Chapter Text
Of all the minor and not so minor hazards of a life on the road, the one Alistair is coming to hate most is the rain. Darkspawn are more dangerous, latrine digging more disgusting, cooking duty more likely to result in humiliation, but rain...rain is still the worst. He became a Warden to fight darkspawn, latrine digging is a necessary evil, and cooking duty can usually be traded for some task that's less likely to result in him poisoning all of them. But rain?
There's not a fucking thing he can do about the rain.
He's become almost a connoisseur of it by now. There's the light mist that seems so innocuous until it goes on and on and on, rusting metal and hardening leather and turning wool into a sodden mess. There's the sudden deluge, great buckets of water pouring from the sky before they have even a hope of setting up tents, and then gone almost as quickly. And then there's this storm, a lovely balance of the two: not so heavy they can't continue walking, but heavy enough to turn the ground to sludge and make every pack weigh twice again as much.
Dusk comes early under the heavy clouds, and setting up tents in the gloom and the rain is frustrating enough that Alistair is tempted to demand why they're bothering. Every one of them is soaked to the skin and covered in mud, and it's not like they have any hope of keeping a fire going. As far as Alistair's concerned, they might as well keep walking.
He's holding on to his temper by his fingernails by the time they've set up enough tents to cover all of them. Including the dog, and no one complains about the time it takes to set up one more tent, because no one wants to share with a dripping Mabari. Alistair may be Ferelden, but even he can only tolerate the smell of wet dog for so long.
It's almost true dusk by the time he pries off his boots and crawls into his tent. He's cold, and hungry, and wet, and in a generally foul mood, muttering obscenities under his breath as he struggles out of his armor and his wet tunic, flinging them into a pile at the far end of his bedroll. He's so rarely angry that he hardly knows what to do with the emotion, and so it just simmers in his chest, one more layer of discomfort.
"I believe this tent is supposed to have room for me as well," Zevran says, his voice almost lost under the sound of the rain hitting canvas. His tone is that lightly mocking one that sets Alistair's teeth on edge in the best of circumstances, which these are definitely not.
Alistair scowls at him over one shoulder, but Zevran only returns him an unimpressed eyebrow and crawls into the tent, forcing Alistair to move to give him room. Walking awkwardly on his knees doesn't do anything to improve his temper, and he has his mouth open on some caustic comment he'll regret later--mostly because Zevran always wins these exchanges--when Zevran straightens as far as his own knees and gives him a look.
It's not an annoyed look, or a scornful one, either of which would have given Alistair an excuse to take out his temper on Zevran. Instead, it measures him curiously, as if Zevran is vaguely puzzled by him.
"You do not care much for rain?" Zevran asks.
Alistair bares his teeth in something that pretends to be a smile. "Do you?"
"The rain itself, I would just as soon avoid," Zevran acknowledges. His eyes track down over Alistair's chest and back up. "But I think you are overlooking an obvious benefit to our current situation. We have at least tonight, and likely tomorrow, for whatever we wish to do."
Without breaking eye contact, Zevran begins to work on the buckles of his armor, and Alistair's anger disappears in a different kind of heat. He can't help but glance at the tent flap, though. "We're in the middle of camp," he hisses.
Other than that first time, they've done nothing but sleep in the tent for fear of someone overhearing them. Well, for Alistair's fear of being overheard. Zevran doesn't seem to care if everyone in camp knows what they're doing, but Alistair feels sick at the very thought of anyone else listening in as Zevran moans out, "Stop!" while Alistair fucks him.
Zevran shrugs out of his armor, leaving him in nothing except a pair of wet breeches. "Actually, our fearless leader is in the middle of camp. We are all the way at the end, and Wynne's hearing is not what it once was." He smiles up through his eyelashes, a coy smile that makes Alistair's mouth the driest thing in the tent. "Did you think it was merely whim that had me set up our tent here?"
Well, yes, but Alistair doesn't say that. Even if he wanted to, his tongue has stuck itself to the roof of his mouth, and his throat is frozen.
Four times. They've only done this four times, and Alistair still isn't sure it's not all some desire demon's dream. He keeps expecting to wake up in the Fade, with Morrigan laughing at him and Wynne giving him a disappointed look and Sten judging him coldly. When he has Zevran naked against him, cock hard and voice rough, he doesn't care about anything else, but afterward, the shame always comes back.
The shame is there now under his skin, mixing unpleasantly with the lust that hits him every time he looks at Zevran, the lust he fights to keep under control. It wasn't so bad a month ago, before he knew what it was like to actually have the things he's imagined for years, but now he has real memories of Zevran's mouth and hands on him, and every one of those memories stirs up shame right along with desire.
