charming symbolism, really. ¹⁸⁺

' you're not that sorry, ' iloren replies with soft amusement. he doesn't miss the heat in zevran's gaze as it lingers on where he parts them, lets out a muffled moan at feeling his dick slide out.

decides to extend the noise— the inquisitor stretches out legs and arms, half-sighs but mostly groans as every muscle in the line of his body tenses, then relaxes. he makes a show of pushing out his chest and stomach, heavy as they are, arching his back against zevran. his mouth rips into a yawn of its own volition, tiredness heavy on his eyelids.

it's no longer just the exhaustion that usually rests on him. he feels as though every worry has been thoroughly fucked out of him. perhaps good really doesn't do it justice.

' could you fetch some towels? ' his cock rests against his stomach now, alongside his own spend. he won't be able to use his other hand until he's cleaned it. which is a convenient excuse for him to make himself comfortable in bed while he sends zevran off to do errands, tender mischief in his gaze.

only a moment ago so needy and pliant beneath him, now the inquisitor lounges on zevran's guest bed like a contented housecat.

it is a good thing the assassin enjoys this look on him. and that he is pretty.

"yes, ser." zevran's tone is mocking, but no less obedient. he had encouraged this bossiness, hadn't he? he feels the tension in his thighs as he rolls off the bed and onto his feet again, a dull but pleasant ache that he knows will lessen soon enough. he does not bother to dress as he pads out of the room to the nearest bath.

the sound of water running, and then he is back with the requested towels. there is a suspicious absence of fruit.

"shall you accompany me to the kitchen or would you prefer i bring it to you in bed?" he feels he already can guess the answer as he runs a damp washcloth along iloren's lower stomach, where he is almost tempted to use his tongue instead. still, he is nothing if not thorough in his cleaning. bodily fluids become less fun after a time.

his cock twitches weakly in its aftermath. he hadn't expected zevran to finish inside, already looked forward to his spend all across the chest he'd admired so roguishly before. that his friend grinds into him as if to make sure that every last bit he can give is driven inside iloren is so hot that his body tries to squeeze out another burst of cum and comes up empty instead.

if he was tired before, he is absolutely spent now. a loopy smile draws onto his lips, enjoying the aftermath of shivers rolling through him. he chuckles and tries to speak, has to clear his throat before his lips are willing to part properly.

' flatterer, ' he rasps softly, hand sliding down to zevran's arm to caress it gently.

he liked this massage. he already knows he'll want another one soon enough, feeling light and happy. he's not looking at zevran yet, still catching his breath, but eventually he finds those yellow eyes again.

if zevran's goal at the beginning of this massage was to relax iloren and take away his pain, it seems he's had yet another resounding success. he feels some pride in this. after all, he well knows that sometimes the best thing to offer a friend (or a mark) is a good tumble on the nearest, softest mattress. it's never done him wrong before.

the fact that iloren is continuing to touch him so gently, even now when they are not making love... he tries to ignore it.

the assassin snorts when iloren calls it good. considering how absolutely wrecked the inquisitor looks, good seems like a bit of an understatement. but as long as he enjoyed himself, zevran supposes.

"not my best performance, then," he says, feigning solemnity. "i will rectify that should you ever need another massage."

he cannot assume there will be a next time. he never does, taking one night at a time as they come. be happy with what you are given, he had once told himself. he is.

he moves to part from where they are still joined, inwardly enjoying the sight.

"i have made a mess of you, haven't i? my apologies."

though aiming to sweeten the deal, zevran's stance rings clear. he'll not be receiving a dance of his preference this night; not with a rogue of his talents. a shame, admittedly.

"fairness is not a luxury i'm allowed all that often, truth be told. but it's not my preference that requires it, this time, eh?" sentence concludes with a small huff; exaggerating his disappointment before brushing it aside with a flick of his tail.

