filled! (1/ possibly four)
anonymous
May 5 2010, 01:28:12 UTC
His partner for the night is a fellow elven man, slender and pretty with a wicked smile and clever, callused hands, experience and enthusiasm all in one thoroughly enjoyable package. He is a bit taller than Zevran, though slighter-a mage's build, Zevran thinks, lounging back on his elbows as his new friend turns and bolts the door.
It is strange-he has been numb, detached for some time now, resigned to his eventual fate, seeking it, even, among the many, many contracts the Crows receive and distribute to their operatives. And now that he has found his death, here in this strange, cold country, for the first time since Taliesen, since Rinna, someone has caught his eye.
Still, there is no harm in a final dalliance, a taste of life to tide him over to the Maker's embrace. Or whatever fate awaits the wicked-he's never been particularly interested in Chantry talk. He had not intended this, but perhaps it is best. He has not been himself of late.
Eager hands and a hot mouth do much to restore him, he decides, responding in kind to the young mage's advances, working at the needlessly complicated sash-once upon a time, he had been able to strip a Circle enchanter in less than a minute, but that was some years ago and his fingers appear to have forgotten the trick entirely.
The mage pushes him to the bed, straddling him easily as he divests himself of his own clothing, robes yielding to smooth, pale skin, stripping himself to the waist before turning his attention upon Zevran's own armor, the flickering lamplight dancing across his intent expression as he deftly unbuckles the supple leather brigandine, unfastens pauldron from breastplate, and Zevran grins as he sits up, stealing a quick kiss as he shucks the entire thing off, letting it slide to the floor.
A quick kiss becomes another, deeper meeting of mouths, tasting of wine and cinnamon-he chases the flavor until it fades entirely, pressing his mouth against neck, collarbone, shoulder.
“What would you like?” he murmurs, letting his hands find that sash, slide under the smooth fabric, tease along hidden skin, earning a sharp intake of breath.
He smiles at that, lets his teeth scrape along the mage's shoulder, and then hands are in his hair, holding him still as the mage presses his face close, nose brushing Zevran's temple, breath hot on his ear. “I'd really like to get fucked through this mattress,” he says, shifting distractingly over Zevran, grinding back hard enough to test his self-control. The throaty groan that escapes him makes the mage smile, trace the point of an ear with his tongue before he pulls back. “If you think you can handle that,” he finishes lightly, teasingly.
Re: filled! (2/ possibly four)
anonymous
May 5 2010, 01:30:00 UTC
“I am quite certain of it,” Zevran replies, grinning. He'd forgotten how much he likes Circle mages, how clever and forthright they tend to be about sex. Very Antivan of them.
He directs the mage to his pack, strewn across the rough-hewn table by the bed as he'd left it, and the small vial of oil he uses on his leathers, sitting up to admire the view as the slender elf unselfconsciously sheds what remains of his robes, draping them over the room's lone chair. An excellent idea, Zevran decides, allowing himself a moment to appreciate it before taking it as his cue to strip himself of the rest of his armor.
The mage returns triumphant, tumbling them both back to the bed, his warm weight all the more distracting without clothing and armor between them, and Zevran finds himself somewhat sidetracked by the wealth of smooth, pale skin, enjoying the purely sensual thrill of tracing the long, shallow curve of a thigh, the sharp angle of a hip.
More focused-and perhaps more impatient-his bedpartner redirects his attention with an unsubtle cant of his hips that acquaints Zevran's neglected length with the mage's entirely too-appealing backside. He hisses through his teeth, can't help but thrust up a little, enjoying the frisson of pleasure before taking a firm grip on the mage's waist with one hand, finding the forgotten oil with the other.
A moment's maneuvering, and he slides down the bed a little, parting his lips and taking the mage in his mouth, one hand heavy on the man's hip-it has been some time since he last did this, and he would prefer not to choke like an amateur. The other hand reacquaints itself with the long, graceful line of the mage's spine, a light, distracted caress as he slowly, teasingly works the mage's erection with his mouth.
