Archive of Our Own

Not even Shianni’s Name Days were this bad, and they were just an excuse to get sloshed and lose your pants somewhere. They simply didn’t hold a candle to whatever this was – not even that one year when the vhenadahl had caught fire.

They had celebrated Trefolia in the alienage, certainly, but usually just within families, or by dragging a blanket out to the square and spending a quiet night under the stars with friends. You’d break onion bread, weave some clover wreaths, have a few bottles of nice wine (well, nicer than the gutter run-off they usually forced down), and you’d wake up a bit woozy, but with most of your teeth and brain cells intact.

It was fun.

This wasn’t fun.

Outside of the alienage, where there were shems and pubs and even stupider shems, Trefolia wasn’t an excuse to get drunk. It was a duty.

The Gnawed Gnoble - its ceiling decorated with haphazard festoons of green cloth, bushels of clover shoved into all the lampshades - was surely about to burst or drown, so full was it with people and alcohol. The main floor had bodies pressed against every inch of every wall, into every corner and every bit of space in between. It was, literally, easier to crawl through the crowd than to try and squeeze through, something which Tabris had learned firsthand when she’d made her last (and if she could manage, only) trip to the bathroom behind the bar.

It was impossible to see where, but there was a band somewhere amidst the chaos as well; natives of Tantervale if Tabris had heard correctly – the very birthplace of Trefolia. An impressive find, and one of the reasons why this hovel was creaking at the nails with occupants. The minstrels’ location was made all the more ambiguous by the way their melodies were being squashed and mutilated by the throng of drunkards writhing on top of their instruments. And forget spreading the chant, this singing alone would be enough to coax the Maker to return – if only so He could step on this idiot-riddled pub and piss on its remains.

She’d have never come here, if not for her “friends” (they had been reduced to the ranks of the parenthetical and would not be rising back up for a long time). If she’d had it her way, she’d have stuck a simple clover in her hair, dragged Zevran into her tent and celebrated Trefolia with him the same way they’d celebrated First Day… and Satinalia… and all those other special occasions when couples were expected to get frisky.

But then the Antivan git had mentioned going out. Worse than that, he’d mentioned it in front of people, infecting them with this horrible, sexless idea.

There had been no hope.

Upon expressing her objections, Alistair had pulled his sad I’ve-never-known-the-touch-of-a-woman face and Oghren had actually roared. It had really come down to Zevran though, whose weapon of persuasion was always the deadliest…

Ok, fine, he’d just looked at Tabris.

He hadn’t even done that smouldering thing. She was really just that weak.

The rest of her merry troupe had chosen the far more intelligent option to stay at camp, not that they’d have been able to fit in here anyway. Within moments of arriving, she’d lost sight of Alistair and Oghren, and two hours in, she hadn’t seen hide or hair of them – and Oghren had a lot of hair. If not for the way she’d clung to Zevran’s arm like a spooked kitten, he’d have likely been eaten by the maelstrom as well.

After much squeezing and cursing (well, the latter was mostly just Tabris), they’d managed to find a nook between the little round table that sat next to the hallway and the dividing wall that hid the booths from view. A series of tall ficus trees had been placed in front of the hall, blockading anyone from sneaking into the back rooms, the nearest one spilling its branches onto the table at Tabris’ hip.

Being boxed into a stinky little corner by a wall, a table, a ficus tree and a line of sweaty shem backs was hardly conducive to good times.

A hand grabbed her tapping foot and she yelped, realising a second later that it was only Zevran making his return. It was so loud in here though, and everyone was so drunk, that the sound would have just been one more raindrop in a downpour.

There was less than an arm’s length of space available in their hole, so she flattened against the wall as much as possible, hoping to create enough room in which Zevran could manoeuvre to his feet.

It was a tight fit, but he certainly took no issue, sliding up Tabris’ wired body far too languorously.

“Ah, and crawling through tavern filth just became utterly worth it,” he jested as he stood properly, his body trapping her to the wall.

A survivalist first, an unabashed diva second, Zevran rarely went anywhere without armor, determined to keep his chances of being killed or, Maker forbid, scarred to an absolute minimum. He’d shucked his leathers for this occasion though, and even if she could find nothing else of tonight to enjoy, at least she had this.

The dark breeches and boots he wore hugged just enough to hint at the artful musculature of his legs, the simple fencing shirt and deep emerald vest he’d also donned coming together to create a picture of rakish refinement. The material of this clothing was also far thinner than that of his cuirass, something Tabris appreciated when he was crushed against her like this.

Oh that she’d had enough to room to ogle properly.

His eyes skimmed over that of Tabris he could see, drawing a prickle of heat to her already-flushed skin. The Gnoble was suffocating enough (and she still on edge) without Zevran giving her those looks.

“Did you find anything?” she huffed, annoyed that this stupid, gorgeous elf had managed to drag her here. This was not even remotely better than rolling around on her tent floor.