"oh, i did not mean for myself. we rogues do not fight fair as a rule." when one is battling for one's life, everything is permitted, after all. and when he is working, he very rarely gets into direct combat. it would be poor practice to challenge every target to fisticuffs, given the end result needed to be their death and not his.

zevran chuckles at mention of fiyero. talking about him behind his back, is she?

zevran's desperation is palpable. iloren can almost reach out and touch it. it's in his voice, raspy from the noises they both can't hold back, in his dark cheeks and lowered eyes, in the snap of his hips and the firm grip he has on iloren's.

and finally, finally, in his hand around iloren's cock and the words he picks. he's pleading for iloren to cum as if that was ever needed in the first place, but it certainly helps. it's all so much, his own heart beating loudly in his ears, he has to close his eyes— focuses on this sensation alone, their folded hands slick with iloren's pre-cum and zevran's dick pounding into him.

just an hour earlier, they were holding hands through a sweet kiss.

iloren whimpers.

his orgasm still catches him off guard, rolling through his body in quick waves— his hand quickens and his grip on zevran slackens and tightens again and again, grabbing at him over and over. his fingers dig and find no purchase and try once more as he spills over, cumming over their hands with his hips lifted, his mouth gasping for air.

zevran continues to stroke iloren through his release, cooing words he himself can barely comprehend, lust-addled as he is, close as he is. a second more, and then...

it is the feel of iloren's fingers continuing to dig into him, how he tightens and then slackens all at once, the whines, that finally tip the assassin over. he does not have the wherewithal to ask the other elf where he would like him to finish, although the thought that he should pull out does flit through his mind. so briefly it might as well have not entered it at all.

instead he drives himself as deep as he can possibly go, continues grinding his hips as the wave of ecstasy crashes over him. he moans, he curses. he opens his eyes.

again, iloren is nothing more than a mess beneath him. chest heaving, cum painting his stomach and their two hands, damp from sweat and flushed everywhere. zevran has nothing left to give, but he can feel the twinge of desire in him again.

he hums, contentedly.

there's only one word that iloren parses from the stream of antivan that flows from zevran's lips.

good, good, good.

he thrusts hard and deep enough for iloren's vision to go blurry and his head to drop back into the pillows underneath. with a gasp, his efforts to get closer are done all at once— the inquisitor lets himself fall and uses the hand that had dug into zevran's back to reach for himself instead.

wrapping his palm around his cock, there's no preamble to the way he strokes himself. only a fervent need for more, more friction and more of the hot anticipation building in the pit of his stomach. each time zevran hits deeper he groans out his name, lifts his hips to meet him. it feels as though his friend has reached the deepest parts of him, thrusting without giving iloren a moment to breathe.

he doesn't want to. he strokes himself until the friction becomes painful and keeps going after that, thrusts his hips against zevran's until his orgasm is so close, so unbearably close—

the sound zevran makes when iloren takes himself in hand is sinful and deep.

to watch his friend chase his own pleasure... the assassin thinks he would like to have iloren ride him, fuck himself on him. use him. his fingers still grip desperately at the flesh of the other elf's hips. if his nails were not blunt he would surely be drawing blood — even still, there will no doubt be marks there. a different kind of battle scar to complement the ones decorating the warrior's torso.

he does not need to hear iloren's ragged breathing, his pleas, to know he is close. he can feel it; and he, too, is close. he can feel the delicious tightening in his belly. the desire to drive himself as deep as he can and stay there. he wants iloren to get there first. needs him to.

"let go for me, caro," he pants. it is his own form of begging. his voice is a wreck. he's a wreck. he mutters something else in antivan, a curse or his own pleas. "i want to see you. let me see you."

the sharper 'zevran' on his lips when the other elf only pulls back is warped into a high-pitched groan. his friend slams in hard instead and the inquisitor cries out with abandon at that first thrust, hand on zevran's back digging into the skin.

he's noisy like this, reduced to garbled sounds, beginnings of names and words that don't get anywhere fruitful. he doesn't have the mind to finish a sentence when the rhythm zevran sets is all-encompassing. he feels it in the tingling of his stomach, the sharp knot in his chest, his weeping cock pressed between them both. even the hot bits of pain pulling up his back are welcome— barely there, drowning in the sea of sensations, they only spur iloren on.

