Temper, Temper (3/9)
Jan. 21st, 2011 08:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
serindranaTitle: Temper, Temper (3/9)
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Pairing: F!Tabris/Zevran
Chapter Rating: M/NC-17
Series Rating: M/NC-17
Wordcount: 7569
Warnings: BDSM (bondage, spanking)
Summary: Orzammar is claustrophobic. Fynnea trusts Zevran, even when she shouldn't. (ff.net & Ao3)
Notes: The world and all characters except for the specifics of Fynnea's characterization are the property of Bioware. ♥ Oh, and Penny Arcade came up with the name Barkspawn.
Chapters: 1 Interlude 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Epilogue
Fynnea can't honestly say whether she's grateful to be back in Orzammar or not.
Aeducan Thaig lies behind them now, Lady Dace's father dutifully rescued, and while Orzammar smells far less of darkspawn and deepstalker, it is static and heavy and uncomfortable. She's retreated into the halls of Bhelen's palace; it's easier to pretend that she's just in a building that way. Out on the streets, she feels the oppressive crush of the stone above far more than she did down in the Deep Roads. The Deep Roads are meant to be unnerving and frightening; Orzammar is not. And so, Orzammar is.
She had expected Zevran to wander off on a 'fact-finding mission' to Tapster's Tavern, but he's followed her around the palace. When she asks what he wants, he responds,
"Fact finding. You said you wished to know more about this Prince Bhelen, yes? Come." He beckons and she follows, ignoring the urge to ask why he's here, with her, when there are women and men and drink about. She settles for feeling honored, and hopes that he isn't here out of a sense of obligation.
He leads her down into the depths of the palace, chattering about everything and nothing. She's horrible at small talk, but somehow keeps up enough to let him carry on. The guards ignore them, which, as he beckons her into a small room off a side hallway, she realizes is likely intentional. He shuts the door behind him.
Zevran hums thoughtfully. "Who do you think we should pluck from the hallways, my Warden? A guard would be dangerous, but possibly high return. A serving girl easier, but much trickier to pressure. If the guard lashes out, we can kill him and paint him as a Harrowmont supporter. A serving girl might be harder."
Fynnea stares blankly a moment, then shifts uneasily. "I have no clue."
"But if we are to play at politics, you must!"
"I don't want to play at politics," she grumbles. "I want to barrel my way through them and shove Bhelen on the throne and get it over with. Seems easier."
"Perhaps. But curiosity, ah, it must be satisfied, or it begins to gnaw terribly... yes?" He winks and she flushes at the memory of her need to know about his tattoos. "So. We shall question."
"We can't just... listen? To what people say? I mean, the people in the streets-"
"Are the people in the streets. The ones who say bad things are those who are against him- but if we can make those loyal to him speak, ah, then we shall find truths. Or, at least as close to truths as politics ever gets. So, who shall we take, my Warden?"
Fynnea growls, rubbing at her temples with a blood splattered gauntlet. "If I make this decision," she says, slowly, thinking, "can I ask a favor of you in return?" A thought has been teasing at the back of her brain since Haven, maybe before.
He chuckles. "This is already a favor for you, but yes. You may ask of me anything."
"Right. Well, then." She purses her lips and closes her eyes. It's several minutes of arduous planning and conjecture before she finally answers, "Find a serving girl. I'll be gentle."
"As you wish." He smiles and bows slightly, then slips from the room. She leans against the wall to wait.
He returns after perhaps ten minutes, and she can hear his laughter and that of a young woman's approaching down the hall. It sets her teeth on edge before she can quash that feeling of jealousy. She doesn't mind his flirting with the rest of the team, ignores it because it's none of her business (and because he doesn't flirt with her the same way as he flirts with them, and it feels special), but his laughter sounds so sweet and genuine.
She reminds herself that this is a job, and she has no right to be jealous or angry when she told him to do this.
The door opens and he ushers the girl inside with a leer and a grin, shutting the door just before the dwarven woman's eyes lock onto Fynnea's slight form, clad in dark armor covered in dried blood.
The woman pales, and turns to leave, but Zevran leans against the door and shakes his head, that smile still there. She screams, but Fynnea has anticipated it (she knows how fearsome she looks, has seen Alistair falter in battle from the look of fury on her face) and clamps her gauntleted hand over the dwarf's mouth.
"Shhh," Zevran hushes, holding a finger up to his lips. "We only wish to talk, have no fear. A few words exchanged, and then we'll set you free, yes? So please, calm. Quiet."
And somehow, this manages to silence their captive. Fynnea withdraws only after a few tens of heartbeats pass without struggle.
Zevran has the girl's gaze locked into his. "Mirya, have you worked here long, my dear?" His voice is still amiable, gentle, as if he truly cares. He's a skilled actor.
"Three years," she manages, soft and quiet.
"So, you have known Prince Bhelen a long time then, yes?"
Mirya shifts, digging her toe against the stone floor. Fynnea leans against the far wall, watching the two of them, arms crossed over her chest. "Know is a strong word-"
"You have seen him, then. And you have heard things?" He shakes his head slightly as she recoils. "No, no. I am no spy sent by Bhelen to test the loyalty of his servants. Nothing you say leaves this room. Correct, Warden?"
Fynnea grunts, then nods. Sure.
Zevran looks away from the woman, fingers toying with the metal rounds on his belt. Mirya is still hesitating, and Fynnea watches as he carefully withdraws the small stiletto he keeps on his belt and begins to twirl it, as if it were a plaything.
Mirya goes stiff, and Fynnea sighs. "Oh, Andraste's blood-" Maker damn him, he's grinning at the curse- "you're getting us nowhere." She can't put up with this dance of his, and Mirya is clearly wondering now if she will leave this room. This is a mess, and Fynnea roughly grabs hold of Mirya's shoulder. The girl squeaks as the elf spins her around, glares down at her. "We're not going to kill you, we're not going to tell on you, and the faster you tell us about your employer, the faster we get out of your life. Got it?" The words are growled harsh and low, and Mirya lets out a soft sob.
"Stop crying!" Fynnea can't handle this, and wishes suddenly that she'd called for a guard, instead. It'd be so much easier to shake her, to throw her to the ground, to grind the answers out of her with the heel of her boot. But instead, she just holds the serving girl's shoulders hard.
And Zevran is just standing there.
Fynnea's blood roars in her ears, but soon it quiets enough that she can hear Mirya babbling, spilling out half-remembered conversations and late night unplanned scenes, falling over herself to tell Fynnea everything, anything, to get her to let go.
When she runs herself dry, Fynnea releases her, muttering under her breath and turning away.
She can hear Zevran hushing the crying Mirya. His voice is soft and gentle, and he's apologizing, perhaps drawing her to his chest, certainly doting upon her. He vilifies himself for drawing his stiletto, explains it as an old habit and a mistake, and Mirya seems to believe him, the stark contrast between Fynnea and Zevran working to make Mirya quiet and listen to him.
He teases out a last few details from her, then sends her on her way.
"Well, our Prince Bhelen, for all of his ability to do, is quite the bastard, yes? Just like being home in Antiva!" He grins at her.
"You planned that, didn't you," Fynnea mutters after a long, silent stretch between them.
"It was a distinct possibility, yes. It had occurred to me."
"And if I hadn't lost my temper?"
"I would have held my blade to her throat and slid the words from her that way. It would have been harder, though. And she would have been more likely to tell. As it is, I believe she will remain silent. She fears you and has been soothed by me. A good play, I think." His grin remains a moment more before he shakes his head. "I am sorry, my Warden, if that bothered you."
"It would have been more satisfying to interrogate a guard. At least then I could have punched him."
"This is true," he concedes, then beckons her with a nod of his head to follow him back into the hall. She does, and he falls into step at her right and slightly behind her.
They pass by guards who seem oblivious, and once they draw near their quarters, Fynnea sighs in relief.
Zevran, who has once again been bantering about the weather and how sad it is that there is none in Orzammar, smoothly transitions into a, "Do you need a way to work out that frustration, my Warden?"
"An Antivan massage?" she scoffs, and he laughs, the sound relaxing some of the tightened muscles in her shoulders.
"I believe you did ask a favor of me?"
It borders on incomprehensible to her that Zevran might have been turned on by her anger at Myria, but his eyes are boring into her and he's standing closer than he needs to, closer even than he usually stands. "Yes," she says, mind piecing her old thoughts back together. As she turns over the idea, it changes form just enough and becomes what she needs it to be. "I want you," she begins, slow and nervous but with building excitement, "to tie me up."
He stares at her a moment. She's unsure if he's surprised or displeased, even when he murmurs, "Oh?"
"Er. Y-yes."
Maker damn her, but her resolve and confidence always falls apart in front of him.
"That is. If you'd like that. I just- was thinking back to that one time, on the road to Denerim, when you mentioned tying up in various contexts- and I was wondering if I might enjoy it, and it seems like a good way to- to work out my frustration, because I can pull against the rope instead of pushing against you and-"
"My Warden," he interjects, a hand coming to rest on her waist, "perhaps we should talk about this inside."
There's a guard doing his best not to actively stare at them, and Fynnea laughs, weakly. "Right."
--
"So," she says uncertainly once he's retrieved a coil of rope and they've settled in her room, armor off and set aside to be cleaned and polished later.
