serindrana
in
zevran
Temper, Temper (1/9)
Title: Temper, Temper (1/9)
Author: serindrana
Pairing: Zevran/F!Tabris
Rating: NC-17
Chapter Wordcount: 6130
Warnings: Not many for this chapter (there's some killing of demons), but the series will eventually have bits of BDSM, including knifeplay.
Summary: Fynnea Tabris has a passionate temper. Zevran likes to play with fire.
Notes: This is my first foray into writing Zevran, so I'm not terribly confidant in his voice. He's also not a major focus this chapter, but that will change as the series progresses. The story as I have it planned will be stretching across the events of Origins, starting with Redcliffe, with a final shout-out to Awakening, but it's mostly behind the scenes moments. (Also, this is only my second time writing DA fanfic at all! So, please be gentle. Feedback is much appreciated!)
Her father once told her that her temper would be the death of her, her temper and tendency to turn fast to cruel words, but Fynnea has never believed him. Her temper has always helped her before, always supported and borne her along. It was how she'd ended up with a sword in her hand at that bastard Vaughn's estate, how she'd cut through bloody shem after shem, how she'd destroyed him utterly with her sword and her dagger (and even her teeth if the blood taste in her mouth later was anything to judge by), despite the possibility that she was killing everybody she'd ever loved with her actions. She almost had, but- she'd pulled it off. She always pulls it off, in the end.
She'll pull it off this time, too. They're on the second floor of Redcliffe castle, and she's clanging her swords together above her head, then dancing back from the chilled blast sent her way. The spell's ricochet off the stone floor forms into icicles, and Fynnea sidesteps the closest and shatters the largest. She and Alistair are doing their best to keep the desire demon focused on them while Zevran slips into the shadows and moves towards her rear. Wynne lingers at the door at the far end of the room, keeping her distance and sending waves of healing towards the two fighters when they manage not to dodge or block a blast.
Making noise and shouting out taunts is easy and goes well with the thin film of red still hovering before her eyes. She's doing too good of a job at it; Alistair is supposed to be the main target, with his templar skills and heavy armor, but she's making enough noise that he has to shove her out of the way of another bolt of ice. He takes the blow instead, turning instantly into a frozen statue. Fynnea tumbles to the ground, her breath knocked from her lungs even as she tries to laugh at his predicament. He is, after all, the one who brought that film of red upon her in the first place. It's his own fault.
But she doesn't have time to dwell and is soon fighting the urge to kick at the ice sculpture of Alistair, knowing that it would kill instead of free the man. Zevran has just fit his dagger neatly up into the demon's back, and she's howling, filling the room with frost. Her howl is loud enough to wake the dead, who pull themselves obligingly up from the floor. In a matter of moments, the fight has gone from four against one to the infinitely less preferable three against six. At least the demon has disappeared back behind the Veil for a moment, and the team has spent the last night perfecting undead eradication strategies. Fynnea has no barrels of lamp oil and no hardened dwarven mercenary to assist, but she does have a mage who mutters old words and aims a purple streak of energy at one of the undead. It impacts and seems to do nothing, but Fynnea notes the small lines tracing over the decaying flesh and grins.
The corpses are falling towards Zevran, but they pause and shift direction when Fynnea shouts and hollers and slams the pommel of one sword hard against her pauldron. She taunts them, leads them to the center of the room, dances, and then lunges for the purple-marked one, ducking low and stabbing upwards, falling between its legs as her blades follow through and send putrid organs tumbling towards her. She scrambles out of the way just as the falling corpse spasms and erupts in a fountain of magic-infused, death-thickened blood that hisses and burns the other undead on contact.
Alistair breaks free of his ice prison just in time to see the display, and as soon as their enemies have recovered from the blast, he is banging his sword upon his shield, a far more effective draw than Fynnea's earlier imitation. Fynnea and Zevran fall in close together, beginning to pick off the remaining threats while covering each other's weak spots. It's a familiar dance. She manages to allow Alistair to draw all of the attention this time, staying quiet and taking advantage of the corpses' less than intact senses.
As she sinks the sword in her right hand into the chest of one of the last of the shambling, howling corpses, Fynnea reflects that she can sometimes control the boiling rage and manic intensity inside of her - when she absolutely needs to. She had schooled her voice to a dull chill when she told King Cailan just what life in the Alienage had been like, before Duncan cut her off. She had gotten past Teyrn Loghain's first words (You're pretty for a Grey Warden, of course. Why did shems always mention her appearance first? Right, elf.) without punching him in the face and actually listened to the man for the span of five or ten strange, somehow wonderful minutes. Something between them- she wondered if it had been respect. Strange, that the man who had not twenty four hours later betrayed them could have respected her, a little unproven fire-headed elf with tattoos on her face applied haphazardly by her cousin, if only for a moment.
But she'd behaved. And she was, until just a few hours ago, fairly confident that she knew when to behave. But then Alistair, whom she'd sat up late at night talking with, who had stoically attempted to ignore Zevran's teasing remarks to her and her answering banter despite how much it obviously worried her, who had been there for her after Ostagar just as she'd been there for him, and who fought at her side, at her back, drawing the attention of enemies so she could slip up fast and hack them to bits; Alistair, who was rather silly and adorable and, somehow, a good friend despite his height and his round ears; Alistair who-might-be-king gave her a rose. Standing on the shores of Lake Calenhad, he'd handed her a rose, a rose from Lothering, and ruined everything.
They had been close, comrades in arms, the only two Grey Wardens left in all Ferelden. He'd been by her side through Ostagar, through the horrors of the Circle, through the wandering paths of the Brecilian forest. He knew her past and knew her temper and knew her wicked sense of humor and her impulsiveness and her ferocity. And, she had thought, he knew that when she flirted, she very rarely meant it, and that when she flirted with him it was mainly to see him flustered.
And yet he'd still given her a rose and expected her to swoon into his arms. Why?
Because she was an elf and she was beautiful, pretty for a Grey Warden, a hot piece of ass, tempting enough to kidnap on her wedding day, that was why. Her eyes burned and her blood boiled. He gave her a rose, and it was so much a symbol of stop talking to those men, a way of stopping her flirting with Bann Teagan (he'd said she was beautiful, too), with Zevran (deadly sex goddess, though she didn't mind that so much, coming from him, just like she didn't mind him mentioning his type, how he liked strong and dangerous and everything she, conveniently, was), with everybody who wasn't Alistair. But she hadn't flirted with Alistair any more than anybody else. In fact, she'd flirted with him the least, because it was all just a joke, a way to unsettle him and a way to pass the time, and she thought that her little cruelties were as obvious as her larger ones. So why was he the one giving her a rose?
Confused and annoyed and still fired up from the previous night's battle, she had been cruel, and her cruelty was large. She had burned him with words and watched as some sort of hope and desire died in his eyes.
"And so you give me a rose? Brilliant plan."
His lips had settled into a hard line as he struggled not to- what? Cry? Lash out with a fist? His sword? She didn't know.
"Yes, well," he muttered, staring at the water, "I thought we- I guess I was mistaken. About things."
Wynne tried to intercede, stepping between the two. "We're all under a lot of stress, perhaps-"
"Shut up, Wynne!" Fynnea had barked, voice dripping acid, and it wasn't until later that she felt guilty about how the older woman had cringed and shook her head, then turned away.
