First actual post - now with crack-fic.
Part of being a successful assassin was the meticulous planning and careful execution of plans.
The Plan Zevran made was no different, despite not involving death of any kind. Except perhaps (hopefully) la petite mort.
It all started when the Antivan had noticed Alistair hanging on his fellow Grey Warden’s every word like an obedient puppy. Not that that was such a remarkable achievement, as everyone in their fellowship had seen the infatuation except the mage-turned-Warden in question. Even Shale had begun making snarky comments about mating rituals of the squishies and whether or not they included stuttering, turning red and running away.
Contrary to popular opinion, Zevran did not enjoy seeing people suffer needlessly. He would kill when instructed to and feel a rush of satisfaction with every job well done, but he always killed his marks in a clean and orderly fashion (unless specifically ordered not to - scorned women could be especially inventive in their cruelty).
Seeing the expression of complete desolation on Alistair’s face due to Neria’s obliviousness regarding his crush was therefore quickly becoming tiring for the blond assassin. Morrigan had pulled him aside a few weeks back and asked what his usual fare was, but he had no plans to kill the poor royal bastard. Instead, he decided to do unto Alistair what he wanted others to do unto him: Seduce him.
Zevran had been a firm believer of the powers of sensual healing ever since a memorable night with ten other participants, after which he swore that his broken arm was healed. Or there might have been a mage somewhere in the pile, though he much preferred the first explanation.
So that remained the plan until a few nights ago when Zevran decided that another poor soul in their camp needed his attentions desperately. He had asked Wynne about the Circle and what really went on there on the beautiful moonlit nights and had been severely disappointed to discover that it was the same sad truth as in Antiva. Being enlightened about her most likely sexually deprived life, he made a revision to the plan. Their dear Senior Enchanter deserved some happiness as well. Plus, he really was entranced by the magical gravity-defying bosom. Thus began the Plan for the Magnificent Three-way.
It started with an increased observation of their habits and likes. Since he had planned on doing this with Alistair for a while, he had had time to gather supplies and begin general preparations, and he had enough intelligence on Wynne’s weaknesses to be confidant that the whole thing would go off without a glitch tonight.
The first step was to ensure relative privacy, which was disappointingly easy and didn’t even require the carefully composed and highly manipulative reasons Zevran had thought up as to why their companions needed to be somewhere else. After dinner (Sten made traditional Qunari stew and the rest of the companions quickly and unanimously decided to never let him near their food preparation ever again. Most of them preferred their meat cooked) they divided into small groups quite naturally. Leliana went hunting (after completely dazzling Levi Dryden with one of her smiles), Shale generously allowed Morrigan to study her inscriptions and Oghren started telling the more racy stories in his considerable arsenal to a laughing Neria and a protective Sten.
This put Zevran in a perfect situation as both his marks were isolated and ready for the onslaught. He began by complaining that his bag had gotten rather heavy as of late (though still nothing compared to that of their leader. How she managed to store a plate mail armor in the same slot that could hold a lyrium potion, he would never understand) and started pulling several carefully selected items from the bag. A bottle of the finest, Antivan wine was placed next to three small containers of a pale gold liquid that seemed to pulsate light softly.
“Say, my dearest Enchanter”, he said while being very careful not to leer at her. Wynne slowly lowered the book she had been reading and arched an inquisitive eyebrow. Encouraged that she hadn’t thrown anything at him (including scathing remarks), he got up with the small vials in hand and went to her side. “I bought these in the Dalish camp when we were last there and thought you might like them. I saw how happy you were with the wine Neria brought you…”
Eyes narrowed, Wynne cautiously accepted the gift. “Thank you, Zevran. That was uncharacteristically thoughtful of you. What’s the catch this time?”
Zevran gave a gasp of indignation and clutched a hand to his chest. “My sweet, dear lady, you wound me to the quick! The very implication breaks my heart an-“
Wynne raised a hand in an attempted peace offering. “All right, no need to get so dramatic. If, and I still have some doubts regarding this, if this truly was a gesture of genuine kindness from you, I am thankful for the gift.”
Giving her his most innocent smile, he then suggested they each drank one of the vials. Surprisingly, she agreed after only a minimum of exasperated sighs.
All in all, the Plan was going well. After clinking the bottles together and making sure Wynne did indeed drink hers, it was merely a matter of discreetly disposing of the contents of his mouth without her noticing - and, please, he was a Crow - and wait for the effect to come. Ten minutes later he was halfway carrying a very intoxicated and slightly giggling mage into his tent (and couldn’t resist copping a feel while doing so). “Stay right here, my beauty. I shall be back momentarily”, he said, and didn’t miss the chance to give her a proper leer this time.
