sithrightsactivist:

Alistair laughed until his sides hurt and tears stood in his eyes and moved down his cheeks. Usually he spent his time in camp preparing his tent and sharpening his blade, but Zevran had chosen to spend their time a different way.

By reciting terrible poetry.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair said, stopping to catch his breath and wipe the tears from his face. “Is that meant to woo me?”

“No, no,” Zevran said. “I haven’t gotten to the wooing just yet, my darling. It is much easier to woo a man when he is in good spirits, si?”

“I hope you have something more romantic in your little… arsenal of poetry,” Alistair said, still interrupted by giggles and breathless from his bout of laughing. “Otherwise you might be sleeping in your own tent tonight.”

“Ahh, I do not sleep alone,” Zevran said. “Unless I am of a mind to do so, you understand.”

Alistair nudged Zevran’s foot with his boot, slipping a little closer to him. The fire crackled in front of them, and Alistair admired the way the flames reflected in Zevran’s eyes and hair; gold flecked with amber.

Zevran was poetry in motion. Every inch of him, every flash of his eyes and curl of his lips made Alistair’s knees tremble. He didn’t need to use his words at all.

Still…

“Give it a go, then, love” Alistair said. 

Zevran smirked and leaned his head against Alistair’s shoulder. His fingers twined through Alistair’s, loosely. Alistair traced the scars on his knuckles absently. He had traced them before, with lips that offered an apology Zevran had never wanted; but one he had accepted with breathless desperation. 

The dark made those things easier. Out in the middle of camp with the fire blazing, there was no where safe for them to hide.

Maybe it was better that way. 

“Unlaced, untethered you

Reached for me through

Endless night, shattered dawn

Tongue and fingers and heart burning

Aching with a

Sweet desire

To trace curves and twist through hair

To drink of sweat and eat of whispered breaths

Soft through teeth.”

Zevran waited. Alistair couldn’t see his face, but he knew that he was anxious by the stiffness of his fingers and the shape of his shoulders. It was rare for him to be anything but suave and sure and confident; so rare that Alistair hardly knew what to say.

“That was lovely,” Alistair said. “It was…” He smiled and kissed the top of Zevran’s head, his hair warm and slightly damp with sweat. “Let’s go to bed,” Alistair whispered.

“We do more than sex poetry in Antiva,” Zevran said. “We are masters of wooing.”

“You say wooing one more time and you can sleep with the dog,” Alistair said.

“Ah, let’s go to bed.”