It had been a week since they had spent the night together, and Alistair had been avoiding him. Worse, the grey warden could not seem to meet Zevran's eyes, instead studying the floor whenever the elf was nearby. At first Zevran had planned to leave Alistair be, let him come to terms in his own time without pressure, but he was fast realising that without some form of prompt, Alistair would continue to avoid him.
And he was surprisingly good at finding little tasks that took him out of the Antivan's way, and generally being difficult to corner when the party had gathered together. He would use some flimsy excuse about needing a second or even third helping of dinner if Zevran approached him after a meal, or claim he had an unknown sister to visit in Denerim. The others seemed unaware of what had happened the night Zevran didn't die, and for that at least Zevran was grateful. He had a feeling that the first snarky comment might cause Alistair to combust with embarrassment.
Sighing, Zevran leaned back against the bookshelf in the Arl's homestead. He had hoped that the night with the ex-templar was not a one-off incident, but the aching silence was not promising. He wanted to talk to Alistair, to reassure, to explain, to say something that would mend this mess. Zevran also found himself surprised that he wanted to 'fix' things, more than the idea of another evening in his company, he wanted to make sure that Alistair wasn't hurt... or angry with him.
He heard a door, and lightly wandered over to see who was approaching. His smile was just a little slow as he saw Lieanna round the corner, and she slowed as she came up to the elf.
"Is he still giving you the run around?"
Zevran scowled, that girl could appear sweetness and light but it hid a sharp insight. He had thought that no-one bar himself and Alistair knew.
"Oh come now, don't look at me like that. You watch him like a hawk whenever you're in the same room, and I don't think I've ever seen anyone run so fast to do dishes... Wynn has been trying to convince him that you are honestly not trying to assassinate him, she thinks he is scared of you!"
"It would possibly be much simpler if I were just trying to assassinate him."
Lieanna tipped her head to the side, "Perhaps. It is always harder to win a heart than break it."
"Bah, I have no wish to 'win his heart'," Zevran flicked his hand, dismissing the notion.
"Then what do you want?"
Those words hung in the air, and Zevran found himself without an answer. Lieanna smiled sadly, and patted him on the shoulder as she passed, disappearing off to her room.
He brushed himself of her touch, his mood suddenly dark. Stalking back to his position by the bookcase, but this time within sight of the door so he could watch who entered, he crossed his arms.
Amends. He wanted to make amends with Alistair, who was a companion who he had slept with, once. Should the grey warden wish nothing more of the Antivan's company, so be it. Zevran would then be free to bed someone else, someone more willing, and much less complicated.
Yet, the idea of sharing a bed with anyone but Alistair sat uneasily in his mind. He thought of the strong hands against his body, those low moans of pleasure and the raw passion of Alistair's gaze, but also the softness in his eyes and the safety Zevran had felt in his arms that night. He was not used to trusting another person, the way of the crows warned against such behavior and his own bitter life experience had more or less driven any desire to rely on another from his head. He had prided himself on his coldness, congratulated himself that he depended on noone, and yet... he trusted Alistair. He found himself trusting everyone in their odd little group (even Morrigan, though he was always wary when she reached for her staff after a light-hearted jibe), but Alistair had defended him in battle, and laughed at his jokes by the campfire even though most of them caused him to blush furiously. Alistair had listened when Zevran had been asked of his mother, and later, quietly when they were alone, spoke of his own unknown mother, also killed in childbirth. They had shared a silence which was strong and moving, and neither had had to say anything.
This silence however, was causing no end of problems. Resolved, Zevran decided that tonight he would get Alistair to talk to him, even if he had to ambush the warden in the night.
He felt a sudden surge of panic in his chest, and with a slow sigh he realised why he'd not spoken to Alistair already, he was afraid. Afraid that Alistair would reveal he had regrets, that Alistair would tell him that their night together was a mistake, that Alistair would say no, a final, and undeniable no. At least in the silence, there was the hope of uncertainly. A hope that something could work between an assassin and a grey warden, between them. Breaking the silence would dispel that uncertainty, and that made Zevran uneasy.
"Brasca..." he muttered.
Lieanna had finished sorting out her clothes, though it had taken her more time than usual to settle on a pair of shoes for the evening. After spending so much time on the road finally having more than one set of fresh clothes was both a blessing and a curse. As she across to the kitchens to make a start on dinner, she noticed a familiar figure, pacing by the bookshelves on near soundless feet. He must have been there for hours, and from the look on his face, he was deep in unhappy thoughts.