“Indeed I did,” he shook the bottle of wine in his right hand, “Though I fear that you are a bad influence, my Warden. Stealing from a poor barkeep on sacred Trefolia, what will people think of me?”

At this proximity, she could feel and smell each of his breaths, the plum liqueur he’d favoured earlier mixing enticingly with the spice of his skin.

Stupid sexy elf.

“I think that you should hurry up and open the bloody bottle.”

Zevran chuckled, his eyes a molten gold, “I had hoped you might find your smile while I was away pillaging the good tapster’s stores. Alas, it was a vain hope, I see.”

“Alas, it was,” she grumbled and snatched the bottle of wine.

It took some effort, but Tabris managed to wedge the bottle into the handbreadth of space between their bodies, allowing her a better position in which to remove the cork. Getting a grip was difficult though, and instead of helping, Zevran merely watched her struggles with a cool smirk.

…Which, later, would have her wondering if he had somehow pre-empted what happened next.

The hold she had on the neck was too tenuous, so when she finally managed to yank the cork out, the bottle jerked spectacularly.

Wine sloshed all over Tabris’ chest, the thin cotton of her tunic soaking through instantly. The cream thread absorbed the stain with enthusiasm, and she was grateful that she’d opted to wear this and not the festive-green, silk shirtwaist Leliana had offered.

At least, she was probably grateful on some level. Right now, Tabris was mostly wet, sticky and fed up.

“Maker’s fat, old, hairy balls,” she fumed, whipping the bottle out of its elf sandwich and slamming it on the garbage-covered table to her right.

“Fear not,” Zevran appeared far too pleased, “There are but a few in attendance who are not drenched in alcohol.”

“You’re a real Bright-side Betty, now move please.”

The very idea of crawling through the masses again to get to the bathroom was nearly enough to cause tears, but if she had to be in this pub all night, then she sure as the Void didn’t want to spend that time coated in wine.

This was the worst Trefolia ever.

No, this was the worst evening ever, because she was supposed to be having sex instead. Not just sex, but my-lover-was-raised-by-whores sex.

Harder than was probably necessary, she pushed against Zevran, forcing him into the backs of the men behind but creating a bit of room to move.

Not that she got very far.

She had barely shifted away from the wall before a firm hand on her stomach pushed her right back.

Too surprised to be annoyed just yet (more annoyed), Tabris simply blinked at him. There was a glint in his eyes she knew well, and it made her throat dry up faster than a sponge in Seheron.

“What are you doing?” she asked warily, pushing against his hand to no avail. His palm moved in a languid, half circle, dragging the moist material of the tunic along and causing a bit more of her sense to fizzle.

“You need to relax, my dear,” he said, his voice deliciously low.

No, not delicious. She was annoyed, damn it.

Zevran looked down, openly drinking in the sight of her clinging, semi-transparent attire, the image made all the more lascivious due to her lack of breast band (unless fighting was involved, elven women just didn’t wear the horrid things).

An appreciative hum rumbled through his chest, which travelled right through into Tabris, and she wanted to slap her hormones for being so easily affected by this man.

“Zevran,” she tried to sound stern, but wavered, “Whatever you’re thinking, just stop.”

“I am thinking,” his gaze slid back to hold her eyes, “that above all things, I do not waste wine or opportunities. And you are covered in both.”

Before Tabris could muster a half-hearted retort, Zevran dipped and licked the length of her stained clavicle. A needle of pleasure zipped up her spine, making her toes curl inside her boots and dumbing the part of her brain that was still trying to have a tantrum.

“Wh-what ar–”

In a command for silence, the palm against her stomach became firmer, alcohol squelching out of the material with the pressure. It was a punch to her pride that she listened to the command, that she stopped yammering and gave in to her pathetic, pawing libido – even knowing that someone could toss a glance over their shoulder at any moment and see.

The point of his tongue slithered back down her collar bone to rest in the hollow, and this he sucked clean, tugging at her pulse point with each draw. A strangled whimper wheedled its way out before her mind could catch it, and she reddened instantly, cursing the way it made Zevran smile into her throat.

With a satisfied murmur, the bastard pulled up from his ministrations, and he was so smug.

The deep, sensual red of his bottom lip drew her attention, like a beacon in the fog of incredulity now returning; its effectiveness only magnified by the way his tongue swiped along the length.

She needed to stop right there. This was not appropriate and Zevran bloody well needed to behave; the middle of a scandal was not a place she wanted to be.

“I daresay you enjoyed that almost as much as I did,” he said, eyes flicking to her own lips, which she had unwittingly worried during his onslaught.

An agitated scan told her that no one in the immediate vicinity had seen this rather private – well, what should have been private – display

Shame prickled her cheeks, and she snapped, “I was just shocked.”

His eyebrow arched. “Oh? That is all?”

This close, Tabris could appreciate how large his pupils had become, now only ringed in gold.

