlier, but Tamlen would have none of it tonight. Tamlen preferred his powerful and confident hunter helpless and quaking with lust before taking him, and toward this end teased and stroked hard, muscular flesh with lips and hands. By the time Tamlen's hand found Vanastin's entrance, the smaller elf was shuddering against him, buried his head in the crook of Tamlen's neck, nodded his assent.

Tamlen lifted him easily, and Vanastin wrapped his legs around Tamlen's waist, bringing Vanastin fully out of the water and supporting him well enough that Tamlen could spare a hand to stretch toward the bank and grope around for the scant pouch of supplies he carried. One of the hunters, originally from another clan, had counseled him on this relationship just after Vanastin's coming of age—and after his cautions on subtlety and secrecy, his advice that the lust of men was unpredictable and to "be prepared, always" was most valuable. As he palmed the purposefully mislabeled bottle of oil from his pack, Tamlen thanked the hunter as fervently as he might the Creators, slicked his fingers, and nearly dropped the bottle, barely retaining the wit to set it aside when Vanastin ground against him. He'd done his job too well, Vanastin too ready and too eager, and such unabashed desire drove him on as well, unable to hold back a little thrust of his own.

So he was a little harsher than he meant to be in preparing Vanastin, a little too eager himself, but Vanastin endured, curling against him once more and kissing Tamlen harshly, all urgency and need. Drawing away, Vanastin worried at his lower lip to stifle any utterance as Tamlen slid yet another finger in, but was unable to contain a whimper—whether in pain or need Tamlen couldn't tell, so he finished as quickly as he could, slicked himself.

"We're alone," Tamlen murmured, and that drew Vanastin's attention back to him. "There's no need to be silent. No one will hear us, and no one will care."

As Tamlen slid in, slowly, giving Vanastin time to adjust, the smaller elf let loose a vehement curse—funny, the parts of their language that survived the ages—and he couldn't help but ask, "Are you alright?"

"You take too long," Vanastin growled. And Tamlen laughed, holding him a little tighter. Moments of intimacy were rare, for fear of being discovered, and this in particular was still new and novel. Though they were often rough with each other, taking out their lust on one another with enthusiasm, the very last thing Tamlen wanted was to hurt Vanastin. Any injury would draw unwelcome questions, and guilt. It was their duty, after all, as young and virile hunters, Vanastin in particular as he was well-regarded within the clan, to find mates and settle down to help strengthen the race. This was seen as a youthful indulgence, to be discouraged in adulthood in favor of duty.

So they both savored this moment, all too aware that as soon as someone questioned their closeness in just the right fashion they had few options, the easiest of which would be what the older hunter and his lover had done—parting ways, leaving for separate clans as if in shame. Every kiss and impassioned exchange was a moment stolen against that inevitable parting, and any moment stolen while with the clan was a risk. Worth it, they had both sworn to each other.

And in moments like this, it was. Vanastin kissed him again, on more equal terms this time, and they set a pace together, trying to find a balance between need for release and need for intimacy. In the end the former won, as Tamlen drew close too soon, Vanastin tight and hot around him, and the quiet sounds of Vanastin's pleasure, normally restrained for fear of prying ears, driving him on. Vanastin matched this new, animalistic rhythm, this driving need, with equal abandon, and Tamlen couldn't resist running a hand down Vanastin's sculpted body to palm his hardness, working it between them roughly. Growling his name, Vanastin nipped just a little too harshly at one ear, but the pain only drove Tamlen on.

In the end, it was more like the rutting of animals than the lovemaking of two mates, Tamlen emptying himself into Vanastin pushing the smaller elf over the edge, Vanastin straining to take more of him in even as Vanastin threw his head back, climaxing with a harsh and throaty gasp, voice breaking. But there was a sweetness in this, too, the promise of playful words and gentle touches later, in the privacy of their own tent at the clan's camp. And a threat of loss, too.

They clung to each other, sweaty and breathless in those moments after, as if it might be their last embrace. It very well could be.

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dalishstorm

January 2013

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Entries tagged with nsfw

A Place to Hide

Cherry Lips

Three Events

Reading Between the Lines

More Than Pain

Silence is Golden

Weakness

Untitled

Victory

Misfire! #3

One Drop of Solace in the Sea of Night

Finding a Voice

Temptation

Treading Softly

Practice

(no subject)

Succor

Control Issues

The Contest

Happier Times