Though she was tempted to try and speak to Zevran, her instinct told her to leave the elf to himself. It seemed he had enough trouble admitting his feelings to himself, nevermind to someone else.
She slipped quietly by, and was only a little surprised to find that Zevran hadn't noticed at all....
Zevran was still watching the doors that night, his appetite having fled and his stomach filled with butterflies instead. He knew that the grey wardens had gone to talk to the queen, or meet her servant, or something of the like. He hadn't really caught the details, as Alistair had volunteered and pratically ran out the door, his fellow warden, Wynn and Sten chasing after him. Yet another tactic the ex-templar was employing to keep a distance between himself and Zevran.
By the time the dinner plates were cleared, they still hadn't returned. This did not help Zevran settle any, and he found himself patrolling the bookshelves impatiently. The others were giving him a wide berth, his brooding mood earning him space to haunt the stacks of books undisturbed.
When the doors opened suddenly, and there followed a flurry of activity and shouting, he knew something was wrong. He'd not seen the pale look on the female warden's face before, nor seen her clench her fists so tight. She was battleworn, her light armor cut in places, and a gash on her arm. She led a woman who he guessed to be the queen, her scurrying maid, a bruised Wynn and limping Sten in a fast march straight to the Arl's study, calling for servants to fetch elfroot, bandages and hot water. He followed quickly, noting with rising dread that Alistair was not there.
He only caught pieces of the conversation, as the group explained that they had been ambushed upon rescuing the queen. He found it hard to focus as everyone seemed to talk at once, recounting the tale and attempting to tend to the injuries at the same time. Zevran let out a long breath, he hadn't realised he was holding when he heard that Alistair was alive, last they saw, but captured. At this, the grey warden's voice tightened, explaining she'd slipped into shadows, hiding herself during the battle when she saw that they could not win. It was a trick she'd learnt from Zevran himself, but the guilt she felt at abandoning Alistair was obvious.
The Arl tried to reassure her that it was better that both grey wardens were not lost, and, seeing the look in her eye banned her from heading out to Fort Drakon.
"We cannot risk you. We need someone else to break in and rescue Alistair... The fort is heavily guarded, countless forces inside, all armed and well defended. I doubt very much that a frontal assault will be anything more than a suicide mission. I think perhaps stealth might be our best option, someone to sneak in and out without alerting the guards..."
Zevran found himself in the doorway, being watched intently by those within the room. He nodded, finding a weak smile.
"At your service...."
------
Impatient as he was, the planning of the rescue could not be rushed. He spent his evening in the local bars, chatting causally to the patrons until he found servants who worked at the fort. His charming manner in attentively listening to the hardships of the working rota, and cleaning schedules served him well, and he started to build a picture of the fort, while he deftly pocketed keys while eyes were looking deep into his own. Three times he was told to get back to the allienage where he belonged, and twice he had to refuse the advances of his new found 'friends'. During the day, he spent long hours working a dark oil into his leathers, making them soft and silent as possible, and almost black in colour. He worked in the kitchens, making poisonous concoctions and then concentrating them until they were a sticky paste. He watched the ebb and flow of people around Fort Drakon, observing when groups left for the tavern, or seemed to switch guard. He made note of the blind spots around the sentry wall, and where the best cover was.
He knew he had to get this right first time, and so this preparation was necessary, lest they double the guards, or move Alistair to a secret location, or, if they were truly ruthless, execute the grey warden there and then to avoid further attempts to free him. He also knew however, that every hour that passed would wear on the warden.
His eyes took on an intense focus, and his jaw was tight. His words became clipped, and he suddenly had no time for the frivolous chatter the other had come to expect from him. When he did make attempts at sleep, it was fitful, but while on his feet he remained restless, pacing constantly and ceaselessly going over the details in his mind.
He refused to let himself dwell on what he might find once inside the fort, what sort of state Alistair would be in, using his work to distract him. By night however, memories of Antivan torture racks, and long trials in dark cells haunted his dreams, and he would awake with new vigor.
Four days after the party had returned with the news of Alistair's imprisonment, Zevran was ready.
------
Alistair hated the nights most, the chill in the air having worked into his bones, causing him to shiver uncontrollably. His shoulders ached, his wrists hung above him in chains. The skin around the metal cuffs was raw, and he could smell blood.