“Yes.”

The scratch that was her voice was surely going to sell the lie.

His eyes hooded, the corners of his mouth tilting further upward. The defiance was pleasing him, and that made her nervous.

“Perhaps you need to try it my way then.”

The hand on her stomach fisted into the cloth of her tunic and twisted, wringing out some of the moisture. The action exposed a sliver of her damp skin, which tingled in the open air.

She shivered, having no idea what had gotten into them both. Her assassin was a notorious scoundrel, sure, but he’d never put her into such a compromising position before. And she was a good girl.

Really.

The material was left to drape once more, and she was going to demand an explanation, she truly was, but then Zevran began to palm a hard, leisurely trail up the centre of her body and all she could do was bite her cheek to stop from making another embarrassing noise.

The heel of his hand ground ever so slightly into her sternum, moulding the ruined shirt to Tabris more firmly and rolling over the secret nerves underneath. Gooseflesh splayed outward from where he touched, erupting over her chilled, wet breasts, and tightening her nipples to hard points. Oh Maker, he’d know it too.

A shudder ran right through to her teeth when he reached her throat, the wine that coated his hand smoothing his path. He rested just below one side of her jaw, the tips of his fingers teasing the sensitive area beneath her ear while his thumb slid up to rest on her bottom lip.

“Taste,” he said simply.

Somewhere amidst the cloud she’d somehow found herself, Tabris heard and processed the request - if that could have even be called a request.

“No,” she rasped, though her heavy eyes gave her away.

They were in a crowded bar, she had to remember that. Crowded. Bar.

He rubbed her lip tenderly. “Do this and I will stop my playing.”

CROWDED. BAR.

Cheeks flaming, the voice in her head tutting away, Tabris peeked past to see if anyone was faced in this direction, and then flicked her tongue against the pad of Zevran’s thumb. He smiled darkly, the vision sending a pulse to Tabris’ already-writhing core.

Ready to combust with self-disparagement, she drew his thumb in completely, the action causing the muscles in Zevran’s neck to flex.

She suckled in guilty contentment, eyes closing whilst she savoured the flavour of cherry wine and her lover’s skin. Though she could not see, she could hear the clamour of the pub around her, and all attempts to pretend that they were not in a very public place proved futile. The thought antagonised the thick, slinking warmth low in her body, but she tried not to focus on that, already feeling dirty enough without making things worse.

She was going to need a long bath in holy water.

A light vibration at the back of her head told her that Zevran had brought his free hand to brace against the wall, the small slip in his control not at all soothing that pit of pressure she was trying to ignore.

When the thumb was pulled from her mouth, having to scrape over her teeth when she found herself disconcertingly reluctant to let go, Tabris opened bleary eyes. Still cradling her jaw, Zevran bore down at her, a devious shadow in his stare.

Ooh, that look meant that she’d been good in a very, very bad way.

She blinked and swallowed, glad that her view of their surroundings was blocked, even if the roar of music and laughter continued to mock her scrambling denial.

“You are more wicked than you know, my darling,” he said, in a voice much huskier than it had been before.

The hand at her neck feathered downward, and Zevran leaned closer, his lips now brushing hers. The contact was cruel. She wanted to capture him, to feel and taste his wondrous mouth – but she didn’t want to provoke him.

At least, she didn’t think so.

There was excitement in his eyes, a determination that Tabris could not interpret. It made her heat thump, fear and intrigue in a dizzying tug-of-war.

“You said you’d stop,” she hated the squeak in her voice.

“I lied.”

Even through her piquing hormones, she was not impressed with that response.

“There are people everywhere, Zevran,” she even managed to glare.

The hand that had been teasing the skin of her neckline disappeared, and for a wonderful, tragic moment, Tabris thought that maybe her lover had abandoned whatever game he’d been planning.

“And as I said,” he tilted just the tiniest bit forward, so the movement of his lips became less a tickle, but a torturous drag, “I do not waste opportunities.”

There was no time to do anything more than widen her eyes in dismay. The bottle of wine was back, and hovering at a precarious angle above her chest.

Without preamble, it was slanted downward.

Tabris gasped and jerked when the wine splashed onto her skin and clothes, its tepid temperature not buffering the shock. The fumes coiled into her flaring nostrils, and Zevran appeared unfazed by the stain leaking into his own clothing.

He was enraptured, having pulled back to watch the flow, face turned to something sinister.

With a twist of his wrist, the stream was cut.

Tabris was panting in indignation; her tunic, which had previously dried enough to just be damp, was now dripping. It was plastered to every inch of her front, no-doubt dyeing the skin beneath.

“You have officially lost your mind,” she hissed, scanning the crowd, terrified that one of the men closest would smell the spill and investigate.

His laughter was deep and black, the sound making her insides squirm like someone had just run a nail up her spine. A faint clunk said that the bottle had returned to the table.