"So," he agrees, lounging against the wall by the door. "What exactly do you want of me, my Warden?" His eyes scan over her appreciatively, linger on the suggestion of her curves beneath the loose tunic she wears beneath her armor. "What wicked things shall I do to you?"
"I- I hadn't thought much beyond the rope."
"Naked or clothed?"
"Uh?"
Zevran chuckles, softly. "I can tie you up and not have my way with you, you know. Some people simply enjoy being dominated, without sex coming into it at all. You must tell me what you want, or I will have to guess."
"Oh. I- that makes sense, I guess. But I meant- I meant naked, with sex involved. And rope."
He nods, gesturing for more.
"And, uh. I don't- know what else- I've never done this before, or even really heard anybody but you even mention it." She trails off helplessly, skin flushed and heart pounding.
"Well," he purrs, thoughtful and calm, "I can do quite a lot of things. I can tease you and refuse to let you crest. I can make you crawl on your hands and knees and beg. I can punish you for being a naughty little Warden, yes? But first, there is one thing I require of you."
That last suggestion has sent her mind straight down between her legs, but she manages a small, "Yes?"
"If you need to stop-"
"I tell you, I know."
"You tell me with a code word," he finishes. At her confused look, he shrugs. "Who am I to know if you like pretending that I am a dasterdly knave having my way with you while you shout, 'No! Stop! Anything but this, this violation of my delicate flowering maidenhood!'" Fynnea snorts, and he grins back at her. "So, a code word, that means that I will stop immediately."
"Do I really need that? I mean- I can just yell at you to stop, you know. Or kick you."
"Things can become quite intense, my Warden, when one is bound and drawn taut. And I, as you know, am all for intensity."
Fynnea swallows hard, then nods. "Er. Right. Well, then. Would Weisshaupt work?"
"Indeed, my very naughty Warden," he laughs, and she can't help the little whine that works its way out of her throat. "Shall I punish you? You did lose your temper today, after all..."
"You want to punish me for that?" A flash of irritation floods her, then fades as he shrugs.
"I can. I can also punish you for stealing my kills down in the Thaig. I can punish you for, hm, not wrangling enough nugs before we left. I can punish you for many things, none of which have much true substance." There's a strained note to his voice when he adds, softly, "It's no fun if the punishment is real."
"No, I guess not." She runs a hand through her hair, then nods, decisive. "Well, then, I guess I have been... naughty. Jumping into things without knowing what I'm getting into."
"As long as you don't mind where you've landed." He smiles and beckons her close. She answers his call.
A foot away, she frowns and asks, "Why are you being this gentle?"
"Gentle?" His smile doesn't move. "It is just proper form. Besides, it's in the interest of self preservation to make this pleasurable - is that what you wish to hear?"
It is, but there's something he's not saying, something that goes back to his attentiveness after Haven, and she's determined to push again. That's what she does - push and fight until something breaks. "Zevran."
"Hmm." He shrugs, leaning back against the wall again, looking up at the carved ceiling. "Quite a deal of it is that, but you are also fascinating, Fynnea. You get the blood pumping, no? Is it a crime that I'm interested in preserving the current state of affairs?"
"... No," she concedes, and her mind lingers on fascinating because it feels good. He legitimately likes her, after a fashion. At night, in the dark, sometimes she's afraid that Barkspawn is the only person who does, and so to hear otherwise soothes something inside of her. It eases that fear of obligation on his part.
"Well, then! Weisshaupt it is, my Warden." And his easy, lascivious grin is back as he pushes away from the wall and reaches out to grip her arm and tug her against him. "How shall I punish you, hm?"
"Up to you."
"That is... not entirely safe."
"Okay, well- nothing with blades. Does that work?"
"And something that has the potential to feel good?" he suggests, and she nods in return, flush returned. He hums thoughtfully. "I think I know what you need, then. Strip for me."
Fynnea obliges, stepping away just enough to tug her tunic up over her head, then shimmy out of her loose trousers and smalls. It's the first time that she's bared herself in good lighting, and his eyes linger appreciatively over the curves and hollows revealed by the torches on the walls. He doesn't reach out to touch her, though, instead murmuring, "Over to the wall, then, to where that shield hook is. Face the stonework."
Fynnea makes a small, eager noise as she pads on cold feet over to the hook. He follows after watching the retreat of her lovely hips and muscled thighs, picking up the rope on the way. He takes her in his arms from behind, sliding fingers over taut, flushed skin from her belly, then up along her chest and arms, until he finds her wrists. Those same fingers make quick work of binding her arms, from mid-forearm to palms in tight, almost decorative loops, and of tying her onto the hook above her head. The restraints make her lean forward against the wall, resting her arms and forehead against it to hold her up.
Zevran takes a step back and hums appreciatively. "A wonderful sight," he purrs.
There's silence, but for her shaky breathing and pounding heart, until she hears the distinct, familiar sound of a sword unsheathed.
"Zevran-" she hisses, immediately jerking away from him and trying to free herself from the hook, straining to look back at him. Her teeth are gritted and her heart pounds with betrayal- until she sees the surprised look on his face.
"My apologies." He looks sheepish as he holds up the wooden leather-covered sheath. "This was all I needed."
And he walks away from her and sets down the sword (his) on the other side of the room, before returning with his hands spread out. He has nothing that she can see aside from the sheath.
But he could still be planning on killing her. He has knives. He has that stiletto, she remembers suddenly, blood running cold.
"I don't-"
"Shhh," he murmurs, coming close enough to trace paths along and between her shoulder blades. He kisses her skin, then rests his cheek against it. Listens to her heart. "I'm not going to kill you, Fynnea," he breathes, stroking her side. The sound of her names on his lips makes her shudder. "I give you my word. We have a blood oath, yes? I will not go back on such a thing."
"Have you-" She gulps down air, shaking against him. "Have you ever- killed somebody? Like this?" He uses sex to get close, it's a talent of his, and oh Maker I should have been more careful, Alistair will laugh when he hears of this, I-
"No," he says, softly. "No matter how easy it would make my job, I have never killed anybody before or during the fun moments. A last stolen moment of pleasure, and then- then, I do my job. Then, people die. But not you, my Warden. I promise you.
"And at any rate, it would be terribly cowardly of me to kill you with your arms bound," he adds with a small shrug.
"It would be terribly pragmatic."
"I am not always so pragmatic - that would be you, my Warden." He smiles against her skin, then leans up to kiss her cheek, her ear. "I give you my word, you will only suffer minor stings at my hands. I am yours and vastly prefer it to being the Crows', yes? Why would I want to lose this? And with a great evil still to defeat! No, I would not cut your story short for all the gold and whores in Antiva."
He's just saying that slinks through her mind, but she doesn't care, not with how her throat tightens and she has to look down at the floor to keep her composure to stop herself from- she's not going to swoon but she certainly feels the need to sag into his arms.
"Are we good, then? Or shall we set out tonight for Weisshaupt?"
The foreign name slides over her, and she tosses it aside, shakes her head. "No, I think staying in Orzammar is- just fine."
Zevran relaxes; she can feel the coils of his muscles easing before he steps away and considers her. "Then, if you will just spread your legs a little to steady yourself?"
"What are you going to do? With- that sheathe?" she asks as she resettles herself, then gasps as she feels the metal tip of it brush cold against her folds.
"Naughty things," he replies with a grin. "Terrible, wonderful naughty things."
Another slide of metal and leather against her trembling body, and she squirms, fingers clenching against the rope.
Then the sheath is gone, and her knees tremble. She waits. She hears him move behind her, thankful that he's letting her know where he is. She's cold, shivering, exposed entirely, and it's almost too much when the first blow comes.
The stiff sheath slaps gently across her ass on the first blow, then more firmly the second. It stings and she yelps, trying to retreat from him and into the wall, but by the third, still harder blow there's a thrum of pleasure mixed in, unexpected and almost unwelcome. The fourth feels like the exhilaration of battle, the fifth like power and strength. The sixth is almost unbearable as she feels her Reaver blood pound in her head and her belly, feels the throb of her skin against the unyielding leather. She cries out, the sound closer to pleasure than pain, and Zevran chuckles.
"I thought you might enjoy this," he murmurs, and the low, dark tones of the words make her moan, twitch in place. He's using the sheath again to part her, and she can feel its leather grow slippery with each touch. She bucks against it and he laughs, chiding, "Naughty, naughty Warden," before he pulls it away and strikes her again.
Pain in battle makes her glory in the bloodshed.
Pain in sex makes her needy and wanton and begging.
He stops after the tenth blow, a jerky, almost too painful strike. He's panting and doesn't touch her for a long moment before sliding the edge of the sheath against her one last time. Then he lets it clatter to the floor. His hands are on her, his lips, and she strains back against her bonds to try and touch every part of him. He's still in his leathers, the metal reinforcements cold and wonderful against her flushed skin. "All panting and ready for Zevran?" he murmurs against her shoulder, then nips with teeth along her collarbone. She whimpers his name, thrusts back against him, and he chuckles. "Are you sure?"
"Please-"
His fingers are working her, idly, and she's glad her face is pressed to the stone and her arms are held up tightly, because she thinks she might fall to her knees otherwise.