His reward is a gasped curse, an abortive twitch of the hips he controls easily, holding the mage still between hands and mouth. He watches the man's face, pale skin flushed, lips parted, eyes dilated, fixed on Zevran. Zevran hums meditatively, then attempts one of Taliesen's favorite tricks with his tongue, and the mage makes a truly fascinating noise, back bowing, hands grasping blindly at the bedclothes for support.
Goal accomplished, Zevran pulls back slightly, smiling at the discontented noise this elicits, repositioning his hands and pressing inside the mage with an oiled finger, feeling flesh and muscle yield and open for him as the mage shudders, trying to press back and thrust forward at the same time and managing only an indecisive jerk.
“More,” he says, voice gone low and rough, hand tangling in Zevran's hair.
Obligingly, Zevran adds another finger, twists his hand, curling his fingertips, letting his jaw go slack, accepting the quick, involuntary movement this provokes, enjoying the half-bitter taste, the sounds the mage makes as Zevran opens him up, swallows him down, using all the tricks he's ever learned to bring him to the edge, hold him there-
Re: filled! (3/ possibly four)
anonymous
May 5 2010, 01:31:43 UTC
The mage's fingers tighten in Zevran's hair, and then he is pulling away, removing himself from Zevran's hands and mouth. Zevran makes a confused, protesting noise, and then the mage's hand, slick with oil, closes around his neglected erection and it turns into a moan. He had not realized how close he's come himself, simply enjoying the act of pleasuring the mage, the taste and sound of him, and the simple warm pressure of a clever hand is threatening to undo him entirely.
Occupied as he is trying to think of something, anything to prevent him embarrassing himself, he only understands what the mage is up to when his weight abruptly shifts, and the hand stills, lets go, and he opens his eyes-when had he closed them?-to discover the mage poised over him, amused expression somewhat undermined by his sex-flushed cheeks, hectic-bright eyes.
He holds Zevran's gaze as he lowers himself slowly, one hand braced against Zevran's chest, the other curled into a fist in the tangled sheets, the long muscles in his thighs taut, his movements focused, controlled as he takes Zevran in, a slow, smooth motion, impossible perfect tight heat and Zevran hears his own breath catch, turn harsh, ragged, as he forces himself to remain still, let the mage acclimate to the intrusion.
A breath, two, and then the mage moves, rising up, pressing back down-forcing a groan from Zevran's throat-and again, the uneven rhythm he sets too shallow, too slow to do anything but tease them both. Attempting to meet it, adjust it to something a little more fulfilling accomplishes little, and then Zevran sees the gleam in the mage's pale eyes, all challenge and invitation.
In spite of the situation-arousal and frustration and not-quite-enough-he feels laughter bubble up in his chest. A tease for a tease, then, and a dare to do them both one better.
He is stronger, and the mage is more than willing, and it is easy enough to roll them both, pin the mage to the bed, long legs around Zevran's waist. It takes a bit more than that to wipe the smug expression off the man's face, but re-entering him in a single, slightly too-fast thrust seems to do the trick, eliciting a hissed blasphemy as the mage jerks under him, hand curling around his arm.
He starts out slow and deep, endeavoring to force a gasp or a curse each time, the mage's fingers biting into his biceps as he urges Zevran on, meeting him on each thrust, heel digging into the small of his back, all naked lust now that he has what he wants.
Re: filled! (4/4, sequel to, er, come?)
anonymous
May 5 2010, 01:33:54 UTC
Inevitably, the act speeds towards its conclusion-he feels it build again at the base of his spine, fed by the slick friction around him, the fever-heat of the mage's skin, the arch of his back and dull sting of his fingernails scraping down Zevran's arm.
He covers the mage's body with his own, tastes the sweat on his jaw, sucks a red mark into the pale, vulnerable skin under his ear, reaches between them with the hand not already supporting his own weight and curls his fingers around the mage's length, no tease this time, moving in counterpoint to his own, increasingly erratic thrusts-a breath, two, and then the mage is shuddering, convulsing under him, around him, spilling hot and wet between them with a hoarse, breathless shout.
Zevran takes that as permission to take his own pleasure, panting into the mage's neck as he lets his control slip away, giving in to his own building orgasm-it overtakes him swiftly, sparking behind his eyes, the familiar clench in his gut, and then blessed release as he comes hard enough to see stars.