' yes, like— yes, ' he moans, the hand in the back of zevran's neck tightening with his entire upper body bending towards zevran as much as he can with the both of them so entangled.

the pounding in zevran's ears, the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, and iloren's own delightful noises all compete to be heard. were there anyone else in the nest, there would be no doubt as to what is happening. he hadn't bothered to close the bedroom door. why would he?

he'll admit the thought of his fiancé coming home to this is an incredibly sexy one.

but not more attractive than iloren writhing beneath him, too drunk on ecstasy to say anything more coherent than the assassin's name. he can feel the other elf's cock rubbing against is belly as he thrusts, and he would take it in hand if he didn't need both to angle his hips just right. were the inquisitor any skinnier, he would be liable to snap his spine with the way he is curling into zevran. he moves again and suddenly zevran feels himself hit deeper. he no longer has the control to hold back his own sounds — his moans, his whines.

the continuous antivan streaming from his lips. telling iloren how good he is, how good he feels, how well he takes him. terms of endearment he would surely be embarrassed about if he had the mind to care. asks him how close he is, what he needs.

in truth, iloren could spend hours just like this: wrapped around the other elf, zevran's face tucked into his neck, his clever hand on his hip, his cock pulsing inside of him. it's near satisfying to be filled, having his friend's warmth and touch so close that they almost merge into one.

but only near. his left hand finds the back of zevran's neck again. the anchor has calmed as iloren has, only the hot, scarred surface of his skin sliding between strands of golden hair.

' iloren, ' he says in a low tone as zevran invokes his title once more. even as he says it, his own cock aches between them. if it were possible for him to get any harder, he would have. coupled with the antivan and the raise of his own leg to see if he could shift zevran further inside, the inquisitor whines.

zevran is going to ruin him.

he buries his nose in zevran's hair, kisses his ear where he can reach it.

' about time, ' he whispers into it, the cheeky smile visible in his voice without needing to see it. all this talk of impatience and zevran's cock weeps the same as his. he wants to feel it again, that pulsing sensation inside of him. more of his delicious moans. he must be aching to fuck him.

"hm, here i thought you rather liked when i called you inquisitor?"

iloren can insist on his own name all he wants, but zevran is no fool. he had seen the way the elf had reacted to the use of inquisitor and your worship earlier in the evening, and he can feel the way iloren reacts to it now. of course, if this is what his friend prefers...

"iloren," he breathes, and it is perhaps the first time he has said the other man's name all day. not a title, not a pet name. iloren. it sounds odd to his own ears.

he drags himself out, slow enough to be agonizing for them both. his fingers tighten where they bite into the inquisitor's hips. he knows he is about to hear some complaint, and the thought makes him smile.

he doesn't give iloren the chance. his hips snap forward, driving into the other elf hard. if his friend wishes to be ruined, he will gladly do so.

leading zevran to his entrance, their eyes close at the same time. as soon as the elf pushes inside he lets out a shuddering moan, pressing his shoulders hard into the mattress to push up against zevran's dick.

he's all tension like this, legs propped up to help get zevran inside, hand on his waist to urge him along, until his eyes open again.

he's still working his way in. zevran's face is flushed, breathing heavily, his cheeks a darker shade. almost maroon. iloren's hips twitch up in a thrust and suddenly he's all the way there.

' hah— gh, ' senseless noises with his mouth fallen open, iloren's hand still slick with oil comes up around zevran's jaw, tongue on his lips and then inside his mouth. he drives it over everything in reach until spit dribbles down the corners of his mouth.

it doesn't seem that he can get enough. he works at zevran, hips ever grinding in small circles, keeps him there. only when he parts does he speak again. he's too far gone to manage a proper smile, but the breath he puffs out is meant to be a laugh.

zevran opens his eyes and is treated with the most glorious sight. iloren is a mess. so far gone already, and he has not even moved. the assassin feels almost giddy from the lack of bloodflow to his head, everything seeming to have traveled southward to where the two are joined. he pulses inside iloren, the surest sign that he has been growing just as impatient as the other.

and then the inquisitor does something surprising, yet again. he pulls zevran close. pulls him into an embrace, as though they are not attached enough already; as though any amount of separation between their bodies is too much.

but it is not just an amorous gesture... it's sweet. tender.

a second moment of tenderness, and zevran's mind blanks for a second.

