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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
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: M (mature).
Chapter Warnings: Slash (male/male) sexual content, mild violence.
Word Count: 3814 words.
PC: Fem!Amell Warden, 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: Hah! Another fight scene! I'm getting better. Interesting fact, no matter that my fight scenes almost always start with blades in hand, if the two characters have a lot of sexual tension, they end with someone's hand around someone else's throat. What does that say? Also, a very special thank you to rogueapprentice of Swooping_Is_Bad, the LJ community! She compiled a Zevran fanmix titled, "I Love One Thing, Destroy the Other," and it has been invaluable in writing this chapter.
This could have been two chapters, I suppose, but I decided after I wrote it that since it was all from Zevran's perspective, there wasn't much reason to try to divide it up. I hope that you enjoy it! As always, please remember to read and review (constructive criticism welcome).
[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]
The sword clattered across the ground, and Alistair swallowed for just a moment before he ducked his head behind his shield. Daggers were incoming, flashing and glinting in the light from the fire. They crashed against the buckler, denting the griffon and scuffing the paint. Adrenaline was pumping, and when the warrior pressed back, swinging his shield to buy himself a little space, he was rewarded with the slightest gasp that let him know the Antivan was weakening. At this point, it was just a matter of outlasting the other man, withstanding the rain of attacks coming from all sides.
He would have been fine if the elf had fought cleanly. As it was, Crow training seemed to take over, and within only a moment, a hand grabbed the side of the shield and wrenched it away, leaving him open to those glinting daggers. That hand opened, letting the shield fall, and the dragonbone blade would have sank deep were it not for reflexes trained in endless drills.
Alistair caught the wrist coming down, twisted it in a single fluid motion, and forced the first dagger to fall. Catching it with the edge of his foot, he kicked it away; it shot across the flat area toward his own sword. For a heartbeat, the two men stayed like that, the templar's hand firmly gripping the wrist of the Crow, their bodies dangerously close together, sweat and heat mingling between them. He could see the muscles in the elf's throat working, watch him swallow. Then suddenly, he hit the ground, Zevran's hand tight on his throat.
He was choking in the dust that exploded from under him, and the weight of the Antivan on his chest was almost too much to bear. Narrow lips were only inches from his own, and the pressure against his windpipe tightened as a smile curved them slowly. Words were whispered out, caressing his lips and face, scarcely audible over the thumping of his own heart. Your loss.
[[ ... Chapter 8 ..... ]]
Alistair had changed, Zevran realized as they all sat down to eat that evening. There were enough of them now that they had to utilize the actual mess hall, as they had when they first arrived. It was the first time that the almost templar had joined them, sitting to the elf's left, and Luthanuel seemed more than just a little unnerved as he took his regular seat to Zevran's right. Julien sat in the next chair down, and the four recruits sat on the other side of the long table, all picking at their plates. Nerves, he decided as he watched more than one slightly trembling hand lift cutlery.
The table was loaded down with food cooked by the two brothers, which was just as well considering that there were three Wardens eating. They were all bottomless pits, and Zevran knew from experience that they could easily consume just about everything on the table by themselves. He shot a glance over at the Bann, sitting across from him, and his lips quirked in a little grin at the sheer shock registering on Teagan's face. The Wardens' appetites did take some getting used to.
There was little to no discussion at the table-- Wardens with food didn't lend themselves to much talk-- and before long, the recruits found excuses to dismiss themselves. Luthanuel took it upon himself to clear the table, leaving Julien, Alistair, Bann Teagan, and the elf alone in the dining hall. The tension in the room was unbearable, and just as Zevran decided to escape the room, a hand caught his wrist, pulling him back down into his chair. He shot a dark look toward the owner of said hand: Julien, reaching across the empty chair between them.
"You'll have to forgive me," the Orlesian said, a wry smile on his face, "I would be more comfortable with you here. After all, I know you." The comment was directed toward Zevran, but the eyes were locked on Alistair; unspoken words rang out even more loudly than what he'd said. The Fereldan Warden didn't show any reaction at all to the implied insult, instead opting to simply shrug.
"We would all be more comfortable with Zev here, I think," he replied, his voice far calmer than his body language suggested it should be. Zevran sat up straighter as he realized that both men were competing, glaring and sizing each other up with him in the middle like a bone between two mabari. He was no woman to be fought over, no blushing bride for them to try to win favors from. Deliberately, he removed the hand from his wrist and stood anyway.