"I am not sure you've been good enough, my Warden," he muses against her skin, even as she shakes and moans in his arms. "And there was that time you left me tied to that tent pole all night-"
"You- deserved it-"
He chuckles, nipping at her earlobe, following the long point of her ear with his tongue. She whimpers, body clenching around his fingers.
"But it was so very cruel of you- you left me wanting, my Warden. Perhaps I shall do the same to you?"
"T-that was- over a month ago-"
"Two," he corrects. "But ah, I have a good memory! And practice at patient waiting, yes?"
She shivers and tenses, and he pauses, murmurs softly, "I'm not waiting to kill you, my Warden," and she relaxes in his arms, the sudden thrill of fear dissipating in the wake of his fingers still tracing lazy circles inside of her.
"Two months ago," she murmurs, helplessly, and he hums.
"Perhaps you are right. And you did assist wonderfully with that serving girl. And the way you fought today- you must need the satisfaction of completion, hm?"
"Please don't leave me like this," Fynnea begs, beyond caring how the words sound, how dependent she is on him for release.
"Very well, but only because you beg so prettily, dear Warden."
His fingers slip from her and she whimpers, eyes squeezed tightly closed, waiting for a playful kiss and his withdrawal, but he's good on his word and is quickly buried inside of her, deep and hot, and she groans his name, pushing back against his hips to fit him in deeper. He obliges, pressing at her hips to tilt them just so as he murmurs her name. He begins to move with the same slow, long thrusts he always uses, until she arches and hisses, "Faster-" She's needy and raw and her blood surging through her veins, eager for an outlet, demands more than slow heaviness.
He growls appreciatively and indulges her, thrusts turning steadily into slamming blows that drive her hard against her arms, perched on the wall, the only thing keeping her steady. The hook groans, taking her weight when she nearly falls, one of his hands cupping her breast, the slide of his teeth electric across the skin of her back. He's drawing loud, frantic sounds from her, sounds that are hopefully muffled by the thick stone all around them, but it's not long before she's lost in a burning, surging sea where it doesn't matter, all that matters is him and his intensity and the strain of ropes on her arms and the pain of her abused ass and her bruised elbows.
She screams when she comes, and her seizing up tight around him is the only reason she doesn't fall away, boneless and spent, before he follows her with a low groan of My Warden.
Long moments stretch out between them, and when her knees finally begin to buckle, he wraps one arm around her and begins to carefully, gently untie her. His fingers rub at her arms as he draws her back against him, working warmth back into her hands. He dotes on her the rest of the night, telling stories and giving kisses. By the time she drifts off to sleep, she feels more satisfied than she can ever remember being.
--
And this, just over a week later, is the most horrified she can ever remember being.
"Oh, Maker," Fynnea breathes, eyes wide and stomach rebelling. "What- what is that?"
"Broodmother," Wynne replies.
Days in the Deep Roads haven't prepared her for this. Days of cutting down darkspawn after darkspawn, of dealing with men driven mad by the taint and old demons cut asunder, days without light or fresh air or good, sound sleep have left her raw and hardened and still unprepared for this. This grey expanse of mottled, putrid flesh, the obscene fall of heavy breasts that leak some sort of fluid that smells like rot and fear, the writhing of tentacles that can't quite reach them. Hespith's rhymes hadn't prepared her for this. She'd barely listened to the words, but they come flooding back now, flesh and vomit and violation, and she nearly drops to her knees in horror and disgust.
"Nasty things, eh?" Alistair's trying to keep humor alive, but it falls flat.
Zevran's attempt doesn't fair much better. "Now there's a woman who knows her assets," is barely audible, and he shakes his head, taking a deep breath. He manages a smile in her direction, though, which helps her pull herself out of her paralyzing disgust.
Since that night in Bhelen's palace, he's seemed almost skittish around her. Attentive, as always, and still always by her side, but he doesn't tease her quite as often or with as much wicked glee. She hasn't had time to push him on the subject, though. Bhelen had demanded the death of a cartel leader, and she'd obliged. And then, the Deep Roads had called, and they answered, fighting through Caridin's Cross and Ortan Thaig and the long expanse of the Dead Trenches. Humor has all but died down here, and she can barely remember a time when she preferred this thick, claustrophobic crush to the comparative gentleness of Orzammar and its clean hallways. Hallways that did not pulse with flesh.
"There's no way to get around it? Or to, I don't know, cave the ceiling in on its head?"
"Dwarven tunnels are remarkably stable," Wynne sighs, leaning on her staff. "And even if there were a way around... we cannot let it live. We must put the creature out of its misery, and stop it from creating more of its kind."
"She's right. Warden's duty."
"Ugh." Fynnea takes a deep breath, then another, swallowing air and willing it to force away the bile that's threatening to slide up her throat. "Right, then. Wynne, stay on the bits of the floor that are still stone and set the room on fire. Alistair and I will close with it. Zevran- er. Do whatever it is that you do."
She still doesn't have a clear idea of how he functions in battle when he's not fighting at her side; he disappears until his blade is sticking out of somebody's chest, and then he's gone again. Alistair, of course, thinks this is all a very dangerous arrangement. He thinks that about everything these days.
Zevran melts into the shadows with a low bow, and Fynnea squares her shoulders. "Well, let's do this. Whoever strikes the final blow wins a prize, yeah?" And then she's off, running headlong through the forest of tentacles erupting from below, dodging and dancing and slicing when she can, making straight for her target even as the world is engulfed in flames.
The magical inferno slides off her skin, coating her sword without heating her armor or burning her. All around her tentacles thrash and contract and wither from the heat, and the screams of the broodmother are filling the echoing cavern, obliterating all other sound. Fynnea finally reaches the mass of writhing flesh and strikes, opening up one of the pendulous breasts and spilling green, slimy tissue onto the ground beneath.
Alistair is there only a few seconds later, slamming into the broodmother's gut with all his strength and drawing another howl from its throat. It grabs at him and he rolls out of the way, struggling to stay nimble in his heavy armor. Fynnea slams her pommel against her pauldron, drawing its attention for the moment Alistair needs to regain his balance.
She can't hear or see Zevran, and fear begins to creep up her spine that he's left, that he's judged this one too dangerous, but then there's the now familiar screech of an injured hurlock right behind her and a flash of leather and bronze skin.
"Oh great," Alistair grunts in a short reprieve, the broodmother shaking under electric assault, "she's called her kids."
From that moment forward, the battle becomes a long, painful blur. She's shouting orders at the top of her lungs, trying to be heard over the screeches of darkspawn and the crash of spells and swords. She's knocked down more times than she can count, thrown by tentacles, pierced by arrows. Shrieks claw at her and find purchase in her chainmail, and she loses blood fast. She can remember shouting, "Is all of this blood mine? I think it is-" before Wynne's healing soothes the worst of it, but before the final blow is struck, a mass of rotting, writhing flesh connects hard with her head and sends her flying into oblivion, her last thought I'm going to be one of them.
She comes to supported against Zevran's chest, the battle won, Alistair and Wynne looking on worriedly as the assassin eases a poultice into a long gash on her arm, fingers wormed through the metal of her armor. "Ah!," he says with a grin, "my prize has awoken!"
And that, even though she's in agony and the cavern reeks of darkspawn and rot and she's still shaking from the lingering terror of Broodmother, makes her smile.
--
"I need to know how you fight."
"Are you challenging me to a Proving?"
They're back in Orzammar, finally, Bhelen crowned and Harrowmont executed. After several days and many, many baths, Fynnea thinks that the stench of darkspawn has finally been washed away. Now they're sitting on one of the low walls in the Commons, Fynnea staring at him and Zevran gazing over the edge at the lava flowing below.
"No. Just a sparring match. I don't want an audience."
"It will be hard to avoid one, down here. Not many empty spaces, hm?"
"There's that spot by the Diamond Quarter entrance. By the nug guy?"
Zevran hums thoughtfully, glancing over to her. "Why?"
Fynnea shrugs. "Leader thing. I should know how best to utilize you."
"Ahhh, embarrassed at saying 'do whatever it is you do', my Warden? It's a sign of a good leader, you realize, to give her followers some autonomy."
"Yeah, but I still need to know when to bring you along."
"You should always bring me along, to compliment your eyes and fluster your enemies. No? And to make sure you can utilize me however you see fit."
She laughs. "Yeah, I probably always will. Still. I mean, we fight with the same weapons... but we fight differently, right? I just don't understand how, really. So, come on. Unless you're scared?"
"No, not scared." He runs a hand through his hair, looking back out at the lava, and she thinks she catches a hint of nervousness in his expression. But he steadies himself and pushes away from the low wall, out back into the plaza, with a brilliant smile. "Come, then!"
Alistair looks up from the stall he's poking around in. "What are you two planning?" he asks, warily, eyes darting between them.
"Just a friendly sparring match," Fynnea sings, gliding past, excited for the first time in what seems like weeks instead of tired or scared or determined.
Zevran is by her side and Alistair- is following them. "I'm keeping an eye on you, Zevran."
"Oh! So you have finally admitted to yourself my beauty? Your dark attraction to me? I am flattered!"
Alistair fights through his flush. "No."
"Well, with time, with time."