He has never been one to indulge overmuch in the afterglow, and comes back to himself swiftly, though he remains as he is for a moment or two more, until the mage shifts under him.
The lazy, soft-mouthed kiss, all sweet satiation and no urgency whatsoever, takes him somewhat by surprise, uncharacteristically still as the mage licks into his mouth, an arm thrown casually around his neck, all boneless, feline smugness that Zevran is beginning to associate with this particular mage.
They lie there longer than Zevran had intended, catching their breath-each other's breath-before the mage disengages himself with a last nip at the point of Zevran's ear. “They'll be wondering where I've gone,” he says, wiping himself clean in a businesslike manner with the corner of a sheet.
Zevran raises his eyebrows. “Your chaperones?” he asks, deliberately amused.
The mage gives him a distracted smile, rising from the bed entirely, gathering up his robes and pulling them on in a careless, haphazard fashion that makes Zevran's fingers itch to re-dress him properly.
Or perhaps simply undress him once more and start over again.
“Frankly, I'm surprised the inn is still standing,” the mage continues, apparently oblivious to Zevran's thoughts as he straightens his lacings, refastens the sashes.
“Ah, so it is they who require the supervision,” Zevran says, nodding wisely, lounging back amid the well-used bedclothes. So round two is out of the question, then. A pity.
“You have no idea.”
Finally finished the pr0n, will write ambush sequel if OP is interested.
Re: filled! (4/4, sequel to, er, come?)
anonymous
May 5 2010, 01:39:08 UTC
Not OP, but DAMN that was steamin'! I would LOVE LOVE LOVE to see the ambush sequel! I love that it was m!Surana too, nyeheh. Loved that line about Zevran knowing how to strip a Circle mage in less than a minute.
Wow you're fast! Glad you liked, and I will begin work on the ambushin' ASAP, then. And hey, Suranas can be pretty goddamn badass, and I kind of love the canon on magi and sex.
All right, I shall get to the ambush as soon as I can. Which is probably today, after work. Action should go quicker than porn, although I make no promises re: timeliness.
He oversees the preparations, checking and double-checking the deadfall, the myriad unmarked traps each archer was expected to avoid, going over the plan of attack once more.
His employer was able to provide a reasonable amount of information-two Wardens, one human, with limited Templar training, one a mage of some kind. He has found an ambitious young apostate who assures him she can keep the mage busy long enough for the archers to handle him, as long as Zevran can occupy the Templar.
Combined with the traps-clever, vicious things-and his own skill with a blade, normally Zevran would be confident in their success. Perhaps he would lose a man or two, take a wound himself, if this were a normal ambush, normal marks, but the contract would be completed.
As it stands, he feels they will put up a reasonable fight and die well. Wardens are not known for being easy to kill, nor for any lack of prowess on the battlefield, and if he had any intention of actually winning this fight, he would have dragged half a dozen full Crows out of Antiva, not settled for hired rabble.
Yet here he is, pacing back and forth across the deep gorge, awaiting the signal from the sentries he'd posted to watch for the Wardens' approach. He has made peace with death, taken it into himself a very long time ago, become its right hand, and now that he faces his own, he is...oddly regretful.
He breathes, thinks today will be his last. He will never take another life, never eat another meal, taste wine or watch a sunrise again. It is no more than he deserves, however, and his resolve does not waver.
The call of an Antivan osprey echoes across the thick Fereldan forest, distinctive and very out of place, and he looks up, signals the archers to make themselves ready. The apostate turns to him, a mad gleam in her dark eyes, and he nods. The Wardens approach from the east. She will lead them into Zevran's gorge and, in theory, they will not leave it alive.
His men concealed now, Zevran remains where he is-even if the Wardens do not recognize it for a trap immediately, the woman's story of bandits will bring them bearing steel and expecting a fight in any case, and though Zevran himself does not exactly fit the profile of bandit, being neither human nor excessively scruffy, it will do no harm to present himself as an initial target.