“Minds can sometimes be a burden,” he said, both hands moving to cradle her waist, “I will make you lose yours, amore.”

At those ominous words, one hand slid up and onto her breast.

The touch shocked through her, and she arched with a stilted exclamation. The weave of her tunic had thinned from the moisture, and so she was defenceless against the scratch of his calluses, her nipple puckering even further at the sudden and intense sensation.

Gratification poured from her lover, Tabris’ reaction exactly what he’d been seeking.

She grit her teeth and flattened against the wall once more, embarrassment scorching through her veins.

“Stop.”

He hummed thoughtfully, eyes skating over her face and to the swollen, peaked breast in his grasp. “No, I think I rather like this.”

He dragged his forefinger down the centre of the mound. It passed over her nipple, curving it downward and then releasing so that it flicked back to attention, a thrill zinging through her nerves at the stimulation. Tabris nearly didn’t stamp on her moan in time.

“Tsk tsk,” Zevran pushed his finger against the tip and moved it in a slow circle, and for a moment, she just wanted to punch propriety in the face and let this man do whatever he pleased, “It would be wise if you did not deny me your voice, tesoro.”

It was playful, but so clearly a threat that it made her blood fizz with unease and sinful anticipation.

Without waiting for objection or compliance, he dipped to her breast, and that first touch of his tongue, flat and firm at the underside of her flimsily-covered flesh, was enough to make her knees quiver. It smoothed upward, up and up at an agonizing pace until it found the stone-hard nipple, which was swiftly and wholly drawn into Zevran’s mouth.

Reality flared out of focus and this time Tabris bayed helplessly, for which she was rewarded a hard suck. The wine was coaxed out of the tunic as her bud was drawn deeper, and she could feel the flow of liquid, almost imagine it was being pulled straight from her own body.

Zevran moaned his approval – of Tabris’ reaction, of the alcohol leaking into his mouth, she didn’t know, but the vibration had her clawing at the wall in an attempt to find purchase. He gripped her other breast, the hold tight enough that flesh bunched between his fingers and little bubbles of moisture squeezed out from underneath.

Over the top of his head, Tabris had an unobstructed view of the horde of strangers, and she simply could not turn away, frozen in mingled horror and fascination; whilst those closest still had their backs turned, there were too many people to be certain that someone was not watching this vulgarity.

Zevran’s hand kneaded roughly while his lips and tongue continued to nurse wine from her other tit, and it all felt so much better than it should have.

Some corner of her mind registered a metallic, sliding sound, and if she’d been less dazed, she would have recognised that familiar ting and been appropriately frightened.

However, it wasn’t until the devastating moment when Zevran released both of her breasts and the stars in her vision dimmed, that she noticed the dagger in his hand.

Her cry turned into a muffled grunt when Zevran’s mouth collided with her own, his lips slick and full.

It nearly numbed Tabris’ fear.

But he had a dagger, and though she trusted him with her life… he had a blighted dagger.

She pushed his shoulders, but he would not yield. Realising her trepidation, he pried her lips open and plunged inside, filling her with the taste of wine and him and his years of expertise.

Either he was that good or she was that weak, but either way, she kissed him back. She did so with adolescent eagerness, throwing technique out the window. Her tongue was all over his, mad and slippery, and Zevran pushed harder, enough to bruise her lips, charmed by her desperation.

Between their torsos, in the few inches of space Zevran had made, he positioned the dagger, and some sense finally returned.

This was not good. Even with the lunacy that had abducted her brain, whatever this was, she surely couldn’t want it.

The sound of struggle she made was swallowed up by the kiss, and she could not attempt to break free without possibly impaling herself.

With the finesse of one who had clearly done so before, Zevran gathered the bottom half of her sodden tunic into a fist, slipped the dagger underneath and used the blade edge to slice downward from her collar.

Did he just… he did. He actually did.

Tabris raged against his mouth, very nearly biting his tongue. The material parted like water, and when the dagger reached the barrier of his hand, he let the shirt drop and continued until there was no longer a single thread binding the front of her clothing together.

The dagger was then removed from its dangerous location and thrust into the wall somewhere above Tabris’ furious little head, if the crack of wood was any indication.

No longer at risk of piercing an organ, she whipped away from the kiss and clutched together the halves of her ruined garment.

“What in the Void do you think you’re doing?” she breathed, blushing as dark as the wine, her eyes flitting around the boisterous crowd anxiously.

He grabbed her chin, none too gently, and forced her to hold his stare. The hunger there was almost unsettling in its intensity. She’d never seen him like this. He’d never been rough and he’d never ignored her objections.

“I am teaching you.”

She frowned and clasped her clothes hard enough to whiten her knuckles. “Teaching me what? How to hate you?”

Though the question wasn’t at all serious, it made Zevran’s jaw clench.

“I am teaching you, amore, how to be more than what you are.”

“And what am I?” she bit, disarmed by the unfamiliar edge in his tone.

