Title: I Am Not Yours
Characters: Zevran/Fem!City-Elf PC (Kallian Tabris); references to Alistair/PC (and Alistair/Morrigan)
Word Count: ~3100
Rating: M (NSFW)
Summary: The Warden accepts Morrigan's deal, and seeks out Zevran in the night.
Spoilers: Through end game, kind of. I guess.
Author's Note: This is not smut, but it IS the closest thing to smut that I have ever written. And I wrote it at work. *head desk* What have you done to me Dragon Age!? Also, this contains angst. Both the PC's and Zev's. :-( Lastly, still no beta. One day, I swear. Originally posted over at "Zevran" on LJ.
I Am Not Yours
The heavy fall of his footsteps echoes down the hallway. She tries so hard not to listen as those steps turn the corner, and stop, hesitating a moment before one solitary knock reverberates off of Morrigan's door and through her own pounding heart.
Her ears strain against her will, to hear Morrigan's admittance of Alistair, but to no avail. As the door closes, sealing the two away for the night, Kallian releases a heavy breath, willing the blood racing through her veins to slow, slow, slow.
Growing up in the Alienage, Kallian learned how to be hard, how to make the decisions that others wouldn't. She learned that there was nothing in this world that would ever be simply handed to her, that there was nothing worth having that she wouldn't have to fight someone for, if not immediately, then eventually. That was why she had learned, at such a young age, that it was always better to convince, to persuade, people into doing what you want. Other methods always required…slightly more clean up.
Since that fateful day, the day of her aborted wedding, when one vile Shem walked into her life and destroyed so many, many things; and another swooped in, and stole her away from the consequences of her actions, she had honed those manipulative abilities into a fine art.
So really, it was no surprise that she could talk Alistair into doing anything that she wished. He had been declared King, because she deemed it so. He would marry Anora, because she deemed it so. He acquiesced to her wants when she refused to let him end their relationship over something as trivial as marriage to another woman; because she deemed it so. And now, now he was entering into a pact with a demon in witch's robes, because she deemed it so.
A mere year ago, before the blight, and the Joining, and the Arl's rapist son, she would have thrilled in the heady feeling of power such results inevitably caused. She'd feel no lingering doubts or guilt over her actions, because they were necessary. But now, now with the man – the future King – that she had fallen in love with, bedding another woman for reasons that were sketchy at best, she could not help but feel hollow.
She felt her feet push off from the floor, her legs carrying her down the long hallways of Redcliff, twisting, until breathless she stood before a door; her hands grasping at the walls on either side; her forehead pressing against the cool, rough wood. Her breath coming in quick, shaky gasps.
Several heartbeats later, the door pulls open, revealing a slightly rumpled Zevran on the other side. Another heartbeat and her dark eyes snap to his.
"Well, I must say, this is a surprise. When I heard heavy breathing at my door, I envisioned all manners of people, or beasts, standing in wait on the other side. Some more delicious then the others, but I confess, I did not expect to see you, my dear. Shouldn't you be bedded down with your Prince by now?"
"Don't -" Here, her normally well-maintained resolve cracks, and her voice comes out in a harsh croak. "Don't bring him up. Not now." Zevran's mouth opens in retort, but a raised hand on her part gives him pause. "Please?"
His mouth closes, pulling into a frown, but he nods all the same. Stepping back from the door, he gestures to the room with a grand flourish, "Please, come in then, my Grey Warden, these castles are so drafty, and you appear…chilled." The challenge in his eyes is clear, but she does not hesitate for even a moment before her feet carry her over the threshold; the door closing with a resounding thud behind her.
"So, then…to what do I owe this pleasure? Not that I am complaining, mind you. A beautiful woman appearing disheveled and flushed at my door after the witching hour is always a welcome event." Though her back is to him, and he stands several paces behind her, she can feel the heat from his body radiating towards her, and the pulse of his voice in her ears sends a shiver up her spine. There are so many things that she could say, but that shiver makes the decision for her.
With some effort, she turns towards him, plastering a sidelong smile onto her face – the one she knows from years of experience can win her all manners of things – and does her best to appear as if she is not being tied into knots on the inside. She lifts her chin, and meets his steady gaze, "As you said, the castle is quite cool, and it would appear that my current accommodations are lacking in necessary…materials, to keep me warm."
One eyebrow arches at that, as the assassin takes a step towards her, "Oh? Do you require an additional blanket, perhaps?"
She wills herself not to snap at him, she is frustrated, and angry, and he is deliberately baiting her. So as coy as she can manage, she responds, "I was thinking of something a little more hands on."
"In that case, should we send for someone to stoke the fire? A chambermaid, perhaps?" His grin at this is that odd combination of sweet and lecherous that only Zevran seems able to manage. She finds herself smiling back at him then, some of the weight pressing down on her beginning to lift. His next words bring that same weight crashing back onto her full force, and she is worse for its momentary absence. "Or should we locate our wayward Prince? I'm certain that this is a situation Alistair would dearly like to rectify himself."
