Although Zevran felt a bit sorry for Isabela having to be left out of this fun, it was probably only fair after the way she and the Warden had left him behind while they went "below decks" on her ship in Denerim. Zevran had never gotten his chance at the Warden, as the man seemed to appreciate the company of women to the exclusion of all other possibilities, and it seemed a slice of poetic justice that the mage's cousin would turn out to be this handsome brute of a warrior, muscled and bearded and the Champion of Kirkwall.
And eyeing him up like he was a particularly fine pair of Antivan leather boots, at that. (Although Zevran liked to think his skin was smoother and silkier than even Antivan leather.)
There were worse places to have a tumble than the Wounded Coast, although Zevran was going to be checking very carefully for sand afterward. The bare illusion of privacy - the Champion's party, including Isabela, would probably be able to hear everything from just over the dunes - reminded him a bit of traveling in the Warden's camp, of hearing the muffled (and not-so-muffled) noises from the tent, Morrigan or Leliana crying out in pleasure. Zevran even thought he'd heard Wynne once, but surely that had just been his imagination.
He found a fallen tree, its surface covered in moss, and turned to face the Champion, allowing his hips to thrust forward just-so. He could see how this was going to go - a big man like Hawke was going to be a bruiser in all the best ways. Zevran was looking forward to handprints on his hips and not being able to sit down for at least two days. He licked his lips while Hawke unfastened his belt, the jingle of the buckle raising goosebumps of anticipation all down Zev's spine. The Champion left the belt in the loop of his trousers instead of pulling it free, though, and that would never do.
"I thought we agreed you were going to tie me up, dear Champion," Zevran purred. "Unless you were just teasing me, in which case perhaps I shall have to tie you up as punishment, hmm?"
Hawke froze, hands on the waistband of his trousers, and Zevran thought he'd made a misstep. The fear only lasted for the moment it took to see how Hawke's pupils dilate, the sudden part of his lips, the sharp rise of his chest with an indrawn breath.
"Oh-ho." Zevran prowled forward and tugged on one end of Hawke's belt until it slithered free of the loops like a hissing snake. "So that's how it is, is it? Very well." When the belt was free, he doubled it over itself and pulled, making it snap loudly. "In that case, my dear Champion..."
Hawke's breath was coming faster now, and the slight hitch as Zevran pulled the belt around his wrists made Zev's cock twitch. He'd been looking forward to being ridden, but never let it be said that an Antivan Crow didn't know how to improvise.
Hawke properly belted, Zevran shoved him over to the tree and kicked the back of Hawke’s knee as he pushed down on the man’s broad, armored shoulder. Zevran was under no illusion that Hawke went to his knees willingly, but Hawke also had to know Zevran was taking it easy on him. He could force it, and Zev had a feeling that knowledge was having a lot to do with the flush of excitement now climbing the Champion’s neck.Zevran yanked the long end of the belt, guiding Hawke to lie across the fallen tree, and then looped and knotted the leather around one of the smaller branches. Again, Hawke could get free if he wanted to, but Zev had a feeling that wasn’t going to be an issue. He shoved the Champion’s trousers down to his knees and then took a step back to admire his handiwork. Tousled, tied to a tree, still fully armored except his bare arse waving in the air, the Champion of Kirkwall made a fine sight indeed. And even from the back, the family resemblance to his heroic cousin was unmistakable. Zevran let his eyes trace down over the firmly rounded ass cheeks and smirked. Maybe especially from the back.
Zevran’s own armor was easily moved aside – convenient and rogueish, its design had many important uses – and he spit into his hand, slicking his cock as he braced himself behind Hawke.
“Are you ready, my dear Champion?” Zevran purred, leaning over the man’s back. Hawke nodded, biting his lip and groaning loudly. The sound sent shivers through Zev, and he bit down on the upper shell of Hawke’s ear as he guided himself in. It was a tight fit, saliva nowhere near enough slick to make it easy, but Hawke didn’t seem to mind, whimpering and working himself back onto Zevran’s erection as far as the belt would let him go.
“Is that how you like it, Champion of Kirkwall?”
The only answer he got was a moan, but it sounded pretty close to a yes, so he gripped the man’s hips and pulled him back hard. That got a wordless shout and a full-body tremble, and so Zevran pulled back and did it again.
“Oh Maker, yes,” Hawke panted, and Zevran watched his fingers wrap around the leather strap holding him to the tree, watched his knuckles go white. “More,” the man demanded when Zevran didn’t move again. “Do it again.”
He did, taking his time – a long slide out, a quick thrust in – until Hawke was begging, fingernails biting into the leather belt.
“Harder, damn you, harder!”
Zevran was sure that shout had made it all the way to his companions’ ears, could imagine the look on Isabela’s face. Payback’s a bitch, sweetheart, he thought, though not unkindly. He had no objections to sharing his fun with the beautiful pirate, but he wasn’t especially sorry to have gotten this treat all to himself either. And then he thought of no one but the man beneath him, wriggling and squirming and begging like the finest Antivan whore, until Hawke let out a long, low groan and collapsed against his bindings.
Zevran began to pull out – no one could say he was not a gentleman – but Hawke clamped vise-like muscles around him and shook his head, sweaty hair falling into those bright hazel eyes.
“Finish,” Hawke commanded hoarsely. “Finish it right.”
Zevran bowed his head until it touched the small of Hawke’s back where the cloth of his under armor clung to his sweaty skin, and he let himself go, let himself be taken over the edge with a cry of triumph and pleasure. And when the spasms died away and he could breathe again, he eased back, both of them hissing in chorus as they separated. Zevran straightened his armor in a haze, his fingers trembling with the aftershocks as he released Hawke’s hands from his belt and rubbed away the red marks on his wrists.
The Champion stood and pulled his trousers up, fastening and belting them brusquely. His fingers lingered on the metal buckle, and a wry smile touched his lips.
“You have my thanks, assassin,” he said in that low, growly voice that had made Zevran think he’d be the one bent over the tree. The interlude might not have gone as he’d planned, but as he’d once told his infuriatingly single-minded Warden, he did lead a rather charmed life.
“My dear, sweet Champion,” he said, lifting Hawke’s hand and kissing a spot on his wrist that was red and chafed from the leather, “I assure you, the pleasure was mine.”