He reached between them and yanked her hand away, allowing the tunic to slide apart once more. “Right now, you are an angry little child.”

The blood in her cheeks boiled.

“How dare you,” she spat, barely resisting the urge to slap him, “You clearly don’t know anything about me.”

She expected him to mock or bite back, to point out how blatantly she was lying, but what she did not expect was for him to respond by slipping a hand into her tunic and unabashedly cupping her breast.

The brazenness, the unforeseen stimulation of his hot, coarse hand, turned what was going to be a tirade into a pitiful choke.

“I know you better than you know yourself,” he said hoarsely, leaning close enough to her ear to bathe it in warmth. He scraped his thumbnail over her nipple, and her breath hitched, pain and sweetness pinging through her chest.

As she fought to regain her equilibrium, he added, “And I would ask you to never again suggest that you could hate me. I did not like it.”

In spite of the humiliation she was suffering, she found no joy in hearing the hurt and ire laced through the tone. It was unwelcomingly chastening.

Having released her chin, and taking advantage of this respite, he used both hands to sweep apart her clothing. The saturated fabric stuck to her skin, no risk of the halves falling back into place. Her chest and stomach were now bare to him, and it was his body alone which shielded the sight from any who might peer this way.

He ran his hands up the length of her stained torso, her breasts lifting and bouncing as he passed over, the flash of pressure on her stiff nipples like a torture.

“I think I should like another drink,” he whispered, raising the hairs on her neck. One of his hands disappeared.

“Please, I don’t want anyone to see,” she quavered, hating how pathetic she sounded. Her wrath had got her nowhere, and now she was just scared.

He tried to pull away from her, and Tabris couldn’t help it, she locked onto his shoulders, not wanting him to move. If anyone saw her like this, saw whatever was going to happen next, she’d never be able to step a foot back in Denerim.

It was ludicrous that she was even allowing this. But she trusted him, no matter what – and besides, now she was half-naked. There was no possible way to escape and preserve her modesty.

He kissed the shell of her ear, something the real Zevran did whenever Tabris had been distressed in the past. It was only a small comfort, but she did relax slightly.

This time, she let him pull away, though her heart was beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

Some of the softness had returned to his eyes, but his smile was unforgiving. That accursed bottle of wine was back in his grip, its contents sloshing menacingly. She braced herself, certain he was about to drown her again.

But he didn’t.

He gave her the bottle.

Confused, she allowed him to press it into her hand.

“I don’t understand,” she said cautiously.

He lowered until his mouth was close enough to her nipple that his words blew against the skin, the tiny caress enough to stagger her thoughts.

“A drink,” he said lowly, and then latched onto her breast. Sharp pleasure shot down to her core, and she moaned heartily, very nearly dropping the bottle altogether.

Now she understood.

“N-no,” she stammered, hand becoming a vice around the bottle neck. This was asking too much.

Her objection earned her an admonishment in the way of a harsh bite. The sting made her yelp and jerk, head hitting the wall with a thud. The pain was brief, soothed away with a few deliriously wonderful, gentle sucks, but Tabris got the message.

Shaking with the force of her nerves, she poised the bottle over her chest. The tremor in her hand actually helped, spilling a few drops accidentally.

Emboldened by that first splash, and sure that the Maker would strike her down, she tipped the bottle over her own chest, wine coming forth in a red stream and running down her nude torso like blood from a wound.

Zevran groaned when the alcohol met his lips, and Tabris was instantly, thoroughly entranced, rooted by the image of her lover drinking greedily at her breast. The wine parted at the swell of flesh to become wayward rivulets, their paths disappearing into that eager mouth. The suction was almost too much, but it had her aching in the most delicious way.

Lost in her own blur of lust, she poured more of the liquid closer to his mouth, but this time he released her before the wine could reach him. Instead, he rested his tongue just below the nipple, and Tabris was able to watch as it caught the thin rill of alcohol cascading off the tip.

Her hold on the bottle had become fragile and so she angled it back up, not trusting herself to empty its contents with her unstable movements. Zevran lapped at her breast with zeal, like a cat licking a bowl clean. Now Tabris didn’t trust herself to hold the bottle at all, so back to the table it went, her hand returning to cradle the back of her lover’s head.

The skin of her stomach tingled as his nails scratched around to her hip, and she could hardly function with all this sensation. His little finger dipped into her pants there, just far enough to trace the edge of her smalls. The tiny gesture made her throat close in frustration. They needed to leave this place and get back to their tents or she would surely implode.

It seemed Zevran had other ideas though, for his fingers feathered along the line of her trousers, and in one deft manoeuvre, had the laces untied.

“Stop!” Tabris gasped, and made a futile effort to back away, but there was only that same wall she’d been trapped against all night.

With a final, gratuitous lick from base to top, Zevran desisted with his attack on her breast, rising to her level once more.

