Jun. 23rd, 2010 01:56 am
dalishstorm: (Zevran)
Original prompt: Unbelievably horny sex-deprived Zevran is tempted in Antiva during Awakenings; but he's faithful and wanks to m!Surana instead.

It had been surprising at first, to find allies in the Crows. Zevran had expected to be alone against the nation, his work grim and dirty—and that it was, lonely and hard work, but eased by the help. None of them knew how to be comrades, really, but they'd grown a strange sort of loyalty to each other, as men and women who are thrown together in desperation do.

This one was barely an adult, a young Crow whose Master had been Zevran's first target. The younger elf had followed him, thankful, looking for guidance and sympathy. Zevran refused to offer the latter, but the former—when the Crow had spilled his story, of being sold to the Crows after his loving parents were taken by plague and he was caught stealing--Zevran took him on as his first ally.

The Master had clearly used him for his youthful appearance, kept him hungry to keep him small, and had very specific tastes. The blacking washed out of his hair had revealed it to be a rather striking shade of red, very familiar, and his eyes were the wrong color, but it was close, so very close--

Zevran endured, and as they acquired more allies the younger Crow filled out and looked less a boy and more a man. But the younger Crow made no secret of his attraction, his desire for their “Master” (because that was what they became, the four of them, a Crow Cell with Zevran as Master). It finally came to a head after a painstaking month of information gathering as they stood in the Guild Leader's office, her still-warm body slumped across the desk, hand wrapped around a dagger in her aborted attempt at self-defense. Zevran's appearance had been too sudden, his strike too swift, and her allies already dead.

In giddy elation the younger Crow kissed him, and then they were against a wall, blood-slicked and sweat-soaked from what had amounted to butchers' work, each keeping a weapon in hand just in case, the other roaming free to touch and explore. For Zevran, more than anything it was that hair, how slender the other elf still was, and for a moment he could pretend it was his Warden, his dear mage. Nibbling his way up the younger Crow's ear to the delicate tip he could pretend, even if it wasn't quite the right shape, just a little too stunted—at least, until the younger Crow laughed. “I would never have pegged you for a soft touch.”

Zevran shoved him hard against the wall, and left him there confused and wanting.

Zevran almost didn't bother cleaning up that night. Things were more or less done, and for the first time since the drawn out bloodbath had begun he felt purposeless, unmoored, adrift—there seemed little point. Tomorrow he would decide what to do with the Crows, now that he was....

He opted for a luxurious bath to wash away the blood, rather than facing those thoughts in the dark. The Guild Leader's country villa was at least well appointed, and the servants understood who they worked for—slaves, Zevran surmised but he simply couldn't bring himself to care about their state amidst his own—so they scraped and bowed to the elf who was clearly their new master, at least for the time being. And they fled, terrified, to give him his peace.

The kill had been too clean to be satisfying beyond a smug assessment of his own skills, and now that he had slaked his blood lust on the Crows, what now? Once disrobed and in the bath he dunked his head before working at the blood in his hair, scrubbing and scratching so vigorously that his scalp began to tingle, and it mirrored the sudden violence of his thoughts. This made him leader, of a sorts. That meant responsibility. And change. He could mold the Crows to his own liking.

He worked quickly, and the blood dissipated, so the water was still quite warm when he finished, and with a sigh Zevran relaxed, letting the heat soak into his tense muscles. Leaning back, he closed his eyes.

The younger Crow was waiting for him there in the darkness behind his eyelids, pressed against the wall, writhing beneath him, warm mouth yielding to him, and that red hair twined in his fingers. But it wasn't the Crow, not really, but the Warden, and instead of that outburst laughing good naturedly and sighing contentedly when Zevran's lips found his ear.

That ache of earlier returned, and Zevran indulged, running a hand down slowly, teasingly, before taking himself in hand. If he went back, would the Warden welcome him? He had left with no warning, no explanation, and couldn't be certain the one letter he'd sent had arrived safely. A weakness, that—it could've been intercepted by Crows, and they might even had sent a detachment out to finish the contract on the Warden just to strike a blow at Zevran himself. Not that the Warden would be in danger from any Crow, but those around him could be, his new Grey Wardens and his Arling.

No, surely the Warden would welcome him back eagerly. He could imagine it now, the Warden's shocked expression shifting quickly to elation, rushing to embrace him—for the his little mage wasn't at all afraid of such displays—burying his face in Zevran's shoulder, maybe hiding a tear or two there while Zevran whispered his apologies and his promises to stay this time, reminded the Warden just what he meant to Zevran. That was what they had wanted after all, wasn't it? A new start, away from both the Circle and the Crows? They could have it now, perhaps trapped in Amaranthine, but different, together.

And that night, or perhaps sooner, with the road dust washed away, they would tumble into bed together, both eager to reacquaint themselves with each other's bodies—Zevran groaned, truly hard now at the thought of the Warden being too eager for any sweetness in that moment of physical reunion, to the idea of the Warden riding him instead, that tight heat around him, head tossed back and lips parted in a voiceless moan, pale body jerking to meet every thrust and needy cock bobbing with the motion.

Reaffirming his own grip, Zevran imagined reaching out for the Warden's neglected hardness, and began working his own as if it were the Warden's, and in this fantasy he imagined the Warden shifting his hips to improve Zevran's aim, finally voicing that moan in soft pants, sweat gleaming on his skin and a single bead, long in forming, finally rolling down the lines of his stomach. Maker, but the Warden was amazing, especially like this. These moments of abandon, when it may as well just be the two of them in existence, and this thrusting motion building momentum rolling on to a shattering climax--

In this fantasy, the Warden came beautifully, spending himself across Zevran's hand and stomach, clenching tight around him, driving himself all the way down, and the combination of sensations and sights was simply too much for Zevran, finishing himself in the Warden—finishing himself off in the cooling bath, those last vestiges of warmth in the water just enough to help with the illusion of being buried in the Warden.

And that settled it: back to Ferelden.


dalishstorm: (Default)

January 2013

27282930 31  


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 23rd, 2017 12:58 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios