[Fic] Final Test
Title: Final Test
Summary: There was just one final obstcle he had to pass. Then he could be an Antivan
Warning: Sexual content with someone not of age, violence
A/N: This is what happens to you when you play 40 hours of Dragon Age in two weeks. For me at least >>
There’s no need for him to be nervous. After all, he has been training for over seven years for this moment. He knows what herbs can kill a man in less than a minute, knows the exact force, the exact angle to apply on the neck to break it, he knows how to hide in the shadows and not be noticed, he knows how to secret a veritable arsenal about his person, he knows the cant of his hips, the arch of his neck that could distract and please even the most iron-willed man or woman.
He is an Antivan Crow, by the Maker.
In all but name, because there’s that one test left. One final obstacle he must pass.
He’s already nude, on the bed, he’s already prepared himself, body slick and open, and he thinks of the poniard under the pillow, and the garrote hiding next to it, and he leans back against the pillows, thighs slightly spread, his amber gaze downcast.
The door clicks open, and Zevran lets his eyes flick up for just a moment, before sliding down again. Older man, definitely a warrior, though he is unarmed. The broad shoulders and upright bearing tell him that much, and the calloused hands without of the reek of soot or smoke cinch it as they cup around his cheek, dwarfing him, a rough thumb dragging along the delicate line of his jaw.
A simple, head-on assassination is out of the question. The man is a noble, and usually has at least a couple guards following him, and so even if Zevran manages to slip past them, and quietly kill their master, he will have to deal with them after, too. Not to mention that if his target finds Zevran out before hand, he will likely best him in combat. A simple plan like that has too many variables, leaves too much to chance.
However, it turns out that this target has his own little vice, his own weakness. Evidently he enjoys visiting brothels for the slender boys they offer, no doubt trying to hide the want from his lady wife, and he always goes to these establishments without his guard.
It is a perfect cover for Zevran and he knows he looks the part, knows that he can play the part.
His damned stomach flutters again, but his body moves, and he leans into that rough hand, eyes still downcast, until he feels those blunt fingers slip up under his chin and tilt up.
He has green eyes.
The gaze isn’t kind, isn’t cruel, but it’s there, this man is looking at him, seeing him, acknowledging him. And so Zevran leans in, breaking the gaze, nuzzling at the thick throat, nipping playfully, clambering into his lap, and telling himself that the shiver that runs down his spine is done purposefully, for effect.
He feels, rather than hears, the man sigh, but he doesn’t think about it, and the man must not either, because those hands are dragging over his body, petting over Zevran’s tanned skin, carding through his pale hair, and a just a little grind down confirms the hardness between the man’s legs.
The hands pause, then grip over Zevran’s narrow hips, flipping him over, as if he weighed nothing more than a doll, pressing his head down, while dragging his backside up. Those big fingers wander between his cheeks, and there’s a rumble of pleasure from him as he finds Zevran already slick and loosened.
There’s a pause, and Zevran waits, his own breathing partially elevated, nerves, and a fine thread of arousal through him as well. It’s not as though the man is unpleasing to look at and somehow the danger is doing strange things to his body. He remembers to wiggle back as a whore would, arching back, and he knows how he looks, the sweet, tempting curve of his back, his golden skin turning damp with sweat, the way he’s laid open before the man.
He can hear the man pulling off his clothes and Zevran can’t help a bit of a pleased smirk when the man curses, fingers fumbling at his lacings, distracted and clumsy from his arousal. But he manages it, and soon there’s that blunt, thick heat pushing at him, pushing into him.
The man is thick, and he isn’t gentle, and Zevran arches and moans as he should, pushing back into that invading cock, lithe form trembling and rocking beneath the warrior’s bulk. His eyes flutter close as those big hands travel over his body, petting incessantly at his skin, pulling at his hair.