“Absolutely not!” she shrilled.

Zevran chuckled, hooked a finger into her drawstring and tugged it loose. “Oh?”

“Zevran!”

“You say I am not allowed?” his eyes glittered, fingertips dancing dangerously close to her smalls. Maker, how she wished they were somewhere else.

She nodded, light-headed. This had definitely gone far enough. It had to stop somewhere.

Oh, but she was so…

NO, Tabris.

“I suppose it is fortunate then,” he said slyly, tracing an idle circle around her navel, “That you will be the one touching.”

The ground disappeared from underneath her feet, her stomach tumbling around like an acrobat. It took a moment to fully absorb what he’d just said, and another to learn how to think with all that pounding in her ears.

“You can’t mean–”

“That I wish to watch you toy with yourself?” he rested his forearm on the wall beside her head, and breathed into her face, “That is exactly what I mean.”

Tabris shuddered from toes to hair, something which Zevran observed with visible relish. She was quivering beneath her skin, wanting and not wanting, and wanting some more.

She could not possibly agree to this madness. It was sick. It was bad.

“No,” she shook her head vehemently, “You wouldn’t make me. I can’t.”

He arched an eyebrow, and lightning-fast, grabbed one of Tabris’ wrists, making her choke in surprise. A half-second later and a flush was burning its way from her neck to her ears, for he had all but shoved her palm against his crotch.

It was a miracle that his erection – his beautiful, pulsating erection – hadn’t torn through the seams of his breeches.

“My sweet darling,” he tilted forward and whispered into the corner of her mouth, “I would bend you over in the middle of all these men and fuck you without feeling a shred of shame or remorse. Do you doubt that I would make you do this?”

“No!” she heaved, not so much in answer, but in a plea for him to not follow through with the unspoken threat, “Please… just– just don’t.”

Even as she pleaded, her nether region throbbed and flooded, and she wanted to crawl away in embarrassment, sure that he knew. Sure that everyone in this room knew too.

“I have already made myself clear,” he said, desire rumbling in his chest as he let her hand go, “Show me your fingers moving between your legs, and I will keep you safe in this dark little corner.”

The bargain was hardly a bargain at all. It was a choice of evils.

Her lower reaches ached to obey.

She could scarcely believe she was about to do this; she was truly without a shred of decency.

This didn’t seem real. This was the Fade. This was the Fade and she would wake up any moment feeling stupid and a bit sweaty.

But then Zevran kissed the corner of her mouth, and no, this was definitely real.

Which meant that she had to somehow make her paralysed hand move, that she had to… to…

“Have you changed your mind, cara?” he said, and there was hope in his voice, like he just wanted her to refuse.

“I-I’m trying,” she admitted, eyes squeezing shut in her humiliation, “I can’t… my hand won’t…”

He murmured in understanding and sought her hand once more. It was only then that she realised how much her palms were perspiring.

“Relax,” he said in a hush, “I am not without mercy.”

His brand of mercy was to glide her hand beneath the band of her smalls, the flaps of her trousers having folded apart to reveal a triangle of the material. When she was halfway in, Zevran withdrew, leaving Tabris to her own will.

Her fingers were resting in moist curls, and the familiarity brought forth a degree of instinct to battle against her crippling anxiety. Masturbation was nothing new, she’d mastered it long ago (thank you Ser I’m-too-old-for-you Alarith). No, nothing new at all.

This was a cinch.

Eyes still shut, teeth clenched, she dipped her hand lower – but at the top of her slit, came to a cringing halt.

Bollocks, this was not a cinch.

She was not quite ready to touch that just yet.

Lungs barely pulling in air at all now, she lifted over and past the volatile bundle of nerves, and slipped the tip of her middle finger into the sopping folds of her sex.

Andraste’s armpit, she was touching herself in a corner of The Gnawed Gnoble.

Merely having something there, even without pressure or movement, was agonizing. Zevran spoke, his lips no longer at her mouth, but still close, and his voice was so hoarse that someone might have rubbed his throat with sandpaper.

“I can smell you,” he said, full of yearning, “But I cannot see. Tell me, amore, are you as wet as I believe?”

The true answer was no. There was no way that even he could imagine just how obscenely wet she was – the conviction of that idea only strengthening when his words provoked more fluid to ooze forth.

She jerked her head in a nod, unable to produce anything resembling coherency.

Feeling a little less stiff (but still needing the comfort of closed eyes), she nestled her whole finger in the valley of her cunt, allowing the juices to coat it fully.

“Say it,” Zevran persisted, “Tell me how this soaks you; the knowledge that any could turn around and see your wickedness.”

She was going to flood the floor if he kept speaking to her like that. She swallowed the cotton in her throat.

“I’m w-wet,” she panted, but knew that wouldn’t be enough, “My hand is c-covered.”

Her face felt on fire, she was so mortified, but Zevran groaned deeply, pressing in enough that she could feel his arousal against her hip and the damp patch where he’d begun to leak.