Desire wins as Zevran sprawls out on his bedroll and peels off his trousers, and how he manages to make even that appealing is a mystery. Alistair will look like a landed fish when he tries to do the same, a demonstration more likely to provoke laughter than lust. Maybe he could leave his trousers on? They did that once, hard and fast behind a barn, both of them still mostly clothed. That time their clothes were dry, though, and Alistair doesn't particularly want cold, wet linen clinging to him any longer than necessary.
Nothing for it but to get the embarrassment over with quickly. It turns out not to be quite so bad as he feared: as soon as he lies down, Zevran is there, tugging at his trousers, and Alistair forgets to be embarrassed as he tilts his hips to let Zevran work the cloth down over his ass. When the trousers have joined the pile of clothes in the corner of the tent, Zevran sits on his heels for several long seconds, his eyes running slowly up Alistair's body, as if it's something worth looking at with such hunger.
Alistair isn't as naïve as some people think, and he knows that look is a lie, as much a part of this game as Zevran's pleas for him to stop, and about as sincere. After years of Crow training, Zevran could probably give a broodmother that look, and while Alistair knows his body is passably attractive, he also knows it's nothing worthy of that kind of hunger.
Tonight, with his earlier anger still lingering at the edges of his thoughts, he doesn't want to have to ignore the look, or pretend he believes it. "The lantern," he says, pointing at it with his chin. "Or they'll see us, and the noise won't matter." He's seen enough people act out unintentional shadow plays for the amusement of their fellows, and he has no desire to make the same mistake.
"Who will see us?" Zevran challenges. "The vast multitudes strolling through our camp in the rain?"
Lust turns back to anger as fast as it changed in the first place, and he comes back up onto his knees. It's hard to feel properly angry while flat on his back. "Why do you have to argue about everything?" he demands, and it only makes him angrier that he sounds petulant rather than forceful.
Zevran smiles, a feline smile Alistair learned to be wary of long before they exchanged so much as a civil word with each other. "You would prefer that I do as you command?" Zevran asks sweetly. "That I obey instantly, and without thought?"
It's not at all the question Alistair was expecting, and it stops him like a stone wall, because he's not sure how to answer. The idea is appealing on one level, but the thought of all Zevran's brash wit and unapologetic sensuality crushed into obedient silence is about as far from arousing as it's possible to get.
Zevran's sharp smile loses a little of its edge. "So, perhaps not always. But tonight? Do you want me on my knees for you, yours to do with as you please?"
Alistair manages not to point out that he's already on his knees, that they're both on their knees with the roof of the tent almost touching their hair. "Y-yes?"
He cringes internally even as the word leaves his mouth, so hesitant and unsure, but Zevran's expression doesn't change, his smile almost gentle now. "Do you remember what I told you?"
Because of course this had been part of Zevran's eye-opening lecture on all the varied ways their game could be played, a conversation almost as embarrassing as opening their tent to find Zevran stroking himself. Embarrassing, and arousing. Which, now he thinks about it, made it very much the same as that first afternoon.
Unable to repeat any part of Zevran's lecture for fear his face might actually catch fire, Alistair nods. "I remember."
"It can be quite enjoyable, but you must be in control, of yourself and of me. This is not a game for half measures, and not a game that will allow for uncertainty." His smile is gone now, his eyes searching Alistair's face. "Or if you prefer, we can do other things instead, things that I promise you will enjoy."
It's a promise Alistair doesn't doubt he can deliver on, but now that the other idea is out there, he can't stop thinking about it.
Certainty? Fine.
Control? All right.
A deep breath in, and he gets hold of his temper. It's not actually all that difficult; he's never much liked the sick feeling in his stomach and the tension in his muscles that come with being angry, and he's always just as glad to let them go.
He breathes out the last of the anger, and breathes in the calm he feels on the battlefield in those last moments before shield meets shield. It's not easy without his armor, but he's fought half naked in the snow more than once, roused from sleep by one attack or another in the months since Ostagar. If he can pull that stillness into himself under those circumstances, he can certainly do it here.
Across the tent, Zevran moves slowly, settling back on his heels, his feet flat against the ground instead of poised on the toes, no longer ready to lunge upward in an instant. His fingers knot behind his neck, and his head bows, wet hair sliding slowly forward across his cheeks. One strand comes to a stop at the corner of his mouth--just looking at it makes Alistair want to scrub a hand over his own face--but Zevran doesn't brush it away.
Alistair's eyes follow the lines of his tattoos down to the red marks dotting his chest, and the sight of those marks both excites and calms him. There was a roadside inn three nights ago, with just enough room if they didn't mind sharing.