The yelp he lets out as the man shifts to lean over him, to get his mouth on Zevran’s shoulders is only half feigned, and then there’s warm breath on the nape of his neck, and bite lines along his shoulder, and another man’s name crooned into his ear (Aldren, Aldren, Aldren ) as the warrior speeds up.
He takes a moment, glancing back. The body bared before him is heavily muscled, and scarred, chest dusted with dark hair that thickens towards the line leading to his groin. He’s, well, he’s quite attractive by Zevran’s standards, the scent of him thick and masculine, heady. Zevran buries his head deep into the sheets, and moans on cue as he feels the man swell inside him, feels that familiar warm wetness deep inside him.
His heart is hammering in his chest now, and how can that man not hear it? But all he does is drag a hand along Zevran’s flank, patting his hip, and then flops down beside Zevran, pulling the young man down to his side as well, continuing to stroke along his side, panting quietly.
Zevran doesn’t stiffen, he doesn’t react, as the man nuzzles along his neck, and presses a kiss on one of the bite marks he left behind. He has to act now while the man is still hazy from his release, it’s his chance, it’s the reason he’s done all of this. All the preparation, all the training, all of it. It’s his moment.
He is an Antivan Crow.
His hand moves so fast even he can barely see it, going under the pillow, closing around the hilt of the blade. In a lithe, twisting move, he’s flipping over to straddle the man, the blade flashing down.
But there’s a moment of hesitation there, and he sees those eyes. Eyes that are green, and for a moment Zevran wonders who that man was, who Aldren was, and then a strong forearm coming up to block the blow, and all Zevran can manage to do is score a deep wound along the inside of it.
Maker’s blood!
But there’s no time to berate himself, because now there’s a very strong, very furious warrior after his blood. The poniard is wrested from his hand, but Zevran squirms back, reaching under the pillow, managing to grab hold of the wire hidden there. He’s not quick enough to avoid the hand the second time ‘round though, and it clenches tight in his hair, and the man is dragging him back, a snarl on his face, Zevran’s own dagger in his hand, the blade flashing towards him.
Zevran twists, ignoring the screaming pain in his scalp, and the knife barely skitters across his ribs. The cut is flashy, bleeds profusely, but isn’t life threatening. Thank the Maker he hadn’t poisoned this one. Ruthlessly, he twists again, and slams one fist right into the man’s kidney, and then his knee into his groin.
Those hands loosen, and Zevran is on him in a moment, winding the wire around his hands, and pulling it over the warrior’s neck with a furious, hysterical strength. The man struggles, frantically, and Zevran just pulls harder, bracing his knee at the small of his back, feeling the slow resistance of flesh against wire.
There’s a bloody gurgle and the man is still. Zevran keeps pulling for several moments, until he feels the give of the windpipe collapsing and he lets up. He peels the wire from his own palms, wincing slightly. It had nearly cut down to bone.
The turns the man over, and forces himself to look. This is what he is. This is was he does. He pulls the wire from the deep, bloody gash that is the man’s throat, and winds it up. He stares down for a moment, and then reaches out. He’s completely nude, except for an earring that Zevran missed from before, just a simple tiny loop of gold. Zevran reaches for it, because...well, because he needs a reminder, something.
His hands are shaking (they shouldn’t be shaking, damn it all) and he smears blood over the jewelry, deft hands slipping on the back, and finally, he just ends up tearing the earlobe, the earring coming with it. Zevran stares stupidly down at the little bit of gold glinting in his bloody palm.
His hands still haven’t stopped shaking but he’s sure that will leave with time.
~*~
“I want you to have this.” The little earring hasn’t lost any of its shine, remaining tucked away, safe in Zevran’s pouch, along side his herbs, poisons. His Warden looks up, surprised, and Zevran just grins, holding it out.
“From my first job. Man was wearing this. Only this, actually.” And Zevran lets his grin widen like he’s supposed to, like he’s expected to. “Please, take it.” The memory starts to bubble up, and Zevran just blinks it away, pushing it down, back to the past back to where it belonged.