Fynnea rolls her eyes and then her shoulders as they approach the nug rancher. She leans in and presses a sovereign into his hand as they pass, murmuring, "We're going to practice a bit back here; promise we won't damage anything." He nods, letting them pass, albeit with an odd look.
Alistair sets himself leaning against the wall at the opening back out onto the streets. "Maybe we should get Wynne. In case things get a bit out of hand?"
"Shouldn't be necessary," Fynnea shrugs. Zevran quirks a brow, but nods and draws his blades. She follows suit.
"Try not to draw blood, you two?"
"Of course, my Princeling!" Zevran responds with a deep bow. Alistair sighs.
Fynnea settles herself, adjusting her grip and watching the Antivan. "I just want to see your sword skills, okay?"
He inclines his head, tossing his dagger up in an arc and then catching it. And then he's moving, fast, giving up a forceful strike towards her center to cut below her. She stumbles back, cursing, and he laughs at her when he comes to a stop. She resettles herself, and beckons.
From that moment on, it's a fast, dangerous dance of metal, punctuated by ragged, panting gaps where they regain their stances and composure before moving in again. She's fast, but he's faster, and when she goes for hard blows, he goes for ones that slide past defenses, even if they strike weakly. He uses his sword to deflect and his dagger to stab, while she tries to rend and tear between her blades, balancing defense and offense across the both of them. She relies more on her armor, he on his speed.
He can tumble and leap and dodge more easily than parry, and she can barely keep up, but her unrelenting force is wearing him down even as her breath comes fast and hard from chasing him around the small space. They begin to fight dirty, kicks knocking them back, elbows in guts and to faces, feet stomping on feet. He laughs at her and she sees red, lunging. He dances out of the way. She catches his side with a fist, the blade dangerously close to connecting, too, and he falls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Some of this, she already understands. She knows he dances and plays and tires his enemies out until he can slip in for a clean, artful kill. But she hasn't understood until this moment how he does it, how he enrages her and draws her into over-extensions that, even if she can defend them, drain her. It's not like Alistair's taunts on the battlefield, it's more subtle than that. It's a look, a grin, a pause in the action where he doesn't even seem winded. She understands now why he wears leathers despite engaging in close combat. It lets him bend away, tumble easily. She's not wearing Alistair's heavy plate, but she's still unable to keep up with him or to take her falls as gracefully.
She manages to drive an elbow into his stomach hard enough to knock him back, but before she can bring her blade to his throat and call victory, he rolls away, catches her ankle with his foot, and drop her to the floor. It's her turn to roll and scramble, nowhere near as graceful or efficient as he is, and he has her on the run, prodding and teasing, his dagger blade skittering across her breastplate once, coming too close to comfort. His smile has faded, and his eyes look far away. She's far away, too, but she notices it, feels her stomach drop. This is how he looked the first time they met on the battlefield, the last time their blades locked.
He parries and she falls forward, and then he's dashing beneath her and surging up, throwing her head over heels. She lands hard and he spins with the throw, following her down, expression intense and dark.
The tip of his sword slams into the ground not two inches from her head.
"Fuck-" she gasps, and Alistair is on them, throwing Zevran to the side and standing over her, sword drawn. Zevran coughs, pulls himself up slowly, and stares at Fynnea. Fynnea stares back, heart pounding, too scared to process or to think. Alistair is shaking. She can hear the metal rattling.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't run you through, Zevran," he growls.
Zevran's sword drops from his hand, clatters to the ground. His dagger follows. He's still staring at Fynnea, and she sees anger and fear and confusion. And then- "I can't."
"Alistair-" she cuts in.
"He just tried to kill you," Alistair hisses, not sparing her a glance. "Don't defend him."
Fynnea pushes herself up, finds her feet shakily. Zevran is staring now at the scratch his blade made in the stone. "W-we just got caught up. It was a mistake. Right, Zevran?"
Zevran says nothing.
Alistair rounds on her, glaring. "Just because he's a fucking marvel in bed-"
"It was a mistake."
She looks over to Zevran, needing support and apology, and instead-
Finds him gone.
--
Alistair has confiscated her weapons and armor, thinking it will keep her sitting placidly in her room. He also thinks standing outside the door will keep her inside. He's angry and scared and is convinced that Zevran will return to finish the job, but all she can think about was the fear and confusion in his eyes. She needs to find him. She needs to figure out what the hell just happened and why he hadn't simply laughed it off.
She's very, very glad that the night before he had pointed out the secret passage connected to the bathing area of the room she's been given. Dressed in the only plain clothes she owns, the dress she wore to her wedding, she slips into the passageway, through the halls of the palace, and out into the streets of Orzammar.
She wanders the Diamond Quarter and finds nothing. No sign of him. Nobody has seen the blonde elf, and she curses and moves onto the Commons, sticking to shadows, hallucinating the sound of armor behind her. It's Alistair she's afraid of, now. Afraid that he'll lock her up again and she'll lose the man who seems, sometimes, like her only friend in the world, the only one who knows her.
The nug rancher says that he saw Zevran take off towards the west side of the Commons. She gives him another sovereign without thought and runs in that direction. The guards saw him, too, and point her to Tapster's. He was moving slowly, they say. Not trying to hide. The nobles were just ignoring him, it seems.
She finds him where they point her to, sitting in the back of the tavern, by himself, cradling a mug of strong-smelling ale. It's been hours since Alistair dragged her back to the palace, and from the look of him, Zevran's been drinking the whole time. He doesn't look up at her when she draws close.
"Come to kill me, yes?" He laughs, but it's a sad, low sound.
She shakes her head and slides into the booth with him, sitting across the table. "No."
"Alistair behind you, then?"
"No."
Slowly, he looks up at her. "I almost killed you."
"But you didn't, and you could have," she points out. "So I don't think you planned it. Am I right?" She's shaking a little, with the memory of a blade coming down at her, but his fear then and his despondency now is outweighing the terror. He didn't mean it, she repeats to herself.
He looks back down at his mug, then takes a large swallow of it, grimacing. "This... muddy water is disgusting. Nothing like a good Antivan beverage," he mutters to himself, sliding lower in his seat.
"Zevran," she pushes, reaching out to touch his hand. He jerks away. "You looked scared, Zevran- what's going on? Because I know you didn't mean to do it, because if you had, I'd be dead. So what- what went wrong?"
He finishes the mug and pushes it aside, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenches his teeth. She waits, unwilling to look away.
"You shouldn't be out without armor," he says at last. "Harrowmont's supporters."
"I don't care."
"You should." He frowns, then sighs. He stares at his hands. "... I thought- for a moment, I thought you were one of my superiors. In the Crows."
It's her turn to frown. "Oh?"
"And I wanted so badly to make you suffer. Sad, yes? Here I am, hallucinating without anything fun in me, and now I shall die for it."
"You're not going to die."
"Ah, if you don't kill me, you will still leave me. And the Crows will find me."
She grabs his hand, ignoring how he tugs and pulls, trying to escape. They never touch unless it's to play, and they keep their play separate from the long days and nights of hunting. Touching him now is strange, powerful. He stills after a moment.
"I am not leaving you. You're going to clean up and come with us when we strike out for Redcliffe tomorrow."
"My Warden, your companions will not let me live."
"Yeah? Even if I threaten anybody who lays a finger on you?"
"Why would you do that?" He finally looks up at her, lips a thin line, brow furrowed.
"Because-" She sighs, a strangled, pained noise. "Because none of the others actually know me. You do. I can't stop this Blight if I'm only accompanied by people who want me to calm down. Besides, you didn't mean it, even if you won't say it, and-"
"You do not need me."
"OH FOR THE LOVE OF ANDRASTE, SHUT UP." Fynnea trembles, glaring, fingers crushingly tight around his. He stares over at her, mouth falling open. "Stop with your stupid death wishes! First you take that job against me, now you sit around getting drunk, waiting for me or Alistair to come and take your head off? You are coming with me. Things will go back to normal. If you try to kill me again, I'll just stop you. But I don't think you will."
"And when I have you tied up and at my mercy for games, what will stop me from hurting you?" he asks, softly. "The night we returned from Aeducan Thaig- I almost hurt you then, too. It almost turned into anger instead of fun. I stopped myself."
She remembers how shaky and harsh the last blow had been, how he'd been so quiet for a moment, how he'd doted so much on her afterwards. She swallows. But this all doesn't seem real, doesn't make sense. "... But why? Why do you want-"
"Because sometimes, all you are is the person who holds my leash, Fynnea." The words are whispered so softly she can barely make them out, and the color drains from her face. "And then I try to hurt you, and suddenly, you are Rinna, too, at my mercy, and I-" He shakes his head, pulling away from her suddenly soft grip. "I am a dangerous man, my Warden, especially when it concerns you."
She tries to piece it all together, tries to understand what he's saying. It's hard. It's confusing, and she can't imagine being anything but what she is, but to be both his tormentors (because despite his amusing tales of life with the Crows, she's picked up on the threads of not wanting to think about it, and recognizes them because of Shianni) and his one love wrapped into a tight, infuriating little package...
She shakes her head, pushing it aside for another time. "I don't care," she says, finally. "I trust you."
"You should not."
Fynnea shrugs. "I don't care," she repeats. He stares and then, faintly, tries on his old smile. She smiles back and waves over a round of drinks. They'll deal with details later.