"We should stay out of sight as much as possible," Mahariel said apologetically. "Just in case."
Alistair nodded understandingly, then spent the evening marking Zevran's skin, sucking and biting to leave it mottled red and purple. The next morning, Zevran touched the marks with a smile, then sucked Alistair's cock until only the fear of being caught kept him from screaming.
The memory of that smile eases his fear.
"Put out the lantern," Alistair says, as if this whole thing isn't simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.
"Sí, amo," Zevran murmurs. Alistair doesn't know what the words mean, but he knows the tone, and suddenly he's not nearly as cold as he was.
The lantern goes out, plunging them into darkness. While Alistair is still blinking, trying to force his eyes to adjust, Zevran asks softly, "What do you want me to do, amo?"
Alistair hesitates, uncertain again. Even pinned down, Zevran has always taken the lead, shown him what to do or at least pointed him in a particular direction. By the end, Alistair might be the one issuing orders, but Zevran has always gotten them started.
How is he supposed to know what to do? Zevran is the one with all the experience, where Alistair can still literally count on one hand the number of times he's fucked anything other than that hand. What if he asks for something Zevran doesn't like? As much as that quiet, submissive voice arouses him, it also frightens him. What if he goes too far, and Zevran doesn't stop him? He could prove himself to be every bit the monster the chantry taught him that he was.
"You remember the watchword?" Zevran asks.
Alistair nods, then blushes as he remembers that Zevran can't see him. "Yes."
"Tell me what it is," Zevran says, and there's another mystery: how he can sound both submissive and commanding at the same time.
"Paz," Alistair says, the foreign word strange in his mouth.
"Good," Zevran says. "And I will say it, if I need it."
Alistair knows that the reminder is supposed to reassure him, but it doesn't. The watchword still requires Zevran to speak it, to tell him to stop in whatever way they've agreed, and how can Alistair be sure he actually would? Zevran can withstand far more abuse than his slight frame would indicate, and Alistair has seen him do so with a smile. If Zevran chooses the direction of their game, then Alistair doesn't have to worry that he'll go in the wrong direction.
"Amo?" Zevran's voice is soft in the darkness, barely audible over the rain. "Tell me what would please you."
As cold as he is, his cock has been making a rather poor showing, but those words in that voice get a definite response. Alistair grabs the first thing that comes to mind, something they've done before, that he knows is safe. "Suck-" Except he can't finish the sentence, and his face flames again. "Suck me," he finally chokes out, lying back on the bedroll.
Zevran's skin is as chilled as his own, but his lips are warm as he kisses his way up the inside of Alistair's thigh. Icy fingers settle on his hips, thumbs riding the creases at his groin, and Alistair has a moment where he flinches back from the cold before Zevran's mouth wraps around his cock and the cold is no longer a problem.
After the chill of the air, Zevran's lips and tongue feel like they're burning, hot as the warming balm they used that first time, and Alistair's hips buck up involuntarily. "Maker," he whispers, and he can feel Zevran's smile. Another thought occurs to him, and he says, "Turn around. Let me...I want to suck you."
His face is burning almost as hot as Zevran's mouth feels, but it's worth it for the way Zevran groans, the vibration travelling down his cock.
In the dark and cramped space inside the tent, of course it's not actually as simple as Zevran turning around. There's a fair amount of awkward shuffling, and one rattling clank followed by a muttered curse from Zevran--some piece of Alistair's armor left inconveniently close to the bedroll?--before they manage to find the right position.
Zevran immediately lowers his head back to Alistair's cock, but Alistair is a little more hesitant, even if he did ask for this. He's only done this once before, and not from this angle, and in the privacy of his own head, he can admit that he's terrible at it. Where Zevran can swallow his entire length without any apparent effort, Alistair struggles to take in more than half.
It helps, now, that Zevran is as cold as Alistair, his cock not even half hard. It helps more that he moans encouragement as soon as Alistair's mouth touches him; the moan might be as much an act as his earlier hungry look, but Alistair tries to take it at face value, craning his neck up and pulling Zevran's hips down to take in a little more.
Alistair soon realizes that Zevran's experience gives him a second advantage, one that's perhaps more useful even if it's not as obvious: he isn't as easy to distract. Every time Zevran's lips slide all the way down his cock, his nose coming to rest against Alistair's balls, Alistair forgets what he was doing and can only lie there gasping until Zevran pulls back. He know he's not making a complete mess of things, not with Zevran's cock growing harder and longer with each stroke, but neither is he having as much of an effect as he wants.
