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Microfill: By The Stone

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They've been watching each other for hours, out of the corner of their eyes, in between fights. The cave wall is rough against the back of Zevran's head when the Warden finally corners him, just around the bend from the others. He told them to wait. Right there. Just mere feet out of sight. The idea that they're just barely out of visual range (and certainly within easy earshot of... everything) only makes Zevran burn hotter as his armor is moved out of the way by nimble, practiced fingers.

Pants down, hardened leather skirt parted, his legs up and wrapped around robe-encased hips. His leather breeches are barely out of the way of his ass, and the armor traps his hardness against itself, but he doesn't mind. Those same fingers twist into him with more care than truly necessary, coated in slick oil, and Zevran doesn't bother to stifle his throaty moan as something much more satisfying takes their place, his Warden thrusting in in one smooth push. The sound terribly -- no, deliciously -- loud in the silence of the Deep Roads.

He can hear the others shifting uncomfortably in place as he loops his arms over the Warden's shoulders. The mage is able to hold him this way, trapped against the stone the dwarves so worship, at least for a time. Strong hands grip the firm muscle of his ass as thick flesh pulls back, rocks forward, the sensation of being filled and emptied and filled again by him enough to make Zevran purr naughty things into the mage's pointed ear. If their companions hold their breaths, they may even overhear some of it, and judging by the silence around the corner...

Teeth close gently over Zevran's earlobe, a hand snaking beneath armor to stroke his sex, and Zevran tangles his partially-gloved hands in the Warden's pale hair, messing up his neat ponytail. He doesn't care.

Zevran moans, loudly in the still darkness.

And the world is perfect.