Summary: There was just one final obstcle he had to pass. Then he could be an Antivan
Warning: Sexual content with someone not of age, violence
A/N: This is what happens to you when you play 40 hours of Dragon Age in two weeks. For me at least >>
There’s no need for him to be nervous. After all, he has been training for over seven years for this moment. He knows what herbs can kill a man in less than a minute, knows the exact force, the exact angle to apply on the neck to break it, he knows how to hide in the shadows and not be noticed, he knows how to secret a veritable arsenal about his person, he knows the cant of his hips, the arch of his neck that could distract and please even the most iron-willed man or woman.
He is an Antivan Crow, by the Maker.
In all but name, because there’s that one test left. One final obstacle he must pass.
He’s already nude, on the bed, he’s already prepared himself, body slick and open, and he thinks of the poniard under the pillow, and the garrote hiding next to it, and he leans back against the pillows, thighs slightly spread, his amber gaze downcast.
The door clicks open, and Zevran lets his eyes flick up for just a moment, before sliding down again. Older man, definitely a warrior, though he is unarmed. The broad shoulders and upright bearing tell him that much, and the calloused hands without of the reek of soot or smoke cinch it as they cup around his cheek, dwarfing him, a rough thumb dragging along the delicate line of his jaw.
A simple, head-on assassination is out of the question. The man is a noble, and usually has at least a couple guards following him, and so even if Zevran manages to slip past them, and quietly kill their master, he will have to deal with them after, too. Not to mention that if his target finds Zevran out before hand, he will likely best him in combat. A simple plan like that has too many variables, leaves too much to chance.
However, it turns out that this target has his own little vice, his own weakness. Evidently he enjoys visiting brothels for the slender boys they offer, no doubt trying to hide the want from his lady wife, and he always goes to these establishments without his guard.
It is a perfect cover for Zevran and he knows he looks the part, knows that he can play the part.
His damned stomach flutters again, but his body moves, and he leans into that rough hand, eyes still downcast, until he feels those blunt fingers slip up under his chin and tilt up.
He has green eyes.
The gaze isn’t kind, isn’t cruel, but it’s there, this man is looking at him, seeing him, acknowledging him. And so Zevran leans in, breaking the gaze, nuzzling at the thick throat, nipping playfully, clambering into his lap, and telling himself that the shiver that runs down his spine is done purposefully, for effect.
He feels, rather than hears, the man sigh, but he doesn’t think about it, and the man must not either, because those hands are dragging over his body, petting over Zevran’s tanned skin, carding through his pale hair, and a just a little grind down confirms the hardness between the man’s legs.
The hands pause, then grip over Zevran’s narrow hips, flipping him over, as if he weighed nothing more than a doll, pressing his head down, while dragging his backside up. Those big fingers wander between his cheeks, and there’s a rumble of pleasure from him as he finds Zevran already slick and loosened.
There’s a pause, and Zevran waits, his own breathing partially elevated, nerves, and a fine thread of arousal through him as well. It’s not as though the man is unpleasing to look at and somehow the danger is doing strange things to his body. He remembers to wiggle back as a whore would, arching back, and he knows how he looks, the sweet, tempting curve of his back, his golden skin turning damp with sweat, the way he’s laid open before the man.
He can hear the man pulling off his clothes and Zevran can’t help a bit of a pleased smirk when the man curses, fingers fumbling at his lacings, distracted and clumsy from his arousal. But he manages it, and soon there’s that blunt, thick heat pushing at him, pushing into him.
The man is thick, and he isn’t gentle, and Zevran arches and moans as he should, pushing back into that invading cock, lithe form trembling and rocking beneath the warrior’s bulk. His eyes flutter close as those big hands travel over his body, petting incessantly at his skin, pulling at his hair.