He was cold, too cold to think straight. He knew he was in Fort Drakon, and that his chances of leaving this place were nonexistent. Time passed strangely, disjointedly. Guards came in intermittently, bringing water and food. Sometimes they would kick him, or taunt him, but he was too tired, his body too numb to react. At first he had struggled, pulled against the chains and tried to stand, tried to fight. He had shouted, and roared, his voice echoing against the cell walls. The guards, safe in their armor, safe out of reach of his bound rage, had laughed. He had tried to plan escape, tried to talk with the guards, tried to reason, bribe and deceive, all to no avail. Now he just sat, trying to keep his bare back from the freezing stone floor by siting upon his legs, until they cramped.
His consciousness was a haze of half formed thoughts, and the ever-present rattle of his body trying to regain some heat, some feeling. He heard dogs barking, he'd heard them before, but not like this. It sounded like someone was pulling teeth from an entire pack of war mabrai. There was short sharp shouts, and more crazed barking.
He absently wondered if someone had finally taken offence at the constant claims that Ferelden smelt of wet dogs, and decided to remedy the situation.
His head lolled to the side as he heard someone at the door. There was no swift turn of a key, but rather a tinny scrapping, and the sound of tiny metal rods clicking against each other.
The door swung open, slowly, and a lithe figure stood in the doorway, tensed in readiness.
"Ah, here you are... Did you miss me?" The voice was whispered, but unmistakable.
"...Zevran?" Alistair's voice was hoarse, and he twisted to confirm that he wasn't dreaming.
"Hush, it took me a little longer than I'd have liked to find you. They do not have any system for marking who they have in each cell, most inconsiderate."
Zevran was crouched down beside him, studying him over. He did not seem disturbed that Alistair was naked, but he looked over the dark bruises with severe eyes. His mouth was a thin line without expression, as he pulled a flask out from his belt.
"Here," he offered it to Alistair, who was finding it difficult to focus his eyes. It tasted like flat ale, but it was liquid and he drank gratefully.
"Small sips," Zevran advised, pulling it away to stop Alistair from gulping down too much and making himself sick. Licking his dry lips, Alistair saw that Zevran was reaching up, and tinkering with the metal shackles. He seemed business-like, and moved so close to his work that Alistair could smell the Antivan, and feel the warmth that radiated through the dark leather. Letting out a long and shuddering sigh, Alistair let his body lean into the elf's chest, wanting to claim some of that heat for himself. He felt Zevran take a breath and hold it, suddenly still. Dragging his head upwards, he tried to see the elf's face, but Zevran had already returned to the task of picking the locks, seemingly accepting that Alistair was going to press into him while he worked. His eyes were strange, colder than the cell.
"Zev.. I..."
"Alistair," Zevran said flatly, "we need to get you out of here as quickly, and as quietly as possible. The guards are either dead or distracted for the moment, but I can't fight off a whole fortress. You do not need to say anything... not right now at least."
Stunned into silence, Alistair had to bite down a gasp of pain his one of his hands dropped from the metal cuff. Slowly, he stretched his fingers, wincing as needles of feeling returned. The other hand was released, and Zevran allowed Alistair a moment to overcome the pain the freedom brought. Checking that the doorway was still clear, and drawing a set of foul smelling daggers he rose gracefully to his feet. He gestured to the flask.
"Drink a little more, and then we'll see if you can walk."
Alistair lifted the flask gingerly, his body stiff and unwilling. He restrained himself now, taking only enough liquid to coat his tongue, breathing deeply between swallows. Slowly, he put an arm out to the wall and pulled himself upright, swaying slightly as the blood left his head. Gritting his teeth, he took a small step forwards. He was unsteady, and could not hold a weapon, but he could stand unaided. Zevran nodded quietly, thankful for Alistair's strength.
"There are clothes here, put them on while I make sure the path is still unmanned," Zevran passed a bundle of dark grey wools to Alistair, who, using the wall for support, started to dress. When he looked up, the elf had gone. Dogs still barked, furiously filling the air with noise.
Alistair had finished pulling the last boot on when Zevran returned. The elf had a gash on the side of his face, blood trickling down the side of his ear, and his dagger had a coating of something dark and red. He did not wipe it clean, as he would normally, instead he smiled wickedly.
"The way is clear."