"you are a dangerous man, inquisitor," he mumbles, without realizing that he is saying anything at all. he could lose himself in this, in iloren's arms around him, him inside the other elf. a part of him wants to.

instead, he presses his lips against iloren's neck, squeezes a hip.

there are so many people that want to hurt the inquisitor that zevran's simple admission draws softness into his chest. iloren is rendered to shifting his legs, knees bending with each push of zevran's fingers, pitiful sounds escaping his lips. he doesn't hold back any of it, noisy and desperate.

he thinks that if zevran got this done any quicker he could get to fucking him stupid— zevran must be aching, his steady demeanor terribly charming. iloren is twitching and whining underneath him and he's still chiding him for his impatience even as he bends his fingers to press against the most sensitive spot inside of him— iloren's legs shake with it.

' oh … '

he forgets about complaining long enough to enjoy himself with zevran's hand around his dick. where zevran doesn't bend down, iloren bends up the moment his fingers leave him, immediately feeling empty. pulling zevran closer by the arm, iloren kisses him in an insistent press. a shiver runs down his spine, his chest lifting and falling with heavy breaths.

if there is to be a next time, and zevran hopes there is, he will have to teach iloren the pleasure of anticipation. the joys of being denied. how much better the end feels when one is driven to the precipice of sheer madness from desire and longing.

but despite all of his chiding, his teasing, he himself does not have the patience for all of that tonight. so when he feels iloren is relaxed enough, he withdraws. smirks into the kiss the other elf gives him, poised to make another remark when they finally separate, his chest only heaving moderately less than iloren's.

he hisses instead, moans, when the inquisitor's fingers wrap around him. he feels sure he would do whatever the other man asks of him, so long as iloren keeps touching. he fumbles with the bottle again, pours some of the oil directly onto his cock and iloren's hand, letting the other do the work of getting him slick.

"I would hope," he begins, "that that wasn't the only impression left after our encounter."

"We were both under unusual influences and acting out of sorts. I will not, on principle, normally get affectionate with strangers, much less those who poison me."

Not only that damned kiss, but those damned few weeks were a curse, making him throw himself at nobodies and demons alike as some witless, touch-starved fool. That by itself was excusable, but the fact that he remembered each encounters and the emotions associated with each fling was like a bad aftertaste he couldn't get out of his mouth.

"it is hard not to form an impression when a man drinks poison from my very lips."

as someone with a functioning pair of eyes, zevran can acknowledge that, physically, at least, aurelius is an attractive man. he holds no shame in having kissed him, nor that he had done so in an effort to kill him. he has kissed more repulsive men for the same reason, after all. still, he cannot say he would be willing to do it a second time. the angel wouldn't allow it, in any case.

but that does not stop the assassin from needling.

"ah, what a heartbreaker you are. 'fortunately', 'let's leave it at that'. cruel."

iloren has something at the tip of his tongue about possessing enough virtues already. the fleeting touch to his cock silences his words, instead letting a startled breath escape from his lips.

' hgh … ' sticky wet dribbles from his dick, joining zevran's oiled fingers. it doesn't last nearly long enough. iloren has just enough time for his hips to roll of their own accord, his chest to push upward. then the touch is gone again. he rasps a noise that's almost a complaining whine.

then those fingers are at his entrance. zevran tells him to breathe and he does, in through the nose and out through the mouth. obedient now that he's getting what he wants.

