Alistair clentched his fists so tight he thought he might shatter his knuckles.

Zevran had been regaling some tale of a nameless woman in Antiva, spinning the story with such grace and articulation that even Morrigan had come over to listen, and somehow Alistair had managed to say something which betrayed his inexsperience. Zevran, through a wicked grin, had asked directly if he ever had the -pleasure-, and Alistair found every word he tried to utter stuck in his thoart. Now everyone was laughing at him, loudest of all Zevran.

He stormed from the campsite, Morrigan cackling after him, and Zevran felt a familar dread stroke the back of his mind. Alistair was angry, furious... and angry men could be dangerous. He knew he'd not sleep easy until this matter was settled, lest he find Alistair hovering over his bed, sword in hand. He made some more jovial comments, teasing Sten in his usual manner to ensure the other were not alerted to the fact that when he left the rosy glow of the campfire, he headed in the same direction Alistair had gone.

He was easy to track, a charging brunto would have caused less damage. Zevran slowed his pace as he heard sounds ahead, Alistair berating himself viciously, and swearing on the revenage he would get on 'that damnable assassin'. Sighing softly, Zevran was grateful his Crow instints were still sharp, but he was not looking forward to confronting Alistair. He'd seen the raw strenght of the man, and had watched him battle on furiously with wounds that caused Wynn to pale once she got a chance to attend to them. He slowly tipped both his daggers in thick coating of poison, nothing lethal, but enough to at least mean he had a back up plan if Alistair took it into his head to simply cut down the ex-crow.

He coughed, once, to avoid surprising Alistair as he emerged from the shadows. Alistair spun round, his eyes dark.

"You..." he growled, and drew his sword. Zevran watched, not yet revealing his own weapons, as Alistair's hand tightened and then unclenched on the hilt of the blade. The dark forest seemed to hold its breath as they sized each other up, waiting to see what the other would do.

Slowly, in a voice which was purposfully so soft Alistair had to strain to listen, Zevran whispered, "I am sorry, friend Alistair, I had not meant to embarass you so...."

something behind Alistair's eye broke, and the templar lunged forwards, catching Zevran off guard.

"I'm no friend of yours!" In comparasion, Alistair's words were sharp and clipped, spoken through a snarl. The sword came down upon Zevran's dagger, and he was forced to deflect, knowing that he could not match the power behind the blow. Zevran was driven backwards, his daggers connecting with the sword, pushing it from his body each time Alistair swung it, but realising he could not defend against this fury for long.

Alistair threw himself behind a low blow, aiming for the assassin's legs, when Zevran kicked him. The boot made contact with the shoulder, not enough to wound but in just the right place to cause his hold on the sword to faulter. Moving quickly Zevran dropped one of his daggers and grabbed the sword, throwing it out of Alistair's reach. He was about to straighten, to claim his win when an unexspected hand made contact with his face. Fingers grabbbing at a long ear, Alistair yanked Zevran forwards. Zevran made a small sharp gasp in pain

"You fight dirty!" he hissed, part in admiration as he brought his elbow up under Alistair's arm, catching it in a painful stretch. He pressed the advantage, until Alistair let go of his ear.

They were close now, eyes locked together.

"But I fight dirtier..." a low sound, almost a chuckle as Zevran sprung forward, knocking Alistair to his back. Alistair thrashed, but Zevran had his own anger to fuel him now, and he pressed a knee hard against Alistair's groin, enough to shock the warden. Face full of gnashing teeth and fury, Alistair could only snarl as Zevran plunged the dagger into the soil by his head, pausing just long enough to let Alistair observe the dark paste marring the sliver sheen, letting that information sink in before grasping his hair and pulling Alistair's head back so that his thoart was exsposed and dangerously close to the blade. Alistair held himself there, shaking with rage but not moving for fear of slitting his own thoart against the dagger. His eyes tried to see the assassin upon him, but his position did not allow it. Zevran watched the blood pulse beneath him, rapid and hot, and tried to calm his own breathing. Suddenly it was hard to let go of his temper. He had planned to show Alistair just how skilled he was in combat, and that if Alistair wanted to fight him, he'd not go down easily. Perhaps, if needed he'd give Alistair a small nick with a posioned blade, let him feel firely poison run through his blood, -scare- him. But Alistair was proving a typical grey warden, set upon ruining his careful plans. He could hear Alistair's breath still heavy and fast, the rage inside him not yet abated. Zevran licked his lips.