Alistair laughed, weakly, muttering, "Now you're shouting at Wynne. Good grief, Fynnea." You're a mess hovered unspoken. "It was just... it was just a rose. Forget I said anything." His words were dead weights, angry and hurt. He walked away from her, finally growling out that they should go find Teagan and accompany him into the castle.
So, her temper has ruined some things. Or rather, other people (Alistair; her thoughts hissed the name) ruined some things and she got angry and ruined other things, things that felt a lot like friendship. But she'd had every right to let her anger out, hadn't she?
Just like she has every right to channel that anger now into cutting down the demon, who returns the moment her risen soldiers fall once more. Anger is useful, cruelty a sharp weapon. She rushes the demon, reaches her before even Wynne's electrifying attack, and manages to cut deep into the lithe female form's hip before she feels ice crawl across her skin.
Dimly through ice comes the reverberations of the demon's howl, then a moment's silence. Things hang in crystalline stillness except for the pounding of her heart with its red hot blood, and if she could twitch and thrash she would, but the ice prison holds her. There are dim shadows, Zevran and Wynne and Alistair taking up positions around her fragile body, and she tries to concentrate and fight the tendrils of magic that are sending the chill deep below her skin and into her bones.
There's a shout, and the biggest shadow - Alistair - is moving to intercept something, something she can't see. Then, there is heat. It melts her just enough that she can surge out of the ice, but it leaves her burned and in agony until Wynne's soothing magic envelops her. She's back on her feet, screaming towards the writhing masses of flames that make up the two rage demons that are now focused on heating Alistair's armor to a red-hot glow.
As she lunges towards the first demon, she feels another wave of chill, but this time it's from Wynne's hands and her swords are glittering, turning the air around them into ice. When her blades connect, piercing into the center of the flame beast's chest at almost a single point, it shrieks. She pulls apart, slicing the demon in half. The ice magic glittering along the edges of her weapons seals the break, keeps the halves apart until the demon simply melts out of existence.
The other rage demon falls just as quickly, split into pieces that rain down like embers.
And then all that's left is to bear down hard upon the desire demon, who appears just in front of Arl Eamon's bedroom, crouched and panting and bleeding magic, the Veil shivering around her. It's hard to hit her, swords deflecting away, and Fynnea extends too far into a blow and, as it misses, she tumbles down. It's Zevran who strikes the final blow, lunging over her, and she can see how his dagger gleams, beneath the frost spell, with a coating of slick poison.
The desire demon wails, clawing at the blade sunk deep between her breasts. He's buried it in her flesh slightly to the left of center, fit into a spot between bones, and she sags and fades away, leaving nothing but a tinkling of dust and the prone form of Connor.
The kill wound is not echoed on the boy, who breathes weakly but seems otherwise fine. Zevran pulls Fynnea back up to her feet, and they look down at Connor, who could almost be sleeping.
Fynnea sheathes her blades after a moment's thought and kneels, moving to retrieve the dagger from her boot. Before her fingers can close around the small handle, though, there is the sound of slippered footsteps, harsh breathing, and then Arlessa Isolde's plaintive voice, Orlesian accent thick and heavy from strain:
"No! No, do not kill my Connor!"
And Isolde has gotten between Fynnea and the boy.
Fynnea's lips compress into a line. "Step aside," she says, simply, voice rough from shouted orders. "I will do what must be done."
"I can't lose my boy!"
Fynnea's flat expression turns to anger and annoyance. "They're just going to take him from you, anyway," she growls, her voice unyielding and harsh. "Step. Aside."
"I will sacrifice myself! Just let him live!"
The Warden's armored fist connects with Isolde's lovely face with a crack.
"Fynnea-" Alistair hisses, reaching out to grab her arm, but she shrugs away and steps over the Arlessa's still, quiet body. She sinks to the floor beside Connor, pulling her blade from her boot. A choked down sound of anger comes from Alistair's direction, but she ignores it, straightening her shoulders before she leans over Connor, rolling him onto his back. She considers for a moment, then, pressing a hand to his chest to steady him in case he wakes up, slips the knife between his ribs and into his heart, following the path that Zevran laid out.
Connor twitches once, and then, nothing.
Fynnea pulls the knife out, wipes it clean on the boy's clothes (Alistair makes another of those choked sounds), sheathes it, and stands up. She runs a hand through her hair before turning to face her companions.
Wynne has her eyes carefully focused only on the Arlessa, healing whatever damage Fynnea has done to the woman. Zevran stands a little away, watching the scene placidly. Alistair- Alistair's face goes from red to pale grey as he meets her eyes and sees the triumph and pleasure in them. "You enjoyed that," he manages, weakly, and Wynne looks up with the same horrified expression that's now firmly set on Alistair's face.
He's wrong, she didn't exactly enjoy killing Connor, but she can't help a wild grin at their expressions. She darts a glance at Zevran, whose lips curl in a faint smirk, and then Bann Teagan is in the room. His expression is solemn as he looks at Connor and at the slowly stirring Isolde, and his eyes slide over Fynnea where the day before they had lingered appreciatively.
"My brother," he says quietly, and leads the way into Arl Eamon's chambers.
As they step around Connor's body, Zevran appears at her side, leans in close and whispers, "For what it is worth, my Warden, I would have done exactly as you did. Though perhaps I would not have looked quite so untroubled at the doing of it, for the others' sakes."
He smiles and one of his tanned, calloused hands touches her arm, and for a moment her temper doesn't seem so bad after all. At the very least, he understands her. That comfort drops off, though, under long accusatory looks from the others and the way that, when they are attacked by darkspawn on the way back to camp (they have overstayed their welcome at the castle - Fynnea has overstayed their welcome), Alistair nearly cracks one of her ribs when he pushes her to safety, his shield arm connecting hard with her chest. His movements are rough and angry and not at all supportive like they always have been in the past.
--
Fynnea hadn't thought it possible, but Connor's death has left Alistair even angrier than her mockery of his gift. They are back at camp and Alistair is yelling at her about Connor and she is using all of her gruff charm to convince him that she'd done everything right, but he is angry, so angry, and she's not used to seeing that fury in somebody that's not her.
And he's not listening because of it. She misses the irony of it all (after all, why should she have listened to Isolde?)
"Alistair," she growls, voice rising, trying to make him listen. "The boy would have died no matter what I did!!"
He scoffs. "Oh?"
"The Tower," Fynnea points out, as if that should explain everything. It does.
Except, not to Alistair. "Oh, don't take Morrigan literally," he mutters, rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands, and she remembers, vaguely, Morrigan likening the Tower to a large, communal coffin for the endlessly dying.
"You were there," she presses on. "You heard Cullen, and you saw the demons, and you think that the Templars would just accept, without question or fear, a boy mage who has already been possessed by a demon and nearly destroyed an arling? They would kill him the moment they had him in custody and far enough away that Isolde couldn't get in the way!" She's shouting now. Barkspawn is stretched out on his belly by Leliana, watching and whining and covering his paws with his ears, and Leliana is doing her best not to look at the Wardens.
Alistair is pale, his jaw clenched. "We didn't have to tell them about the demon."
"I AM NOT CLEANING DEMONS OUT OF THAT TOWER AGAIN." She remembers all too clearly the horrors of those curving hallways, after all, and she was the one who had to rescue all of them from the dreams they couldn't see through. "I acted responsibly, so do not question me."
"Oh, yes, you're the responsible one," he shoots back, glaring. "You're never impulsive and you've never ruined anything for anybody else because of your selfishness."