The yelp he lets out as the man shifts to lean over him, to get his mouth on Zevran’s shoulders is only half feigned, and then there’s warm breath on the nape of his neck, and bite lines along his shoulder, and another man’s name crooned into his ear (Aldren, Aldren, Aldren ) as the warrior speeds up.
He takes a moment, glancing back. The body bared before him is heavily muscled, and scarred, chest dusted with dark hair that thickens towards the line leading to his groin. He’s, well, he’s quite attractive by Zevran’s standards, the scent of him thick and masculine, heady. Zevran buries his head deep into the sheets, and moans on cue as he feels the man swell inside him, feels that familiar warm wetness deep inside him.
His heart is hammering in his chest now, and how can that man not hear it? But all he does is drag a hand along Zevran’s flank, patting his hip, and then flops down beside Zevran, pulling the young man down to his side as well, continuing to stroke along his side, panting quietly.
Zevran doesn’t stiffen, he doesn’t react, as the man nuzzles along his neck, and presses a kiss on one of the bite marks he left behind. He has to act now while the man is still hazy from his release, it’s his chance, it’s the reason he’s done all of this. All the preparation, all the training, all of it. It’s his moment.
He is an Antivan Crow.
His hand moves so fast even he can barely see it, going under the pillow, closing around the hilt of the blade. In a lithe, twisting move, he’s flipping over to straddle the man, the blade flashing down.
But there’s a moment of hesitation there, and he sees those eyes. Eyes that are green, and for a moment Zevran wonders who that man was, who Aldren was, and then a strong forearm coming up to block the blow, and all Zevran can manage to do is score a deep wound along the inside of it.
Maker’s blood!
But there’s no time to berate himself, because now there’s a very strong, very furious warrior after his blood. The poniard is wrested from his hand, but Zevran squirms back, reaching under the pillow, managing to grab hold of the wire hidden there. He’s not quick enough to avoid the hand the second time ‘round though, and it clenches tight in his hair, and the man is dragging him back, a snarl on his face, Zevran’s own dagger in his hand, the blade flashing towards him.
Zevran twists, ignoring the screaming pain in his scalp, and the knife barely skitters across his ribs. The cut is flashy, bleeds profusely, but isn’t life threatening. Thank the Maker he hadn’t poisoned this one. Ruthlessly, he twists again, and slams one fist right into the man’s kidney, and then his knee into his groin.
Those hands loosen, and Zevran is on him in a moment, winding the wire around his hands, and pulling it over the warrior’s neck with a furious, hysterical strength. The man struggles, frantically, and Zevran just pulls harder, bracing his knee at the small of his back, feeling the slow resistance of flesh against wire.
There’s a bloody gurgle and the man is still. Zevran keeps pulling for several moments, until he feels the give of the windpipe collapsing and he lets up. He peels the wire from his own palms, wincing slightly. It had nearly cut down to bone.
The turns the man over, and forces himself to look. This is what he is. This is was he does. He pulls the wire from the deep, bloody gash that is the man’s throat, and winds it up. He stares down for a moment, and then reaches out. He’s completely nude, except for an earring that Zevran missed from before, just a simple tiny loop of gold. Zevran reaches for it, because...well, because he needs a reminder, something.
His hands are shaking (they shouldn’t be shaking, damn it all) and he smears blood over the jewelry, deft hands slipping on the back, and finally, he just ends up tearing the earlobe, the earring coming with it. Zevran stares stupidly down at the little bit of gold glinting in his bloody palm.
His hands still haven’t stopped shaking but he’s sure that will leave with time.
~*~
“I want you to have this.” The little earring hasn’t lost any of its shine, remaining tucked away, safe in Zevran’s pouch, along side his herbs, poisons. His Warden looks up, surprised, and Zevran just grins, holding it out.
“From my first job. Man was wearing this. Only this, actually.” And Zevran lets his grin widen like he’s supposed to, like he’s expected to. “Please, take it.” The memory starts to bubble up, and Zevran just blinks it away, pushing it down, back to the past back to where it belonged.