Rating: M. NSFW (Not Safe For Work).
Word Count: 3364 words.
PC: Brief mention, but it could be any fem!PC.
Summary: "It's about trust. That is the point and problem between the two of us, is it not?" After being locked in a room together, our Templar and our Assassin discover that perhaps they trust one another a bit more than they originally thought.
[[ ... One-Shot ... ]]
Maker take them all, he was never going to trust that Warden again. It had been her idea, this foolish game of trust. A method of ensuring unity during battle, she'd said. Hah! More like a simple punishment for mocking her about her appetite since her Joining. Of course, he should have kept his mouth shut, but when her lips had parted in surprise, he couldn't help but deliver the blow, enjoying himself far too much.
Now, he was trapped in a room in the Gnawed Noble with Zevran. The only consolation he had was that the elf didn't seem much happier than he did at the moment. The silence between the stretched, and Zevran noiselessly picked at the sole of one of his boots with the tip of a dagger. Alistair watched him, uncharacteristically quiet. There would be no escaping this small slice of hell. After all, their fearless leader had taken the key with her after locking them in.
Now, the two of them both sat, packs and gear stowed away in the corner. Zevran was at the table, his feet propped up on the edge while he leaned the chair onto its back legs, wholly focused on the boot in his hands and taking care not to damage the leather as he picked out grime and gore and only Maker knew what else. Alistair, on the other hand, sat on the edge of the bed-the one bed-and tried his hardest not to simply stare at his companion. However, the longer the night stretched on, the more difficult it became, if only because he had stared at everything else in the room.
"You know, Alistair, there are a multitude of ways with which to relieve boredom. Allow me to show you some of them." Zevran's voice was low, his words easy enough. It was just something about how he said it that made Alistair's skin crawl. He glanced over at the armor, wondering if he could figure out an excuse to put it back on. Zevran didn't unnerve him so much whenever he was armored.
"No, thank you." He couldn't stop his upper lip from curling slightly at the thought. He wasn't that weak. No matter how pretty the elf was, he was first and foremost a killer, an assassin sent to kill them all. She had been a fool to spare his life, and honestly, Alistair found it a bit beyond his comprehension. He didn't really want to understand it either. If he did, he might have to come to terms with something else that he wasn't really ready for.
"Aaah, such a pity. It would, at least, have passed the night more... enjoyably." A sigh was forced between the elf's lips, and Alistair stared at how it made his hair move over his face. Shaking himself just slightly, he scowled. He had no business noticing how the blonde's hair moved whenever he breathed.
"For you, maybe. For me? Not so much."
At that, Zevran let go of his boot, looking over at Alistair with an odd gleam in his eye. "No?" He pushed himself up, all grace that the templar was quite sure he would never be able to match. "Are you so certain then?" Here, Zevran's hands landed on the bed, on either side of Alistair. Quickly, the warrior scrabbled back, trying to put some distance between himself and the elf. He didn't want to put up too much of a struggle, as he was almost positive that she was standing outside, waiting to rush in if she thought they were ready to kill one another.
"I uh," he swallowed, "I'm pretty certain, yeah." His stomach sank as the blonde simply crawled over him on the bed, and when Zevran's weight settled on his hips, he felt heat beginning to flood through him, causing a certain...predictable reaction. He flushed darkly, averting his eyes to the ceiling, praying to the Maker that he could just be struck down.
"You don't seem pretty certain." The voice was practically purring over him, reaching in and stroking parts of his passion he had been certain were permanently unmanned in the Chantry. "You know," fingers skipped over his torso, lightly tugging on the laces of his tunic, "I find that one's body says the things that one's mouth never wants to admit."
"Yeah, well... my body doesn't know what's good for it." Alistair's voice was as clipped as he could manage, and he exhaled slowly to prevent a soft moan from escaping him as those hips rolled against his own. "Get off of me, Zevran." He reached up to push the elf away, but somehow instead his hands seemed to find this spot on the assassin's hips where they fit perfectly, pulling him a little closer.