"Stop," he says, trying to get the right amount of snap to it.
Either he managed it or he's being humored, because Zevran stops, his mouth lifting off Alistair's cock. "Amo?" His voice is rough now, hoarse in a way Alistair is coming to associate with sex, and with that particular maneuver where Zevran takes his cock all the way down. The sound of it is like a caress, and Alistair's hips rock a little, his cock just brushing against Zevran's lips.
"The rope," Alistair says, then has to clear his throat to finish. "Get the rope. And th-the oil."
His eyes have adjusted a little, enough that he can see the outline of Zevran's body as a darker shadow among the rest, moving across the tent.
"How much rope, amo?" Zevran asks from the direction of their packs.
He really needs to find out what that word means, and whether he's going to embarrass himself if he ever goes to Antiva, because the sound of it is rapidly becoming as exciting as the sound of Zevran's voice gone hoarse from sucking him. "Enough for your wrists," Alistair says, pleased that he can say it with the commanding voice that always makes Zevran shiver.
Impossible to tell in the darkness whether it does this time, but Zevran's voice is soft when he says, "Sí, amo."
Alistair makes it up to his knees by the time Zevran returns, and manages not to drop either the rope or the oil, thank the Maker. "Turn around," he orders, setting the oil to one side so he can uncoil the rope.
Zevran does it far more smoothly than Alistair would have, his arms already behind his back. Knots, at least, are something Alistair can do even in the dark, and though the templars never intended for the skill to be used in quite this fashion, tying a person is the same whatever will happen to them after.
When he finishes, he runs his fingers over the knots one last time, then follows the inside of Zevran's wrists up to his elbows. His cock is hard as iron, the knowledge that Zevran is helpless both exhilarating and terrifying. There are so many mistakes he could make, mistakes he might not even see until it's too late. Zevran gave him a list of things to avoid, but it was a remarkably short list, and Alistair has trouble believing it was complete.
With a shake of his head, he pushes all those thoughts to the side, trying to pull confidence around himself like a cloak. Unless Zevran is pretending even more than Alistair thinks he is, one thing he definitely likes is that voice of command, and that requires at least the appearance of control.
"Don't move unless I move you," he says. "And don't speak unless I give you permission." Zevran doesn't answer, and Alistair tries to take that as a good sign.
It should be easy enough to feel like he's in charge. Even in the dark, Zevran's posture is clear: seated on his heels with his shoulders relaxed and his head bowed forward, his whole body practically screaming submission. Screams it so loudly that Alistair's mind is crowded with all the things he could do, the things he wants to do and is afraid of wanting.
Rather than think about it, he focuses on the feel of Zevran's skin as his fingers continue their upward path along his arms, trailing lightly over wiry muscle until they're cupped around his shoulders, holding him still while Alistair leans forward to press his nose to the nape of Zevran's neck. His hair is wet, the outer strands cold but the ones closest to his body warm and smelling strongly of him. Alistair breathes deeply, enjoying both the smell and the way Zevran's skin twitches, little flickers that betray his desire to move even as his muscles remain lax.
Without warning, Alistair bites down on his neck near his shoulder, licking across the skin trapped between his teeth as Zevran moans softly. He moans again, louder, when Alistair twists rough fingers through his hair, baring his neck for a series of small bites along the tendon stretched taut up to the base of his skull. At his hairline, Alistair sucks on the skin again, worrying it with his teeth until the skin is hot under his tongue.
"Mine," he whispers against the bruise, feeling the word tremble through Zevran's body. His body, too, even as a little voice in the back of his head frets over it. He ignores that voice, letting the words out without thinking about them, because if he thinks about them, he'll stop, despite the fact that this is on the very short list of things he knows Zevran likes.
"You're mine," he says again, biting down a little to the left of that first mark, tilting Zevran's head forward to make it easier. "You're mine, and tomorrow, you'll remember it every time you turn your head. No one else will see it, but you'll know." Another bite, working his way to the other side of Zevran's neck. "And I'll know."
Zevran is breathing harder, but he doesn't move, not even when Alistair makes a second bruise, mirror to the first.
His mouth still against the newest mark, Alistair drops his hand from Zevran's hair to press his fingers against the first one. "Say it," he murmurs. "Tomorrow, when you feel this, what will you remember?"
"That I am yours," Zevran answers, just as quietly.
His right hand is still curled around Zevran's shoulder, fingers resting in the hollow in front of the joint. Alistair flexes that hand, pulling Zevran closer for a moment before smoothing his palm down across his chest and stomach until the backs of his knuckles brush Zevran's cock. Another twitch of skin is the only sign that Zevran feels it.