Long, tense minutes pass before he hears their approach-the apostate in the lead, the Wardens close on her heels, his sentry trailing them unseen, sidling up the lip of the gorge, positioning himself to trigger the deadfall at Zevran's nod.
He draws his weapons and the Wardens are trapped. He goes to meet death gladly.
Unsurprisingly, nothing goes to plan. As he'd promised his own mage, he makes immediately for the tall human in the heaviest armor, currently occupied with one of his hired mercenaries. Battle sings in his blood, and for the first time since Rinna, it feels right to fall heedless into combat, laughter caught in his throat as he carves a path through the battlefield.
The first indication that perhaps there was a factor unaccounted-for was the high, panicked scream of his hired apostate-Zevran catches the motion from the corner of his eye, turns in time to see the Warden-mage slam the butt of his staff against the ground, see the human woman dragged off her feet momentarily, a blue-white arc of visible magic ripped from her as her cry ends abruptly and she falls to the ground, dead in an instant.
One spell robs him of his single most expensive asset. Any other contract, and Zevran would be cursing the Maker, loudly and inventively.
He looks back to the enemy mage who has so overturned the already-unequal battle and it is with a growing sense of surreality that he recognizes the man, is recognized in turn.
Fate has a twisted sense of humor, it seems, and while the tall, slender elf looks somewhat more threatening in his bloodspattered robes, his hands haloed with lethal power, there is no mistaking him for anyone but the same elven mage Zevran had so enjoyably bedded a scant few days earlier.
Re: sequel! (2/...3)
anonymous
May 12 2010, 05:19:26 UTC
The moment-though bare seconds, beyond foolish to indulge in mid-fight-passes when one of Zevran's archers puts an arrow in the mage's back, and is promptly and spectacularly immolated, lightning from a clear sky. Zevran redirects his attention to the Templar-Warden about to smash him to the ground with a cracked kite-shield, sidestepping swiftly, bringing one blade down at the extended arm's elbow-joint in retaliation. The human Warden blocks, does his level best to decapitate the assassin.
Zevran falls effortlessly back into the fight, setting aside the realization of the other Warden's identity as irrelevant, again losing himself in the fierce joy of a battle well-fought, flowing around his opponent like air, like water, turning aside the attacks aimed at him easy as instinct. They trade blows, parry back and forth to little result-the man has both height and reach, but he is slow, and though well-trained, he seems oddly hesitant to use his full strength against Zevran.
Perhaps it is a Grey Warden trait-used to battling darkspawn as they are, they do not fight like killers when presented with a less monstrous enemy.
The opening presents itself and he moves without pausing to think, trapping the human's sword with his own, kicking out, boot connecting solidly with the metal-reinforced edge of the battered shield, knocking it to the side as his full weight slams into the Templar-Warden, knocking him off-balance.
They stumble back, forward in tandem, an odd, graceless dance, and he is bringing up his free hand, already too close, within the warrior's broken guard, lashing out with the blade not occupied preventing his own beheading, aiming at the man's-wide, brown-eyes, his intent to cripple.
He hears the sound behind him too late, and something connects with the side of his head with enough force to knock him sideways, make his vision blur out alarmingly-he raises his hand to his temple, disoriented, and the second blow breaks several fingers.
The third lays him out flat on his back, and the last thing he sees is the elven mage, wild and oddly beautiful in that moment, bloodied staff in hand, breathing hard, murder in his pale eyes, wreathed in midmorning sunlight.
Re: sequel! (2/...3)
anonymous
May 12 2010, 05:22:21 UTC
(Y'all can thank my beta for the fact that the ending doesn't suck anymore. Also, pay no attention to the anonfail behind the curtain.)
The day continues to deviate from plan.
He awakens, not to death but to a headache he believes must be slightly worse than death, cursing between clenched teeth at the bright sun above, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing slowly, so as to aggravate the injury as little as possible.
“He's awake.”
A man's voice, with a Fereldan accent. His eyes snap open once more and though he regrets it immediately, he does not dare close them again, squinting up at his erstwhile captors. The double-vision takes a worryingly long time to resolve itself properly.