She sucks in a sharp breath, the scent of leather and smoke filling her nostrils and lungs, and has to blink her eyes quickly to keep them from watering. Her voice wavers slightly, but does not break, "Perhaps, but Alistair is…not available at the moment. I had thought – well, I had thought that you might be inclined to offer your…assistance. " She focuses all of her concentration on the lilt of her vice at the end, aiming for seductive, but knowing that her efforts are shoddy at best. She hopes that he will have the decency (and isn't that thought just laughable) to not call her out on it.
"Mmm, which explains why you are here, but not his whereabouts; and while I remember quite vividly exactly what it is you are offering, I must admit that I do not relish the thought of waking up with a sword at my throat. That is a situation that has repeated itself oft enough in my life for me to be able to say that I do not care for it with quite a good amount of certainty." Without her realizing it, Zevran has closed the distance between the two of them, leaving only a few scant inches between their bodies. The warmth and scent of him setting all of her nerves alight. It has been months since the one night she spent with him and Isabela aboard the Pirate Captain's ship, but it seems her body has not forgotten his.
And it is that memory – or rather, the memory of having to face Alistair the following morning and lie – more then anything else, that sends her scrambling, moving in an undignified backpedal towards the door. (And just when did he get her to spin around?) Was it not just an hour ago that she had revealed what had happened that night aboard the ship? Told, as matter-of-fact as possible, to help convince Alistair that laying with Morrigan was the right course of action? To help convince him that love and sex need not go hand-in-hand. Had he not asked her, in that broken sounding voice, if she still wanted Zevran? If that was why she was sending him off? And she had denied it. Of course she had denied it; because she didn't want Zevran, no. She wanted Alistair. Only Alistair. Unfortunately, Alistair was not an option at the moment, and Maker's breath, just what was she doing here?! A half-hearted excuse whispers past her lips, and she can feel the blood draining from her face as she turns from the other elf and heads for the door.
No sooner has she reached the heavy paneled exit then he has her pinned against it, her back to his front. All heat and tension, radiating off of him in waves, and she can actually feel the anger vibrating through his chest and into his voice. "Leaving already? Hmm? And here I thought we were just ironing out the details of our little arrangement." His voice is a purr in her ear, and despite herself, she feels cords of need tightening around her body.
She allows her heavy eyelids to close, and inhales a shaky breath. She may not want him, but at this moment, she can not deny that she needs him. It is a heavy, awful feeling, and she knows that she is entirely responsible for its existence. An image of Morrigan's long, sleek limbs as they wrap around Alistair's golden ones dances behind her eyes; and the sound of Anora's haughty laugh echoes in her mind. She bites her lip, tasting the cooper of her blood, and Maker help her, but she is going to go through with this. She will do anything to relieve this open, empty feeling swallowing her up whole.
She presses her body back into him, and is rewarded with a slight hiss in her ear. A hiss which quickly devolves to a deep-throated chuckle as he pushes his body into hers, his long, thin fingers, pressing harshly into the skin of her wrists as he holds her against the door. Hot breath skates across the junction of her neck and shoulder, and she can not suppress the full-bodied shudder that racks her at the sensation. Soft lips press to the sensitive skin behind her ear, teeth leaving nibbling bites down the column of her neck, "Do you realize how many times I lied awake, listening to the sounds of you and he? Waiting for the moment when your breath would catch – just so? Can you envision just what I would do at the moment when you would break around him?" His voice is like steel and velvet, as one hand traces a path down her side, and wraps around her stomach, pushing the tunic that she wears up ever-so-slightly so that those nimble fingers may stroke her hip unhindered. Her back arches at the contact. "My my, but you are a sensitive little thing tonight. More so then I recall. I wonder just what could have happened to make you so?" This statement is laced with humor, but also a bitterness that surprises her.
She turns in his arms then, twisting her wrist out of his grasp, and meets his steely gaze. And oh, but he is angry with her. His emotions, normally so well masked, are clear in his gaze. Her voice is steadier then she had thought possible, "Let me be very clear, Zevran. If you wish to remain in complete control of all your faculties, you will not mention him again, is that understood? This is between you and I, and has nothing to do with him."
"Well now, I highly doubt that." She arches a brow at him, and brings her hands up to his chest, making a motion to push him away, and his own respond by digging in none-too-gently into her hips, "But, no matter. Your terms are agreeable. I accept."
She opens her mouth to voice a response, what, she has no idea. But she is silenced by the searing heat of his kiss. It sends shockwaves through her, as his tongue battles with hers in a familiar dance. His taste is not entirely as she remembers it, but it is familiar enough, and she finds herself drowning in the sensation. Warmth, and life, and fire.