Alistair had it explained to him once he had claimed a day and a half's rest and eaten four portions of stew, when he was in a state more able to understand. It was another day before he was able to actually bring himself to talk about what had happened, and together start to piece together the events. He didn't remember many of the details of the rescue, everything fuzzy from the days of imprisonment. He was told that Zevran had single handedly killed nearly everyone on shift in the east wing of the fort where Alistair had been held, just as the shift had changed over. Poisoned daggers and his unnerving stealth had helped, though he'd taken a few retaliatory blows as he cut down the last of the soldiers. Meanwhile, he'd drugged the mabrai hounds with a powerful aphrodisiac, causing a suitably noisy and chaotic distraction while they slipped out. By that point, Alistair had been barely able to put one foot in front of the other, the effort of such moment after days of stillness draining him almost entirely. He recalled someone charging, and being unable to move fast enough to avoid a swinging blade, but on careful examination of himself could find no injury worse than some bruised ribs and tender wrists.
His sister grey warden sat with him, answering his questions and fetching more stew, and eventually he got her to stop apologizing. Once he felt strong enough, he asked quietly where Zevran was.
"...I could go fetch him?" Something in her eyes changed, something she wasn't telling him. He threw her a questioning look, and she sighed.
"Zevran... changed when you were captured. He stopped smiling, and I've never seen anyone so driven. He spent every waking moment arranging things to get you out, planning and plotting and preparing... and now you're safe again... I think he's at a bit of a loss of what to do with himself now the crisis is over,"
Alistair nodded, unsure of what he could say to this. He'd seen the look in Zevran's face as the elf freed him, it was focused and ruthless. It had scared him, not seeing any of the jovial character he'd known behind those eyes, just stone-hearted determination. Nevermind the mess they still had to discuss from before Loghain had seized him. Speaking to the Antivan would not be easy, but Alistair felt that saying thank you would be as good a start as any.
"I'll go speak to him... He is in his room?" Alistair started to get up, feeling his body finally start to ease into motion without pain again.
That look again, something amiss....
"He has not left it since he returned...."
That surprised Alistair, he could not imagine the elf brooding, nor confined to a bedroom for any length of time. He started down the corridor immediately.
He was stopped, repeatedly, by people wanting to make sure he was well, eager to express their happiness at seeing him in one piece. He nodded and reassured and then nodded some more. Eventually, tired and nervous, he came to a closed door. He knocked, and when he received no answer pushed against it slowly. It opened, and inside he saw Zevran sitting on the bed, knees up to his chest and head resting in his hand. His other arm had a long length of bandage wrapped down from shoulder to wrist, but it hadn't been changed recently. He was watching the door, and his eyes flashed surprised when Alistair entered, closing the door softly behind him.
"Hello Zevran," he found his voice quietened by the sight of the elf, his hair lank and unwashed, his eyes dark. Zevran fixed upon Alistair, legs uncurling in front of him. He looked almost predatory then, and Alistair felt a twinge of fear at having shut the door behind him.
"Hello." No smile, no hint of wry amusement, no... emotion in the voice. Alistair understood now the look in his sister warden's eyes, it was fear. Something was definitely changed about Zevran, something was very wrong.
"I.. I wanted to thank you for what you did. I can't imagine how I can ever thank you enough, I-"
"You are welcome."
Alistair frowned, as the Antivan gave a slow nod and then diverted his eyes downwards. He stood in the middle of the room, trying to find words caught in his throat, trying to fathom what had possibly happened to his friend. He took a slow, gentle step forward.
"Zev.. " he said softly, reaching out to lay a hand upon the bandaged forearm closest to him. As soon as his fingers touched upon the covering Zevran flinched sharply.
"Don't," the word was growled low and dangerous, and Zevran's eyes were narrowed. Alistair swallowed, and without taking his eyes from the elf's, reached out, more firmly this time.
"I should have come to you before... We needed to talk but I was too scared to say anything. It was easier to tell myself I had a blight to deal with.... but you deserved more than that. And Maker, the way you watched me all the time.... I thought if I just stayed out of your way, that you'd maybe forgive me in your own time."
Whether it was the hand upon his arm, or the fact Alistair had sat himself on the edge of the bed, Zevran's face changed. There was something of surprise, a fleeing look of confusion. He took a short breath, "Forgive you..?"
"I took advantage of you!" Alistair's voice came out hurried, the things he'd wanted to say rushing through his mouth now, "You were venerable, you'd nearly been *killed*, and I lost control. I should have let you be, but you were so close, so warm.... I ought to have been stronger. It was not fair to you, what I did. I wanted to say something, but what could I say? I am so sorry...."