' breathing, ' he mumbles, ' yes. i'm very good at it. ' another whine— ' come on— '

finally, zevran pushes in. iloren keeps very still at first except for his hand finding zevran's arm, grabbing onto it. he closes his eyes and only shifts his ass when that first finger is there all the way, grinding into it greedily. his breath catches every now and then. he makes an obvious effort to keep it calm, to varying degrees of success.

zevran huffs another quiet laugh. he is seeing so many new sides of his friend, and every one of them is unbearably charming. he would say it is no wonder that the dalish elf was put in charge of an army of devoted followers, but zevran highly doubts his attitude in the bedroom was in consideration when the choice was made.

it should have been.

the assassin hushes him, continuing to work him open diligently, almost as if he himself is not a hair's width from grinding his own hips into the mattress just to feel something. his poor cock aches.

"so impatient," he chides. "i don't want to hurt you. at least not like this. not now."

but he acquiesces in adding a second finger, focusing on the spot inside iloren that he knows will make him see stars. part of him wishes to bend forward and kiss the complaints from his lips, but the rambling and sounds he makes are too delicious to be kept silent.

a press to the hip releases the hard tension in iloren's hips and stomach as he lets himself surrender back into the surface of the mattress. he sighs, to catch his breath and out of relief— he hadn't noticed how tense he had gotten in their chase.

the sound of the bottle made it much easier to stop. iloren's ears flick as he sneaks a peek to their side. he lets go of zevran's neck briefly to ask for some of the oil with a gesture of his hand.

then he's back again, spreading it between two hands, maneuvering around their bodies to eventually settle his palms on zevran's chest, shoulders, returning to the back of his neck. it's a weak imitation of zevran's ministrations. but it's still heavy, the oil warm and pleasant to the senses, touch pressing into zevran's flesh with intention.

the inquisitor leans up to kiss him chastely and laughs softly.

while the press of iloren's hands is unpracticed, zevran still feels his body begin to relax and melt, the tender touch serving to remind him of how hard he is. he is a second away from urging iloren's calloused hands lower, knowing how good those same callouses would feel against his dick... but he does not get the opportunity. he forces himself to open his eyes, which had shut without his even knowing.

oh well. there is always later.

another chaste kiss and the assassin's heart beats in an unusual way. when was the last time he had been shown such gentleness in the bedroom? only when he is with his fiancé, in truth. this stirs something in a corner of his mind, something uncomfortable, but he shoves it aside as he coats his fingers in oil.

"do you not know that patience is a virtue, your worship?" he teases, as if there is anything virtuous about what he wishes to do to andraste's herald. but his oiled fingers dance down iloren's torso, caress his cock for just long to be maddening, and continue lower.

index finger posed at the other elf's entrance.

heat rolls over iloren in waves with each thrust of zevran's hips. he's still helping with a hand on his ass, pushing him faster one go and rougher another, hunting the pleasant burn.

' mythal'enaste, ' comes pressed between briefly clenched teeth as his head tips backwards to reveal the line of his throat. and to breathe. it's tempting to lose himself in zevran's mouth and cock until his vision started swimming, but in all his impatience, iloren's greed wins over. to get what he asked for.

he chases the elf's lips again to nip and lick and kiss, hand on his ass pushing him roughly before travelling up, eventually resting on the back of his neck. the anchor embedded in it prickles between their skins.

' so ruin me. '

to imagine being bent like this, to have zevran's mouth and zevran's cock inside of him, his own twitches between them. iloren presses his hips up to trap their cocks between their stomachs, getting more of that deliciously painful friction.

were he not addled by lust, the crackle of the anchor against the sensitive and vulnerable skin on the back of zevran's neck may have alarmed him. now it is just another sensation in a sea of them — nearly too warm, but far from unpleasant. and much like its namesake, iloren's hand keeps the assassin tethered to him. pressed together until it becomes difficult to tell where one elf begins and the other ends.

and befitting a man of his station, iloren demands. it's hot.

"so greedy you are." so greedy to be ruined by an ex antivan crow. imagine what the inquisition would think, to see their holy figure now. he is nothing more than a man, nothing more than whimpers and sighs.

"be greedy. take from me. allow me to show my devotion."