Alistair slides his hand farther down, to the inside of Zevran's thigh, using the grip to pull them together, Zevran across his thighs with Alistair's cock pressed between the cheeks of his ass. His skin is warmer than it was but still cool enough to elicit a wince, the lingering dampness making them both almost sticky. It's not entirely pleasant, but Alistair has no interest in moving. Instead, he tugs Zevran's head back to rest on his shoulder, then presses a hand to the center of his chest to hold him closer. In response to that pressure, Zevran curves his spine and flattens his bound hands, bending forward a little to fit against him better, and that kills any lingering desire to move away.
Only when they're settled together does Alistair wrap his hand around Zevran's cock, stroking lightly. He knows his fingers are cold, but again, all he gets is a brief twitch, and though this one extends to Zevran's entire body, there's not so much as a murmur of protest.
For the first time since they started, Alistair actually feels like he's in control, not playing at it because Zevran allows it. His thighs clench, his hips moving to rub his cock along Zevran's ass, and as good as that feels, it's nothing compared to the rush of power, the knowledge that there's little Zevran could do to stop him, whatever he chooses to do. But under that feeling of strength is something else, something unexpected, and it pulls him up short for a moment.
Protective. He feels protective.
Which is completely ridiculous. Zevran doesn't need to be protected from anyone or anything, let alone from Alistair, because even like this, Alistair is aware that Zevran might very well be able to come out on top in a fight. His submissive pose is just that: a pose, and one he could drop whenever he wants.
And yet...and yet, he might come out on top, but he might not. It's not a certain thing, not with his hands tied and his body spread out like it's on display.
Alistair is beginning to understand the earlier conversation about being in control, and the realization almost knocks him back into his earlier hesitation before he gets hold of himself. He is strong, and he is in control. In control of both of them.
His hand is warming up now, and he starts to move it over Zevran's cock. Curled together as they are, his body doesn't need help from his brain to know what to do: it's almost like stroking himself, except that nothing but the angle has anything in common with those frantic, lonely nights touching himself and hating himself at the same time. It's not even like his previous experiences with Zevran; those were equally frantic, if less fraught with guilt.
Without Zevran's mouth and hands dragging him relentlessly forward to completion, he can take his time. He can listen, and feel, and learn each individual sensation without being overwhelmed.
The wisps of Zevran's hair, just beginning to dry, brushing against his neck.
The rapid thud of Zevran's heart under his palm, beating out a rhythm at odds with his stillness.
The heat of Zevran's cock, the way soft skin moves over the hardness underneath until he reaches the head, soft in an entirely different way.
The wetness there at the tip, and the sound of Zevran's breath catching when Alistair drags his thumb across the slit, pressing down to squeeze the head gently between the pad of his thumb and the curve of his forefinger.
Zevran has sucked his cock three times now, and every time it was almost too much to be considered pleasurable. When Alistair slides his thumb between Zevran's lips, that trace of moisture still smeared across it, it's almost as good as Zevran's mouth on his cock. He can appreciate each touch as an individual experience, rather than a sensory assault that leaves him unable to do anything but whimper helplessly. There's the softness of Zevran's tongue and the silkier softness of the inside of his cheek, the hard ridges along the roof of his mouth and the sharp edges of his teeth and the gentle pull as he swallows. When Alistair curls his fingers under Zevran's chin to hold his mouth closed, he sucks harder, drawing Alistair's thumb deeper into his mouth.
Alistair turns his head to put his own mouth on Zevran's cheek, touching his tongue to the hollow behind his jaw and then the curve of his ear all the way up to the delicate point. He bites gently there, more a scrape of teeth than a true bite, and Zevran lets out another soft breath.
"Mine," he says, because the word keeps filling his throat, demanding to be let out whatever the rational part of him thinks about it. He kisses his way back along Zevran's ear and down the side of his neck, taking his thumb from Zevran's mouth to allow him to speak. "Say it."
"Soy tuyo."
The words could mean anything, but somehow that whispered Antivan kicks him in the chest, and his fingers tighten on Zevran's chin, thumb shoving between his lips again. The skin under Alistair's mouth twitches, and he bites down, harder than before as his knuckles press just short of Zevran's throat.
Zevran swallows, and Alistair relaxes his grip, replacing his thumb with three of his fingers, pushing down on Zevran's tongue so he can't move it as Alistair fucks his mouth in slow, steady thrusts. In the darkness, he can't know anything but what his ears and his skin tell him, and he concentrates on that, on wet sounds and soft lips. Only when his hand is wet all the way across his palm does he drop it down to Zevran's cock again.