She wants to tear out her hair. Or hit him. Hitting him seems particularly appealing, but she holds herself still, muscles quivering. "What exactly is this about, Alistair? Because I know you don't care what happens to Isolde, and I doubt you'd ever even met the boy before tonight," she whispers, voice gone low, and he takes a step back at its cold fury. "Why are you so angry? It's like this is all still about that rose-"
His eyes widen and she knows she's found it.
"It is!" and her voice is loud again, fists clenching at her sides.
"No. It's- Arl Eamon-"
"What, are you afraid that he'll be disappointed in his bastard ward when he wakes up? If?" She feels good when she sees his flinch. "And you think I'm selfish? Don't worry," she adds, turning from him. "I'll take all the blame. I don't have a problem taking the blame; I killed Connor because there was no other choice. The trip to the Tower would have taken over a week and he would have ended up dead anyway. So gather up your hurt feelings and get them out of this campsite and off the battlefield, because you're the one who can't handle your temper. At least I can put it to work!"
He stares at her a moment, mouth working, and then throws up his hands. He hisses that he thought that they had something, and stalks off to sulk somewhere away from the fire where she can't see him.
After the space of a hundred thundering heartbeats, Zevran slides up behind her, footsteps soft but purposefully audible. His hands settle on her shoulders, lightly, then lift as she jerks away and turns to look at him. He is handsome by firelight (he's always handsome, though, especially since he knows it and he smirks like he's smirking now whenever he catches her looking at him) and her eyes settle on the tattoo along the side of his face, so reminiscent of her own. That focus keeps her still-roiling rage in check, because she wants to punch him just as much as she had wanted to strike Alistair a moment ago; the urge hasn't faded, only settled on another, closer target.
"Leaders must make hard decisions," he murmurs, offering a faint smile, "and you make them well." Her expression remains flat, and he sighs. "You are so tense, my Warden," he says, shaking his head. "What has Alistair been saying to you? No- never mind," he interrupts as she begins to open her mouth, "let's not dwell on it. He is wrong, I suspect, and so you should not worry."
It barely draws a hint of a smirk from her. "Damn straight, he's wrong," she mutters, voice dark and angry enough that Zevran has to visibly resist taking a step back from the fuming warden. She's sure he must have heard at least some of that discussion, loud and angry as it was, but he is diplomatic as always. His consideration cools her anger, but only a little, and she adds, more quietly, "Where does he think he gets off, chastising me for doing what had to be done?"
"Chantry teachings?" Zevran offers up.
"Maker curse his Chantry teachings," she growls, throwing up her hands. "I did what he wouldn't do and saved everybody I could, and because it involves a little boy that's his sort of half-brother-"
Zevran cuts in, attempting to still her fury, dissipate it before somebody ends up losing life or limb. "As I said, so tense! If I might offer, an Antivan... massage might be useful in helping you to relax?" His lips are curling a little more, brow quirked invitingly even if she is scaring him a little, and if this were any other night, she would have sighed Finally and just let go and enjoyed herself. No strings attached, wonderful, and not fraught like Alistair and his fucking rose. Zevran knows, after all, that flirting doesn't have to mean anything but flirting. But tonight she is still shaking with rage and the rage overpowers that lovely twisting lust he stokes in her and before she can check herself, she tells him, in politer words, to go fuck himself.
His expression falls, and he murmurs something apologetic and wanders off to sit by the fire near Leliana and the mabari.
Fynnea curses and stalks off in the direction of the river they're camped by. I know what I'm doing, she thinks, angry and frustrated and confused. I didn't fuck up. The words don't ring true, though, and all she can hear is her father's chiding voice chanting Temper, temper. She begins to desperately hope that something will cross her path that she can take her anger out on, a rat or a lingering darkspawn that they missed.
Nothing does.
--
The next morning, she's still angry. Angry at Alistair, angry at herself, angry at Zevran for finally taking the first real step towards fucking her senseless on a night when she would have preferred to have been bathing in blood. She burns the porridge and dumps it on Morrigan's lap when the teasing starts. She breaks camp first, and is a good fifteen minutes ahead of the rest of them as they begin the walk northeast towards Denerim. Her companions keep their distance. Morrigan leaves Alistair alone, stymied by the still furious expression on his face.
Zevran catches her gaze when they break for lunch, but doesn't approach, doesn't comment on her eyes like he usually does. It makes her stomach tighten, and she makes herself remember all the times they've flirted before in an attempt to ignore how thoroughly she seems to have ruined things. She remembers how deadly sex goddess had sent an almost unwelcome jolt through her, remembers comments on her lovely eyes, remembers the time in the Brecilian forest, so soon after meeting him, when he plucked a red fruit from a tree and showed her how to take it apart and eat the glittering, shiny, juice-filled seeds inside, their hands and lips stained and laughter in the air. Alistair had been angry then, too. He didn't trust Zevran, and pointed out that the fruit could very well be poisonous. Morrigan had added that it was indeed poisonous, and Fynnea had just impetuously popped another seed into her mouth. She had survived drinking darkspawn blood; she could survive this. Besides, she was certain that Zevran would be true to his word.
He whispered to her later that the fruit actually was poisonous... but only to shems.
It was their little secret, and when he thumbed a speck of dried purple-red juice on her cheek later that night, as they made camp in haunted ruins, she laughed at the thought of it.
Maybe they can make a detour, she thinks wistfully, and she can get another one of those fruits and share the seeds with him again, and then he'll start flirting with her again. Maybe then her temper won't have ruined everything, just most things.
Barkspawn follows at her heels for the second half of the day's journey, seeming to tune in to the shift of her thoughts from angry to morose. Crashing is always the worst part. When she's fired up and her blood is racing, she can be furious and still be on top of the world, screaming for joy even as blood coats every inch of her bare skin. She glories in intensity, in manic violence and fast action. But it always fades, leaving her often times with regrets and always with a numb feeling of emptiness. It's a drug, her temper. She needs to remember that. What happens when you overdose on lyrium, again...?
--
They somehow manage nearly the whole day without running into bandits or darkspawn or wolves and traps where the sign is on the opposite side of where it needs to be, and the small skirmish that does erupt at sunset is easily handled. No emissaries to make them seize and dance, and Fynnea is glad for it. Straight-forward combat is the best for tired frustration. She's not sure that she could handle a long, tricky battle just now.
They set up camp another mile down the road, maybe a hundred yards from the path, hidden behind a line of trees but not so far into the surrounding woods as to be completely isolated and vulnerable. Leliana takes over tending the fire and cooking dinner, and Fynnea sinks down to the ground with a soft groan. The old anger has left her tense while the new crash has left her miserable. She's not sure that she can stand up again, and she stays quiet as she eats the stew that Leliana passes to her. She gives half of it to Barkspawn, who has settled at her side and whines every so often when she stops petting his head.
Alistair is sitting by Wynne, away from the fire, and he doesn't seem to be glaring at her quite as much as he was the night before. The long walk seems to have cooled his temper, and she envies him that he doesn't seem miserable, just less angry and more normal. She ends up glaring at him, and when he sees it he throws up his hands, turning resolutely so that his back is to her.
And Zevran- Zevran is still keeping his distance. He is currently baiting Sten, who is swatting at him as if the Antivan Crow were a horsefly. He doesn't seem particularly angry or sad. Fynnea thinks maybe he's just keeping his distance. Maybe he's giving her time to cool off, and the thought sends a familiar, if weak, jolt of irritation through her.