"I simply wished to stretch my legs," he lied smoothly, looking at both men from under his eyelashes. Oh yes, that was jealousy between them, as though either of them had any right to him at all. "After all, it has been such a day." There was the faintest blush on Alistair's face, and Zevran moved to lean against the wall, instinctively picking a spot that gave him a straight shot to the door if he needed it. He ignored the overly heated looks both Wardens sent his way.
"How long will you be remaining?"
Painfully blunt. Zevran sighed faintly, folding his arms over his chest as he glanced over at Julien. The Orlesian was nice enough, but he didn't take direct confrontation well. The Crow had seen this when Julien and Clovis argued, which they did frequently. It came from the way politics were handled in Orlais, the Crow supposed, watching the number of expressions that fluttered over the sharp face of the other Warden. Finally, it seemed that he settled on indignation, his preferred defensive technique. Dark brows were furrowed, while those blue eyes bore holes through the templar.
"We will be leaving once your numbers grow to a suitable range. The last time we left a Fereldan in charge-"
"Twelve. When we reach twelve Wardens, not including yourself, Alistair." Zevran had already negotiated this through with the Orlesians, and he was not about to allow anyone to open wounds in Alistair that the assassin didn't think he could bandage properly. Duncan's name was a sore spot, especially since Anora had delayed the plans for his memorial. Again.
Both gazes were blistering as they returned to the elf. He sighed. This had gone on long enough; both of them needed to remember that he was his own man now. He was not some bargaining chip for them to win. "Julien will be leaving to relay an update to Orlais within the next two days anyway." He offered a bland smile at the outrage on the Warden's face, and the surprise on Alistair's. "He's required to every other month."
Julien glanced away, and Zevran knew that his blow had struck home. "Clovis will return to the keep whenever he finishes in the Wilds. He still has our men with him, does he not?"
"He did when I left." A child being told that he couldn't play with a favored toy; that was the Orlesian in that moment, looking up at the elf sulkily.
"And why did you leave?" Teagan broke in the conversation, his expression curious as he leaned a little forward over the table. He was still sitting across from Alistair, but he turned to face the other Warden as he spoke.
The Orlesian looked at him for a long moment before he answered, "We found recruits in the nearby village where the Darkspawn were attacking. They were good fighters and willing to join our cause, so he sent me back with them to assist in the Joining."
Both men nodded, and Zevran tilted his head back to look up at the ceiling. This would go no where if he allowed it to continue. The Fereldans lacked the necessary diplomatic skills to coax anything at all from the young man; they would have a far easier time dealing with Clovis than Julien. For a moment, he listened to the three of them bicker, and when he heard Luthanuel rejoin the room, he decided that it was time to do something productive.
"Alistair." Purposely, he pitched his voice low, giving the impression that he was reluctant to interrupt them. The templar twisted in his chair to look at him, and Zevran looked up slowly from under his eyelashes. It was a move that he knew worked on the other man; one he had employed frequently to great effect during the Blight. He smiled when Alistair swallowed, and without another word, he got what he wanted: the other man nodded slowly, letting him take over again.
He directed his gaze then to the Orlesian. The other man was small framed and pale, almost delicate looking, with dark hair that was cut to fall just at his cheekbones. He was about an inch shorter than the elf was, and it was something that had clearly rankled him their first meeting. With him seated, it wasn't as much of an issue, thankfully.
Ignoring Teagan's presence in the room, Zevran pushed himself off of the wall and moved back over to his chair, leaning lightly over the back of it. He offered a smile to the Orlesian in the room, saying softly, "Julien, you know we're going to need your help with this." His voice was still low, silky. He could feel Alistair tensing on the other side of him, and he just hoped that the Fereldan Warden would stay calm enough to let him get the work done. Jealousy could wait.
There was a moment of silence, and then Julien sighed, looking away. A small triumphant smile crossed elven lips, and he continued with, "I mean, while you're there, you could tell them what's been going on. We have made significant progress, have we not?" He arched an eyebrow, and when Julien nodded, he knew it was time to deliver the final blow. He reached out and lightly settled his fingers on the Warden's shoulder. "We are immensely grateful for your support here. If there's anything we can do for you, you only have to ask."
"I would like someone to come with me to Orlais," Julien said immediately, his eyes flashing as they lifted to lock with Zevran's. The elf frowned just slightly. The offer was supposed to be rhetorical. Politesse demanded that the Orlesian smile and refuse, saying that it was simply enough to be of assistance. However, he wasn't playing by the rules any longer. Ferelden was clearly beginning to rub off on him; no one here played by any rules that the assassin had ever known.
