It was Zevran's chuckle that woke Alistair. There was something of a wicked edge to it and Alistair bit off a groan, rolling over. It was far too close, so he flicked open the flap of a tent to look for the assassin, wondering if Avela was safe, and… oh.
Between Alistair's tent and the campfire was Avela's own tent. The firelight cast shadows on her canvas walls. The black shapes moved and flickered and Alistair's stomach lurched as they resolved themselves into limbs.
Avela choked off a sound that was like a newborn scream and he saw her body arch up because… why? Was Zevran… kissing her between her legs? Alistair saw the outline of her breasts where they rounded out from her ribs and he didn't look away as he ought because he was thinking about the taste of Avela's mouth, her sweet gentle lips under his and her tongue, shooting fire down his spine and the warm cavity of her mouth accepting his own tongue. And even though Alistair had backed off months ago his throat felt empty with the sudden yearning to know what she tasted like there, too. Bastard Zevran.
Zevran laughed again and said something, low. Alistair sharpened his gaze. It appeared that she was mounting him now and Alistair had to pinch his eyes shut as his hips twitched a little, imagining as he had so many times about being inside of her, though Maker knows he had no idea what it would feel like, but being so close to her and showing her how his heart burned and maybe it would even be as warm as her mouth was but… his hips jerked again, nearly grinding himself into the bedroll and he reached for the Chant. There was no word / For heaven or earth, for sea or sky. / All that existed was silence.
Alistair took a deep breath and turned his head against the bedroll again, resolving to ignore-she screamed and his eyes snapped open, fearful that she had been hurt, and watched her back arch, the way that she shook. Zevran's hand was at her breast, his other at… her hip, he thought, and Alistair covered his face with a hand, squirming and imagining again the breast he'd once caught sight of when she was being healed, her smooth dark skin under his hand, her soft black hair over his cheek and he struggled with loathing and longing and sought still to calm himself even as his other hand was reaching to encircle his own hard length. They could not feel, could not touch. / In blackest envy were the demons born.