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Shades of Grey	By : myghinmin Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 3772 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age: Origins, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Chapter List
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Title: Shades of Grey
Story Rating: M (mature). NSFW (not safe for work) due to sexual content in chapters five, seven, and eight, and for torture in chapters eleven and twelve.
Chapter Rating: T (teen).
Chapter Warnings: Mild slash (male/male) action, mild violence.
Word Count: 2053 words.
PC: Fem!Amell, deceased.
Pairing: Zevran/Alistair.
Spoilers: End-game spoilers. Set post game.
Summary: She made him swear to keep Alistair on his feet until he could stand alone. Maker help him, Zevran will honor that final promise, even if it kills him.
Notes: The most difficult part of this piece was the fight scene. It took days before I could finally leave it alone, and I am honestly surprised at how well I think it turned out. Originally, this and the next chapter were going to be together as one, but as I worked on it, I realized that it would put chapter four far longer than any other section of the work. So they were broken up, and a POV switch put between them.
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[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]
It had been two nights after Redcliffe that she had first approached him. The deaths there weighed heavily on her, causing her to lose sleep, to lose her sense of ... everything. He could see it, and it shocked him that none of their companions could. She had invited him into the tent, and he had gone, eager to do something for her, anything for her.
It had broken his heart. She asked only that he hold her, that he not stop her, that he simply...be there. And she had cried. The tears were endless, streaming down her face, glistening in what little light crept into the tent with them. She made not a sound, and if he tried to speak, she placed a finger over his mouth. Her head on his chest, his arms around her, he had closed his own eyes, and tried not to feel the wetness staining his shirt.
It had been the first time he'd felt true contempt for her choice in lovers. She chose someone who she didn't feel that she could share this with, someone who had lied to her. Someone she didn't-- couldn't-- trust. He had felt each of those tears, and he had wanted to remove them forcibly from the prince standing across the fire from them. She deserved better.
And yet, it wasn't his decision to make. So he simply held her and rubbed her back. He whispered soft nothings to her, telling her that it would be all right, that she would forgive this and soon things would be back to normal between them. He knew what it looked like when it became an almost nightly thing, and he didn't care. No one dared ask outright about it, and when the almost Templar glared at him from across the fire, he only offered a smug smile. He was closer to her than the warrior would ever be. He held her tears.
[[ ... Chapter 4 ..... ]]
Laundry was only the first step of Alistair's rehabilitation, and he realized this slowly over the course of the next week and a half. There were no more kisses, no more blatant acts of dominance between the two of them, but they still caught one another staring as they crossed paths, over meals, or just whenever one of them happened to be nearby. It was unnerving, Alistair realized.
He had known the moment he was told who his father was that if his birthright ever came out, he would be stared at. He had accepted it, and once it had come out, it had only proven him right. Everyone stared. However, not everyone stared with the same intensity that Zevran managed. The heat in that gaze practically burned Alistair's flesh, and he was somehow comforted by it. Strange, he realized, for him to be so desired by a man who could have just about anyone in the kingdom. It gave him a confidence that he'd not had since she had died, since her own gaze--so similar--had been removed forever.
Now, with this gaze lingering over him on such frequent occasions, he found himself affected by it. At times, he never wanted it stop, and others, he wanted nothing more than to hit the Antivan, anger bubbling up, left over from their original travels together. It was only a matter of time before it came up, before it became a problem.
He forced his attention to the present, to looking at the elf with the daggers strapped on his hips. They were outside, and for a moment, he almost demanded that they move indoors. The sunlight was playing over that lithe form, caressing and teasing and drawing attention to things that Alistair had never been one to notice before. And by the Maker, when Zevran stripped off his shirt--
He had not outwardly reacted. Instead, he had only done the same, dropping his tunic onto the ground nearby. The sword in his hand was lighter than the any that he'd used during the Blight; it would make him faster, but it also meant that he had to keep his strength in check. He could easily swing it with far more force than he intended. He dropped the scabbard; it clattered on the cobblestones.
Zevran took out both daggers then, tossing one idly, flipping it up into the air before catching it again. It was a slick movement, designed to intimidate. Alistair had seen him use it many times before, and he never stopped wondering how long it had taken him to get good at it. Shoulders were rolled, and backs popped as both men stretched, and then battle positions were assumed.
He didn't have a shield--it would be almost useless against a pair of flashing daggers--so he adopted a simple guard. He would have to rely on reflexes. To make this worse, he was out of practice. The Antivan had been practicing almost daily with the recruits, while Alistair had done little more than endless drills, if not in his room then in the training room. It gave him a distinct disadvantage. He studied Zevran's 'ready' pose, almost amused at how open the elf left himself; it was bait.
Their eyes met, and an almost feral grin lit the elf as he began to circle. Alistair pivoted, keeping his gaze locked on the other man, following his movements carefully before he began to match steps to maintain the distance between them. They knew each other's movements; had done this for months while they endeavored to end the Blight. It was a dance that both of them, once, had been exceptionally proficient in.