He glanced up at the third Warden in the room, the young man with black eyes and dark brown hair that fell in a braid down his back. He was attractive enough to appeal to the Orlesians. "Luthanuel--"
"No. Someone in... command." The smile that twisted those lips was overly smug, and Zevran wished he had something at his disposal to wipe it away. Regrettably, he knew where this was headed. He swallowed.
"I will accompany you."
The Orlesian glanced past the elf to look at Alistair, who had picked up the only remaining glassware on the table: his goblet. He swished the contents around in it slowly, casually. He lifted his gaze to meet theirs, a faint smile on his face. "I've always wanted to see Orlais," he said before he turned the goblet up and drained its contents. "Zevran, why don't you stay and arrange for that meeting with the Queen?"
"It would be my pleasure," the assassin responded, still smiling at Julien for a moment. Then he leaned off of the back of the chair, and he stretched. Slowly. "I am so tired now; if you would excuse me, gentlemen..." He waved a little over his head and strolled on out, ignoring any complaints or attempts to catch his attention. He didn't want to be there any longer, and no amount of wheedling would stop him from leaving when he decided he wanted to. Only one person had ever managed to prevent that, and she was dead.
He headed back to his room, reaching out with one hand to let his fingertips drag over the stones in the walls. He liked the feel of the cold rock worn smooth from the many years of service, and when he finally got to his door, he slipped inside the room, hesitating before he decided to not lock the door. He wanted to see if his instincts would prove right. He hoisted himself up to sit on the edge of his desk, his feet lightly touching the floor still.
Just as he was beginning to decide he had perhaps read the intent on the Warden's face wrong, there was a slight sound, the faintest of knocks, and then the door opened and Alistair eased in slowly. Dark eyes met hazel, and Alistair twisted the lock in place. The almost templar crossed the room, reaching to wrap his arms around the elf the moment that he could comfortably do so.
The Antivan angled his head back and was rewarded with a kiss against his lips, Alistair's head tilting just enough to deepen it. The taste was now familiar; he savored it as a soft moan from the other man vibrated over his tongue and down his throat. By the time that they drew back, both of them were breathless, and Alistair had a hand on his face, tracing over every feature that he could touch. It was more than just a little strange, but he looked so at peace that Zevran didn't have the heart to make him move right away. Instead, he simply used the moment to study his lover, to really look at the blond for once.
"Don't do that."
"Don't... what? Look at you? Truly?" Rapidly, he reviewed the night, trying to decide what 'that' Alistair was referring to. No matter what came out of his mouth, Zevran knew that the Fereldan was not talking about his current actions. One of his feet lightly slid up the back of the Warden's leg.
"Try to deflect the attention from me. Don't... You don't have to protect me." The hand on his face was pushing back, wrapping itself into long blond hair. Elven eyes fell closed at the first light tug. Alistair must have taken it as encouragement, because then those fingers started scritching just slightly against his scalp, and Zevran realized that he was rapidly becoming a puddle on top of the desk.
He drew a deep breath and opened his eyes, looking up at the other blond as he slowly eased down off of the desk. The movement forced the templar to step back, and Zevran used it as an excuse to gently dislodge that hand from his hair. He couldn't think when Alistair did that; it was dangerous, especially with the conversation that was swirling between them. "I don't protect you from everything," he said softly, looking up at his lover. Technically, it was the truth.
He knew that Alistair didn't buy it, and instead of trying to continue the argument, he decided it would be better to do what he did best: deflect. He reached out, catching the Warden's belt buckle in his hand, pulling just enough on it to get him to stand a hair closer. There was something distinctly sexy about unbuckling a belt. If it was your own, it was the promise, the intent that clung to the decisive movements. If it was someone else's... well, that was a manner of seduction all on its own.
The sharp tug on the leather, the vulnerability of letting someone else do it for you... Then there was the proximity that it caused, drawing you closer, letting the backs of fingers brush against soft skin--
Alistair swallowed thickly, and Zevran leaned up to lick his throat. He could feel the other man's pulse under his tongue, and he pulled the belt free of the pants, tossing it carelessly to the side. His fingertips moved to hook into the sides of those trousers, and he pulled them down as he slowly slid to his knees in front of the other man. He smiled as Alistair hurriedly tugged off his tunic, letting it fall where ever it would on the floor.
He could feel the heat radiating off of the Warden, and he closed his eyes as he inhaled the musk and sweat that came with undressing another man. Then he turned his head and parted his lips, taking the source of that heat into his mouth. Alistair moaned faintly, dragging in ragged breaths as the elf slowly took more of him in, his tongue pressing firmly against the bottom of the length. Just as he reached the base, he slid back, until he only held the tip in his mouth.