The Templar is sitting on the broken wagon, sword across his lap, scowling at Zevran, likely the one who'd spoken. At his feet is a war-painted mabari hound, to his left is a red-headed human woman with a half-drawn bow, also looking somewhat perturbed.
A pressure against his injured hand prompts him to look up, the movement making his head throb and stomach churn as though he's just come off a week-long drunk. Only several times worse.
It is the mage's boot, the toe laid gently against his thumb, poised to grind his-two? Three?-broken fingers into the rocky earth. The butt of his staff is grounded by Zevran's ear. He somewhat impressed in spite of himself at the pure menace the slender, unimposing young elf is able to conjure with a little intelligent positioning, but then he'd already been thoroughly aware that the mage knows how to use his body.
Almost involuntarily, his gaze travels up, to the faded red mark still visible under the Warden's ear, half hidden by his high collar. It's a poor time to remember the night he put it there, and he is not unaware of the irony. This is by no means the first time he's slept with a target.
It is, however, the first time he's done so accidentally and unaware of the fact.
His head feels fit to split open at any moment, he has just proven unsuccessful at getting himself killed, and he feels more alive than he has in months. He grins.
“You know, I think I preferred you naked,” he says, thoughtfully.
The Warden-mage's eyebrows go up. The Warden-Templar makes a choking noise, eyes bulging slightly.
“And I think I preferred you before you tried to kill us,” the mage counters. “Unfortunately, here you are.”
“Here I am,” Zevran agrees, with as much of a shrug as he can manage, pinned to the ground at he is. “Though not, unfortunately, naked.” Tact, he believes, is woefully overrated.
It is strange-he has been numb, detached for some time now, resigned to his eventual fate, seeking it, even, among the many, many contracts the Crows receive and distribute to their operatives. And now that he has found his death, here in this strange, cold country, for the first time since Taliesen, since Rinna, someone has caught his eye.
Still, there is no harm in a final dalliance, a taste of life to tide him over to the Maker's embrace. Or whatever fate awaits the wicked-he's never been particularly interested in Chantry talk. He had not intended this, but perhaps it is best. He has not been himself of late.
Eager hands and a hot mouth do much to restore him, he decides, responding in kind to the young mage's advances, working at the needlessly complicated sash-once upon a time, he had been able to strip a Circle enchanter in less than a minute, but that was some years ago and his fingers appear to have forgotten the trick entirely.
The mage pushes him to the bed, straddling him easily as he divests himself of his own clothing, robes yielding to smooth, pale skin, stripping himself to the waist before turning his attention upon Zevran's own armor, the flickering lamplight dancing across his intent expression as he deftly unbuckles the supple leather brigandine, unfastens pauldron from breastplate, and Zevran grins as he sits up, stealing a quick kiss as he shucks the entire thing off, letting it slide to the floor.
A quick kiss becomes another, deeper meeting of mouths, tasting of wine and cinnamon-he chases the flavor until it fades entirely, pressing his mouth against neck, collarbone, shoulder.
“What would you like?” he murmurs, letting his hands find that sash, slide under the smooth fabric, tease along hidden skin, earning a sharp intake of breath.
He smiles at that, lets his teeth scrape along the mage's shoulder, and then hands are in his hair, holding him still as the mage presses his face close, nose brushing Zevran's temple, breath hot on his ear. “I'd really like to get fucked through this mattress,” he says, shifting distractingly over Zevran, grinding back hard enough to test his self-control. The throaty groan that escapes him makes the mage smile, trace the point of an ear with his tongue before he pulls back. “If you think you can handle that,” he finishes lightly, teasingly.
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He directs the mage to his pack, strewn across the rough-hewn table by the bed as he'd left it, and the small vial of oil he uses on his leathers, sitting up to admire the view as the slender elf unselfconsciously sheds what remains of his robes, draping them over the room's lone chair. An excellent idea, Zevran decides, allowing himself a moment to appreciate it before taking it as his cue to strip himself of the rest of his armor.
The mage returns triumphant, tumbling them both back to the bed, his warm weight all the more distracting without clothing and armor between them, and Zevran finds himself somewhat sidetracked by the wealth of smooth, pale skin, enjoying the purely sensual thrill of tracing the long, shallow curve of a thigh, the sharp angle of a hip.