She hates being told to cool off.
But then exhaustion descends again, reminding her that she's the one who thought the words, not Zevran. She settles her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands, and she watches him as he finally gives up on the imposing Qunari (who must be more than twice his weight) and moves back over to the fire, pausing to lean down and whisper something in Leliana's ear that makes her stare up at him for a moment before waving him away with a laugh. Business as usual. Fynnea is just sitting on the outside, this time. Like a small child being given a time out, exiled from a circle of playmates because she had knocked down her poor cousin Soris and rolled him down a flight of stairs because he'd told her that her mother's boots were far too large for her.
Her cheeks burn at the memory, and she pushes it aside.
Zevran has retreated now to stand by his tent, chin tilted up as he gazes at the stars, so numerous and bright this far outside of a settlement. The skies above Denerim are not half so bright, with Redcliffe's falling somewhere in between. Her eyes follow the line of his throat, then drop down to linger on the hard curves of his lower thighs, visible where the skirt of his leather armor ends. She had a chance at seeing all of those legs, she thinks, sullenly. If this whole mess hadn't occurred, she would've given in to his flirtations and just enjoyed the ride. If she had just kept her tongue...
The numbness is almost paralyzing, but Fynnea is, if nothing else, indomitable. She fights it, because even numbness can anger her and that fight keeps her from retreating to her tent for the rest of the night.
Instead, she pushes to her feet and approaches Zevran, intent on fixing whatever it was that she'd broken the night before. Ten feet away, she nearly stumbles as her stomach fills with unexpected butterflies that have found their way in through her post-anger crash. Her fear is embarrassing, so she pushes through it, fights if off, and manages a little smile when he looks over at her and quirks a brow. She is on top of the beast that is her temper. She can handle this.
"Sorry about last night," Fynnea says, awkwardly, shifting her weight a little. All of her planned forcefulness and gruffness is replaced instead by nervous trembling and unpracticed, unfamiliar apologies. "It was just- it was a bad day."
Zevran looks skyward a moment more before dropping his chin and looking at her, eyes dancing over her face, lingering on her lips. He spreads his hands, smiling softly as his eyes track upwards again. "I misinterpreted your needs."
"Only a little." She pushes her chin-length, blood colored hair back behind one delicately pointed ear and worries at her lower lip a moment before clearing her throat. She doesn't know how to get him flirting with her again, but she does know where they left off the night before. "... So, ah. Back to my tent, then?"
There is silence between them, and just as her mind starts supplying colorful curses to fill it and she almost loses her perch atop her temper, Zevran smiles, adjusting and adapting as he is so good at doing. "Oh, is there... something that needs assassinating?" He purrs the words and they go straight to her gut where the embers she's almost given up on immediately jump to a fever pitch. She flushes, and he notices it, advancing another step.
"I- forgot about that part," she mutters sheepishly, realizing that this is dangerous. Alistair's warnings echo in her ears. But Zevran teases everybody, and she realizes after a moment that he's making a joke. Oh, but this will be fun, she reassures herself. Fun and dangerous and perfect, but definitely dangerous, and-
"Well, my Warden, if I am going to attempt to... assassinate you tonight, we should do it properly."
"Properly?" She had planned on being in charge, on setting the terms of this encounter, but Maker's breath, she doesn't know what she's doing anymore. She thought she knew when she had blurted out that invitation to her tent, but she has no experience with his game, and this seems so much... heavier and thicker than his playful comments about rope. So much like jumping into Lake Calenhad feet-first without knowing how deep the water goes, ignoring the sign that warns swimmers away at all costs.
"Yes. Hand to hand, no weapons, no armor, just...." The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles and he closes the last distance between them to bend and whisper in her ear, "the sweat of our bodies between us. How does that sound, my Warden?"
Fynnea hears herself letting out a low, excited noise that fast turns into a moan the moment his lips touch hers.
--
He doesn't laugh at her when she confesses, in the dark of her tent with his clothes almost all off and hers gone entirely, through her burning cheeks and unsteady pride, that she's never done this before. He simply comments that this must surely be some sort of crime, and then adds that he'll take care of her. That she can trust him.
He's the last person in Thedas (or, she amends, at least in this campsite) she should trust, and yet she does trust him. Their reality makes her trust him, and his lips at her nipple make her trust him more.
"My Warden," he murmurs against her skin, nipping and sucking and licking and purring as she arches beneath him. His hands slide across her skin easily, touching along scars and fresher wounds, making her jerk and whimper. "My Warden, I forgive you everything that happened last night."
"I got angry-" she whispers, the words getting cut off in a gasp as one finger slides between her legs, testing and teasing. Fynnea squirms again, and Zevran kisses her lips, runs his tongue along hers, distracts her enough that she stops jerking away in surprise at how good and strange his touch feels. She has turned so skittish, so pliant under his touch that it scares her a little, because she's always the dominant fighter, but she's wanted some form of this heat since she stared down at his bound form that day, in between the Tower and the waiting forest, and she doesn't quite care what form it takes.
"You always get angry," he agrees, accent a little thicker now, voice a little huskier. "I like that about you, my Warden. I like a great many things about you." Another finger joins the first and they slide over her clit, making her whimper again. "Like that noise. I liked that noise. Will you make more of them?"
"More," she exhales, and it's unclear even to her if it's a promise or a plea. He takes it as both, moving down her body, trailing kisses, so that he can press her thighs apart, run his thumbs between her inner lips and spread her. He looks up at her along the length of her wiry body, and she has to suppress a louder moan when she meets his gaze. Her head falls back onto her pillow as he presses a kiss to her, sliding a long, dextrous finger inside. The sensation makes her keen, her toes curling, her muscles tensing, and he laughs against her warmth.
He uses his fingers to open her, to feel inside of her and draw her out in cries and jerks and whimpers of his name. He alternates between speaking to her low and soft, and teasing her with his tongue.
"Maker's breath-" Fynnea whimpers, hips bucking, but he holds her down with one hand, gentle pressure on the crest of her hip.
"No moving," he chides, sliding up along her body to press kisses to her belly, to her breasts, and finally to her lips again, his fingers still curling inside of her. "Or I shall have to keep you still, yes? But that's not so bad." She can feel him hard against her thigh, but he makes no move to strip away his smallclothes. It's just his fingers, three thrusting now, and she moans his name. He whispers Warden back to her, and she arches, body hard and straining against his.
"Why aren't you-" she gasps against his cheek as he presses kisses over to her ear. He nips at the lobe, humming inquisitively. "Why aren't you inside me?"
"But I am!" His fingers curl as he chuckles. The sound wraps itself around her brain, sinking deep and burning hot.
"No, I mean- you know what I mean!" Fynnea whines, exasperated and confused and feeling far too good to keep stringing words together.
He sits up a little, smiling down at her. "Later, my Warden. Tonight, you receive a true Antivan massage, as I promised." And then he joins her in wordless, soft sounds, fingers quickening, stroking and curving in just the right way to make her squirm and gasp and bite at his lips. She tries to move him, but she doesn't know where too, and the attempt fails quickly. Writhing beneath him is more than good enough.
She nearly screams when she comes, head thrown back and blood boiling. It feels so good and there's a part of it, the part where her blood races, that's exhilarating and so much like and also unlike the feeling she gets when her swords hit flesh.