Now, the rhythm of it was coming back slowly, and Alistair was ready to leap back at the sharp kick that came toward him. For all of the flash with the weapons, Zevran preferred to take his opponent by surprise, to disable him as early as was possible. Taking advantage of the moment that he would be off balance, Alistair drove the tip of the sword toward his opponent. A crash sounded as he slid the length of the blade against a dagger; the motion bringing him close to the Antivan.
For just a moment, they both hesitated, so close to one another that the heat radiating between their bodies was unbearable. Then the other dagger came flashing in, taking advantage of the distraction, and Alistair was almost too slow. He leapt back, swinging his sword around to deflect the smaller blade. There was a crash as metal hit metal, and he stepped back further, wanting distance between them. Distance was safer.
He let the elf charge him, let the assassin lead in each attack, using minimal energy to simply deflect, divert the sharp blades angling for him. He wanted to lure Zevran into getting sloppy, and he knew it was starting to work when he heard the first soft growl from the other man. If the Antivan had one particular weakness, it was that he hated Alistair "turtling" against him during training.
When he saw his chance, he lunged, crashing the length of the sword against one of Zevran's daggers, his free hand twisting to catch the blond's wrist when he tried to counter. He pushed the sword and dagger away in a clean motion, gaining the upper hand since the other man didn't expect for him to throw away his own weapon as well. His hand shot out and wrapped around the elf's throat, and he squeezed the hand holding the wrist.
The second dagger clattered to the ground, and Alistair stood there for several heartbeats, holding him close, hand still around his throat. He leaned down, closing the distance between them. The feel of Zevran, so close, so hot next to him--jolts of pleasure down his spine as he felt Zevran swallow, those dark eyes shielded.
The Antivan had initiated the first kiss, and Alistair would be damned if the score was settled there. He made a low, strangled noise when he saw a pink tongue dart out to wet those lips, and he couldn't stop himself as he covered that mouth with his own. His tongue touched those lips, tasted the other man, drank him in.
Soon, his hand had migrated from around the throat into that long blond hair, and Zevran's hands were squeezing his upper arms, then wrapping around him, holding him closer. His own other hand slid down the side of the elf, tracing over that bare chest, slick with sweat, and down those hips to caress the top of a sleekly muscled thigh. He caught it, pulled it up, coaxing Zevran to wrap that leg around him, to open himself up, to be vulnerable, for once.
By the time he drew back, he was lightheaded, his vision swimming as he opened his eyes to look down at Zevran. His hand eased from the length of hair down to touch the side of the face looking up at him. blond eyebrows were drawn low over dark eyes, and Zevran was worrying his bottom lip with his teeth as he tried to read the mood of the man holding him so firmly, so ... closely.
There was a moment of silence, and then Alistair swept the other man in his arms. They were still in the middle of the courtyard, their blades scattered with their shirts, but he didn't care. He needed to know something, and he didn't want to risk Levi or anyone else interrupting. He marched inside, holding Zevran as though he weighed little to nothing at all.
"Just where are we going, Alistair?" The Antivan's voice was soft, steady, and the former prince was certain that he detected no small amount of amusement in it. He swallowed, but didn't answer, instead allowing his captive to determine his own answer to the question. It was a stupid question anyway.
"I know that technically, I am your prisoner of war, but I must tell you... I have never succumbed to torture before--"
"Just shut up," Alistair's own voice was far less steady. It shook, with something bordering on the knife's edge between anger and arousal. He glanced at the stairs toward his own room, where he would have preferred to do this, but he wasn't certain he could take the stairs, not with the Antivan beginning to squirm in his arms the way he was.
Instead, he swung around toward Zevran's room, nudging the door open carefully before he dropped the other man on his own bed. He turned back to the door, shut, and locked it. Then he looked back at Zevran; there was something... dangerous about him, and he wasn't quite sure he was in complete control of himself. He did know, however, that the blond on the bed looked thoroughly wary, a stalking cat staring down a wolf over a particularly tasty morsel.
He approached him slowly, and Zevran slowly eased back on the bed. By the time they were settled, Zevran's back was flat against the wall, Alistair straddling his hips, hands on either side of the blond's head. Lips met again, and this time, it was measured, controlled. Passion was toned down, as Alistair studied the way their tongue touched and stroked, the way that both of their breathing rose, the way that he could feel the other man swelling under him.
He had never felt this way before. Loving her hadn't done this to him, made him this crazy, this...uncontrolled. She had been a safe love; he'd had to be careful with her, lest he break her. This man under him...he could be rough with. He could let go. Zevran would be able to not only take it, but give it back just as good as he could possibly give. He knew that, although he wasn't certain how, and he wasn't sure he wanted to test it. No matter how aroused he got, he knew that it was a line that he'd never crossed, and it was one that he wasn't sure he could.
Casual sex was not something he saw himself able to do. Of course, the only sex he'd ever had had been with her, and she'd thrown it back in his face. He swallowed, and when he could manage to speak, he found himself surprised by what came out: "I want you, Zevran."
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Shades of Grey