More focused-and perhaps more impatient-his bedpartner redirects his attention with an unsubtle cant of his hips that acquaints Zevran's neglected length with the mage's entirely too-appealing backside. He hisses through his teeth, can't help but thrust up a little, enjoying the frisson of pleasure before taking a firm grip on the mage's waist with one hand, finding the forgotten oil with the other.
A moment's maneuvering, and he slides down the bed a little, parting his lips and taking the mage in his mouth, one hand heavy on the man's hip-it has been some time since he last did this, and he would prefer not to choke like an amateur. The other hand reacquaints itself with the long, graceful line of the mage's spine, a light, distracted caress as he slowly, teasingly works the mage's erection with his mouth.
His reward is a gasped curse, an abortive twitch of the hips he controls easily, holding the mage still between hands and mouth. He watches the man's face, pale skin flushed, lips parted, eyes dilated, fixed on Zevran. Zevran hums meditatively, then attempts one of Taliesen's favorite tricks with his tongue, and the mage makes a truly fascinating noise, back bowing, hands grasping blindly at the bedclothes for support.
Goal accomplished, Zevran pulls back slightly, smiling at the discontented noise this elicits, repositioning his hands and pressing inside the mage with an oiled finger, feeling flesh and muscle yield and open for him as the mage shudders, trying to press back and thrust forward at the same time and managing only an indecisive jerk.
“More,” he says, voice gone low and rough, hand tangling in Zevran's hair.
Obligingly, Zevran adds another finger, twists his hand, curling his fingertips, letting his jaw go slack, accepting the quick, involuntary movement this provokes, enjoying the half-bitter taste, the sounds the mage makes as Zevran opens him up, swallows him down, using all the tricks he's ever learned to bring him to the edge, hold him there-
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Occupied as he is trying to think of something, anything to prevent him embarrassing himself, he only understands what the mage is up to when his weight abruptly shifts, and the hand stills, lets go, and he opens his eyes-when had he closed them?-to discover the mage poised over him, amused expression somewhat undermined by his sex-flushed cheeks, hectic-bright eyes.
He holds Zevran's gaze as he lowers himself slowly, one hand braced against Zevran's chest, the other curled into a fist in the tangled sheets, the long muscles in his thighs taut, his movements focused, controlled as he takes Zevran in, a slow, smooth motion, impossible perfect tight heat and Zevran hears his own breath catch, turn harsh, ragged, as he forces himself to remain still, let the mage acclimate to the intrusion.
A breath, two, and then the mage moves, rising up, pressing back down-forcing a groan from Zevran's throat-and again, the uneven rhythm he sets too shallow, too slow to do anything but tease them both. Attempting to meet it, adjust it to something a little more fulfilling accomplishes little, and then Zevran sees the gleam in the mage's pale eyes, all challenge and invitation.
In spite of the situation-arousal and frustration and not-quite-enough-he feels laughter bubble up in his chest. A tease for a tease, then, and a dare to do them both one better.
He is stronger, and the mage is more than willing, and it is easy enough to roll them both, pin the mage to the bed, long legs around Zevran's waist. It takes a bit more than that to wipe the smug expression off the man's face, but re-entering him in a single, slightly too-fast thrust seems to do the trick, eliciting a hissed blasphemy as the mage jerks under him, hand curling around his arm.
He starts out slow and deep, endeavoring to force a gasp or a curse each time, the mage's fingers biting into his biceps as he urges Zevran on, meeting him on each thrust, heel digging into the small of his back, all naked lust now that he has what he wants.
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He covers the mage's body with his own, tastes the sweat on his jaw, sucks a red mark into the pale, vulnerable skin under his ear, reaches between them with the hand not already supporting his own weight and curls his fingers around the mage's length, no tease this time, moving in counterpoint to his own, increasingly erratic thrusts-a breath, two, and then the mage is shuddering, convulsing under him, around him, spilling hot and wet between them with a hoarse, breathless shout.