“Move,” he commanded.

And she did, and she felt rotten and too hot and insane, but she did. She slid up, rolled over her nub, and the shocks that burst out from the small pip of flesh had her making the most inhuman sounds, had her pooling in her smalls.

Slowly, she massaged the turgid pearl, a current of heat and pleasure flowing through her with each rotation. She’d never been so sodden in all her life.

“You are loving this,” Zevran hissed, grinding into her thigh and making her whimper, “Surrounded by this refuse, on display like an alleyway whore; I can hear how slick it makes you.”

The words stroked and prodded her painfully empty tunnel. This was the best and worst thing she’d ever felt. The nights she’d spent frigging to naughty thoughts about Alarith were barely worth remembering now.

That low coil was tightening, and she worked herself faster, the slurp of her wetness becoming louder, frantic.

The hard ridge of Zevran’s erection disappeared, and she whined with loss, abandoning pride and decorum. She just wanted him to touch her again.

There was a tremble starting in her legs, in her hand, and she needed his support or she’d surely crumple to the floor soon.

“Open your eyes,” he said, and she snapped them right open, for his voice had, unexpectedly, come from below.

Indeed, he was gone from her sight, which meant that the first thing she saw upon opening her lids was a panorama of drunken strangers, some of whom were close enough that she’d have been able to reach out and touch their backs.

Petrified, thrilled, Tabris quickly looked down, and there was Zevran on one knee, eyes burning up at her, face barely an inch from her sex. That sight was nearly her undoing, for that close, he would be able to hear every squelch of her juices, smell how potent her arousal was, and see every tiny movement of her finger as it worked inside her smalls.

“You are glorious,” he breathed, and yanked her trousers down to her knees.

He was now staring rapaciously at her cunt, utterly enthralled by the depraved picture she painted. The tip of his nose brushed her finger as he leaned in to inhale her scent, the action long and relishing, like one was with a rare wildflower.

Then his tongue was against her and oh, she was so close. She bucked with lewd ardour, an instant slave to the strong, hot muscle dragging its tip up her clothed crevice.

It flattened against the material and laved her more firmly, from her empty opening and up to her unsteady fingers. She panted and mewled, whispered her lover’s name; nothing that came out of her mouth was supported by conscious thought.

When he travelled back down, and pushed his tongue up into her channel, smalls and all, Tabris’ knees buckled, and she hastily stretched to grab the dagger still buried in the wall, needing it for support.

The tip of his tongue drilled into her entrance, the cloth of her underwear rubbing the inner ring of her flesh in the most spectacular, torturous way.

She might have been begging, she wasn’t sure, she couldn’t really know what she was saying anymore. If she hadn’t been watching, she’d have probably missed Zevran flitting up and snapping the band of her smallclothes too.

He withdrew, and Tabris sobbed, desperate to fall off the edge of this cliff. The triangle of fabric had to be peeled away, sweat and her fluid having sealed it in place. It was left to hang alongside her mound, one half still sticking to pelvis and hipbone.

Zevran made a sound low in his throat, like a rough purr, and there she saw it – that bottle of wine. This time, she didn’t shy away, but found herself biting her lip in anticipation, droplets of perspiration tickling down her neck.

The lip of the bottle was pressed just below her navel, and then he poured, the wine flowing down her abdomen like water on a rock face. It trickled down onto her fingers, into her folds, and Zevran was there. Mouth open in her snatch, he sucked the cocktail of wine and her own secretions, the vibrations of his indulgent hum travelling up into her core.

She moaned gutturally, the dagger possibly all that was holding her body from sagging down that wall. If not for the booming revelry in the pub, everyone would have heard the sound, but it fell deaf to even those closest, and they remained turned, completely unaware of what was happening just behind their backs.

That thought flared in her mind at the same time Zevran’s slippery, schooled tongue probed inside her heat, this time unhindered by cloth – and it was all too much.

Sensation pulled in on itself and then burst, heat sparking and pulsing outward from her centre. She arched from the wall and quaked, inadvertently grinding into Zevran’s face and intensifying the orgasm. Cries and keens roiled up from her throat in an incoherent, uncontrolled wave, but she was barely cognisant, lost in a world of white and joy.

She only became aware of how much fluid she was releasing when Zevran’s tongue suddenly left her hole, allowing it to drizzle out.

The climax dimmed just enough that she was able to see more than just spots of light, and so she finally registered that her lover was now, not only standing, but had freed his frighteningly-engorged member.

Before Tabris’ inner walls had even stopped spasming, before she’d found her breath or stopped seeping onto her thighs, Zevran had her around his waist.

His face was a twisted sculpture of need, his irises blackened by blown pupils – and, in one hard, unhesitating thrust, he was completely sheathed.