But when she comes down from this, she has no regrets.
Author: serindrana
Pairing: Zevran/F!Tabris
Rating: NC-17
Chapter Wordcount: 6130
Warnings: Not many for this chapter (there's some killing of demons), but the series will eventually have bits of BDSM, including knifeplay.
Summary: Fynnea Tabris has a passionate temper. Zevran likes to play with fire.
Notes: This is my first foray into writing Zevran, so I'm not terribly confidant in his voice. He's also not a major focus this chapter, but that will change as the series progresses. The story as I have it planned will be stretching across the events of Origins, starting with Redcliffe, with a final shout-out to Awakening, but it's mostly behind the scenes moments. (Also, this is only my second time writing DA fanfic at all! So, please be gentle. Feedback is much appreciated!)
Her father once told her that her temper would be the death of her, her temper and tendency to turn fast to cruel words, but Fynnea has never believed him. Her temper has always helped her before, always supported and borne her along. It was how she'd ended up with a sword in her hand at that bastard Vaughn's estate, how she'd cut through bloody shem after shem, how she'd destroyed him utterly with her sword and her dagger (and even her teeth if the blood taste in her mouth later was anything to judge by), despite the possibility that she was killing everybody she'd ever loved with her actions. She almost had, but- she'd pulled it off. She always pulls it off, in the end.
She'll pull it off this time, too. They're on the second floor of Redcliffe castle, and she's clanging her swords together above her head, then dancing back from the chilled blast sent her way. The spell's ricochet off the stone floor forms into icicles, and Fynnea sidesteps the closest and shatters the largest. She and Alistair are doing their best to keep the desire demon focused on them while Zevran slips into the shadows and moves towards her rear. Wynne lingers at the door at the far end of the room, keeping her distance and sending waves of healing towards the two fighters when they manage not to dodge or block a blast.
Making noise and shouting out taunts is easy and goes well with the thin film of red still hovering before her eyes. She's doing too good of a job at it; Alistair is supposed to be the main target, with his templar skills and heavy armor, but she's making enough noise that he has to shove her out of the way of another bolt of ice. He takes the blow instead, turning instantly into a frozen statue. Fynnea tumbles to the ground, her breath knocked from her lungs even as she tries to laugh at his predicament. He is, after all, the one who brought that film of red upon her in the first place. It's his own fault.
But she doesn't have time to dwell and is soon fighting the urge to kick at the ice sculpture of Alistair, knowing that it would kill instead of free the man. Zevran has just fit his dagger neatly up into the demon's back, and she's howling, filling the room with frost. Her howl is loud enough to wake the dead, who pull themselves obligingly up from the floor. In a matter of moments, the fight has gone from four against one to the infinitely less preferable three against six. At least the demon has disappeared back behind the Veil for a moment, and the team has spent the last night perfecting undead eradication strategies. Fynnea has no barrels of lamp oil and no hardened dwarven mercenary to assist, but she does have a mage who mutters old words and aims a purple streak of energy at one of the undead. It impacts and seems to do nothing, but Fynnea notes the small lines tracing over the decaying flesh and grins.
The corpses are falling towards Zevran, but they pause and shift direction when Fynnea shouts and hollers and slams the pommel of one sword hard against her pauldron. She taunts them, leads them to the center of the room, dances, and then lunges for the purple-marked one, ducking low and stabbing upwards, falling between its legs as her blades follow through and send putrid organs tumbling towards her. She scrambles out of the way just as the falling corpse spasms and erupts in a fountain of magic-infused, death-thickened blood that hisses and burns the other undead on contact.
Alistair breaks free of his ice prison just in time to see the display, and as soon as their enemies have recovered from the blast, he is banging his sword upon his shield, a far more effective draw than Fynnea's earlier imitation. Fynnea and Zevran fall in close together, beginning to pick off the remaining threats while covering each other's weak spots. It's a familiar dance. She manages to allow Alistair to draw all of the attention this time, staying quiet and taking advantage of the corpses' less than intact senses.
As she sinks the sword in her right hand into the chest of one of the last of the shambling, howling corpses, Fynnea reflects that she can sometimes control the boiling rage and manic intensity inside of her - when she absolutely needs to. She had schooled her voice to a dull chill when she told King Cailan just what life in the Alienage had been like, before Duncan cut her off. She had gotten past Teyrn Loghain's first words (You're pretty for a Grey Warden, of course. Why did shems always mention her appearance first? Right, elf.) without punching him in the face and actually listened to the man for the span of five or ten strange, somehow wonderful minutes. Something between them- she wondered if it had been respect. Strange, that the man who had not twenty four hours later betrayed them could have respected her, a little unproven fire-headed elf with tattoos on her face applied haphazardly by her cousin, if only for a moment.
But she'd behaved. And she was, until just a few hours ago, fairly confident that she knew when to behave. But then Alistair, whom she'd sat up late at night talking with, who had stoically attempted to ignore Zevran's teasing remarks to her and her answering banter despite how much it obviously worried her, who had been there for her after Ostagar just as she'd been there for him, and who fought at her side, at her back, drawing the attention of enemies so she could slip up fast and hack them to bits; Alistair, who was rather silly and adorable and, somehow, a good friend despite his height and his round ears; Alistair who-might-be-king gave her a rose. Standing on the shores of Lake Calenhad, he'd handed her a rose, a rose from Lothering, and ruined everything.
They had been close, comrades in arms, the only two Grey Wardens left in all Ferelden. He'd been by her side through Ostagar, through the horrors of the Circle, through the wandering paths of the Brecilian forest. He knew her past and knew her temper and knew her wicked sense of humor and her impulsiveness and her ferocity. And, she had thought, he knew that when she flirted, she very rarely meant it, and that when she flirted with him it was mainly to see him flustered.
And yet he'd still given her a rose and expected her to swoon into his arms. Why?
Because she was an elf and she was beautiful, pretty for a Grey Warden, a hot piece of ass, tempting enough to kidnap on her wedding day, that was why. Her eyes burned and her blood boiled. He gave her a rose, and it was so much a symbol of stop talking to those men, a way of stopping her flirting with Bann Teagan (he'd said she was beautiful, too), with Zevran (deadly sex goddess, though she didn't mind that so much, coming from him, just like she didn't mind him mentioning his type, how he liked strong and dangerous and everything she, conveniently, was), with everybody who wasn't Alistair. But she hadn't flirted with Alistair any more than anybody else. In fact, she'd flirted with him the least, because it was all just a joke, a way to unsettle him and a way to pass the time, and she thought that her little cruelties were as obvious as her larger ones. So why was he the one giving her a rose?
Confused and annoyed and still fired up from the previous night's battle, she had been cruel, and her cruelty was large. She had burned him with words and watched as some sort of hope and desire died in his eyes.
"And so you give me a rose? Brilliant plan."
His lips had settled into a hard line as he struggled not to- what? Cry? Lash out with a fist? His sword? She didn't know.
"Yes, well," he muttered, staring at the water, "I thought we- I guess I was mistaken. About things."
Wynne tried to intercede, stepping between the two. "We're all under a lot of stress, perhaps-"
"Shut up, Wynne!" Fynnea had barked, voice dripping acid, and it wasn't until later that she felt guilty about how the older woman had cringed and shook her head, then turned away.