Zevran takes that as permission to take his own pleasure, panting into the mage's neck as he lets his control slip away, giving in to his own building orgasm-it overtakes him swiftly, sparking behind his eyes, the familiar clench in his gut, and then blessed release as he comes hard enough to see stars.
He has never been one to indulge overmuch in the afterglow, and comes back to himself swiftly, though he remains as he is for a moment or two more, until the mage shifts under him.
The lazy, soft-mouthed kiss, all sweet satiation and no urgency whatsoever, takes him somewhat by surprise, uncharacteristically still as the mage licks into his mouth, an arm thrown casually around his neck, all boneless, feline smugness that Zevran is beginning to associate with this particular mage.
They lie there longer than Zevran had intended, catching their breath-each other's breath-before the mage disengages himself with a last nip at the point of Zevran's ear. “They'll be wondering where I've gone,” he says, wiping himself clean in a businesslike manner with the corner of a sheet.
Zevran raises his eyebrows. “Your chaperones?” he asks, deliberately amused.
The mage gives him a distracted smile, rising from the bed entirely, gathering up his robes and pulling them on in a careless, haphazard fashion that makes Zevran's fingers itch to re-dress him properly.
Or perhaps simply undress him once more and start over again.
“Frankly, I'm surprised the inn is still standing,” the mage continues, apparently oblivious to Zevran's thoughts as he straightens his lacings, refastens the sashes.
“Ah, so it is they who require the supervision,” Zevran says, nodding wisely, lounging back amid the well-used bedclothes. So round two is out of the question, then. A pity.
“You have no idea.”
Finally finished the pr0n, will write ambush sequel if OP is interested.
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His employer was able to provide a reasonable amount of information-two Wardens, one human, with limited Templar training, one a mage of some kind. He has found an ambitious young apostate who assures him she can keep the mage busy long enough for the archers to handle him, as long as Zevran can occupy the Templar.
Combined with the traps-clever, vicious things-and his own skill with a blade, normally Zevran would be confident in their success. Perhaps he would lose a man or two, take a wound himself, if this were a normal ambush, normal marks, but the contract would be completed.
As it stands, he feels they will put up a reasonable fight and die well. Wardens are not known for being easy to kill, nor for any lack of prowess on the battlefield, and if he had any intention of actually winning this fight, he would have dragged half a dozen full Crows out of Antiva, not settled for hired rabble.
Yet here he is, pacing back and forth across the deep gorge, awaiting the signal from the sentries he'd posted to watch for the Wardens' approach. He has made peace with death, taken it into himself a very long time ago, become its right hand, and now that he faces his own, he is...oddly regretful.
He breathes, thinks today will be his last. He will never take another life, never eat another meal, taste wine or watch a sunrise again. It is no more than he deserves, however, and his resolve does not waver.
The call of an Antivan osprey echoes across the thick Fereldan forest, distinctive and very out of place, and he looks up, signals the archers to make themselves ready. The apostate turns to him, a mad gleam in her dark eyes, and he nods. The Wardens approach from the east. She will lead them into Zevran's gorge and, in theory, they will not leave it alive.
His men concealed now, Zevran remains where he is-even if the Wardens do not recognize it for a trap immediately, the woman's story of bandits will bring them bearing steel and expecting a fight in any case, and though Zevran himself does not exactly fit the profile of bandit, being neither human nor excessively scruffy, it will do no harm to present himself as an initial target.
Long, tense minutes pass before he hears their approach-the apostate in the lead, the Wardens close on her heels, his sentry trailing them unseen, sidling up the lip of the gorge, positioning himself to trigger the deadfall at Zevran's nod.
He draws his weapons and the Wardens are trapped. He goes to meet death gladly.
Unsurprisingly, nothing goes to plan. As he'd promised his own mage, he makes immediately for the tall human in the heaviest armor, currently occupied with one of his hired mercenaries. Battle sings in his blood, and for the first time since Rinna, it feels right to fall heedless into combat, laughter caught in his throat as he carves a path through the battlefield.
The first indication that perhaps there was a factor unaccounted-for was the high, panicked scream of his hired apostate-Zevran catches the motion from the corner of his eye, turns in time to see the Warden-mage slam the butt of his staff against the ground, see the human woman dragged off her feet momentarily, a blue-white arc of visible magic ripped from her as her cry ends abruptly and she falls to the ground, dead in an instant.
