Dragon Age: Origins, and all related characters, themes, and etc are property of Bioware. They're kind enough to allow me to barrow their world.
A/N: This is shorter then it could be, and took me almost two months to write. Such is the nature of writers block. But! I have managed to hook a Beta, the glorious and very-talented Berelinde, who's been linked in my profile and I recommend everyone go read her wonderful Hawke/Anders fic's. Because they're wonderful. Do it.
She sighed, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand as she rifled through the remains of the elven mage. She didn't even want to begin to wrap her brain around the fact that there were elves, let alone the four Qunari they'd come up against, inside the walls of the dwarven city. Coin, jewelry, some food, a nice dagger. All of the guards she'd searched so far had been a bust, and the man behind the jail-cell groaned as he held up his dying lady-friend.
"Ah ha!" announced the silky voice of Zevran from across the room, "All one must ever do is look for the man with the biggest weapon. It means he has a need for power, for he has little else to offer."
She smirked as he came around the corner, holding up a brass keyring. A very large brass keyring. "We more then likely could have just picked the locks, but since our jailer friends here decided to attack us... well, I am sure neither of us really needed to expend the effort."
"Great, can you get us out? She's not going to last much longer unless I get some food and water in her."
"Who is she, anyway?" Asyla asked, her curiosity getting the better of her as she helped the two out of the cell.
"Acre. She and I used to work for Beraht... uh, that would be Jarvia's man. He used to run the Carta before Acre stuck her knife in his stomach. He gave her older sister, Rica, off to bed some noble to get pregnant. She's not the bedding type though; Acre, that is. At least she's not the breeding type. So we did odd jobs for Beraht for a while, till he sent us to fix the proving and our man was dead drunk. She took up his armor and won the whole sodding thing.." he panted as they set the girl down against the stone.
Zevran knelt, offering his water-skin to the sandy-haired dwarf. She took it from him weakly, gulping as she poured it down her throat. Leske continued his tale, "Everything would have been stone, except our man decided to stumble out on to the field bare-assed drunk. If it hadn't been for that Grey Warden, whats his name. All humans look alike to me. Anyway, if it hadn't been for him, she would have lost her head right there and then in front of all of Orzammar and the Stone."
"Duncan." Acre whispered, looking up at the lot of them. Asyla knelt beside the dwarven lass and smiled. Behind the layers of soot and dirt was a pretty enough face, if gaunt and wrinkled from her apparent lack of nourishment. What set this Acre out, though, were her endlessly dark brown eyes. A woman with eyes like that could be capable of anything, including murder.
"You met Duncan?"
She smiled tiredly up at Asyla, and Asyla squeezed this woman's shoulder gently. "Yes, he tried to recruit me, actually. After I stole four sovereigns from him in the market place, before the Proving."
"The sod-head told him that she'd love to talk to him.." Leske piped in, setting Asyla's water-skin in his lap, "just as soon as we finished fixing the Proving."
"He.. laughed, and said an honest thief was the best sort."
Zevran chuckled, "Ah, but it is. An honest thief will steal your coin, but when you need the truth he'll never shy away from it. A loyal man, or woman, perhaps, can be found in an honest thief."
"Hmm, that's what he said, kind of. Not quite so handsomely though." Acre grinned, at least as best as she was able. It caused Asyla to laugh, "Hmm, that's my Zevran."
"Beraht had me thrown in the jail, but Acre here he decided to take him to bed."
"Sodding mistake, that one. I waited 'til he came in, and shanked him. Repeatedly. His guards tossed me in here. I don't think they ever told Jarvia that I was still alive."
"Or me. She's not the type to take prisoners." Leske muttered.
Zevran tsk'd, shaking his head, "It is a sad day, indeed, when you let your underlings decide the fate of prisoners. Come," he extended a hand to the dwarven lass, "My fiery warden and I have a task to complete, and you are in need of some chaos to slip behind."
"Good idea." She nodded towards Zevran. "You said Duncan tried to recruit you? If he saw something in you worthy of the Wardens, then you're welcome to come with us. Sadly he's gone to the Maker and I don't know the... the finer details on how a Warden is initiated. But, once we start a bit of trouble, you two head to the Warden compound. Ask for Alistair, and give him.. this."
Asyla reached around her neck, unhooking her warden's amulet, and slipping it into Leske's hand. " The only one it'll be worth anything to is another Warden. He'll let you in and have our Healer take a look at you. You'll be safe there, 'til we return. We'll discuss what you'd like to do next afterwards."
"Alistair?"