Alistair laughed, weakly, muttering, "Now you're shouting at Wynne. Good grief, Fynnea." You're a mess hovered unspoken. "It was just... it was just a rose. Forget I said anything." His words were dead weights, angry and hurt. He walked away from her, finally growling out that they should go find Teagan and accompany him into the castle.
So, her temper has ruined some things. Or rather, other people (Alistair; her thoughts hissed the name) ruined some things and she got angry and ruined other things, things that felt a lot like friendship. But she'd had every right to let her anger out, hadn't she?
Just like she has every right to channel that anger now into cutting down the demon, who returns the moment her risen soldiers fall once more. Anger is useful, cruelty a sharp weapon. She rushes the demon, reaches her before even Wynne's electrifying attack, and manages to cut deep into the lithe female form's hip before she feels ice crawl across her skin.
Dimly through ice comes the reverberations of the demon's howl, then a moment's silence. Things hang in crystalline stillness except for the pounding of her heart with its red hot blood, and if she could twitch and thrash she would, but the ice prison holds her. There are dim shadows, Zevran and Wynne and Alistair taking up positions around her fragile body, and she tries to concentrate and fight the tendrils of magic that are sending the chill deep below her skin and into her bones.
There's a shout, and the biggest shadow - Alistair - is moving to intercept something, something she can't see. Then, there is heat. It melts her just enough that she can surge out of the ice, but it leaves her burned and in agony until Wynne's soothing magic envelops her. She's back on her feet, screaming towards the writhing masses of flames that make up the two rage demons that are now focused on heating Alistair's armor to a red-hot glow.
As she lunges towards the first demon, she feels another wave of chill, but this time it's from Wynne's hands and her swords are glittering, turning the air around them into ice. When her blades connect, piercing into the center of the flame beast's chest at almost a single point, it shrieks. She pulls apart, slicing the demon in half. The ice magic glittering along the edges of her weapons seals the break, keeps the halves apart until the demon simply melts out of existence.
The other rage demon falls just as quickly, split into pieces that rain down like embers.
And then all that's left is to bear down hard upon the desire demon, who appears just in front of Arl Eamon's bedroom, crouched and panting and bleeding magic, the Veil shivering around her. It's hard to hit her, swords deflecting away, and Fynnea extends too far into a blow and, as it misses, she tumbles down. It's Zevran who strikes the final blow, lunging over her, and she can see how his dagger gleams, beneath the frost spell, with a coating of slick poison.
The desire demon wails, clawing at the blade sunk deep between her breasts. He's buried it in her flesh slightly to the left of center, fit into a spot between bones, and she sags and fades away, leaving nothing but a tinkling of dust and the prone form of Connor.
The kill wound is not echoed on the boy, who breathes weakly but seems otherwise fine. Zevran pulls Fynnea back up to her feet, and they look down at Connor, who could almost be sleeping.
Fynnea sheathes her blades after a moment's thought and kneels, moving to retrieve the dagger from her boot. Before her fingers can close around the small handle, though, there is the sound of slippered footsteps, harsh breathing, and then Arlessa Isolde's plaintive voice, Orlesian accent thick and heavy from strain:
"No! No, do not kill my Connor!"
And Isolde has gotten between Fynnea and the boy.
Fynnea's lips compress into a line. "Step aside," she says, simply, voice rough from shouted orders. "I will do what must be done."
"I can't lose my boy!"
Fynnea's flat expression turns to anger and annoyance. "They're just going to take him from you, anyway," she growls, her voice unyielding and harsh. "Step. Aside."
"I will sacrifice myself! Just let him live!"
The Warden's armored fist connects with Isolde's lovely face with a crack.
"Fynnea-" Alistair hisses, reaching out to grab her arm, but she shrugs away and steps over the Arlessa's still, quiet body. She sinks to the floor beside Connor, pulling her blade from her boot. A choked down sound of anger comes from Alistair's direction, but she ignores it, straightening her shoulders before she leans over Connor, rolling him onto his back. She considers for a moment, then, pressing a hand to his chest to steady him in case he wakes up, slips the knife between his ribs and into his heart, following the path that Zevran laid out.
Connor twitches once, and then, nothing.
Fynnea pulls the knife out, wipes it clean on the boy's clothes (Alistair makes another of those choked sounds), sheathes it, and stands up. She runs a hand through her hair before turning to face her companions.
Wynne has her eyes carefully focused only on the Arlessa, healing whatever damage Fynnea has done to the woman. Zevran stands a little away, watching the scene placidly. Alistair- Alistair's face goes from red to pale grey as he meets her eyes and sees the triumph and pleasure in them. "You enjoyed that," he manages, weakly, and Wynne looks up with the same horrified expression that's now firmly set on Alistair's face.
He's wrong, she didn't exactly enjoy killing Connor, but she can't help a wild grin at their expressions. She darts a glance at Zevran, whose lips curl in a faint smirk, and then Bann Teagan is in the room. His expression is solemn as he looks at Connor and at the slowly stirring Isolde, and his eyes slide over Fynnea where the day before they had lingered appreciatively.
"My brother," he says quietly, and leads the way into Arl Eamon's chambers.
As they step around Connor's body, Zevran appears at her side, leans in close and whispers, "For what it is worth, my Warden, I would have done exactly as you did. Though perhaps I would not have looked quite so untroubled at the doing of it, for the others' sakes."
He smiles and one of his tanned, calloused hands touches her arm, and for a moment her temper doesn't seem so bad after all. At the very least, he understands her. That comfort drops off, though, under long accusatory looks from the others and the way that, when they are attacked by darkspawn on the way back to camp (they have overstayed their welcome at the castle - Fynnea has overstayed their welcome), Alistair nearly cracks one of her ribs when he pushes her to safety, his shield arm connecting hard with her chest. His movements are rough and angry and not at all supportive like they always have been in the past.
--
Fynnea hadn't thought it possible, but Connor's death has left Alistair even angrier than her mockery of his gift. They are back at camp and Alistair is yelling at her about Connor and she is using all of her gruff charm to convince him that she'd done everything right, but he is angry, so angry, and she's not used to seeing that fury in somebody that's not her.
And he's not listening because of it. She misses the irony of it all (after all, why should she have listened to Isolde?)
"Alistair," she growls, voice rising, trying to make him listen. "The boy would have died no matter what I did!!"
He scoffs. "Oh?"
"The Tower," Fynnea points out, as if that should explain everything. It does.
Except, not to Alistair. "Oh, don't take Morrigan literally," he mutters, rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands, and she remembers, vaguely, Morrigan likening the Tower to a large, communal coffin for the endlessly dying.
"You were there," she presses on. "You heard Cullen, and you saw the demons, and you think that the Templars would just accept, without question or fear, a boy mage who has already been possessed by a demon and nearly destroyed an arling? They would kill him the moment they had him in custody and far enough away that Isolde couldn't get in the way!" She's shouting now. Barkspawn is stretched out on his belly by Leliana, watching and whining and covering his paws with his ears, and Leliana is doing her best not to look at the Wardens.
Alistair is pale, his jaw clenched. "We didn't have to tell them about the demon."
"I AM NOT CLEANING DEMONS OUT OF THAT TOWER AGAIN." She remembers all too clearly the horrors of those curving hallways, after all, and she was the one who had to rescue all of them from the dreams they couldn't see through. "I acted responsibly, so do not question me."
"Oh, yes, you're the responsible one," he shoots back, glaring. "You're never impulsive and you've never ruined anything for anybody else because of your selfishness."