Zevran’s groan was deep and broken, his desire pushed so far that his cock was like hot lead inside her body. Nerves that were already singing shrieked at the intrusion, her twitching muscles finding an all new euphoria now that they were not trying to milk mere air.

Hands digging into her hips and buttocks, he gave her little time to adjust, sliding out as swiftly as he’d entered – nearly completely – and then plunging straight back in to the hilt.

“Perfezione…” he breathed without thought, retreating and pounding once more, “sei bellissima…”

Tabris forgot the dagger, opting to clutch at Zevran’s shoulders instead. The quiver in her limbs was more violent than ever, each thrust threatening to dissolve her muscles entirely. She held as hard as she could, wanting their bodies as close as possible.

The pace was unrelenting, and Zevran was delighted with his partner’s wantonness, his gaze alternating between her desperate expression, and her cunt, which he watched take each of his fast, brutal entries with dark satisfaction.

She was so full and stimulated that she feared she’d pass out. If anyone was watching, she didn’t care. If the whole damn room had pulled their dicks out and were getting off to this debauchery, she just did not care.

Everything was too heightened, the friction of her nipples against Zevran’s vest, the aroma of wine and slick that coiled around them, the way her skin was sticky and sweet all over. She threw her head back, nearly there, wound so tight she might just snap and shatter.

“Sei... mia...”

That was enough, even if she didn’t know the language.

She came again, a shout of absolute ecstasy tearing up her throat. Her cries were not alone for long. Unable to withstand the vice her channel had become, the cock inside her swelled and erupted, Zevran dropping forward to spout a loud, vicious curse into her neck.

His whole body rippled against her, the waves of his orgasm crashing against her own. She could not recall him ever coming this hard. This searing inundation was like nothing she’d ever experienced, and she strangled on some insane sound of pleasure; her insides were ready to split with the size of him and the deluge of semen he released.

Her neck was wet with his breath, Antivan ramblings hissing out against her skin, the sound lost in Tabris’ own nonsensical whimpering.

It was a long, agonizing peak, and ended with her feeling so very, very fucked, that she was certain nothing would ever work right again.

They held each other tightly through the aftershocks of their climaxes, the occasional shudder passing between them. Every part of her body felt like rubber, or melted rubber, something that lacked any degree of solidity.

The celebrations continued to rage around them as they came down, not one gasp of their raucous finish having been heard.

After some time, during which Tabris actually felt herself floating towards unconsciousness, Zevran managed to pry his face from the crook of her neck.

She was grateful that he hadn’t dropped her yet; standing on her own two feet was a mere folly right now. Securing her to his body, he twisted them in the small space and then perched Tabris on the table, not flinching at the empty mugs and bits of trash that scattered.

The nearest merry-makers paid no heed to the garbage hitting their boots, of course.

“My fabulous little minx,” his accent thickened in his weariness, and his eyes were a brilliant gold once more, “It was not such an awful Trefolia after all, I hope?”

She rolled her eyes, secretly mourning as he finally withdrew. It was all she could do not wail a lament when that lovely manhood, glistening with their combined discharge, was tucked safely back into his breeches.

It did feel divine to sit though, for she could better appreciate the post-tumble bliss… even if her outer layer felt really, really gross.

“I suppose it had its merits,” she smiled, and then yawned, very much looking forward to a bath and bedroll.

“Ah, so coy,” he thumbed her cheek.

“Hey,” she swatted his arm, though it was a sluggish gesture, closer to a limp paw, “This was all of your doing, thank you very much.”

Ok, she deserved that arched eyebrow.

“Fine,” she sighed dramatically, too muzzy to even fake argue, “I take all responsibility for my terrible, terrible harlotry.”

He laughed, and Tabris felt as though someone had poured warm water over her heart; the rolling timbre was truly divine.

That pour in her chest became a gush, when after a thoughtful examination of her undress, Zevran began to unbutton his vest.

“Mi amore,” he said, working through the buttons, “As long as I have full claim on any and all of your harlotry, you shall not hear a single complaint from me.”

The hidden sentiment was not lost on her.

It would have been a simple matter to dress herself, but she was too content to bask in her lover’s tenderness. Besides, she suspected that he was rather happy to undertake the task.

Silently, he removed his vest and then shirt, eased her into the latter before re-donning the former, snapped the remaining loop of her smalls (pocketing the scrap as a crude trophy), and retied the laces of her trousers.

And once done, he held her face with both hands and kissed her thoroughly.

And she loved him, everything about him, even if the whole word had seen what he’d roped her into tonight.

It was quite possible that, for the rest of her life, her skin would be a dappled red and smell of fermented cherries.

It was also a possibility that her skeleton would forevermore be a useless lump of jelly, and Zevran would be forced to carry her around to the end of days.

It was even more possible that someone had witnessed her degradation, would spread nasty rumours, become her stalker, become Zevran’s stalker, or do all of the aforementioned.

But it was written in bloody stone that they’d be coming back here next year.