"Yes, Alistair." she nodded confidently at Leske. "Just be aware that I travel with two mages, a skilled Bard, a Sten of the.. a Qunari, and a mabari hound. And that doesn't count Alistair, who was once a templar. They'll be kind enough, so long as you're honest."
"You..." Leske sputtered.
"A Qunari?" Acre asked.
"Really?" Leske questioned, his face curious now.
"Yes, really, she does. As well as a devastatingly handsome assassin." Zevran drawled, and Asyla's shoulder tingled with the weight of the hand he dropped upon it. "We are a strange group, to be sure, but our lovely Warden has quite the task, and we would protect her with our very lives to see it done."
It was very hard to remember that she was still mad at him. So hard that she had to remind herself. She fought off the heat creeping into her cheeks that was threatening to take away her credibility. "You two think you can manage?"
Acre nodded, sliding an arm around Leske, "We can get there, safe enough."
"Good. Zevran, are you ready?"
"Lead on, O beautiful Warden." He drawled.
Zevran crept quietly behind Asyla, close enough to her to smell the sweat rolling down her neck. That flame-colored hair swung in its ponytail as they crept through the tunnel. The plan was to sneak past the defenses of this Jarvia person to strike at the heart of this Carta issue. It was a sound plan, if he did say so himself. It would have been much easier to do if every movement of her body didn't cause him to have images of pushing her against the stone walls of the cavern and having his way with her right there.
It really was tempting, too, because she smelled wonderful. Well, wonderful considering that she was sweating and covered in dust and blood. Which was to say, still wonderful. She wore no fancy perfumes that other women he'd been with at one time or another wore. She either smelled of freshly oiled leathers or sweat. Both of which he could appreciate. Sweat indicated physical effort of some kind or another. Fresh leather was a favorite sent of his, and brought forth warm feelings of safety and home.
He shook his head as they crept. He hardly could allow himself to become distracted with lecherous thoughts of the Warden when their lives were at the threshold of danger. It was increasingly more difficult for him, though, as they shuffled in the darkness, silent as jungle cats. Images of her in various states of attire kept flashing before his eyes. The whole thing was made that much worse when he brushed his bare forearm against hers.
He'd almost forgotten just how very soft her skin was. Then there was a whole new wave of images and smells and memories to fight off. His mind went to thoughts of his own lips brushing against that soft skin, along her pale throat, over her supple breasts. His mouth watered as his mind wandered south upon her imaginary body.
No. We've a job to do, he tried to convince himself, to calm his urges. I am supposed to be angry at my dear La-la, not imaging her naked beneath me... writhing in pleasure... calling out my name, those green eyes filled with desire..
"Zevran!" he heard her hiss his name, and came back to the here-and-now a moment too late. He heard the telltale "Click!" of a sprung trap, and had time to do naught but flinch as the explosion came. The pain that should have come after it did not. Was he dead? He must have been, because instead of screaming and the agony that should have come with the explosive trap, he felt nothing but light-headed. It took him several moments to realize that there was a weight pressed against his chest.
The after-ring in his ears slowly began to fade away, replaced with the sound of heavy breathing. He held his own breath, now that he knew that he still had breath to hold. The sound came from the weight against his chest, and after a moment, he moved his hands to see exactly, if what, was on top of him.
"Death feels quite a bit like a beautiful woman. I am pleasantly surprised," he whispered into the darkness.
He felt the weight begin to lift from him, and her voice came in a whispered answer full of emotion, "Zevran.."
He wove his arms around her middle, drawing her close to him, "My dear, it seems as if once again you have saved my life. You really aught to be careful, lest it become habit."
"You're not hurt, are you?" she whispered into the darkness. He could feel her breath on his face, and his eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness after the brightness of the blast.
He felt his laughter bubble up from some unknown bit of his subconscious, and let it roll up his throat and out of his mouth in the darkness. At this most awkward moment that it was, he couldn't help it. Was he alright? Of course he was alright. He was Zevran.
"What's so fun-?" he cut her off, pressing his lips to hers, just to prove to this ridiculous red-haired woman laying on top of him in the dark that he was, in fact, alright. He let his fingers clutch at her hips and he kissed her. He kissed her because he was Zevran Arainai, suave and sexy. He was Zevran the Assassin, the master of loving and killing.
Was Zevran going to allow some pretty Chantry boy take away from him such a woman as this, this elfin beauty who's fiery personalty matched her hair? He was Zevran! So he kissed her, and after a moment, he could feel her kissing back. The initial stun of the kiss was wearing off, her rigid muscles began to relax in his arms. Her mouth softened around his, and the kiss was returned to him, full of lust.