She wants to tear out her hair. Or hit him. Hitting him seems particularly appealing, but she holds herself still, muscles quivering. "What exactly is this about, Alistair? Because I know you don't care what happens to Isolde, and I doubt you'd ever even met the boy before tonight," she whispers, voice gone low, and he takes a step back at its cold fury. "Why are you so angry? It's like this is all still about that rose-"
His eyes widen and she knows she's found it.
"It is!" and her voice is loud again, fists clenching at her sides.
"No. It's- Arl Eamon-"
"What, are you afraid that he'll be disappointed in his bastard ward when he wakes up? If?" She feels good when she sees his flinch. "And you think I'm selfish? Don't worry," she adds, turning from him. "I'll take all the blame. I don't have a problem taking the blame; I killed Connor because there was no other choice. The trip to the Tower would have taken over a week and he would have ended up dead anyway. So gather up your hurt feelings and get them out of this campsite and off the battlefield, because you're the one who can't handle your temper. At least I can put it to work!"
He stares at her a moment, mouth working, and then throws up his hands. He hisses that he thought that they had something, and stalks off to sulk somewhere away from the fire where she can't see him.
After the space of a hundred thundering heartbeats, Zevran slides up behind her, footsteps soft but purposefully audible. His hands settle on her shoulders, lightly, then lift as she jerks away and turns to look at him. He is handsome by firelight (he's always handsome, though, especially since he knows it and he smirks like he's smirking now whenever he catches her looking at him) and her eyes settle on the tattoo along the side of his face, so reminiscent of her own. That focus keeps her still-roiling rage in check, because she wants to punch him just as much as she had wanted to strike Alistair a moment ago; the urge hasn't faded, only settled on another, closer target.
"Leaders must make hard decisions," he murmurs, offering a faint smile, "and you make them well." Her expression remains flat, and he sighs. "You are so tense, my Warden," he says, shaking his head. "What has Alistair been saying to you? No- never mind," he interrupts as she begins to open her mouth, "let's not dwell on it. He is wrong, I suspect, and so you should not worry."
It barely draws a hint of a smirk from her. "Damn straight, he's wrong," she mutters, voice dark and angry enough that Zevran has to visibly resist taking a step back from the fuming warden. She's sure he must have heard at least some of that discussion, loud and angry as it was, but he is diplomatic as always. His consideration cools her anger, but only a little, and she adds, more quietly, "Where does he think he gets off, chastising me for doing what had to be done?"
"Chantry teachings?" Zevran offers up.
"Maker curse his Chantry teachings," she growls, throwing up her hands. "I did what he wouldn't do and saved everybody I could, and because it involves a little boy that's his sort of half-brother-"
Zevran cuts in, attempting to still her fury, dissipate it before somebody ends up losing life or limb. "As I said, so tense! If I might offer, an Antivan... massage might be useful in helping you to relax?" His lips are curling a little more, brow quirked invitingly even if she is scaring him a little, and if this were any other night, she would have sighed Finally and just let go and enjoyed herself. No strings attached, wonderful, and not fraught like Alistair and his fucking rose. Zevran knows, after all, that flirting doesn't have to mean anything but flirting. But tonight she is still shaking with rage and the rage overpowers that lovely twisting lust he stokes in her and before she can check herself, she tells him, in politer words, to go fuck himself.
His expression falls, and he murmurs something apologetic and wanders off to sit by the fire near Leliana and the mabari.
Fynnea curses and stalks off in the direction of the river they're camped by. I know what I'm doing, she thinks, angry and frustrated and confused. I didn't fuck up. The words don't ring true, though, and all she can hear is her father's chiding voice chanting Temper, temper. She begins to desperately hope that something will cross her path that she can take her anger out on, a rat or a lingering darkspawn that they missed.
Nothing does.
--
The next morning, she's still angry. Angry at Alistair, angry at herself, angry at Zevran for finally taking the first real step towards fucking her senseless on a night when she would have preferred to have been bathing in blood. She burns the porridge and dumps it on Morrigan's lap when the teasing starts. She breaks camp first, and is a good fifteen minutes ahead of the rest of them as they begin the walk northeast towards Denerim. Her companions keep their distance. Morrigan leaves Alistair alone, stymied by the still furious expression on his face.
Zevran catches her gaze when they break for lunch, but doesn't approach, doesn't comment on her eyes like he usually does. It makes her stomach tighten, and she makes herself remember all the times they've flirted before in an attempt to ignore how thoroughly she seems to have ruined things. She remembers how deadly sex goddess had sent an almost unwelcome jolt through her, remembers comments on her lovely eyes, remembers the time in the Brecilian forest, so soon after meeting him, when he plucked a red fruit from a tree and showed her how to take it apart and eat the glittering, shiny, juice-filled seeds inside, their hands and lips stained and laughter in the air. Alistair had been angry then, too. He didn't trust Zevran, and pointed out that the fruit could very well be poisonous. Morrigan had added that it was indeed poisonous, and Fynnea had just impetuously popped another seed into her mouth. She had survived drinking darkspawn blood; she could survive this. Besides, she was certain that Zevran would be true to his word.
He whispered to her later that the fruit actually was poisonous... but only to shems.
It was their little secret, and when he thumbed a speck of dried purple-red juice on her cheek later that night, as they made camp in haunted ruins, she laughed at the thought of it.
Maybe they can make a detour, she thinks wistfully, and she can get another one of those fruits and share the seeds with him again, and then he'll start flirting with her again. Maybe then her temper won't have ruined everything, just most things.
Barkspawn follows at her heels for the second half of the day's journey, seeming to tune in to the shift of her thoughts from angry to morose. Crashing is always the worst part. When she's fired up and her blood is racing, she can be furious and still be on top of the world, screaming for joy even as blood coats every inch of her bare skin. She glories in intensity, in manic violence and fast action. But it always fades, leaving her often times with regrets and always with a numb feeling of emptiness. It's a drug, her temper. She needs to remember that. What happens when you overdose on lyrium, again...?
--
They somehow manage nearly the whole day without running into bandits or darkspawn or wolves and traps where the sign is on the opposite side of where it needs to be, and the small skirmish that does erupt at sunset is easily handled. No emissaries to make them seize and dance, and Fynnea is glad for it. Straight-forward combat is the best for tired frustration. She's not sure that she could handle a long, tricky battle just now.
They set up camp another mile down the road, maybe a hundred yards from the path, hidden behind a line of trees but not so far into the surrounding woods as to be completely isolated and vulnerable. Leliana takes over tending the fire and cooking dinner, and Fynnea sinks down to the ground with a soft groan. The old anger has left her tense while the new crash has left her miserable. She's not sure that she can stand up again, and she stays quiet as she eats the stew that Leliana passes to her. She gives half of it to Barkspawn, who has settled at her side and whines every so often when she stops petting his head.
Alistair is sitting by Wynne, away from the fire, and he doesn't seem to be glaring at her quite as much as he was the night before. The long walk seems to have cooled his temper, and she envies him that he doesn't seem miserable, just less angry and more normal. She ends up glaring at him, and when he sees it he throws up his hands, turning resolutely so that his back is to her.
And Zevran- Zevran is still keeping his distance. He is currently baiting Sten, who is swatting at him as if the Antivan Crow were a horsefly. He doesn't seem particularly angry or sad. Fynnea thinks maybe he's just keeping his distance. Maybe he's giving her time to cool off, and the thought sends a familiar, if weak, jolt of irritation through her.