Alistair jerked as Zevran ran a hand down the side of the warden, fingers tracing out the outline of his ribcage, down to his hips. As he started to serch for for the buckles of the armour, Alistair's eyes grew wide with realisation. He kicked in an effort to dislogde the elf, and felt fingers clench against his hair, and he felt the cold touch of metal against his neck. He couldn't even swallow, as the chill of air hit his flesh as Zevran pulled the armour from his thigh.

It was a calcuated move, risky but then so was having a pent-up warrior so close to him. Zevran knew he couldn't hold Alistair indefinateately, and that at some point he'd have to either let him up or... stop him ever getting up again. The latter would cause all manner of complications, so he'd have to find another way of resolving the situation. He had tried fighting Alistair directly, but if that continued one of them was going to get seriously hurt so perhaps letting Alistair gain a victory a different way would suffice. Of course, he would need a little encouragement.

Fingers drifted against his inside thigh, and under the press of his knee he could feel Alistair start to stiffen. Shifting alightly so Alistair could see him, he bent down to alistair ear.

"In fact, I fight very dirty..." he ran a hot tongue over his ear, grining as Alistair grunted in resistance. As a skilled hand drew his erection out into the night air, fingers stroking along the lenght and curling around the base.

Zevren pretended to be surprised as Alistair finally fought back, swinging his body sharply sideways, away from the dagger and sending the smaller elf sprawling to the ground. Heavy hands pressed down on his shoulders, pinning Zevran down while Alistair panted heavily. His head swam with emotions, he wanted very much to sink his sword into the assassin and finally be done with the endless teasing and taunts, but the damnable elf had awoke a new sensation in him. Zevran was squirming under the templar's weight, face down and struggling to draw breath. Slowly, holding Zevran's thin wrists together with one hand above his head, he pulled at the assassin's leather trousers with his free hand. The sight of the tanned skin, soft and forbidden settled his mind. After all, the elf had tried to do the same to him, it would be a fitting revenge.

Zevran couldn't see what was happening, but he heard Alistair's breath change, growing deeper and rougher as he felt his hands exploring his body. Hiding a satified smirk he made a couple of small, soft whinning noises in the dirt, designed to enflame. He heard alistair's lips part, and a slow suckling noise. He guessed that Alistair was licking his own finger, and when he felt something hot and damp press against him, he had to bite back on his lips in anticipation.

Alistair was a novice, but desire and lust guided his hand as he slowly develed deeper into Zevran, watching the reactions as he curled his finger. Zevran no longer had to force himself to make noises, the low moans were genuine and his hips twitched around Alistair's finger.

Alistair felt himself growing unbareably heated, and he removed his hand suddenly, causing the elf to buck. A frim hand dragged his hips futher upwards, and then he felt Alistair pressing into him, hot and heavy and hard.

Zevran cried out as Alistair begane to move, his thrusts desperate and his breath like steam against his back. He felt teeth on his shoulder, and he arched into Alistair, urging him deeper. Biting hard enough that it would leave marks Alistair clutched the elf in towards him, driving down with everything he had. The sounds coming from the assassin were delicious, and the way his body heaved and twitched with every movement made him feel like he might brust, but nothing could compare to the tightness and warmth he felt surrounding his manhood. Pounding faster until he could hold back no more, he let out a low, breathy sigh as he felt himself release inside Zevran. The smaller elf jerked a final time, and the smell of arsoual filled the air.

They fell back, panting and fighting for air, heat rolling off their bodies in the cool forest air. Alistair's eyes had turned softer, his rage spent. Zevran allowed himself a satified grin at the templar, shyly avoiding eye contact and trying to get to his feet.

"I... Uh.. I... Marker! That was... Wow.... But what are we going to tell the others...." Alistair struggled with words, not looking directly at Zevran.

"We were sparring. It was a good fight, I know i certainly learnt much from it."

Alistair seemed to relax then, a breath of exhalation filling the air. He met Zevran's eyes, a small smile ceasing the corners of his mouth.

"Perhaps... you might be interested in a rematch...?"