Hands were moving, sliding into his hair, making fists with his hair all tangled up in them. Her hands, delicate, nimble, and so sexy with all their hidden lines and knife-scars from years of practice... He could see her hands in his mind as they tugged at his hair. Rough hands, hands that belonged to a woman that understood the world. The image of those hands as those fingers pressed against his scalp sent a thrill through him, and he felt himself groan against her lips.
He found a sudden appreciation for why the dwarves chose to live underground. There was a certain, appeal, to having to use your imagination instead of your eyes. Especially when the lean body pressed against your hips reacted the way this particular one was, grinding into him as a reaction to his groan.
The reaction did nothing for his condition, the one he'd been stewing in as the two had shuffled quietly down the stone corridors of this secret dwarven base. Which they were presently still in. This thought came from... somewhere, perhaps from the back of his mind. He chose to ignore it, or at least later tried to tell himself that it was on purpose. Between his hands were hips that should have been too well-toned to feel so deliciously curvy. Pressed against his chest, separated by two sets of skin tight leathers, were soft handfuls of breasts. Breasts that he knew fit perfectly into his hands. Only to well.
The mental images of the different bits, some of his favorite fleshy bits to be sure, drove him insane. He let his mouth slide down to the hollow of her throat, lips and teeth and tongue and chin and skin. Her throaty, desperate whimper responded, which only caused him to respond in kind. He pushed his hips into hers, and whispered her name into the darkness, "Asyla.."
"Asyla", his voice rolled out, thick with accented emotion, and her body exploded. Had she been in a rational state of mind, she would have cursed her body for betraying her so very utterly when she was supposed to be angry at the Antivan currently nibbling on her collar bone. Had she been in a rational state of mind, she'd push herself off of him and remind him that they were on the stone floor of the Carta's hideout. If she were rational she would smack him for kissing her, for almost getting them killed, and stalk off, pony-tail and hips swaying.
She was, at present, not in a rational state of mind. She could have been there, maybe she even was, when he kissed her. She had been ready to slap him. The thought hadn't lasted very long. He'd done that... fucking groan thing he was so fucking good at, and all of her bones had fucking melted into a fucking puddle of Asyla, right fucking there on top of him. In the fucking dark. In fucking Orzammar. Fuck.
Maker, did that fucking word fit the moment. Fuck. She had always liked that particular curse. It was like "shem" and "bitch" and "ass". She'd always been fond of cussing, a side effect from working on the docks as a child. Her father had hated it, her cousins had always found it so funny. A good word, fuck. It worked well with so many moments. Like this fucking one, for fucking example.
She'd like nothing more then to fuck him, right there, on the floor. In the darkness. The darkness wasn't so bad because even if she couldn't see him, she could smell him, and he always smelled like freshly oiled leather. It was her favorite fucking smell.
She could feel him too, grinding his hips against her own, and driving her absolutely fucking insane. His lips were hot on her throat. Everything about him was hot. She imagined Antiva was hot, like Zevran always was, and imagined a naked Zevran lying under the sun, on the beach, with blue fucking sky all around and the wind in his hair.
"Fuck."
He laughed, his warm voice reverberating through her, even as his body beneath him shook from the act. It just made her want him more. Fuck. Fuck him, and his beautiful hair, and his sexy laugh, and..
"Fuck!"
He had moved or... or touched her... or something, she didn't even fucking know! A shiver of ecstasy ran up her spine. She dug her fingers into his hair and pulled, not hard enough to hurt him but hard enough to get her point across. Then, his mouth was on hers again, and they were kissing, and her mind no longer even fucking existed. It had poured out of her ear or her foot or some other part not being touched by the man she was sitting astride.
She had no idea how exactly long they had sat there, making out and panting and him fucking touching her in places that made her writhe and moan in the darkness. Eventually though, her mind began to come back to her from wherever it had gone. It was roughly around the point where she was no longer straddling him, and the two of them were laying side by side on the stone floor, kissing and touching. It had gone from ridiculously hot to amazingly tender.
Tender was new, he hadn't shown her tender before. It was... different, nice. Vulnerable. She hadn't even been sure Zev could do vulnerable, but he was. Not that she could see him. She was pretty sure though that if she could, he would be staring endlessly at her with those amazing warm-chocolate eyes of his in between the tender kisses he had been raining down on her lips.
She didn't want to break their embrace, but her mind was coming back to her, and she remembered that they still had to kill a woman, a dwarven woman, so that they could put a prince on a throne and get the void out of Orzimmar. She remembered that they'd come to Orzimmar to get an army. An army, for The Blight.
Her voice cracked, as the word, her new favorite word of the day, came tumbling out of her mouth one more time. This time, though, it was full of the wrong kind of emotion."Fuck."