"Mm. That could be difficult, what, with such a desperate grip you have on me." Alistair's eyes closed at the other man's words, and he drew a deep breath. But when he opened his mouth to say something else, he was surprised by the feel of lips against his own. He managed a muffled exclamation, his eyes flying open in shock, but his protests rapidly died with the feel of Zevran rocking just slightly atop him, the assassin's hot tongue plunging into him.
By the time Zevran pulled back, a knowing grin on his face, Alistair was beyond breathless. His fingers were digging into Zevran's hips, pulling the elf as close as was possible due to their clothes. He wasn't sure where he was going to let this go, he just knew that he didn't want it to stop. Not now that the pressure was beginning to build; not with the ache that was positioned just where the other man's weight was. He wanted to push him back and under him, but he wasn't sure to what end. He just knew that he wanted something-anything that would offer some sort of release.
"Do you want this, Alistair?" A tongue flickered out to touch his earlobe, and Alistair could barely bite down a breathy moan. He nodded, but hands lifted to frame his face, and he opened his eyes to look up at his companion. "I mean it," Zevran's voice held no room for games, "is this-am I-the one you want right now?"
"Maker's breath, you cannot just start something like this-"
"I... want you, Zevran," Alistair whispered, unable to believe that the words had actually escaped him. He'd been biting them back so long-since that first night that the elf had joined them-and now, suddenly, it was happening. It was unreal.
"That iron will dissolves so easily under the right hands, doesn't it?" The serious expression on the elf's face melted into a decidedly wicked one, and then he murmured softly, "Do you trust me?"
"Of course not! You tried to-" Laughter interrupted him, and Alistair was taken aback by it. He really didn't know what to make of it, and when Zevran finally managed to stop, the templar frowned. "What was that for?"
"Forgive me, I forget how blunt you Fereldans can be." Zevran slid away then, a grin still on his face as he shook his head. Alistair waited a moment, but when Zevran returned to his seat at the table, he practically leapt to his feet.
"What are you doing? Why did you stop?" The elf shot him a look, and while Alistair blushed darkly, he didn't back down. He was already in too deep, a throbbing need filling his thoughts as he met Zevran's gaze. "I mean it. I said that I was fine with it, that-"
"It's about trust," the assassin said quietly, picking up his boot and dagger again. "That's the whole point and problem between us, no?"
There was a moment of silence, and then Alistair groaned softly before he abandoned his self-control. If he was going to get any sort of relief, he was going to have to adopt someone else's tactics. He moved the other chair from the table to in front of his companion, and he reached out and pulled the elf on top of him. Dagger and boot were gently removed from Zevran's hands and placed back on the table, giving him something else to focus on long enough to gather his composure. His breath caught, but he forced it back out, wanting to be able to be at least marginally suave as he did this. "I want you, Zevran. I think that says something about how much I trust you. You know that I've never done this before..."
Something in the assassin softened, and he relaxed a little over the warrior. "I am not going to force you. There are other ways to build trust." The offer was uncharacteristic, and it caught Alistair off guard. He looked up at his companion, half-formed thoughts whirling around his head too fast to be caught. Finally, he sighed softly, reaching up to rub a lock of soft blonde hair between two fingers.
"Do..." He swallowed; sand was thick in his throat, preventing him from speaking normally. There could be no other explanation. "Do you want me, Zevran?" He didn't know how vulnerable he looked, averting his eyes from the elf, his free hand trembling even as he settled it on Zevran's hip. "I know that you joke about it, but-"
He trailed off as a hand lifted to brush the backs of Zevran's knuckles over Alistair's cheek. "You really have to ask? Fereldans think so little of themselves..." Here he leaned forward to catch Alistair's lips with his own. Hesitating just a hair's breadth away, he murmured softly, "I've wanted you since I first saw you." Alistair reached up then and pulled the Antivan down, closing the slight distance.
