Your desire is my command, Mi Amor~

The mattress dip and shifts as Alistair sits up, turning to climb slowly and stiffly over Zevran, his tall, muscular, mostly human body easily dwarving Zevran’s elvhen form - though Zevran .likes to think there is not so much between them, as far as muscularity goes. 

“My eyes are up here.” Alistair’s voice is rueful, teasing, and only a little embarassed.

With effort, Zevran tears his eyes from the russet brown hair grazing Alistair’s generous chest. He appeases himself with lifting a hand to appreciatively squeeze his lover’s impressive pectoral muscles. “But mi amor, your body is art,” Alistair blushes, pinkly, in a way that prettily highlights his freckles, and Zevran gives him a crooked grin as he rolls a thumb over his nipple. “It would be a sin not to appreciate it.”

“Yes - ah,” Alistair catches himself, flushing red, falling forward a little on the bed, and Zevran feels his breath catch in his chest. It was always a breathtaking thing, to bring down a man so mighty. Not that Zevran wants to bring down Alistair so much as he wants to fall with him (however dangerous the thought.) 

Outside their tent, there’s the heavy sound of Dog’s snores, and the distant hoot of an owl. The fabric walls around them rustle in the breeze, and Alistair clears his throat, bare skin pimpling with the sudden cold. “Hang on, I was getting revenge.”

Zevran tries to maintain his smile, though it’s harder to do so dishonestly these days with Alistair. “Ah, I am afraid that will not work on me. I cannot be tickled,” Or many other things besides, but Zevran has no interest in listing them here, now. Alistair, for his part, is not deterred - and if he picks up the shadow in Zevran’s expression he doesn’t comment on it.

Instead, he raises his eyebrows and says, boldly, “Challenge accepted.”

Then he dips his head towards Zevran’s waist: a direction for the evening Zevran is all too happy to embrace, until Alistair’s lips land on his stomach and he blows a wet, farting raspberry against Zevran’s bare skin. Zevran swears and wriggles away from him, and Alistair cackles, rolling away, blankets tangled between his thick thighs.

Zevran chases him. “This, my friend, is war.” He moves for Alistair’s knees, but Alistair catches him, and for a minute or more they wrestle, laughing and naked and warm, until at last Zevran’s superior dexterity wins him the battle, and he ducks behind Alistair and tickles him until he’s breathless and beating the thin fabric of their joined bedrolls for mercy.

Red faced and breathless, chest and cheeks aching with laughter, Zevran relents, and Alistair rolls over, face tear-streaked and red, eyes crinkled at the corners as he pulls Zevran down into a warm, fierce hug, holding him close and covering his cheek and hair with kisses. Zevran submits to it momentarily, before wriggling a little in Alistair’s warm arms to look up at him, blowing a strand of hair away from his nose as he does so. “Not that I’m complaining, mi amor, but shouldn’t you be angry? I was doing the torturing, no?”

Alistiar sighs, happily and presses a kiss to Zevran’s lips, nuzzling against him. “It’s just nice when you laugh.” He says, honestly, giddily, as unguarded as a teenager. Something in Zevran’s chest aches, at that. Then he catches Alistair’s face and kisses him, deeply, fiercely, catching his lip gently between his teeth and biting just hard enough that he moans for it, raking his nails through Alistair’s thick hair and down the back of his neck, over his back.

Alistair’s moan deepens into something rougher, and he pushes back, strong and forceful with his feeling as they tumble again and Zevran falls toward the bedroll, caught easily by Alistair (cradled), as Alistair dips between his legs, hands fumbling with the jar of oil half forgotten by their packs. Part of Zevran wants to stop him, pull him up, tell him that he’s better at this part. Most of Zevran loves Alistair for trying, anyway.

So he lets Alistair lick clumsily at his cock, and he feels himself getting hard anyway, and he tells himself it isn’t because of the way Alistair glances up at him, shy and sweet for all his muscle and all his scars. 

Thick, blunt, warm figures slick with oil brush between Zevran’s ass cheeks, and Zevran lies back, tugging a pillow beneath his back as he tilts his hips up. Alistair mumbles a thank you and presses a kiss to the head of Zevran’s cock, glancing up at him anxiously before gently pressing one finger inside him. Soothingly, Zevran pets his hair, and encouraged, Alistair licks a long stripe up Zevran’s dick. Zevran tries to ignore the voices of the sex workers he grew up with, laughing at him for giving in to such amateur attentions. It’s easy when Alistair presses a tender, gentle kiss to the side of his knee, gently slipping another finger inside him whilst he mouths at Zevran’s cock.