He squeezes harder now, moving faster, and he's aware of Zevran's fingers, still trapped between their bodies and trembling against his stomach. Other than those small twitches, Zevran doesn't move.
Alistair's cock rubs against Zevran's ass, a touch that should be maddening as it hovers on the wrong side of enough. The baser part of his brain wants him to stop what he's doing, find the oil and slick them both up, fuck Zevran just like this with a hand on his cock to make his ass clench tight and hot. And it's tempting--oh, is it tempting--but that protective urge is stronger than ever, that need to keep Zevran safe from some imaginary danger, however unlikely it is that Zevran would actually need help with anything.
It's a strange feeling, humbling and powerful at the same time, and it brings with it an equally strong need not just to protect him, but to take care of him. As much as Alistair's body aches, that's secondary to the sound of Zevran's breathing, sharp pants breaking through the constant background noise of the rain.
Turning his mouth back down, Alistair bites Zevran's neck in the same place as before, moving his hand faster, trying to read what he can from the few hints available. It's not as if he's had many opportunities to learn how to read Zevran's reactions, and even if he had, Zevran is too good at showing only what he wants seen. Whatever signs Alistair learned last time might not apply tonight.
Still, he can feel the tension building, Zevran's body twitching as his control begins to slip, and Alistair moves to the other side of his neck, biting down on the unmarked skin of his shoulder. Other than the rapid rise and fall of his chest, those twitches are the only movements Zevran makes as Alistair's teeth sink in and his hand grips tighter. As much as Alistair usually wants to shake that perfect control, there's something incredibly arousing about it now, about the way it becomes obedience rather than defiance. His own release is secondary now, almost irrelevant against the need to reward that obedience, to wrap himself around Zevran and whisper praise into his skin and stroke his cock until he gasps and spills in Alistair's hand, hot spurts over his fingers that make Alistair groan softly.
When Zevran's cock has started to soften, Alistair wipes them both off and turns Zevran around to kiss him gently. His own cock is still hard, but it's surprisingly easy to ignore. He's content to hold Zevran against him and feel those last lingering shivers, to touch his mouth to the tattoos on his cheek and the bruises on his shoulders and the marks on his chest from the other night. Most of those marks are too low to reach from this position, but Alistair brushes his mouth against the higher ones and his fingers against the rest.
He could sleep now, easily, or spend the rest of the night like this, Zevran warm and relaxed against him.
Except when he reaches for Zevran's wrists to untie them, Zevran makes a protesting noise. He cuts it off quickly, and doesn't speak until Alistair remembers his earlier instruction and says, "Tell me."
Zevran mumbles the answer into his neck, voice low and slurred like someone talking in his sleep. "Let me please you, amo."
"You already did," Alistair says, not feeling entirely awake himself. He's caught in this half-dream state, unable to focus on anything beyond Zevran, on any moment beyond now.
"No," Zevran whispers, shaking his head. "You are still hard."
"It's fine," Alistair says, cupping the back of his head. "I'm fine."
"Let me suck you, at least." His voice is rising above a whisper, though not loud enough to be heard beyond the tent, and he's starting to shift his weight as if he's agitated.
Confused, Alistair strokes his hair. "It's fine, really. You don't need to do anything."
"Quiero-" Zevran begins, then shakes himself. "Please, amo. Please, I want it, I want you to fuck me."
He's shifting more now, his shoulders tensing, and Alistair strokes his hair again. "Zevran," he says, "it's fine. Don't worry about it."
"Please," Zevran says. His voice is back to a whisper, but he breathes the word into Alistair's ear, and it cracks at the end.
The banked fire in Alistair's gut flares up again, because Zevran begging for his cock is something he's ill-equipped to resist. And really, why should he? That's the lesson Zevran has been at pains to teach him these last few weeks, that there's no shame in this if they both want it.
It takes him a moment to find the oil again, but he manages to uncork the vial without dropping Zevran or making too big a mess, and then Zevran is moaning softly in his ear as Alistair fucks him with two slick fingers, stretching him open until he can't wait any longer.
This is another pleasure that's almost overwhelming, the tight heat of Zevran's body around his cock, the way Zevran moves with him and groans his pleasure as if it feels as good to him as it does to Alistair. One of these days, maybe Alistair will ask to try this the other way around, to see for himself, but not tonight, not when he's already so close to the edge he can feel it in his balls.
"Mine," he breathes into Zevran's neck, because his mouth always runs away with him when he doesn't pay attention, and right now, he'd rather pay attention to the pleasure rising inside him. "You're mine, and tomorrow you'll remember it, you'll feel me everywhere and remember that you're mine."
