Baiting

Apologies for the lack of updates recently, I've been suffering with the depression demons and failed to complete the weekly drabble for a couple of weeks. So instead I ended up writing this because my lovely other half wants to eventually see Alistair and Zevran in bed with Jaeden.

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Branches whipped out at him as he clattered through the gloom, groping mindlessly to brush aside his would be assailants. Eventually trees thinned slightly, the heavy armour finally exhausting his headlong flight away from the light of the fire, away from –them-. Heat coloured cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or from exertion was debateable. In his mind fingertips ran up the muscular thigh once more, earning a sigh from the mage. Maker, they certainly knew how to make a scene and how to make him feel excruciatingly uncomfortable.

Something else had become uncomfortable, pain radiating from where his arousal had chaffed along the fabric holding it away from clashing with the metal that encased him. With a hiss and trembling fingers he unbuckled armour slowly, to... make sure everything was in working order still... he reasoned. How long had it been since he relieved himself? Alistair couldn’t even remember, since Duncan’s death life had passed in a whirlwind of faces, situations and confusion. The grey wardens of Fereldan now consisted of himself and the irritating, infuriating, tormenting mage.

Digits wound about the aching length, flesh against flesh for the first time in months, a dull groan of pleasure emanating as he insured that he had not done himself any damage in the flight from camp. Anxiety roused as amber eyes darted around, as though he expected dark spawn to rear at any second and pounce upon his vulnerable form. Or worse yet that cocky assassin to appear from nowhere and smirk at him, proclaiming that he knew just the remedy that he needed to increase his sexual prowess or something of the kind.

Immuring himself between the alcove formed between two trees, he set his blade across the gap between, eagerly pulling the remaining armour from his heated frame, leaving only breeches and his shirt intact. A curse was muttered but the sound of the mage drowned it out, playing over and over through his memories as Zevran had touched him, pleased him. Even now they would be together, writhing erotically in the tent they shared. For the sake of propriety Alistair objected but his body had entirely different views on their trysts.

A soft lip was bitten as he silenced another hiss that threatened to rouse as he wrapped his hand around himself. Jaeden was handsome, enigmatic and for a man he held a peculiar sway over him, enough to make him follow him unquestioningly even though he was the elder warden. Eyes would be glazed with pleasure by now, Zevran; despite his tales was a proficient lover if the moans that resounded around camp every eve were anything to go by.

The pace was fast, frantic even as he coaxed and teased his manhood with softer and firmer strokes, sweat starting to glisten on the strong cords of abdominal muscle. Throwing his head back bark scrapped through short hair, almost crashing his skull against the tree. Rapidly his throat bobbed with heated pants, trying desperately to relieve himself swiftly. It had been far too long since he had indulged. “Maker, oh Maker.” Breathlessly he whispered, twisting against the strong trunks of the trees, writhing as he imagined Jaedan might below the Antivan.

“Jaeden!” As heat spilled through his fingers he called out for the mage, the ignition of his failure in self-restraint. As his hand slowed he shivered, licking his lips as the image of Zevran kissing him popped to the forefront of his thoughts. Brows pressed together in confusion and displeasure. It was one thing to be pleasing himself to the handsome mage, but the assassin never struck him as something he’d please himself to.

Tucking himself away in his pants he sighed, the chill air of the forest finally making itself known to him, a sense of aversion swelling in his breast. How could he, a Templar, feel such release when contemplating things that were at best sinful at worse depraved? Slowly he replaced his armour and decided it was merely a product of exhaustion, loss and the lack of personal alone time that had made him so eager to thrust into his own palm wantonly. That had to be it, he decided, not something he wished to repeat or remember.

Unbeknown to Alistair he was not alone in the trees, for as he turned to trudge reluctantly back to camp Morrigan was – aside from trying to control her revulsion at seeing him pleasure himself – trying to decide how best to use the information gained to her advantage.