One down, one to go.
Before securing his first unwitting paramour, Zevran had laid out a small trail of selected cheeses to end by a nearby tree. Predictably, his second target showed up a few moments later chewing happily and with a blissful expression on his face.
“So glad you liked the samples, now are you ready for the real taste explosion?”
Alistair nearly choked on his half-chewed cheese. “You did this. But why? What’s in it for you?”
Zev sighed deeply. “This again. I have acquired some fine cheeses and couldn’t possibly eat them all by myself and so I thought my good friend Alistair might like to share them with me.”
The templar’s brow knotted in suspicion. “You know, if this is something about a favor you want from me when I’m king, I probably won’t be able-“
“No, nothing like that. Merely the pleasure of your company in my tent.” No lies there.
“Wow, wait a minute, why is it in there? I don’t know if I’ll be comfortable with that. Wait a minute, I do know. I won’t be.”
“Now who has his mind in the gutter. I have also invited Wynne, so consider her a chaperone, if you must, and I thought it rude to keep an old woman outside in the cold night air. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Well, yes, but-“
“There is Stilton”
“No”
“White Stilton”
“No”
“Red Drakon”
“No”
“Gouda”
“No”
“Roquefort, Port Salut, Saint-Andraste”
“No, no and no”
“Camembert”
“Really?”
“No, sorry, it looks like the dog has eaten it.”
“Ah.”
“Dalish Fynbo”
“Fiend”
“Orlesian brie”
“….Alright. But only because Wynne’s there too”
Later in his tent, Wynne had found the Antivan wine and was happily sipping it while Alistair had devoured close to two pounds of brie and was considerably more relaxed. Zevran thought it to be as good a time as any, and decided to bring the Nug out of the bag.
“So, Alistair, how would you feel about learning the art of love from an expert?”
This time, Alistair did choke and was not able to answer until several coughs later. “What are you - are you serious? You want me to-“
“Have sex with me, yes. I assure you, it would be a very pleasurable experience for the both of us.”
Alistair’s mouth opened and closed repetitively in a fair impersonation of a fish caught on land. “Let’s set aside reality for just a moment and assume I’m willing to do what you proposition, why in the name of Andraste’s blessed potholder would you put this much effort into this seduction scheme? In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m neither very … worldly nor in fact interested in your, that being my own, gender. Plus, what was the way you described me when we met? Ah, yes, “a person with so much innate goodness it almost makes me sick”, wasn’t it?”
Zevran leaned back and crossed his hands behind his head with a smile playing at his lips. “What you’re forgetting, my dearest Alistair, is that I’ve gotten to know you quite a bit better since then and have, in fact, come to the conclusion that you are just enough of a bastard to be worth liking. And as to why you would do it, that very simple: I put a small amount of a rather potent aphrodisiac in that delectable Orlesian brie you are so happily consuming”
The look of appalled shock on the other man’s face was priceless as he threw the brie as if it were a poisonous spider. “You did what?! You, you, you spiked the cheese? That’s just not, I mean, you - you can’t just do that! That’s not done! Some things in a man’s life are sacred and his cheese is one of them. You, you sneaky, unscrupulous assassin!”
Zevran bowed deeply. “You flatter me, ser. But do not worry your pretty little head with what depravities I might perform on your unwilling body - I very much prefer my bedfellows to be coherent.”
To his surprise, Wynne came to his rescue. “Oh, would you relax, Alistair? You know, you know, you know, that’s the problem with you templars right there! Always so uptight and damned righteous and “No, I couldn’t, you’re a mage, it’s not right” when what you really need, right, what you need is to get laid, even if you are the damnable Knight-Commander of the cursed Tower!” She finished her tirade with another healthy swing of the bottle in her hand.
“…. I will dedicate my life to forgetting that sentence”
“See, the lady is right. You really are far too tense, my dear boy. Is there anything” he gave him a look that would have melted diamonds. “Anything I can do to help you with that? I know some lovely techniques that - “
“NO! No techniques of any kind will be applied to my person! And that poison-“
“Potion”
“Whatever, is that supposed to make your stomach feel slightly…funny?”
Zevran quirked an amused eyebrow. “Well, I don’t know if I would call it funny, per se, but -“
“Zevran, believe it or not, but I know what that feels like, and it’s not that. It’s more like… constipated.”