"Te pertenezco, amo," Zevran says, and it sounds like agreement.
Alistair swallows a groan as he lowers Zevran to the ground so he can grab his hips and fuck him harder, hard enough that the slap of his thighs meeting Zevran's ass is audible over the rain. Zevran is still whispering in Antivan, words Alistair doesn't know in a tone he knows perfectly, and he shifts his grip, slamming into Zevran harder, driving his body a few inches along the ground-
There's a clunk like Zevran's head has connected with something hard, then the sound of cloth tearing, and suddenly water is streaming into the tent, over both of them. Not just rain, but a pool of water that had collected in a dip in the canvas, drenching both of them immediately.
As close as he is to release, Alistair hardly feels it, only drags Zevran back toward him and thrusts again, not caring that water is still pouring down on his head. He can deal with it later, because Zevran is twisting against him, thrashing in the way he knows Alistair loves, begging "stop!" and fighting to break free even though he can't, not with his hands tied and Alistair's arms across his thighs.
Something tickles in the back of Alistair's brain, distracting him, and in that moment of distraction, he realizes Zevran isn't saying "stop!" He's choking on a mouthful of water, the word almost impossibly garbled, but on the third try, Alistair realizes what he's saying.
"Paz!" Zevran gasps again, twisting hard against Alistair's grip. More water splashes down on his face, making him choke and cough as he says it again and again, voice beyond desperate.
Lust vanishes in a cold wave of shame and horror, and Alistair pulls back, letting Zevran's hips drop to the ground. He's too much a warrior to ever completely lose track of his sword, and his hand closes on the sheath on the first try. From there, it only takes him a moment to draw his belt knife and flip Zevran over to cut the rope around his wrists.
Then he almost falls over himself scrambling backward. "I'm sorry," he gasps, his voice sounding as wrecked as Zevran's. "I'm sorry!"
Zevran doesn't answer, and he's huddled in on himself in a way that makes Alistair want to vomit: on his knees, bent over with his forehead nearly touching the ground, arms wrapped around his chest as he coughs in a way that sounds far too much like sobbing.
"I'm sorry," Alistair says again, twisting his fingers together. He wants to touch, to comfort, to run his hand along the curve of Zevran's spine until the muscles stop trembling, but he suspects that's the last thing Zevran wants right now. "I can set up my own tent-"
"Alistair." Zevran's voice is hoarse, and the sound of it makes Alistair wince. "Just fix the tent."
"Do you want me to-"
"I want you to fix the tent," Zevran says, still curled up as if his stomach pains him. "There is no need for more."
Alistair wants to argue, to offer again to move to his own tent, but he swallows the words and scrambles out into the rain.
Not that it's any worse outside than inside, right now, and he struggles with cold, stiff fingers until he has to admit there's no hope for the tent, not unless he plans to stitch it closed while standing in the dark and the rain.
"This one's torn," Alistair says through the gap. "I'll set up the other one, hold on."
He doesn't try to look inside, afraid of what he might see, unable to bear the thought of Zevran doubled over in pain because of him. It's bad enough in memory, he doesn't need to see it again in real life.
Setting up another tent by himself, in the dark, with the rain pounding down and the wind conspiring to snatch ropes and canvas from his frozen fingers, is enough to have Alistair swearing in short order. The mud sucks at his feet, somehow managing to be both sticky and slippery at the same time, and he's close to snapping when Mahariel says his name right at his elbow.
He jumps several feet in the air and comes down facing her, heart pounding.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"The tent ripped," he tells her, which is true. There's no need to tell her why. "I can't fix it, not like this."
There's a pause, the night too dim to make out her expression, but the way her chin tilts down and then back up is obvious. Which is when Alistair realizes he's naked.
Instinct brings his hands over his groin just as a wisp flares into life above their heads, Morrigan standing a few feet away. Almost as soon as the light appears, the others burst from their tents ready to fend off a nonexistent attack.
Alistair turns away, back to setting up the tent, and Mahariel rushes forward to help. It's hardly better with two people, but then Zevran is suddenly at his elbow, grabbing for the canvas and helping to tie it in place. He, at least, thought to grab his pants before he came out in the rain, and maybe the others will think that Alistair was in the middle of changing his clothes. A bit of mockery for his nakedness is far preferable to just about any other likely outcome.
They get the canvas in place at last, and Alistair heaves a sigh of relief made unpleasantly damp by the rain trying to get in his mouth. As he dashes the water from his face, his gaze falls on Zevran's chest, and his stomach lurches unpleasantly. In the icy cold of the rain, Zevran's skin has gone pale, and the marks across his chest are shockingly dark in the wisp's green glow.