Lips met and parted, giving under each other and allowing tongues to brush together and dance. Slowly, Zevran took control of the kiss, his hands pushing themselves into Alistair's hair, holding him still. The Antivan felt hands pulling on his thighs, trying to draw him closer, and he swallowed the soft gasp Alistair made into the kiss as the assassin rubbed up against him.
He pulled on the warrior's hair, and when he was greeted with a throaty moan, he jerked Alsitair's head back from the kiss. He licked his lips, savoring the taste of the other man, and he moved down to run his tongue along the vein in the Fereldan's throat. However, when Alistair locked arms around him and stood effortlessly, he realized that something was going to have to change.
As soon as they hit the bed, he slipped away. His tunic was pulled off, and he noticed with a grin that his companion wasted no time in following his lead. Before long, they were both completely stripped, and Zevran headed over to his bags to dig something out. A whining noise escaped the templar, but the elf paid it no mind. If Alistair wanted anything tonight, he'd learn that they were playing by the Antivan's rules. He turned back to his partner, a length of rope stretched between his hands.
The expression that greeted him was sweetly oblivious, and for just a moment, the former Crow considered not going through with it. Then the warrior scooted to the edge of the bed, a challenge lighting his face. "What do you plan on doing with that?" he asked, his voice deeper, rougher from arousal.
"It's about trust," Zevran murmured, lightly fingering one end of the rope. His eyes held Alistair's, and he swallowed. Strange, to be nervous again. He thought he was long past that in this sort of situation.
Dawning comprehension lit his partner's face, and then a nod slowly, apparently, agreed with him. "You're going to tie me up?" The words were said slowly, tasted as they escaped the warrior's lips. "What kind of tying are we talking about here?"
"Something simple, since it's your first time." The smile on Zevran's face wasn't particularly comforting, but Alistair thought he was beginning to understand the elf a little more. And, as he'd pointed out. It was about trust. He nodded again, taking a deep breath. Quickly, he found himself with his hands behind his back, knotted and secured where he really couldn't get them back out. He felt the slight panic at first, but when those lips touched his again, it faded to the background, beating at the edge of his consciousness with butterfly wings.
Heat flooded through him as he was hauled off of the bed, and the Antivan pushed him against the wall. A moan was dragged from his lips at the feel of a hot wetness over one of his nipples, and he honestly thought that he would just burst right there. Cool fingers wrapped around his length, and he realized that he had to breathe through his mouth. He felt light-headed, almost dizzy.
He felt his knees starting to go, and Zevran moved with him as he slowly began to slide down the wall. When that mouth slid down his muscled stomach to replace the fingers, he moaned sharply, unable to stop himself. He couldn't see the elf's flashing eyes, and he didn't have the mental capacity to notice how ragged Zevran's breathing was at that point. No matter how much smaller the Antivan was, he had his larger companion completely at his mercy. And when Alistair felt his tip rubbing against the back of his partner's throat, he lost it. His cry was muffled by a hand clapping over his mouth, but the warmth and wetness didn't move, drinking him dry.
As Alistair dragged in deep breaths to steady himself, he watched his partner reach up to wipe that talented mouth with the back of a hand. Then the assassin was moving, grabbing and dragging a chair to prop against the door under the handle. The others might have originally locked the two of them in, but it had rapidly evolved into where they wanted to keep the rest of the party out. He continued to breathe slowly, trying to calm his racing heart, and he was shocked to realize that he hadn't actually gone all the way soft yet. Fingers touched the bottom of his chin, and he looked up into the eyes of a man he was rapidly discovering made him feel things he never thought he could.
"Z-Zev," he murmured, his voice thick and gravelly. He wasn't sure, but he was willing to bet that it was the arousal doing that to him. It was heady, and from what he could see of the elf, it clung to both of them fairly heavily. He just didn't know what was supposed to come next, and honestly, he was almost scared to ask.
