Title: Don’t Mind Him. He’s… Antivan. (4/5)
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Zevran ♂, Anders ♂
Rating: E (L4 N4 S4 V1 D0)
Warnings: Fun with scars, references to past trauma, naked dudes doing naked things, the internet is for porn
Notes: FINALLY SOMEONE GETS NAKED! Actually, two someones get naked. And there is a bit of fun with scars, some pointed remarks, and some truly terrible flirtation. I should probably apologise for cutting this short, but there is somewhere this story would like to get, and it’s pulling so hard I’m having trouble filling in the spaces between.
Zevran stretched, getting comfortable on Lucien’s bed, as Anders’s tongue darted between his toes. The healer’s thumbs sunk into spots on the sole of his foot that he knew well, and Lucien had never gotten the hang of, for all his multitudinous talents. But, Anders knew exactly where and how hard to press, and the tension of the last weeks of travel slowly unwound.
"You’ve been here almost a day," Anders pointed out. "Doesn’t Luke take care of you?"
"Oh, he takes very good care of me, but not like that. I usually have to go to a healer for that. And here you are. Lucky me."
"Well, if I’m going to take reckless advantage of you, I need to make sure you’re in shape for it." Anders switched to the other foot, and Zevran made some contented sounds as he stretched again, in ways that best displayed the lines of his body.
As Anders continued to lick and knead, Zevran used his other foot to toy with the feathers Anders wore. "It strikes me as terribly amusing that you should be the feathered one of us."
"I like feathers. They make me feel glamorous." Anders brushed aside the remark and sunk his teeth into the back of Zevran’s ankle, hands travelling up to knead the assassin’s calf.
Zevran’s eyes drifted closed, a contented smile smeared across his face. "This should make you feel glamorous. You have the deadliest man in Antiva purring like a kitten under your hands. Still, there’s something to be said for the appeal of a few feathers."
"And just think of all the uses I can put them to, later." Anders worked his way up Zevran’s leg, letting the encouraging groans and sighs guide his fingers.
After a time, Anders had worked his way all the way up one leg and all the way down the other, and now knelt across both, with his robe hiked up to his knees, and his hands cradling Zevran’s hips so the bones pressed along the ball of his thumbs, down into the heels of his hands. He squeezed, gently, and the sound that poured out of Zevran was pure delight.
"So, that’s quite a codpiece," Anders remarked, sliding his hands across the leather to unlace along the sides of it.
"I wouldn’t trust what’s under it to anything less. Finely crafted armour-grade leather, curved to redistribute any impact along a less devastating path. Your friend Nate would do well to invest similarly." Zevran lifted his hips as Anders worked the leather down over them, slowly baring his skin. "Four wardens to bring him down? I hope Lucien has raised the standard of training since then."
"Most of the training has been in active combat. There’s only six of us left, and the darkspawn won’t stay in the Deep Roads." Anders worked backward, sliding the leather down Zevran’s legs and himself back off the bed.
"Six is still more than the two who held off the Blight. I’m sure you’ll be fine." Zevran half-sat up, twisting in some thoroughly implausible way, before depositing his complicated Orlesian shirt on the floor, beside the bed, leaving him in nothing but the slim chain around his neck, a wide gold ring hanging from it.
More than a few breaths passed, Anders standing at the foot of the bed, clutching Zevran’s leathers in one hand.
"Yes, it’s a beautiful view, but it’s even better, up close." Zevran held out a hand.
Anders tossed the leathers in the direction of the shirt and missed, before climbing back onto the bed, trailing one hand up Zevran’s side from the ankle to the chest. A long, smouldering look passed between them, interrupted when Anders grabbed the Crow’s shoulder and flipped him onto his belly.
"The view would be better, if the lines weren’t wrong," he muttered, digging his thumbs into Zevran’s back, just below the shoulder blades.
"You don’t even know what right looks like on me!" Zevran teased.
"I don’t have to know. You know. You’ll show me when it’s right." A wave of healing, then half his weight on the heel of his hand — there. Zevran’s upper back crunched like gravel settling.