4
AN: For anybody wondering, Fynnea:
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Pairing: F!Tabris/Zevran
Chapter Rating: M/NC-17
Series Rating: M/NC-17
Wordcount: 7569
Warnings: BDSM (bondage, spanking)
Summary: Orzammar is claustrophobic. Fynnea trusts Zevran, even when she shouldn't. (ff.net & Ao3)
Notes: The world and all characters except for the specifics of Fynnea's characterization are the property of Bioware. ♥ Oh, and Penny Arcade came up with the name Barkspawn.
Chapters: 1 Interlude 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Epilogue
Fynnea can't honestly say whether she's grateful to be back in Orzammar or not.
Aeducan Thaig lies behind them now, Lady Dace's father dutifully rescued, and while Orzammar smells far less of darkspawn and deepstalker, it is static and heavy and uncomfortable. She's retreated into the halls of Bhelen's palace; it's easier to pretend that she's just in a building that way. Out on the streets, she feels the oppressive crush of the stone above far more than she did down in the Deep Roads. The Deep Roads are meant to be unnerving and frightening; Orzammar is not. And so, Orzammar is.
She had expected Zevran to wander off on a 'fact-finding mission' to Tapster's Tavern, but he's followed her around the palace. When she asks what he wants, he responds,
"Fact finding. You said you wished to know more about this Prince Bhelen, yes? Come." He beckons and she follows, ignoring the urge to ask why he's here, with her, when there are women and men and drink about. She settles for feeling honored, and hopes that he isn't here out of a sense of obligation.
He leads her down into the depths of the palace, chattering about everything and nothing. She's horrible at small talk, but somehow keeps up enough to let him carry on. The guards ignore them, which, as he beckons her into a small room off a side hallway, she realizes is likely intentional. He shuts the door behind him.
Zevran hums thoughtfully. "Who do you think we should pluck from the hallways, my Warden? A guard would be dangerous, but possibly high return. A serving girl easier, but much trickier to pressure. If the guard lashes out, we can kill him and paint him as a Harrowmont supporter. A serving girl might be harder."
Fynnea stares blankly a moment, then shifts uneasily. "I have no clue."
"But if we are to play at politics, you must!"
"I don't want to play at politics," she grumbles. "I want to barrel my way through them and shove Bhelen on the throne and get it over with. Seems easier."
"Perhaps. But curiosity, ah, it must be satisfied, or it begins to gnaw terribly... yes?" He winks and she flushes at the memory of her need to know about his tattoos. "So. We shall question."
"We can't just... listen? To what people say? I mean, the people in the streets-"
"Are the people in the streets. The ones who say bad things are those who are against him- but if we can make those loyal to him speak, ah, then we shall find truths. Or, at least as close to truths as politics ever gets. So, who shall we take, my Warden?"
Fynnea growls, rubbing at her temples with a blood splattered gauntlet. "If I make this decision," she says, slowly, thinking, "can I ask a favor of you in return?" A thought has been teasing at the back of her brain since Haven, maybe before.
He chuckles. "This is already a favor for you, but yes. You may ask of me anything."
"Right. Well, then." She purses her lips and closes her eyes. It's several minutes of arduous planning and conjecture before she finally answers, "Find a serving girl. I'll be gentle."
"As you wish." He smiles and bows slightly, then slips from the room. She leans against the wall to wait.
He returns after perhaps ten minutes, and she can hear his laughter and that of a young woman's approaching down the hall. It sets her teeth on edge before she can quash that feeling of jealousy. She doesn't mind his flirting with the rest of the team, ignores it because it's none of her business (and because he doesn't flirt with her the same way as he flirts with them, and it feels special), but his laughter sounds so sweet and genuine.
She reminds herself that this is a job, and she has no right to be jealous or angry when she told him to do this.
The door opens and he ushers the girl inside with a leer and a grin, shutting the door just before the dwarven woman's eyes lock onto Fynnea's slight form, clad in dark armor covered in dried blood.
The woman pales, and turns to leave, but Zevran leans against the door and shakes his head, that smile still there. She screams, but Fynnea has anticipated it (she knows how fearsome she looks, has seen Alistair falter in battle from the look of fury on her face) and clamps her gauntleted hand over the dwarf's mouth.
"Shhh," Zevran hushes, holding a finger up to his lips. "We only wish to talk, have no fear. A few words exchanged, and then we'll set you free, yes? So please, calm. Quiet."
And somehow, this manages to silence their captive. Fynnea withdraws only after a few tens of heartbeats pass without struggle.
Zevran has the girl's gaze locked into his. "Mirya, have you worked here long, my dear?" His voice is still amiable, gentle, as if he truly cares. He's a skilled actor.
"Three years," she manages, soft and quiet.
"So, you have known Prince Bhelen a long time then, yes?"
Mirya shifts, digging her toe against the stone floor. Fynnea leans against the far wall, watching the two of them, arms crossed over her chest. "Know is a strong word-"
"You have seen him, then. And you have heard things?" He shakes his head slightly as she recoils. "No, no. I am no spy sent by Bhelen to test the loyalty of his servants. Nothing you say leaves this room. Correct, Warden?"
Fynnea grunts, then nods. Sure.
Zevran looks away from the woman, fingers toying with the metal rounds on his belt. Mirya is still hesitating, and Fynnea watches as he carefully withdraws the small stiletto he keeps on his belt and begins to twirl it, as if it were a plaything.
Mirya goes stiff, and Fynnea sighs. "Oh, Andraste's blood-" Maker damn him, he's grinning at the curse- "you're getting us nowhere." She can't put up with this dance of his, and Mirya is clearly wondering now if she will leave this room. This is a mess, and Fynnea roughly grabs hold of Mirya's shoulder. The girl squeaks as the elf spins her around, glares down at her. "We're not going to kill you, we're not going to tell on you, and the faster you tell us about your employer, the faster we get out of your life. Got it?" The words are growled harsh and low, and Mirya lets out a soft sob.
"Stop crying!" Fynnea can't handle this, and wishes suddenly that she'd called for a guard, instead. It'd be so much easier to shake her, to throw her to the ground, to grind the answers out of her with the heel of her boot. But instead, she just holds the serving girl's shoulders hard.
And Zevran is just standing there.
Fynnea's blood roars in her ears, but soon it quiets enough that she can hear Mirya babbling, spilling out half-remembered conversations and late night unplanned scenes, falling over herself to tell Fynnea everything, anything, to get her to let go.
When she runs herself dry, Fynnea releases her, muttering under her breath and turning away.
She can hear Zevran hushing the crying Mirya. His voice is soft and gentle, and he's apologizing, perhaps drawing her to his chest, certainly doting upon her. He vilifies himself for drawing his stiletto, explains it as an old habit and a mistake, and Mirya seems to believe him, the stark contrast between Fynnea and Zevran working to make Mirya quiet and listen to him.
He teases out a last few details from her, then sends her on her way.
"Well, our Prince Bhelen, for all of his ability to do, is quite the bastard, yes? Just like being home in Antiva!" He grins at her.
"You planned that, didn't you," Fynnea mutters after a long, silent stretch between them.
"It was a distinct possibility, yes. It had occurred to me."
"And if I hadn't lost my temper?"
"I would have held my blade to her throat and slid the words from her that way. It would have been harder, though. And she would have been more likely to tell. As it is, I believe she will remain silent. She fears you and has been soothed by me. A good play, I think." His grin remains a moment more before he shakes his head. "I am sorry, my Warden, if that bothered you."
"It would have been more satisfying to interrogate a guard. At least then I could have punched him."
"This is true," he concedes, then beckons her with a nod of his head to follow him back into the hall. She does, and he falls into step at her right and slightly behind her.
They pass by guards who seem oblivious, and once they draw near their quarters, Fynnea sighs in relief.
Zevran, who has once again been bantering about the weather and how sad it is that there is none in Orzammar, smoothly transitions into a, "Do you need a way to work out that frustration, my Warden?"
"An Antivan massage?" she scoffs, and he laughs, the sound relaxing some of the tightened muscles in her shoulders.
"I believe you did ask a favor of me?"
It borders on incomprehensible to her that Zevran might have been turned on by her anger at Myria, but his eyes are boring into her and he's standing closer than he needs to, closer even than he usually stands. "Yes," she says, mind piecing her old thoughts back together. As she turns over the idea, it changes form just enough and becomes what she needs it to be. "I want you," she begins, slow and nervous but with building excitement, "to tie me up."
He stares at her a moment. She's unsure if he's surprised or displeased, even when he murmurs, "Oh?"
"Er. Y-yes."
Maker damn her, but her resolve and confidence always falls apart in front of him.
"That is. If you'd like that. I just- was thinking back to that one time, on the road to Denerim, when you mentioned tying up in various contexts- and I was wondering if I might enjoy it, and it seems like a good way to- to work out my frustration, because I can pull against the rope instead of pushing against you and-"
"My Warden," he interjects, a hand coming to rest on her waist, "perhaps we should talk about this inside."
There's a guard doing his best not to actively stare at them, and Fynnea laughs, weakly. "Right."
"So," she says uncertainly once he's retrieved a coil of rope and they've settled in her room, armor off and set aside to be cleaned and polished later.