One spell robs him of his single most expensive asset. Any other contract, and Zevran would be cursing the Maker, loudly and inventively.
He looks back to the enemy mage who has so overturned the already-unequal battle and it is with a growing sense of surreality that he recognizes the man, is recognized in turn.
Fate has a twisted sense of humor, it seems, and while the tall, slender elf looks somewhat more threatening in his bloodspattered robes, his hands haloed with lethal power, there is no mistaking him for anyone but the same elven mage Zevran had so enjoyably bedded a scant few days earlier.
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Zevran falls effortlessly back into the fight, setting aside the realization of the other Warden's identity as irrelevant, again losing himself in the fierce joy of a battle well-fought, flowing around his opponent like air, like water, turning aside the attacks aimed at him easy as instinct. They trade blows, parry back and forth to little result-the man has both height and reach, but he is slow, and though well-trained, he seems oddly hesitant to use his full strength against Zevran.
Perhaps it is a Grey Warden trait-used to battling darkspawn as they are, they do not fight like killers when presented with a less monstrous enemy.
The opening presents itself and he moves without pausing to think, trapping the human's sword with his own, kicking out, boot connecting solidly with the metal-reinforced edge of the battered shield, knocking it to the side as his full weight slams into the Templar-Warden, knocking him off-balance.
They stumble back, forward in tandem, an odd, graceless dance, and he is bringing up his free hand, already too close, within the warrior's broken guard, lashing out with the blade not occupied preventing his own beheading, aiming at the man's-wide, brown-eyes, his intent to cripple.
He hears the sound behind him too late, and something connects with the side of his head with enough force to knock him sideways, make his vision blur out alarmingly-he raises his hand to his temple, disoriented, and the second blow breaks several fingers.
The third lays him out flat on his back, and the last thing he sees is the elven mage, wild and oddly beautiful in that moment, bloodied staff in hand, breathing hard, murder in his pale eyes, wreathed in midmorning sunlight.
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The day continues to deviate from plan.
He awakens, not to death but to a headache he believes must be slightly worse than death, cursing between clenched teeth at the bright sun above, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing slowly, so as to aggravate the injury as little as possible.
“He's awake.”
A man's voice, with a Fereldan accent. His eyes snap open once more and though he regrets it immediately, he does not dare close them again, squinting up at his erstwhile captors. The double-vision takes a worryingly long time to resolve itself properly.
The Templar is sitting on the broken wagon, sword across his lap, scowling at Zevran, likely the one who'd spoken. At his feet is a war-painted mabari hound, to his left is a red-headed human woman with a half-drawn bow, also looking somewhat perturbed.
A pressure against his injured hand prompts him to look up, the movement making his head throb and stomach churn as though he's just come off a week-long drunk. Only several times worse.
It is the mage's boot, the toe laid gently against his thumb, poised to grind his-two? Three?-broken fingers into the rocky earth. The butt of his staff is grounded by Zevran's ear. He somewhat impressed in spite of himself at the pure menace the slender, unimposing young elf is able to conjure with a little intelligent positioning, but then he'd already been thoroughly aware that the mage knows how to use his body.
Almost involuntarily, his gaze travels up, to the faded red mark still visible under the Warden's ear, half hidden by his high collar. It's a poor time to remember the night he put it there, and he is not unaware of the irony. This is by no means the first time he's slept with a target.
It is, however, the first time he's done so accidentally and unaware of the fact.
His head feels fit to split open at any moment, he has just proven unsuccessful at getting himself killed, and he feels more alive than he has in months. He grins.
“You know, I think I preferred you naked,” he says, thoughtfully.
The Warden-mage's eyebrows go up. The Warden-Templar makes a choking noise, eyes bulging slightly.
“And I think I preferred you before you tried to kill us,” the mage counters. “Unfortunately, here you are.”
“Here I am,” Zevran agrees, with as much of a shrug as he can manage, pinned to the ground at he is. “Though not, unfortunately, naked.” Tact, he believes, is woefully overrated.
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