He could hear Zevran breathing, slow and steady, and then felt him shift on the bed, moving legs out the way so that he was face to face with the extemplar.
"That is what you thought? That is why you were avoiding me?"
Alistair nodded, bringing up his hands to hide his face, hide the shame and the gloss of tears in his eyes.
Soft hands covered his, pulling them gently away. He saw Zevran's eyes, staring deep into his own.
"We are such a pair. You need no forgiveness, my proposal to repay you was sincere, and I am glad you took me up on my offer. I was very forward however, and when you did not speak to me, I imagined that you perhaps were not as willing as I had thought. I thought you were avoiding me because you were angry at myself! I am rather relieved to be wrong."
The sound of Zevran's laughter filled the room, and Alistair felt relieve flood through him, lifting his shame and guilt and spirits. He was about to pull Zevran into an embrace when he felt the elf move from his grasp, his laugh ceasing. With a sigh that seemed to drain all the air from his body, he curled up around his knees again, seeming so much smaller.
"No... Do not touch me."
"Why not? It was all a stupid misunderstanding, but it is sorted now." Alistair's voice was strained, and he wanted to hold Zevran. To reassure him that things could be fine again, to reassure himself. The assassin shook his head.
"Its not that... You have to understand... when I learnt what had happened to you, I had to go back to what I'd been as a Crow. I shut myself off, forced myself not to feel, lest I go charging off to die at the doorstep of the fortress. I did things I thought I had lost the taste for, used poisons I knew which were brutal. I unleashed the part of me that I am afraid of, a darkness I am not sure I can contain again."
Alistair thought he understood. While the others may have been worried sick about him, Zevran had been charged to actually do something about it. He knew too well the weight of duty, and the expectation to accomplish the near impossible. The blight had consumed his own life for so long, he longed for something more than killing and fighting and blood. In part, he suspected that was why he had submitted to his desires with Zevran, just for the chance to feel something other with another person, something tender and warm. It had restored his humanity in a way, allowed him to accept that he was not just some darkspawn slaying golem, that he was permitted to feel. He was prepared to die, if it would stop the blight, but now in Zevran he found he had something he was ready to live for as well.
"What you did... you had to, and I will always be grateful."
Zevran's jaw tightened, and he could see the pain in the elf's face.
"What I did was become a Crow again. And we both know Crows are dangerous, and not to be trusted."
"I trust you Zevran..."
"Then you are a fool." The insult held no spite, but a strange sadness. Conflict marred Zevran's face, and he tried to rise from the bed. Alistair laid a firm hand on his shoulder, and held the assassin back from leaving.
"No. We are going to talk about this. I could have saved you a lot of pain if I'd spoken to you sooner, and I'm damn well not going to make the same mistake again."
Zevran twisted, trying to shrug off Alistair's hand, but his bandaged arm could not move as well as he would have liked.
"Fine, I will talk. I plan to go. I will leave, get out of the city, out of the country and let you save the world in peace. You do not need me, and it will be easier... For both of us."
"I ... don't want you to go."
Alistair held both shoulders, careful not to hurt the one shrouded in bandages, locking his eyes upon Zevran's, ignoring the flash of bared teeth. The assassin scowled, he was trying, for once in his life, to put someone else over his own desires, why did the templar have to make things so *difficult*. Besides, he didn't think he could cope with the feelings Alistair stirred in him. He could cut swathes through ranks of darkspawn, decent into the very pits of the earth looking for ancient relics and even lay siege to a fortress, but the idea of being near Alistair if he didn't feel the same way struck a fear inside him he thought he'd managed to overcome years ago. And that last time had ended... very badly.
"Let me go... before I hurt you." Not a threat, but a plead.
He felt Zevran's chest heave, and the assassin exhaled through clenched teeth.
He took a nervous breath himself, fighting down a lump fast forming in his throat. He could let the assassin go, let him walk away and leave him to focus on the archdemon. It would indeed be easier, safer. Zevran obviously feared hurting him, emotionally rather than physically, and Alistair was not so native that he didn't acknowledge that risk. He could chose to stay dutybound, and unentangled in the complex elf. He could, but knew he wouldn't.
He leaned in, and gently cupped his head towards him. the assassin watched him carefully, brown eyes fixed upon him.
"You saved my life Zevren... It wouldn't have been a good way to die," he spoke not only of Zevran's valiant rescue, but also of giving him meaning to his life. Alistair felt like he might burn under Zevran's heated gaze, and his voice dropped to a low soft whisper;
"Will you let me repay you?"