She hates being told to cool off.
But then exhaustion descends again, reminding her that she's the one who thought the words, not Zevran. She settles her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands, and she watches him as he finally gives up on the imposing Qunari (who must be more than twice his weight) and moves back over to the fire, pausing to lean down and whisper something in Leliana's ear that makes her stare up at him for a moment before waving him away with a laugh. Business as usual. Fynnea is just sitting on the outside, this time. Like a small child being given a time out, exiled from a circle of playmates because she had knocked down her poor cousin Soris and rolled him down a flight of stairs because he'd told her that her mother's boots were far too large for her.
Her cheeks burn at the memory, and she pushes it aside.
Zevran has retreated now to stand by his tent, chin tilted up as he gazes at the stars, so numerous and bright this far outside of a settlement. The skies above Denerim are not half so bright, with Redcliffe's falling somewhere in between. Her eyes follow the line of his throat, then drop down to linger on the hard curves of his lower thighs, visible where the skirt of his leather armor ends. She had a chance at seeing all of those legs, she thinks, sullenly. If this whole mess hadn't occurred, she would've given in to his flirtations and just enjoyed the ride. If she had just kept her tongue...
The numbness is almost paralyzing, but Fynnea is, if nothing else, indomitable. She fights it, because even numbness can anger her and that fight keeps her from retreating to her tent for the rest of the night.
Instead, she pushes to her feet and approaches Zevran, intent on fixing whatever it was that she'd broken the night before. Ten feet away, she nearly stumbles as her stomach fills with unexpected butterflies that have found their way in through her post-anger crash. Her fear is embarrassing, so she pushes through it, fights if off, and manages a little smile when he looks over at her and quirks a brow. She is on top of the beast that is her temper. She can handle this.
"Sorry about last night," Fynnea says, awkwardly, shifting her weight a little. All of her planned forcefulness and gruffness is replaced instead by nervous trembling and unpracticed, unfamiliar apologies. "It was just- it was a bad day."
Zevran looks skyward a moment more before dropping his chin and looking at her, eyes dancing over her face, lingering on her lips. He spreads his hands, smiling softly as his eyes track upwards again. "I misinterpreted your needs."
"Only a little." She pushes her chin-length, blood colored hair back behind one delicately pointed ear and worries at her lower lip a moment before clearing her throat. She doesn't know how to get him flirting with her again, but she does know where they left off the night before. "... So, ah. Back to my tent, then?"
There is silence between them, and just as her mind starts supplying colorful curses to fill it and she almost loses her perch atop her temper, Zevran smiles, adjusting and adapting as he is so good at doing. "Oh, is there... something that needs assassinating?" He purrs the words and they go straight to her gut where the embers she's almost given up on immediately jump to a fever pitch. She flushes, and he notices it, advancing another step.
"I- forgot about that part," she mutters sheepishly, realizing that this is dangerous. Alistair's warnings echo in her ears. But Zevran teases everybody, and she realizes after a moment that he's making a joke. Oh, but this will be fun, she reassures herself. Fun and dangerous and perfect, but definitely dangerous, and-
"Well, my Warden, if I am going to attempt to... assassinate you tonight, we should do it properly."
"Properly?" She had planned on being in charge, on setting the terms of this encounter, but Maker's breath, she doesn't know what she's doing anymore. She thought she knew when she had blurted out that invitation to her tent, but she has no experience with his game, and this seems so much... heavier and thicker than his playful comments about rope. So much like jumping into Lake Calenhad feet-first without knowing how deep the water goes, ignoring the sign that warns swimmers away at all costs.
"Yes. Hand to hand, no weapons, no armor, just...." The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles and he closes the last distance between them to bend and whisper in her ear, "the sweat of our bodies between us. How does that sound, my Warden?"
Fynnea hears herself letting out a low, excited noise that fast turns into a moan the moment his lips touch hers.
--
He doesn't laugh at her when she confesses, in the dark of her tent with his clothes almost all off and hers gone entirely, through her burning cheeks and unsteady pride, that she's never done this before. He simply comments that this must surely be some sort of crime, and then adds that he'll take care of her. That she can trust him.
He's the last person in Thedas (or, she amends, at least in this campsite) she should trust, and yet she does trust him. Their reality makes her trust him, and his lips at her nipple make her trust him more.
"My Warden," he murmurs against her skin, nipping and sucking and licking and purring as she arches beneath him. His hands slide across her skin easily, touching along scars and fresher wounds, making her jerk and whimper. "My Warden, I forgive you everything that happened last night."
"I got angry-" she whispers, the words getting cut off in a gasp as one finger slides between her legs, testing and teasing. Fynnea squirms again, and Zevran kisses her lips, runs his tongue along hers, distracts her enough that she stops jerking away in surprise at how good and strange his touch feels. She has turned so skittish, so pliant under his touch that it scares her a little, because she's always the dominant fighter, but she's wanted some form of this heat since she stared down at his bound form that day, in between the Tower and the waiting forest, and she doesn't quite care what form it takes.
"You always get angry," he agrees, accent a little thicker now, voice a little huskier. "I like that about you, my Warden. I like a great many things about you." Another finger joins the first and they slide over her clit, making her whimper again. "Like that noise. I liked that noise. Will you make more of them?"
"More," she exhales, and it's unclear even to her if it's a promise or a plea. He takes it as both, moving down her body, trailing kisses, so that he can press her thighs apart, run his thumbs between her inner lips and spread her. He looks up at her along the length of her wiry body, and she has to suppress a louder moan when she meets his gaze. Her head falls back onto her pillow as he presses a kiss to her, sliding a long, dextrous finger inside. The sensation makes her keen, her toes curling, her muscles tensing, and he laughs against her warmth.
He uses his fingers to open her, to feel inside of her and draw her out in cries and jerks and whimpers of his name. He alternates between speaking to her low and soft, and teasing her with his tongue.
"Maker's breath-" Fynnea whimpers, hips bucking, but he holds her down with one hand, gentle pressure on the crest of her hip.
"No moving," he chides, sliding up along her body to press kisses to her belly, to her breasts, and finally to her lips again, his fingers still curling inside of her. "Or I shall have to keep you still, yes? But that's not so bad." She can feel him hard against her thigh, but he makes no move to strip away his smallclothes. It's just his fingers, three thrusting now, and she moans his name. He whispers Warden back to her, and she arches, body hard and straining against his.
"Why aren't you-" she gasps against his cheek as he presses kisses over to her ear. He nips at the lobe, humming inquisitively. "Why aren't you inside me?"
"But I am!" His fingers curl as he chuckles. The sound wraps itself around her brain, sinking deep and burning hot.
"No, I mean- you know what I mean!" Fynnea whines, exasperated and confused and feeling far too good to keep stringing words together.
He sits up a little, smiling down at her. "Later, my Warden. Tonight, you receive a true Antivan massage, as I promised." And then he joins her in wordless, soft sounds, fingers quickening, stroking and curving in just the right way to make her squirm and gasp and bite at his lips. She tries to move him, but she doesn't know where too, and the attempt fails quickly. Writhing beneath him is more than good enough.
She nearly screams when she comes, head thrown back and blood boiling. It feels so good and there's a part of it, the part where her blood races, that's exhilarating and so much like and also unlike the feeling she gets when her swords hit flesh.
But when she comes down from this, she has no regrets.