The Antivan shushed him, and then he pulled Alistair back up to his knees. Wordlessly, he stroked the side of his partner's face, then Zevran stood in front him. The smell of his partner's arousal hit him first, and he was shocked to realize that he actually did want the other man in his mouth. He wanted to hear the elf moaning and pleading and feel him squirming as Alistair knew full well he had. Hesitantly, he opened his mouth, but as soon as Zevran's fingers twisted into his hair, he found his confidence. He slid his mouth over his partner's erection.
The tip was velvety soft, and he closed his eyes as he eased more of it into him. It was worth it when he heard his partner's breath hitch, and he lightly swirled his tongue around the member in his mouth. The fingers in his hair tightened and pulled him a little more over it, forcing him to swallow the length or risk being gagged. A quiet, throaty moan was wrenched from the other man, and Alistair drank it in, feeling himself flush with pleasure at the sound of it.
Then the elf moved, and the templar's eyes flew open at the feel of being dragged up to his feet. He was jerked down just low enough for Zevran to capture his lips, and he gasped at the feel of his partner's tongue thrusting deep, possessively kissing him. Within just seconds, he had melted into it, his fingers itching to touch the Antivan. He pulled back from the kiss just enough to whisper, "Please, Zevran... Let me touch you," against his companion's lips.
Something about the whisper affected the assassin, because the rope was suddenly gone, and Alistair wrapped his arms around his partner. They must have been moving-although for the life of him, the templar hadn't realized it-and a hand on his chest shoved him back over the bed, where Zevran threw a leg over his hips and settled on top of him. He felt the other man's heated length against his belly, and with the pressure of the elf against him, he thought he was going to explode all over again.
Then the heat and weight disappeared, leaving him bereft and gasping, begging his partner not to leave. A chuckle greeted him, and he blushed. He was pathetic, but when he was this hard, this mad with passion, he really didn't care. Something cold dripped on to his arousal, and he made a sharp noise, lifting up on his elbows to glare down at the all too innocent expression on Zevran's face. Before he could demand an answer though, fingers wrapped around him, moving the liquid over him, heating it. A small vial was left on the edge of the bed, remnants of some thick fluid still in it.
He fell back, breathing deeply as he tried to focus, but then Zevran was back on top of him, and his hands dug into the elf's hips. He liked his hands there; they seemed to just...fit. His partner's hand was still wrapped around him, squeezing and pulling just slightly. He felt something right at his tip, and he realized that it was Zevran's entrance, that the Antivan was positioning himself very carefully for Alistair to push into him.
Rather than giving in to the urge to flex his hips, he held still, biting his bottom lip as he looked up at the elf. Zevran managed a small, tight smile at the templar, and then he slowly pushed himself down and over the warrior. Both of them let out a moan, and Alistair's eyes squeezed closed. The tightness around him was almost painful, but at the same time, the sheer heat more than made up for it. His fingers tightened on Zevran's hips, and for a heartbeat, they both stayed just like that, unable or unwilling to move.
Then, hesitantly, he moved one of his hands to his partner's member, wanting to help him feel at least a little of the pleasure that Alistair was feeling inside of him. The Antivan gasped sharply; the former templar opened his eyes and locked gazes with the other man. Slowly, the elf started to move over him, and for once, Alistair thanked the Chantry for the sheer discipline that templar training required. It was the only thing holding his hips to the bed.
Zevran's hands reached behind him to feel the hard columns of his companion's thighs, and he pulled them up so that he had something to lean against as he moved. His eyes fell closed, his hair brushing past Alistair's knees with every push. Finally, they began to gain speed, and the templar was quickly begging Zevran, although what he was begging for, neither man was really aware of. The feel of his hand on the elf while his length filled him though was rapidly too much to bear, and with a soft, bitten down cry, the former Crow felt himself exploding, his world shattering and fragmenting around him. He could feel the Fereldan filling him, and when his eyes finally opened, he looked down at his partner.
Sticky white fluid covered his chest and part of his face, much to Zevran's amusement. Moving very carefully, so as not to dislodge the warrior, he leaned forward and licked it off of his face at the least. Alistair chuckled, his whole body moving with the amusement, and they met eyes again. It was about trust, and at least now there was some of that stretching between them.