"So," he agrees, lounging against the wall by the door. "What exactly do you want of me, my Warden?" His eyes scan over her appreciatively, linger on the suggestion of her curves beneath the loose tunic she wears beneath her armor. "What wicked things shall I do to you?"
"I- I hadn't thought much beyond the rope."
"Naked or clothed?"
"Uh?"
Zevran chuckles, softly. "I can tie you up and not have my way with you, you know. Some people simply enjoy being dominated, without sex coming into it at all. You must tell me what you want, or I will have to guess."
"Oh. I- that makes sense, I guess. But I meant- I meant naked, with sex involved. And rope."
He nods, gesturing for more.
"And, uh. I don't- know what else- I've never done this before, or even really heard anybody but you even mention it." She trails off helplessly, skin flushed and heart pounding.
"Well," he purrs, thoughtful and calm, "I can do quite a lot of things. I can tease you and refuse to let you crest. I can make you crawl on your hands and knees and beg. I can punish you for being a naughty little Warden, yes? But first, there is one thing I require of you."
That last suggestion has sent her mind straight down between her legs, but she manages a small, "Yes?"
"If you need to stop-"
"I tell you, I know."
"You tell me with a code word," he finishes. At her confused look, he shrugs. "Who am I to know if you like pretending that I am a dasterdly knave having my way with you while you shout, 'No! Stop! Anything but this, this violation of my delicate flowering maidenhood!'" Fynnea snorts, and he grins back at her. "So, a code word, that means that I will stop immediately."
"Do I really need that? I mean- I can just yell at you to stop, you know. Or kick you."
"Things can become quite intense, my Warden, when one is bound and drawn taut. And I, as you know, am all for intensity."
Fynnea swallows hard, then nods. "Er. Right. Well, then. Would Weisshaupt work?"
"Indeed, my very naughty Warden," he laughs, and she can't help the little whine that works its way out of her throat. "Shall I punish you? You did lose your temper today, after all..."
"You want to punish me for that?" A flash of irritation floods her, then fades as he shrugs.
"I can. I can also punish you for stealing my kills down in the Thaig. I can punish you for, hm, not wrangling enough nugs before we left. I can punish you for many things, none of which have much true substance." There's a strained note to his voice when he adds, softly, "It's no fun if the punishment is real."
"No, I guess not." She runs a hand through her hair, then nods, decisive. "Well, then, I guess I have been... naughty. Jumping into things without knowing what I'm getting into."
"As long as you don't mind where you've landed." He smiles and beckons her close. She answers his call.
A foot away, she frowns and asks, "Why are you being this gentle?"
"Gentle?" His smile doesn't move. "It is just proper form. Besides, it's in the interest of self preservation to make this pleasurable - is that what you wish to hear?"
It is, but there's something he's not saying, something that goes back to his attentiveness after Haven, and she's determined to push again. That's what she does - push and fight until something breaks. "Zevran."
"Hmm." He shrugs, leaning back against the wall again, looking up at the carved ceiling. "Quite a deal of it is that, but you are also fascinating, Fynnea. You get the blood pumping, no? Is it a crime that I'm interested in preserving the current state of affairs?"
"... No," she concedes, and her mind lingers on fascinating because it feels good. He legitimately likes her, after a fashion. At night, in the dark, sometimes she's afraid that Barkspawn is the only person who does, and so to hear otherwise soothes something inside of her. It eases that fear of obligation on his part.
"Well, then! Weisshaupt it is, my Warden." And his easy, lascivious grin is back as he pushes away from the wall and reaches out to grip her arm and tug her against him. "How shall I punish you, hm?"
"Up to you."
"That is... not entirely safe."
"Okay, well- nothing with blades. Does that work?"
"And something that has the potential to feel good?" he suggests, and she nods in return, flush returned. He hums thoughtfully. "I think I know what you need, then. Strip for me."
Fynnea obliges, stepping away just enough to tug her tunic up over her head, then shimmy out of her loose trousers and smalls. It's the first time that she's bared herself in good lighting, and his eyes linger appreciatively over the curves and hollows revealed by the torches on the walls. He doesn't reach out to touch her, though, instead murmuring, "Over to the wall, then, to where that shield hook is. Face the stonework."
Fynnea makes a small, eager noise as she pads on cold feet over to the hook. He follows after watching the retreat of her lovely hips and muscled thighs, picking up the rope on the way. He takes her in his arms from behind, sliding fingers over taut, flushed skin from her belly, then up along her chest and arms, until he finds her wrists. Those same fingers make quick work of binding her arms, from mid-forearm to palms in tight, almost decorative loops, and of tying her onto the hook above her head. The restraints make her lean forward against the wall, resting her arms and forehead against it to hold her up.
Zevran takes a step back and hums appreciatively. "A wonderful sight," he purrs.
There's silence, but for her shaky breathing and pounding heart, until she hears the distinct, familiar sound of a sword unsheathed.
"Zevran-" she hisses, immediately jerking away from him and trying to free herself from the hook, straining to look back at him. Her teeth are gritted and her heart pounds with betrayal- until she sees the surprised look on his face.
"My apologies." He looks sheepish as he holds up the wooden leather-covered sheath. "This was all I needed."
And he walks away from her and sets down the sword (his) on the other side of the room, before returning with his hands spread out. He has nothing that she can see aside from the sheath.
But he could still be planning on killing her. He has knives. He has that stiletto, she remembers suddenly, blood running cold.
"I don't-"
"Shhh," he murmurs, coming close enough to trace paths along and between her shoulder blades. He kisses her skin, then rests his cheek against it. Listens to her heart. "I'm not going to kill you, Fynnea," he breathes, stroking her side. The sound of her names on his lips makes her shudder. "I give you my word. We have a blood oath, yes? I will not go back on such a thing."
"Have you-" She gulps down air, shaking against him. "Have you ever- killed somebody? Like this?" He uses sex to get close, it's a talent of his, and oh Maker I should have been more careful, Alistair will laugh when he hears of this, I-
"No," he says, softly. "No matter how easy it would make my job, I have never killed anybody before or during the fun moments. A last stolen moment of pleasure, and then- then, I do my job. Then, people die. But not you, my Warden. I promise you.
"And at any rate, it would be terribly cowardly of me to kill you with your arms bound," he adds with a small shrug.
"It would be terribly pragmatic."
"I am not always so pragmatic - that would be you, my Warden." He smiles against her skin, then leans up to kiss her cheek, her ear. "I give you my word, you will only suffer minor stings at my hands. I am yours and vastly prefer it to being the Crows', yes? Why would I want to lose this? And with a great evil still to defeat! No, I would not cut your story short for all the gold and whores in Antiva."
He's just saying that slinks through her mind, but she doesn't care, not with how her throat tightens and she has to look down at the floor to keep her composure to stop herself from- she's not going to swoon but she certainly feels the need to sag into his arms.
"Are we good, then? Or shall we set out tonight for Weisshaupt?"
The foreign name slides over her, and she tosses it aside, shakes her head. "No, I think staying in Orzammar is- just fine."
Zevran relaxes; she can feel the coils of his muscles easing before he steps away and considers her. "Then, if you will just spread your legs a little to steady yourself?"
"What are you going to do? With- that sheathe?" she asks as she resettles herself, then gasps as she feels the metal tip of it brush cold against her folds.
"Naughty things," he replies with a grin. "Terrible, wonderful naughty things."
Another slide of metal and leather against her trembling body, and she squirms, fingers clenching against the rope.
Then the sheath is gone, and her knees tremble. She waits. She hears him move behind her, thankful that he's letting her know where he is. She's cold, shivering, exposed entirely, and it's almost too much when the first blow comes.
The stiff sheath slaps gently across her ass on the first blow, then more firmly the second. It stings and she yelps, trying to retreat from him and into the wall, but by the third, still harder blow there's a thrum of pleasure mixed in, unexpected and almost unwelcome. The fourth feels like the exhilaration of battle, the fifth like power and strength. The sixth is almost unbearable as she feels her Reaver blood pound in her head and her belly, feels the throb of her skin against the unyielding leather. She cries out, the sound closer to pleasure than pain, and Zevran chuckles.
"I thought you might enjoy this," he murmurs, and the low, dark tones of the words make her moan, twitch in place. He's using the sheath again to part her, and she can feel its leather grow slippery with each touch. She bucks against it and he laughs, chiding, "Naughty, naughty Warden," before he pulls it away and strikes her again.
Pain in battle makes her glory in the bloodshed.
Pain in sex makes her needy and wanton and begging.
He stops after the tenth blow, a jerky, almost too painful strike. He's panting and doesn't touch her for a long moment before sliding the edge of the sheath against her one last time. Then he lets it clatter to the floor. His hands are on her, his lips, and she strains back against her bonds to try and touch every part of him. He's still in his leathers, the metal reinforcements cold and wonderful against her flushed skin. "All panting and ready for Zevran?" he murmurs against her shoulder, then nips with teeth along her collarbone. She whimpers his name, thrusts back against him, and he chuckles. "Are you sure?"
"Please-"
His fingers are working her, idly, and she's glad her face is pressed to the stone and her arms are held up tightly, because she thinks she might fall to her knees otherwise.