"Were I not so very in love with Lucien, he might have some serious competition, right now," Zevran muttered into the pillow.
"It’s a good thing you met him first. I’m a lot less forgiving." Anders continued to knead, mostly with the heels and sides of his hands, working his way down Zevran’s back. Neither of them commented on how closely Anders’s hands followed a particular set of very old, worn scars that seemed to mark tension lines and pressure points.
"You’re also a lot less deadly. Had I met you first — had you been the one — I think we would not be having this conversation, one way or the other. I am glad it was not you, or I wouldn’t have you here, now."
"And here, now, is where you want me. Where you need me, really. What did you even do to yourself?" Anders settled the heel of one hand just above the back of Zevran’s hips. "No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Just tip your hips a little… there."
Anders shifted his weight, and Zevran made a sound somewhere between pain and desire as his back produced a hollow thump. His hand clutched at the blanket and his hips tilted up, offering his shapely ass, as he panted against the pillow.
The next crack was Anders’s hand against that shapely elven ass. "Not yet."
"That? That is the absolutely worst way to discourage me." A single breathy wheeze of amusement followed.
"Perhaps I don’t want to discourage you. Perhaps I just want to bribe you with a taste of what’s yet to come."
"I know what’s yet to come, and if I’m going to taste it, perhaps you should stop wearing so much."
"Not. Yet," Anders huffed.
"You are such a tease!"
Anders landed another slap across the other cheek, and his fingers lingered, tracing some pale lines carved there. "Is that Elvish?" he asked, squinting at the scars.
"Oh, shit. Is that still legible?" Zevran laughed and buried his face in the pillow. "Yes, it’s Elvish. I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just say I made someone very angry, and now they’re dead, and I have some very naughty words on my hip. You don’t read Elvish, do you?"
"No…" Anders squinted at it. "But, I know it when I see it."
"Good. Those words are not something I want to explain."
"In all the times someone has put their displeasure across my skin, I don’t think anyone has used words." Anders kneaded the muscle under his hands, caressing Zevran’s ass. "At least, if there are words, no one’s pointed them out to me."
"It’s a very special kind of angry that ends in words, I think."
"I wasn’t important enough to need a warning label."
"You can stop flattering me, boy. I’m already naked."
Anders wondered how old the elf actually was. "Yes, but you’re not buried in me so deep I’ve forgotten my own name."
"And whose fault is that, hm?"
"Oh, we’ll get there. I’m not done with you, yet. I haven’t even started." Squeezing and kneading still, Anders leaned down and pressed a kiss to Zevran’s tailbone. "Does Luke tell you what a gorgeous ass you have? Or are you just innately aware of the beauty of your own lines, without the help?"
"He’s written me entire letters that say little else. Do you intend to wax rhapsodic, as well? I understand it’s a common reaction."
"No, I intend to put my tongue to better use." Anders darted the tip of his tongue against Zevran’s hole, and everything the Crow meant to say left him in a rush of breath.
This was yet another thing Anders knew how to do, from long hours of practice, in the Circle. Mostly in closets and behind convenient statues, as opposed to anywhere his technique might be judged by onlookers, but his talents in this regard had never been criticised, nor would they be, now. Anders plundered the hole, with his tongue, kissing and licking, pressing in just the tip, revelling in the feel of Zevran’s body trying to draw him further in.
After several minutes of drawing the most delectable sounds from the Crow, Anders drew back, wiping the spit from his face, and playfully bit the engraved ass-cheek.
"You know? I think that is the first time a man has kissed my ass with more fervour than he could spare for my lips," Zevran teased.
"Yes, well, with you naked there are a lot fewer places you could be concealing weapons. It’s easier to be enthusiastic."
"You are a mage. I am an assassin. Do either of us actually require weapons, to be dangerous? I think not." Zevran rolled onto his back, displacing Anders as he moved, and reached out to grab a handful of raspberries from the bedside table. "Enough procrastinating. You have pushed your tongue into the most intimate parts of me, and I have not even seen your bare elbows. Off with the robe. Come lie with me, and we will fill ourselves with fruit and each other."