Her fingers, previously pressed against his chest, scramble at his shirt for purchase, as his own delve downwards and upwards, one settling into the curve of her ass, and the other finding the loose bun at her neck, and tug, tug, tugging it until the long dark hair tumbles around her shoulders.
She feels a dull pain at the back of her head, where he is gripping her hair, and pulling her closer into him; the kiss, deepening still, if such a thing were possible. Her own hands circle around his neck, and pull at his shoulders, in a futile attempt to crawl up his body – for he is not allowing that.
Dimly, she registers how much closer she is to him in size, then to Alistair. How Zevran's arms and body do not dwarf her own; and how much less safe that makes her feel. In the next moment, he withdrawals from her mouth, leaving a trail, of wet, biting kisses down her neck, and she firmly banishes all thoughts of Alistair from her mind.
Her hands are no longer idle, moving towards the front of his clothes again, and burrowing beneath his shirt, nails scraping down the hard lines of his abdomen. A husky growl rents the air, and with minimal effort her shirt is torn over her head (and she honestly has no idea who is responsible for that), and they are moving. Step after shuffling step, towards the bed.
By the time they have reached it, he is also shirtless, and the laces holding her trousers together have become undone. It is but the work of a moment for them to join their discarded brethren on the floor, his following quickly thereafter.
There is a level of rage building up inside of him, she can feel it with every brush of his hands, every dig of nails into her skin. But for the life of her, she can not bring herself to care; can not bring herself to stop. So she attempts to quell the beast with lingering, suckling kisses, and broad strokes of her palms against him. But, though her efforts seem to stroke the flames higher, they do nothing to quench the chill radiating off of him. He is with her, but also not. And she can not fault him for that, for she is the same.
When he slides inside of her, there is a momentary spark in his eyes that flashes so bright, she thinks she may be blinded by it. But then, as he finds his rhythm, those same eyes flitter shut, and he buries his head into her neck. A litany of words pours forth from her, unbidden. Begs and pleads, and demands; until she finds herself sliding, inevitably towards that end that she has been seeking. When it seems to finally be within reach, he slows, his momentum altering. He grasps a hold of her right ankle, tugging her leg higher up his hips, and then rocks them both backwards, until she is sitting in his lap, both of her legs anchored around him, and him feasting on the skin by her throat, and chest.
A high, keening noise escapes her, and she gasps as he bites down, hard, at her breast. She knows, with a sinking sensation that he is marking her, trying to brand this union into her flesh. They both know that she will never allow it to remain, that some elfroot will erase the evidence, but the fact that he does it anyway sends her spiraling out of control. She clenches around him with a silent cry, their gaze locking once more, the look in his is indecipherable. With a final, bare-soul kiss he spills within her; leveling her down, down, down onto the bed, shaking and weak-limbed.
It isn't until after he rolls off of her, and onto his side, sleep coming unwelcome to her, that she realizes he hasn't spoken a word since his mouth first met hers. The realization is alarming – she knows from before, that he is normally as loquacious in sex, as he is during every other moment of the day – but the fatigue in her bones does not allow her to dwell overly long.
When she awakes, the sun is just beginning to peek over the mountains, and Zevran's body is warm and welcoming against her own. Her heart heavy, she pulls from his embrace, and begins the harsh chore of dressing; trying to do so without disturbing him. During the night, while in the Fade, she was able to piece together all of the looks, and emotions that her self-centered mind had not been able to decipher before, and she knows now that sleeping with Zevran last night was as wrong to do to him, as it was to Alistair. They both deserve better then what she can give them.
She has nearly made it to the door when his voice breaks the silence in the room, "Slinking out into the dark of dawn does not become you, my dear Grey Warden."
Her eyes, empty and pained once again, meet his own, his expression falling ever so slightly as they meet, reading within them everything that she wishes she could do, say, be.
"I am not yours."
She is out the door, and down the hall before he can respond.
The siege of Denerim has begun, but for Zevran, the march there was nearly as unbearable as this final battle appears unwinnable. He has watched, as hour after hour, Kallian and Alistair move towards reconciliation. He still has no idea what happened between the two to bring her to his room that night, nor does she seemed inclined to fill in that gap of knowledge. Something had obviously been broken between her and the bastard Prince, but whatever it was, it is slowly repairing itself.
She has been...cordial to him, during this time. But there is a distance between them now that he is not certain he is willing to breach again. Oh, but he wants too. Of that he has no doubt. But he is wary all the same. He wants so much from her. Things that he knows she can not, or will not give. He fingers the small object in his pocket; that does not stop him from wanting them all the same.
Now, he watches as the two lovers sneak away from their army, embracing quietly from prying eyes; whispered promises of love passing between the two. It doesn't matter that either one, or both of them may die; or that, should they live, that Alistair will have to marry another. They have no concerns for these things, it seems, so long as they are together now.
Zevran's hand clenches around the object, a small insignificant thing, much the same as his heart.