"I am not sure you've been good enough, my Warden," he muses against her skin, even as she shakes and moans in his arms. "And there was that time you left me tied to that tent pole all night-"
"You- deserved it-"
He chuckles, nipping at her earlobe, following the long point of her ear with his tongue. She whimpers, body clenching around his fingers.
"But it was so very cruel of you- you left me wanting, my Warden. Perhaps I shall do the same to you?"
"T-that was- over a month ago-"
"Two," he corrects. "But ah, I have a good memory! And practice at patient waiting, yes?"
She shivers and tenses, and he pauses, murmurs softly, "I'm not waiting to kill you, my Warden," and she relaxes in his arms, the sudden thrill of fear dissipating in the wake of his fingers still tracing lazy circles inside of her.
"Two months ago," she murmurs, helplessly, and he hums.
"Perhaps you are right. And you did assist wonderfully with that serving girl. And the way you fought today- you must need the satisfaction of completion, hm?"
"Please don't leave me like this," Fynnea begs, beyond caring how the words sound, how dependent she is on him for release.
"Very well, but only because you beg so prettily, dear Warden."
His fingers slip from her and she whimpers, eyes squeezed tightly closed, waiting for a playful kiss and his withdrawal, but he's good on his word and is quickly buried inside of her, deep and hot, and she groans his name, pushing back against his hips to fit him in deeper. He obliges, pressing at her hips to tilt them just so as he murmurs her name. He begins to move with the same slow, long thrusts he always uses, until she arches and hisses, "Faster-" She's needy and raw and her blood surging through her veins, eager for an outlet, demands more than slow heaviness.
He growls appreciatively and indulges her, thrusts turning steadily into slamming blows that drive her hard against her arms, perched on the wall, the only thing keeping her steady. The hook groans, taking her weight when she nearly falls, one of his hands cupping her breast, the slide of his teeth electric across the skin of her back. He's drawing loud, frantic sounds from her, sounds that are hopefully muffled by the thick stone all around them, but it's not long before she's lost in a burning, surging sea where it doesn't matter, all that matters is him and his intensity and the strain of ropes on her arms and the pain of her abused ass and her bruised elbows.
She screams when she comes, and her seizing up tight around him is the only reason she doesn't fall away, boneless and spent, before he follows her with a low groan of My Warden.
Long moments stretch out between them, and when her knees finally begin to buckle, he wraps one arm around her and begins to carefully, gently untie her. His fingers rub at her arms as he draws her back against him, working warmth back into her hands. He dotes on her the rest of the night, telling stories and giving kisses. By the time she drifts off to sleep, she feels more satisfied than she can ever remember being.
And this, just over a week later, is the most horrified she can ever remember being.
"Oh, Maker," Fynnea breathes, eyes wide and stomach rebelling. "What- what is that?"
"Broodmother," Wynne replies.
Days in the Deep Roads haven't prepared her for this. Days of cutting down darkspawn after darkspawn, of dealing with men driven mad by the taint and old demons cut asunder, days without light or fresh air or good, sound sleep have left her raw and hardened and still unprepared for this. This grey expanse of mottled, putrid flesh, the obscene fall of heavy breasts that leak some sort of fluid that smells like rot and fear, the writhing of tentacles that can't quite reach them. Hespith's rhymes hadn't prepared her for this. She'd barely listened to the words, but they come flooding back now, flesh and vomit and violation, and she nearly drops to her knees in horror and disgust.
"Nasty things, eh?" Alistair's trying to keep humor alive, but it falls flat.
Zevran's attempt doesn't fair much better. "Now there's a woman who knows her assets," is barely audible, and he shakes his head, taking a deep breath. He manages a smile in her direction, though, which helps her pull herself out of her paralyzing disgust.
Since that night in Bhelen's palace, he's seemed almost skittish around her. Attentive, as always, and still always by her side, but he doesn't tease her quite as often or with as much wicked glee. She hasn't had time to push him on the subject, though. Bhelen had demanded the death of a cartel leader, and she'd obliged. And then, the Deep Roads had called, and they answered, fighting through Caridin's Cross and Ortan Thaig and the long expanse of the Dead Trenches. Humor has all but died down here, and she can barely remember a time when she preferred this thick, claustrophobic crush to the comparative gentleness of Orzammar and its clean hallways. Hallways that did not pulse with flesh.
"There's no way to get around it? Or to, I don't know, cave the ceiling in on its head?"
"Dwarven tunnels are remarkably stable," Wynne sighs, leaning on her staff. "And even if there were a way around... we cannot let it live. We must put the creature out of its misery, and stop it from creating more of its kind."
"She's right. Warden's duty."
"Ugh." Fynnea takes a deep breath, then another, swallowing air and willing it to force away the bile that's threatening to slide up her throat. "Right, then. Wynne, stay on the bits of the floor that are still stone and set the room on fire. Alistair and I will close with it. Zevran- er. Do whatever it is that you do."
She still doesn't have a clear idea of how he functions in battle when he's not fighting at her side; he disappears until his blade is sticking out of somebody's chest, and then he's gone again. Alistair, of course, thinks this is all a very dangerous arrangement. He thinks that about everything these days.
Zevran melts into the shadows with a low bow, and Fynnea squares her shoulders. "Well, let's do this. Whoever strikes the final blow wins a prize, yeah?" And then she's off, running headlong through the forest of tentacles erupting from below, dodging and dancing and slicing when she can, making straight for her target even as the world is engulfed in flames.
The magical inferno slides off her skin, coating her sword without heating her armor or burning her. All around her tentacles thrash and contract and wither from the heat, and the screams of the broodmother are filling the echoing cavern, obliterating all other sound. Fynnea finally reaches the mass of writhing flesh and strikes, opening up one of the pendulous breasts and spilling green, slimy tissue onto the ground beneath.
Alistair is there only a few seconds later, slamming into the broodmother's gut with all his strength and drawing another howl from its throat. It grabs at him and he rolls out of the way, struggling to stay nimble in his heavy armor. Fynnea slams her pommel against her pauldron, drawing its attention for the moment Alistair needs to regain his balance.
She can't hear or see Zevran, and fear begins to creep up her spine that he's left, that he's judged this one too dangerous, but then there's the now familiar screech of an injured hurlock right behind her and a flash of leather and bronze skin.
"Oh great," Alistair grunts in a short reprieve, the broodmother shaking under electric assault, "she's called her kids."
From that moment forward, the battle becomes a long, painful blur. She's shouting orders at the top of her lungs, trying to be heard over the screeches of darkspawn and the crash of spells and swords. She's knocked down more times than she can count, thrown by tentacles, pierced by arrows. Shrieks claw at her and find purchase in her chainmail, and she loses blood fast. She can remember shouting, "Is all of this blood mine? I think it is-" before Wynne's healing soothes the worst of it, but before the final blow is struck, a mass of rotting, writhing flesh connects hard with her head and sends her flying into oblivion, her last thought I'm going to be one of them.
She comes to supported against Zevran's chest, the battle won, Alistair and Wynne looking on worriedly as the assassin eases a poultice into a long gash on her arm, fingers wormed through the metal of her armor. "Ah!," he says with a grin, "my prize has awoken!"
And that, even though she's in agony and the cavern reeks of darkspawn and rot and she's still shaking from the lingering terror of Broodmother, makes her smile.
"I need to know how you fight."
"Are you challenging me to a Proving?"
They're back in Orzammar, finally, Bhelen crowned and Harrowmont executed. After several days and many, many baths, Fynnea thinks that the stench of darkspawn has finally been washed away. Now they're sitting on one of the low walls in the Commons, Fynnea staring at him and Zevran gazing over the edge at the lava flowing below.
"No. Just a sparring match. I don't want an audience."
"It will be hard to avoid one, down here. Not many empty spaces, hm?"
"There's that spot by the Diamond Quarter entrance. By the nug guy?"
Zevran hums thoughtfully, glancing over to her. "Why?"
Fynnea shrugs. "Leader thing. I should know how best to utilize you."
"Ahhh, embarrassed at saying 'do whatever it is you do', my Warden? It's a sign of a good leader, you realize, to give her followers some autonomy."
"Yeah, but I still need to know when to bring you along."
"You should always bring me along, to compliment your eyes and fluster your enemies. No? And to make sure you can utilize me however you see fit."
She laughs. "Yeah, I probably always will. Still. I mean, we fight with the same weapons... but we fight differently, right? I just don't understand how, really. So, come on. Unless you're scared?"
"No, not scared." He runs a hand through his hair, looking back out at the lava, and she thinks she catches a hint of nervousness in his expression. But he steadies himself and pushes away from the low wall, out back into the plaza, with a brilliant smile. "Come, then!"
Alistair looks up from the stall he's poking around in. "What are you two planning?" he asks, warily, eyes darting between them.
"Just a friendly sparring match," Fynnea sings, gliding past, excited for the first time in what seems like weeks instead of tired or scared or determined.
Zevran is by her side and Alistair- is following them. "I'm keeping an eye on you, Zevran."
"Oh! So you have finally admitted to yourself my beauty? Your dark attraction to me? I am flattered!"
Alistair fights through his flush. "No."
"Well, with time, with time."
Fynnea rolls her eyes and then her shoulders as they approach the nug rancher. She leans in and presses a sovereign into his hand as they pass, murmuring, "We're going to practice a bit back here; promise we won't damage anything." He nods, letting them pass, albeit with an odd look.