Zevran leans back on the thin pillows and stares up at the silver glow of the witchlight lamp hanging from the roof of their tent. His fingers curl into the blankets as he resists his own impatience, but when Alistair moves to add a third finger Zevran sits up, catching his wrist gently. “That’s enough, mi amor. I’m ready.”

Alistair frowns a little, sweet as a puppy, and Zevran tries to ignore the part of himself that melts at that and presses a kiss to his lips anyway. When he pulls back, Alistair mumbles against his mouth, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

There are a thousand things Zevran could say to that and none of them are in good taste. So instead he leans back, tugging Alistair over him as he parts his legs and hooks his knees over his shoulders in a familiar stretch, rolling his hips so that his ass brushes Alistair’s thick, warm cock, already damp with precum. Zevran meets Alistair’s eyes. “I’m ready.”

Alistair swallows, and nods, and picks up the vial - dropping it between his slippery fingers and swearing, “Andraste’s tits.” Zevran laughs as Alistair fumbles for the vial in the blankets, spilling a mess on the linen that Zevran has no interest in explaining to Wynne before covering his cock with so much lube it looks as if it’s been dipped in honey.

Zevran does not try to hide the fact he’s staring and Alistair reddens again. Zevran responds to this by rolling his hips, ankles hooked together behind Alistair’s neck. Alistair laughs, softly, “Alright, alright.” His voice is rough and low as he guides his cock to Zevran’s asshole, slipping once and smearing oil over Zevran’s skin before he manages to push himself inside. Both of them exhale as slowly, painstakingly, Alistair pushes inside of Zevran. 

Zevran hums, clenching around Alistair’s cock in a way that makes him moan as he rolls his hips forward easily, lazily. “Fuck me, amor.” Alistair’s breath catches, and he leans forward, strong arms framing Zevran’s head as he looks down at him, muscles in his abdomen tensing. 

“Your wish is my command.” 

Moving one hand to help hold Zevran’s hips, Alistair pulls out a little, fucking back into him with a groan. Alistair is inexpert, still relatively unpracticed in this, but Zevran isn’t, and Alistair makes up for his lack of any technique with disarming enthusiasm. At some point, one of his hands ends up wound with Zevran’s beside his head, and the other, slick with oil, pulls at Zevran’s cock as he fucks him, hard and a little uneven, huffing with the effort.

Eventually, Zevran notices the way Alistair’s breath is stuttering and squeezes his hand, lifting his hips. “Faster, amor. Harder.”

The warden had once compared Alistair to a battering ram. Zevran thinks the comparison is not inaccurate: Alistair has no finesse but his strength is breathtaking, and Zevran’s body is shoved up the blankets with the force of his thrusts - a matter which makes Alistair falter until Zevran laughs, touching his cheek. “That’s good, Alistair. Fuck me, I’m not going to break.”

Alistair’s eyes get a little dark at that, and his hand in Zevran’s tightens, the one that had been pulling his cock releasing it briefly to hold Zevran’s hips down as he fucks him, hard and rushed as a teenager. Zevran has had more than his share of his lovers, and these inexpert attentions should not charm him as much as they do - but there’s something about the way Alistair keeps looking at him, half to check on him, half because he seems unable to stop staring - something about the way Alistair’s hands clutch his hips and his fingers and don’t bruise  - something about the way his great chest drips with sweat, skin golden in the lantern light as he pants, fucking Zevran into the blankets...Alistair comes with a soft moan, buckling, and Zevran follows him helplessly, coming untouched between their bodies as Alistair spends himself inside him.

Warm and wet and filthy, both of them collapse into one another, Alistair pulling Zevran easily into his arms. For a long moment they just pant, sated and exhausted, warm in each other’s embrace. 

Then Alistair groans, and lifts his head a little to look down at their filthy blankets. “Oh Maker, I don’t want to explain this to Wynne in the morning.”

Zevran snorts, and the snort breaks into a giggle, and then he’s laughing hard enough to make his belly ache. Alistair stares at him, delighted and a little chagrined, right up until something scorching and electric singes their tent, and Morrigan’s voice shouts across their camp. 

“I can live with the sex, but would you two please stop laughing? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

For a moment both of them stare at one another, and the singed fork of lightning in their tent flap. Then Zevran starts giggling again, despite himself, and Alistair’s lips curl into a smile, and then both of them are laughing, loudly, helplessly - and then their tent is on fire.