The elf glanced up, gauging his lover's reaction as he swirled his tongue over the soft skin. At Alistair's gasp, he sank back down, swallowing as he did. Slowly, he built into a rhythm, his eyes falling closed as he moved. His hands held Alistair's hips still; no easy feat since there was nothing to hold them back against, and the Warden seemed determined that they move, at least a little. He made a soft noise as he felt a trembling start in the other man's legs, and, with one last nip, he pulled away. One hand moved to wipe the back of his mouth, and then he was laughing softly as Alistair struggled to get his tunic off.
The fabric ripped, and he shivered just a little as the Warden continued the tear to let the shirt drop away, joining the other tunic on the floor. He caught the other man before those fingers found his belt, and he offered a grin. "You mustn't tear everything I own," the elf said quietly, peeling his belt and pants off. The instant that the clothes were off of him, the former prince had him pressed back and down against the bed, lips touching his collarbone as weight was distributed over him.
He moaned as Alistair's leg wedged itself between his legs, and he opened his eyes to look up at the other man, curious as to his reaction. Clearly, there was nervousness, which was understandable enough. But there was something else as the Fereldan looked over him; something that Zevran recognized quite well: hunger. He felt something shifting inside him as he saw that look, saw that need so clearly written in that face.
"I..." Alistair swallowed, and Zevran watched muscles in his throat work, fascinated how little it actually took to get the Warden riled up to this point. "I wanted--"
A finger against the lips stopped the words, and the assassin shook his head a little before he scooted over enough to pull the Warden down to the bed. He didn't want anything said, anything that could ruin this, that could be taken the wrong way. He just wanted to keep going; he liked it the way they were. Somehow, he must have communicated the desire more clearly than he thought. That or Alistair just lost his nerve because nothing else was said, and Zevran managed to get himself situated on those hips.
Shyly, Alistair's hands reached for him, one settling on his hip and the other lightly dragging a single finger down his length. The elf shifted just a little, his eyes closing part of the way as he studied the warrior laying so calmly beneath him. When that calloused hand palmed him though, he gasped, the breath jerking into his lungs as he tried not to let his hips move too much. It clearly gave the Fereldan some confidence though, because then that hand wrapped all the way around him and stroked. His hips actually lifted into that motion.
Then he decided he wasn't about to try to stand it any longer, and he was reaching over for the nightstand. Alistair watched him curiously, and when his own hand returned with the vial, those hazel eyes lit up. Already, the Warden considered himself somewhat knowledgeable, something that amused Zevran to no end. The things that he still had to learn...
This time, the elf prepared himself, reaching carefully with an oiled finger to begin stretching. Alistair supported his weight carefully, and he pulled Zevran down for a kiss. Moaning into the other man's mouth, the Antivan withdrew his finger, smoothed oil over his partner's length, and then tossed the vial lightly away, letting it land on the furthest edge of the bed. He pulled back from the kiss slowly, reached back to position them both, and then, carefully, eased down and back. His eyes closed as the Warden entered him, and by the time that he was fully sheathed, they both were moaning.
Alistair's hand on his hip was trembling, the fingertips beginning to dig in, and Zevran was trying to breathe as he forced his eyes open to look at his lover. The Warden was flushed, returning the gaze heatedly, clearly aching to move but unable to make himself do so. It made the Antivan smile faintly, through his slight gasps for breath, and then he leaned forward a little and let himself begin to shift over the other man. Moans greeted the motions, making every shift and squeeze a note in a building symphony. Sweat was beginning to bead up from the heat between them, and then the Warden's hand returned to touch him.
The assassin's breathing hitched, and he watched Alistair's face as they moved, each thrust pushing his length into that hand. The former prince seemed almost fascinated, watching the elf with a shocking intensity. Zevran's hips started to move faster, wanting to see that expression over and over as he tightened and the heat and the friction rapidly built to the point of 'so close' and flew past the moment of 'can't stop.' Heat spilled out of him, over the other man's stomach, and Alistair's own hips snapped up, burying himself within the elf as far as he could go.
For a moment, neither of them moved, and then, slowly, Zevran rolled off of him. When he could feel fluid leaking and the heat beginning to turn sticky on him, the assassin let his arm fall down toward the bottom of the bed, where a wad of cloth lay on the floor. He cleaned himself up before offering it to Alistair, who did the same. Then it was dropped over the other edge of the bed; the vial was returned to its drawer; and Alistair pulled Zevran close. They were laying on top of the blankets, but neither of them really cared at that point. With the Warden's arm resting on his stomach, Zevran closed his eyes and drifted.
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Shades of Grey