Alistair sets himself leaning against the wall at the opening back out onto the streets. "Maybe we should get Wynne. In case things get a bit out of hand?"
"Shouldn't be necessary," Fynnea shrugs. Zevran quirks a brow, but nods and draws his blades. She follows suit.
"Try not to draw blood, you two?"
"Of course, my Princeling!" Zevran responds with a deep bow. Alistair sighs.
Fynnea settles herself, adjusting her grip and watching the Antivan. "I just want to see your sword skills, okay?"
He inclines his head, tossing his dagger up in an arc and then catching it. And then he's moving, fast, giving up a forceful strike towards her center to cut below her. She stumbles back, cursing, and he laughs at her when he comes to a stop. She resettles herself, and beckons.
From that moment on, it's a fast, dangerous dance of metal, punctuated by ragged, panting gaps where they regain their stances and composure before moving in again. She's fast, but he's faster, and when she goes for hard blows, he goes for ones that slide past defenses, even if they strike weakly. He uses his sword to deflect and his dagger to stab, while she tries to rend and tear between her blades, balancing defense and offense across the both of them. She relies more on her armor, he on his speed.
He can tumble and leap and dodge more easily than parry, and she can barely keep up, but her unrelenting force is wearing him down even as her breath comes fast and hard from chasing him around the small space. They begin to fight dirty, kicks knocking them back, elbows in guts and to faces, feet stomping on feet. He laughs at her and she sees red, lunging. He dances out of the way. She catches his side with a fist, the blade dangerously close to connecting, too, and he falls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Some of this, she already understands. She knows he dances and plays and tires his enemies out until he can slip in for a clean, artful kill. But she hasn't understood until this moment how he does it, how he enrages her and draws her into over-extensions that, even if she can defend them, drain her. It's not like Alistair's taunts on the battlefield, it's more subtle than that. It's a look, a grin, a pause in the action where he doesn't even seem winded. She understands now why he wears leathers despite engaging in close combat. It lets him bend away, tumble easily. She's not wearing Alistair's heavy plate, but she's still unable to keep up with him or to take her falls as gracefully.
She manages to drive an elbow into his stomach hard enough to knock him back, but before she can bring her blade to his throat and call victory, he rolls away, catches her ankle with his foot, and drop her to the floor. It's her turn to roll and scramble, nowhere near as graceful or efficient as he is, and he has her on the run, prodding and teasing, his dagger blade skittering across her breastplate once, coming too close to comfort. His smile has faded, and his eyes look far away. She's far away, too, but she notices it, feels her stomach drop. This is how he looked the first time they met on the battlefield, the last time their blades locked.
He parries and she falls forward, and then he's dashing beneath her and surging up, throwing her head over heels. She lands hard and he spins with the throw, following her down, expression intense and dark.
The tip of his sword slams into the ground not two inches from her head.
"Fuck-" she gasps, and Alistair is on them, throwing Zevran to the side and standing over her, sword drawn. Zevran coughs, pulls himself up slowly, and stares at Fynnea. Fynnea stares back, heart pounding, too scared to process or to think. Alistair is shaking. She can hear the metal rattling.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't run you through, Zevran," he growls.
Zevran's sword drops from his hand, clatters to the ground. His dagger follows. He's still staring at Fynnea, and she sees anger and fear and confusion. And then- "I can't."
"Alistair-" she cuts in.
"He just tried to kill you," Alistair hisses, not sparing her a glance. "Don't defend him."
Fynnea pushes herself up, finds her feet shakily. Zevran is staring now at the scratch his blade made in the stone. "W-we just got caught up. It was a mistake. Right, Zevran?"
Zevran says nothing.
Alistair rounds on her, glaring. "Just because he's a fucking marvel in bed-"
"It was a mistake."
She looks over to Zevran, needing support and apology, and instead-
Finds him gone.
Alistair has confiscated her weapons and armor, thinking it will keep her sitting placidly in her room. He also thinks standing outside the door will keep her inside. He's angry and scared and is convinced that Zevran will return to finish the job, but all she can think about was the fear and confusion in his eyes. She needs to find him. She needs to figure out what the hell just happened and why he hadn't simply laughed it off.
She's very, very glad that the night before he had pointed out the secret passage connected to the bathing area of the room she's been given. Dressed in the only plain clothes she owns, the dress she wore to her wedding, she slips into the passageway, through the halls of the palace, and out into the streets of Orzammar.
She wanders the Diamond Quarter and finds nothing. No sign of him. Nobody has seen the blonde elf, and she curses and moves onto the Commons, sticking to shadows, hallucinating the sound of armor behind her. It's Alistair she's afraid of, now. Afraid that he'll lock her up again and she'll lose the man who seems, sometimes, like her only friend in the world, the only one who knows her.
The nug rancher says that he saw Zevran take off towards the west side of the Commons. She gives him another sovereign without thought and runs in that direction. The guards saw him, too, and point her to Tapster's. He was moving slowly, they say. Not trying to hide. The nobles were just ignoring him, it seems.
She finds him where they point her to, sitting in the back of the tavern, by himself, cradling a mug of strong-smelling ale. It's been hours since Alistair dragged her back to the palace, and from the look of him, Zevran's been drinking the whole time. He doesn't look up at her when she draws close.
"Come to kill me, yes?" He laughs, but it's a sad, low sound.
She shakes her head and slides into the booth with him, sitting across the table. "No."
"Alistair behind you, then?"
"No."
Slowly, he looks up at her. "I almost killed you."
"But you didn't, and you could have," she points out. "So I don't think you planned it. Am I right?" She's shaking a little, with the memory of a blade coming down at her, but his fear then and his despondency now is outweighing the terror. He didn't mean it, she repeats to herself.
He looks back down at his mug, then takes a large swallow of it, grimacing. "This... muddy water is disgusting. Nothing like a good Antivan beverage," he mutters to himself, sliding lower in his seat.
"Zevran," she pushes, reaching out to touch his hand. He jerks away. "You looked scared, Zevran- what's going on? Because I know you didn't mean to do it, because if you had, I'd be dead. So what- what went wrong?"
He finishes the mug and pushes it aside, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenches his teeth. She waits, unwilling to look away.
"You shouldn't be out without armor," he says at last. "Harrowmont's supporters."
"I don't care."
"You should." He frowns, then sighs. He stares at his hands. "... I thought- for a moment, I thought you were one of my superiors. In the Crows."
It's her turn to frown. "Oh?"
"And I wanted so badly to make you suffer. Sad, yes? Here I am, hallucinating without anything fun in me, and now I shall die for it."
"You're not going to die."
"Ah, if you don't kill me, you will still leave me. And the Crows will find me."
She grabs his hand, ignoring how he tugs and pulls, trying to escape. They never touch unless it's to play, and they keep their play separate from the long days and nights of hunting. Touching him now is strange, powerful. He stills after a moment.
"I am not leaving you. You're going to clean up and come with us when we strike out for Redcliffe tomorrow."
"My Warden, your companions will not let me live."
"Yeah? Even if I threaten anybody who lays a finger on you?"
"Why would you do that?" He finally looks up at her, lips a thin line, brow furrowed.
"Because-" She sighs, a strangled, pained noise. "Because none of the others actually know me. You do. I can't stop this Blight if I'm only accompanied by people who want me to calm down. Besides, you didn't mean it, even if you won't say it, and-"
"You do not need me."
"OH FOR THE LOVE OF ANDRASTE, SHUT UP." Fynnea trembles, glaring, fingers crushingly tight around his. He stares over at her, mouth falling open. "Stop with your stupid death wishes! First you take that job against me, now you sit around getting drunk, waiting for me or Alistair to come and take your head off? You are coming with me. Things will go back to normal. If you try to kill me again, I'll just stop you. But I don't think you will."
"And when I have you tied up and at my mercy for games, what will stop me from hurting you?" he asks, softly. "The night we returned from Aeducan Thaig- I almost hurt you then, too. It almost turned into anger instead of fun. I stopped myself."
She remembers how shaky and harsh the last blow had been, how he'd been so quiet for a moment, how he'd doted so much on her afterwards. She swallows. But this all doesn't seem real, doesn't make sense. "... But why? Why do you want-"
"Because sometimes, all you are is the person who holds my leash, Fynnea." The words are whispered so softly she can barely make them out, and the color drains from her face. "And then I try to hurt you, and suddenly, you are Rinna, too, at my mercy, and I-" He shakes his head, pulling away from her suddenly soft grip. "I am a dangerous man, my Warden, especially when it concerns you."
She tries to piece it all together, tries to understand what he's saying. It's hard. It's confusing, and she can't imagine being anything but what she is, but to be both his tormentors (because despite his amusing tales of life with the Crows, she's picked up on the threads of not wanting to think about it, and recognizes them because of Shianni) and his one love wrapped into a tight, infuriating little package...
She shakes her head, pushing it aside for another time. "I don't care," she says, finally. "I trust you."
"You should not."
Fynnea shrugs. "I don't care," she repeats. He stares and then, faintly, tries on his old smile. She smiles back and waves over a round of drinks. They'll deal with details later.
AN: For anybody wondering, Fynnea:
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Date: 2011-01-23 05:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-23 05:53 am (UTC)