Alistair knows the moment that the others notice: Leliana first, her elbow catching Mahariel hard in the ribs. Then the others' eyes follow those two startled gazes, widening in matching surprise. The sound of the rain is now quieter than the sound of the blood rushing in his ears.
"Someone does like to play rough," Morrigan says at last, with a smirk. Her eyes flick to Alistair. "Best to keep a safe distance when we're in town, Alistair. Whoever he decides to rut with next might decide you look tasty, too."
The comment makes no sense, and Alistair frowns in confusion, to Morrigan's obvious amusement and Mahariel's equally obvious discomfort.
"Surely even you can't be so stupid as that," Morrigan says. Her expression has turned scornful, the way it so often does when she looks at him. "You truly are utterly ignorant, aren't you?"
The realization hits Alistair much like the water did earlier, when the canvas tore: she doesn't know. The marks are days old, from their stay at that last inn, and Morrigan doesn't know it was Alistair's teeth that made them. She's assumed it was a stranger, someone Zevran found and fucked and left behind, as he has so many times in the past. If Alistair says nothing, then his secret is safe. Assuming, of course, that Zevran also says nothing to give him away, and that's not a certainty by any means.
Before he can panic, Zevran shifts his position, tucking his hands behind his back as if to thrust out his chest to display the marks, but Alistair knows what he's really doing: hiding his hands, and the fresh rope-burns around his wrists. Zevran doesn't need to look at him for Alistair to understand the message, and for a moment, he's relieved beyond words.
"Jealous?" Zevran asks Morrigan sweetly, with his usual smirk. "You are always welcome to join me."
Morrigan transfers her scorn from Alistair to Zevran without losing any of it. "And why would I do that, when I don't know where you've been?"
"I would be happy to tell you all about it," Zevran says, still smirking.
That smirk isn't right, though, and Alistair's stomach makes another dive for his feet. No one else seems to have noticed, but there's an edge to it that isn't usually there. Or maybe it's only in Alistair's head that it's strained, tainted by the memory of Zevran struggling to say "paz" as he chokes on a mouthful of water.
Alistair could pretend that what he does next is thoughtless, or an instinct that he's not responsible for, but it isn't either of those things. Whatever Morrigan may think of him, he knows how to assess a fight in an instant, and that's what this conversation has suddenly become. So he reads it like one, running through his options between one blink and the next before making his choice. He's done enough damage tonight, and as sick as he feels, he knows Zevran feels worse.
He takes a half step sideways, putting himself between Zevran and the others, and turns to face them, his chin tilting up. There should be some bold statement that goes with the pose, but that's a little beyond his talents, and besides, his meaning is clear enough.
"Brasca," he hears Zevran mutter behind him. Then: "Fool." The emotion in the second word isn't scorn, though Alistair can't define it beyond that.
Once again, Leliana is the first one to understand, but this time, Mahariel continues to frown in puzzlement as Morrigan's eyes go wide. It isn't until she lets out a raucous laugh that Mahariel's face changes, mouth dropping open just a bit. Alistair can't bring himself to look at the others, but he thinks he's safe enough assuming their expressions are much the same.
Morrigan is the only one laughing, at least.
She makes up for that by laughing until she almost chokes on the rain, and when she finally straightens, she gives Alistair another scornful glance. "Well, well, isn't this interesting." Her eyes rake over him from head to foot before fixing on his groin. "I do hope for both your sakes that's only a regrettable effect of the rain."
Her chin tilts toward his cock, currently trying to retreat from the cold into his body. If he wasn't freezing and naked in the rain, he would blush hot enough to blind them all.
Zevran's skin is no warmer than his, but Alistair feels the pressure of his hand on one shoulder. "Oh trust me," Zevran purrs, his voice almost a caress against Alistair's ear even though he's speaking loudly enough to be heard by everyone, "it is. Regrettable, as you say, but only a temporary problem. Very temporary."
Despite the cold, now Alistair is blushing, his face warm enough for the rain to sting all the more fiercely.
Mahariel laughs, a short giggle that has more of nerves than amusement about it. "Ahhh, I think we're done for tonight," she says. Her usual persuasive skills seem to have abandoned her, and she's reduced to flapping her hands at the others, who are only too happy to disperse.
Well, they're happy to disperse with frequent over-the-shoulder looks at where Zevran, Alistair, and Mahariel stand staring at each other.
When the three of them are alone, Mahariel says quietly, "Give us a moment, Zevran?"
"As you wish," he murmurs, and turns away, leaving Alistair alone to face his fate.