"I don’t…" Anders started, but opened his belt and hung it on the footboard. "This isn’t something I usually take my clothes off to do."
"You read the Elvish inscription on my ass. Whatever you have under that robe will not be nearly the blow to either of our dignities." Zevran licked raspberry juice off his fingers, eyes never leaving Anders.
"Actually, I didn’t read it, and I have no idea what it says, other than that it’s not complimentary." Anders’s fingers twitched as he unfastened his robe, his breaths coming shorter and quicker.
"After I go back to my own war, go ask Lucien what it says. He read it. I had to stop him from getting dressed again, with promises the responsible party was already deceased, and that there was simply no point in crossing to Rivain to piss on a grave, when we were on such a tight schedule." Dipping his fingers in the bowl of sweet cream, Zevran let it drip off his fingers into his mouth, as his other hand smoothed across the planes of his chest.
"Because that’s not going to be weird. Oh, yeah, Luke, what’s that scar on your boyfriend’s butt say? I noticed it while I was eating his ass." A fastening loop tore as Anders pulled the robe off his shoulders and shoved it down, trying to hide the nervous shiver that ran through him. His arms reflexively crossed in front of him, as the robe dropped to the floor, hands spread to disrupt the patterns in the scarring between his shoulders and his hips.
Zevran sucked the last of the cream off his fingers and held out his hand. "Come to me, healer. Let me see you with my hands, and not my eyes, though I’ll tell you my eyes have no complaints with what they see."
Anders crawled up the bed, the scent of Luke thick in the blanket on that side, which was not helping, he decided, as he lay on his side, beside Zevran. "I’m not a blood mage," he muttered, more to himself than anything, before finally moving his hand away from his chest.
Zevran’s fingers were on him almost instantly, spread between the fan of lines. The Crow knew, and his lips tightened, subtly. "You are still here. I presume you did not confess."
"No. I never would have." Anders reached across Zevran and helped himself to a chunk of cheese. "But, I almost gave in to the temptation of blood magic. I was bleeding anyway. It would have been so little effort to make it all go away, but then I would have been exactly the kind of guilty they wanted me to be, and I couldn’t give them that."
"Then this is a mark of your honour that you hide." Zevran moved his hand and replaced his palm with his lips.
Anders arched and nearly choked on the cheese as Zevran’s tongue chased the stripes on his chest.
"Mmm. It’s one of those scars, is it? No wonder you keep it covered. How terrible it would be for someone to taste it, to trace it, to stroke it…" All of which he did, in turn, leaving Anders panting through his teeth, chewing at his own lip.
"How terrible it would be for someone to leave you panting and throbbing, in full knowledge of your strength and beauty." Zevran’s hand wandered down, fingers tracing along Anders’s thickening length. "You are beautiful, healer."
"I’m three days unshaven and covered in the scars of my failure to escape my destiny," Anders argued, half-heartedly.
"It looks good on you," Zevran insisted, pressing a wet and passionate kiss to another scar. "Proof of your value as a healer."
"That I couldn’t heal myself?" Anders snapped.
"That you know pain. You know what it is to go without healing. You know what the flesh will handle, left to itself." Zevran’s fingers found another scar, in an unexpected place. "I thought I was the only one with scars there," he laughed.
"Clearly not, more’s the pity. I’d have been a much better person without it."
"But, would you be as good a lover?"
Anders rolled over, pinning Zevran to the bed with hands around his wrists, gold eyes flashing. "Bit of a dangerous question, don’t you think?"
Scattering bites along Zevran’s neck and collar, Anders went on. "Pointless question, too, since you’ll never know the answer, and neither will I. You’ve got me as I am, and that’s all I am. This is all there is."
"Give me more of this." Zevran lifted his thigh between Anders’s legs, pressing gently against him. "Show me what you are."