Zevran looked at the other man in confusion. Sure, a sore stomach might be the normal reaction after eating those amounts of cheese, but with the potion all he should be feeling was overwhelming desire. He quickly went over to the box where he kept the ingredients for potions making. A small wrapped gallbladder which was the crucial component in the concoction he believed to have given Alistair stood out. “That cannot be good.”
“What cannot be good, Zever?” came the drunken question to a statement he had hoped no one had heard and containing the new name Wynne had bestowed on him after too many botched attempts at his real one.
“I made a slight mistake earlier on in the evening, my flower. Nothing to worry about.”
“Ooh, that’s not good. You know what’s good? The small bottles of spi, spiwi, spirits. Oh, you can have a good spirit inside you like I do, Alistair! Here, try it!”
Here she threw a vial at the surprised and pained young man who managed to catch it, but not before a large part of it had splashed over his trousers. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, let me take a look at that. I’ll just need to see it in a better light…” Wynne grabbed the nearest candle and stood up to help Alistair, but only managing to trip over Zevran’s trusted armor, dropping the candle and thereby setting the poor lad’s nether regions on fire. And not in the good way.
“AAAAGH! Get them off, get them off, get them off!!” Alistair’s hand flew around uselessly while his head was buried in Wynne’s chest as she fell over him.
The elf was doubled over laughing. “I’m sorry, my good knight. What did you say? I could not hear you through that glorious bosom”
“My PANTS! Get them OFF me, NOW!”
Zevran could not resist a suggestive wink. “I thought you would never ask”.
With a swiftness that probably surprised Alistair, the pants were off and thrown in a bucket of water.
Suddenly the tent flap opened and revealed the sight of Alistair lying semi-naked on the floor, head nestled in Wynne’s breasts and a broadly smiling Zevran kneeling between his legs to a very surprised Warden.
Neria stared at the two sheepish and one leering expressions with what can only be described as mild horror.
“You know, my Grey Warden”, Zevran said in a tone that dripped of honey and promises. “We Antivans are famed for our hospitality. Not always a wise choice, considering the Crows’ love of infiltrative work, but that’s tradition for you. Bearing that in mind, I would be terribly remiss if I didn’t offer you a place I our litt-“
Waving her hands in a semi-frantic manner, Neria backed away and only narrowly missed the pot containing Sten’s latest attempt at cooking. “No, nonono. It’s fine, rally. I am just going to see Morrigan about the possibility of learning a memory removal spell. And if such a thing doesn’t exist, I think I’ll take Oghren up on that drinking contest.”
Zevran followed the Warden with his eyes as she stumbled (escaped) through the campsite. “Such a pity”, he mumbled to himself as he turned to his two conquests (he hoped) for the night. The thought cheered him up again - beautiful, mature, experienced Wynne and innocent Alistair. Well, he would certainly be taking care of removing that adjective from the list of things describing the ex-templar, he thought with a grin.
The fantasy continued as he opened the flap on the tent. Wynne, Wynne and her glorious, magical bosom would be - asleep, apparently. She lay on her stomach with one of her arms dangling from the side of the specially constructed fold-out bed (“Always be prepared”, his mentors used to tell him. He intended to follow that advice in all aspects of his life), hand still clinging to the wine and face down (and slightly drooling) on his expensive Orlesian sheets. Alistair, meanwhile, was curled up in a ball in the far corner of the tent with his arms crossed in front of his stomach and rocking gently from side to side while swearing never to eat fermented milk again.
With a sigh of resignation, Zev reached out his hand for the other man. “Up we go, brave knight. I believe one of the purple potions that our lovely witch keeps in her pack will help your present condition”
Alistair looked remarkably like the Mabari when you refused to play throw-the-drakspawn-bone after a battle at the thought of having to ask Morrigan for help (while not wearing pants, no less), but fled the tent after becoming suspiciously green in the face.
Well, to say the night didn’t turn out like he had hoped and expected would be an understatement. Still, he had ended up with a lovely mage in his bed and - and!- she had no idea what had or hadn’t happened. Sniggering to himself, he set about removing his own clothes as well as Wynne’s (proving a more difficult task than he imagined. Just how did the people in the Circle get themselves undressed in the evening? Perhaps the rumors were true about the scandalous dealings between mages. Or perhaps the templars lend a helping hand?) and placed himself behind the sleeping woman on the bed. As he thought about the general confusion, embarrassment and endless possibilities for not-so-subtle-hints that the morning would bring, he allowed a grin to spread on his face. Perhaps the evening wasn’t a total fiasco after all.