A slow wide smile spread across Zevran's face, and he nodded, once. He sank into Alistair's arms, running his lips against the knuckles of his hands, kissing the tender skin of the inside of his wrists. Alistair moaned softly as he clutched the elf to him, breathing in the scent of blonde hair against his face.
Zevran pressed himself against Alistair's chest, arching backwards so that their lips could meet. Alistair stroked the side of the slender neck, and pressed his lips to Zevran's. Zevran flicked a tongue out, teasing and Alistair hungrily pushed into the other's mouth, the fingers on the neck curling, letting fingernails dig in just a little. Zevran's little noises of pleasure were intoxicating, and Alistair quickly found he was breathing heavily against the tanned skin. Likewise, Zevran was finding it hard to breath normally, not least as Alistair had started to nibble against his ear. He could hear Alistair making appreciative grunts, felt the hot breath against his skin and teeth applying just enough pressure to cause him to shiver in the warden's arms.
Alistair started to pull at the shirt hiding those curls of black ink, wanting to feel skin against his own. With his good arm, Zevran aided in taking the loose shirt off, and then twisted so he was facing Alistair, his own hands delving under the fabric and caress the skin beneath. Alistair raised his arms, and his eyes dropped to the belt buckle, tight against Zevran's hip. He slid the tips of his fingers under the belt, and with a mischievous grin, pulled, so that Zevran practically landed on top of him. Alistair held the elf tightly, kissing him deeply, his tongue reveling in the heat from their mouths, from the way Zevran would sigh into the kiss happily, eyes closing as Alistair stroked the back of his head.
When they broke for breath, Zevran placed his hands upon Alistairs shoulders, pinning him down. He moved a knee up between Alistair's legs, flexing it slightly so that he would feel it through his trousers. He reached down for the fastenings at Alistair's waist, and managed to get them loosened, and finally untied. A single finger drew a line down from his navel, and Alistair couldn't stop his hips moving along with that delicate touch.
With one of Zevran's hands busy, Alistair had one shoulder free, and he reached up to run fingers down the taunt chest before him. Having the Antivan here in front of him, skilled fingers now curling around the hair beneath his underclothes was almost too much, and he pulled again on the belt, bumping Zevern's hips with his own.
The heat now favored with sweat and the delicate scent of arousal washed over the pair, as Alistair sat up on the bed, supporting Zevran.
Zevran stood, quickly taking off his trousers and letting them slip to the floor. Alistair struggled out of the remains his own clothes, savoring the sight of Zevran standing there, naked save for the bandage on his arm, and a flash of teeth behind a knowing smile. Aware of Alistair's gaze, he stretched over to the desk and brought a bottle of something dark. He tipped a small amount of the leather oil he'd been using on his armor into his hand, warming it in his palm before carefully stroking it over Alistair's waiting member.
As glistening fingers rubbed and massaged, Alistair placed both hands on Zevran's hips, pulling them down, impatient to feel the elf around him. He could see the want in the templar's eyes, and his own need throbbed with a pressing urgency. He sat himself upon Alistair's stiff manhood, arching as the heat filled him, pushing all the air from him in a low soft moan. The hand on his hips trembled as he started to move, watching Alistair's head tip backwards. He controlled the pace, and though he could feel Alistair start to shift under him, he fought down the instinct to speed up, instead working up to a slow but powerful resolution.
As Alistair started to make little grunts was each breath, his fingers digging into the tanned skin over his hips, Zevran leaned back, the angle deeper and the thrusts starting to take on the desperate need he felt building within him. Breaths becoming almost too quick to fuel his lungs, he started to force himself onto Alistair, the heat and way he filled his insides with a raw and rapacious energy overtaking him. Alistair then touched upon the elf's member, squeezing lighting and starting to pump in time with Zevran's thrusts.
Overwhelmed, he rolled his hips just so, his body tightening, and he felt Alistair spilt into him. Alistair gripped then, bringing release to Zevran, and they slide down onto the bed, hot and sweaty and satisfied.
Once Alistair had manage to stop breathing so heavily, as if the air in the room were going to run out, Zevran turned and rested his head upon the templar's chest, fingers threaded and hair falling down his face in untidy strands.
"Well. For better or worse, my dear grey warden, it would seem you are stuck with me."
Arms engulfed him, holding him so tight he felt his ribs creak slightly under the pressure.
"Good." Alistair breathed, smiling.