#zevran arainai x you

[itseghost]

they are talking shit (or flirting?)

[nohr-selphias]

"I love you, Zevran. I hope you know that."

"Yes... Yes, I know that."

— commission art by @sinizade, posted with permission

[elfcollector]

DRAGON AGE: ORIGINS (2009) — developed by bioware.

[kiivg]

.A Royal Scandal.

[ghostwise]

intertwining their legs together

It’s more a storage closet than an apartment. Inside there is enough room for a bed, and a chest where they keep their supplies, which doubles as a table for eating. The entrance is located along an exterior flight of rickety stairs, facing a tree-lined alley.

By all accounts it’s subpar. But the rent is cheap, and there’s even a lock.

When Hamal starts lining the door in dried herbs and moss, that’s when Zevran starts to worry.

It’s hard not to wonder about this taste of domesticity they have found. Zevran reminds himself they are here only as long as their investigation into the Crows will take them. That soon they will be on the road again, leaving their customary trail of blood behind them.

But for now, he is sleeping against the wall, which they have carefully covered in a thick quilt for comfort. Hamal is beside him. The alienage is quiet.

This arrangement works well; it keeps Zevran warm, sandwiched between the quilt and Hamal, and it does wonders for his nightmares, which have declined significantly since living here.

And as Hamal overheats easily, he nightly opts to sleep without covers or a shirt.

Thank the Maker for Antivan summers.

“One could get used to this sort of thing,” Zevran murmurs from his side of the narrow bed.

“Mm,” Hamal hums in agreement. “Very cozy.”

“Well, yes,” Zevran agrees, shifting closer. “But I mean all of this. A room. A bed. A quilt. Beeswax candles and dried rosemary.” His voice slips into something almost wistful. “A door between us and the world… and the key to it, right here in my bag…”

“Vhenan?”

“I am simply enjoying it while it lasts,” Zevran concludes with a smile. “I hope wherever we stay next will be as pleasant.”

“It will be,” Hamal replies. “Anywhere is, if you’re there.”

“Charmer!” Zevran laughs.

He intertwines their legs and slides an arm around Hamal’s waist, loosely brushing his fingers along his spine. “But truly, amor, where will we go when this is all done? I have never once considered myself the type to… settle down anywhere. And yet, laying here with you… well. I could easily forget the Crows.”

“The things you say.”

“I mean it,” Zevran insists.

Hamal grins widely at that. He closes the distance between them, nuzzling lightly against his cheek—an act which somehow strikes Zevran as more intimate than a kiss.

He switches to Antivan for the next part, the words spoken close to Zevran’s ear: “¿Dónde se te antoja vivir?”

Zevran shivers. He thinks about it a bit, as he has never thought about it seriously. Even while they were in Ferelden, the future was not very clear, save for it being at Hamal’s side.

“Var’myathan?” he offers at last.

“What?”

Zevran blinks. It must have been an unexpected answer; Hamal has drawn back, enough to look at him, wide-eyed.

“Surely you agree,” Zevran says. “You made it possible, after all. That the People have land to call their own is all thanks to you. We should go back to see it.”

“Oh,” Hamal says simply, and Zevran can see the thoughts stirring in those pale eyes of his. “I- I never thought so.”

“Ah? Truly?”

“Zevran,” Hamal says patiently. “You hate the cold.”

This is unexpected. Zevran clasps a hand over his mouth, smothering the beginnings of his laughter.

“It is very sweet of you to pretend otherwise,” Hamal continues. “But you would be miserable. What a poor husband I’d be to take you somewhere so uncomfortable for you!”

Zevran bursts out laughing. “I wouldn’t put it like that. I would go willingly, happily! And you haven’t exactly hidden your disdain for the climate here, so-”

“Creators!” Hamal gasps at the implication. “No, that is different.”

“Mmhm. How?”

“Zevran! It just is.”

But they are both laughing now. The bed shakes with it, and Hamal sits up, slipping from his embrace.

“Wait! I have a proposition,” Zevran says. “Summers in Var’myathan. We can visit with your family then. Winters in Antiva City, by the sea. The rest of the time, we travel, just like this.”

Hamal smiles at him over his shoulder.

And Zevran said it on a whim, but now he wants it so badly it’s a sudden pressure in his chest. He wants to add, please. But they’re already married. What else can he say? He holds out his arms, and smiles when Hamal returns to them warmly.

“Deal.”

[chonkymoth]

fictional relationships where the heart of their dynamic is unbreakable and undeniable devotion. either both people unto each other, or one to the other. the loyalty, the commitment, the promise beneath all else — I'll do anything for you and always be here beside you.

esp (!) if that devotion devolves into one of the characters becoming unhinged for the person they're devoted to, OR one person losing their grip on reality + becoming unhinged, and the other person acting as their tether, or at least trying their damndest to, even if they lose themself a bit in the process.

[shivunin]

In Peace

(Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 1,846 Words | Fluff | AO3 Link | CW: brief references to sex, implied/past suicidal thoughts)

Summary: Zevran and Tabris have developed a nightly routine; it surprises him to realize how much he dislikes the idea of breaking it

When Zevran had first seen Arianwen, they’d been trying to kill each other. 

This was not especially odd, he found out later. Statistically speaking, Arianwen was thinking of killing most of the people she met, if she was not already actually attacking them. Zevran was no exception in this; it mattered little that he had been trying to die at the time, and she only obliging his death wish. She had spun through the crowd like dancing death, her face lit with a heady glee. In that moment, Zevran had thought that if he was to die here on some nameless road in Ferelden’s nethers, at least there would be beauty in his death.

Zevran would never have guessed then that she could sleep so sweetly draped across his chest—she had certainly never done so before this night. He certainly would not have guessed that she snored so loudly. It would not have occurred to him to wonder on that first day, Zevran supposed, given that he’d been fighting for his life.

Still—the snoring did come as a surprise. She was usually very quiet when she slept on her side—or perhaps it was simply that her face was closer to his ear now, and thus much louder than he was used to. 

His Warden slept with her hair braided, though in a looser plait than she usually wore during the day. Zevran passed a hand over it softly, hoping to wake her enough to make her shift aside. Instead, every muscle in her body that had been soft and liquid went taut at once, entirely alert between one heartbeat and the next. 

“Nothing is wrong,” he whispered at once. The alternative was a knife thrown through the wall of his tent, most likely, and he had so recently patched the last hole she’d made. 

Arianwen rolled away from him despite his quiet words. When she sat up, her dark silhouette was cut against the lighter blue of his tent, body alert and aware. It was plain that she was listening for some disturbance beyond their tent, so Zevran said nothing more. He propped himself up on his elbows instead, feeling the wash of cooler air against his loose tunic when the blanket fell away from him. 

The sky had not lightened outside, but the fire was banked; they were in the deepest part of the night, perhaps an hour or two from the start of her watch. It had become a routine of sorts for her to stay in his tent until then, though she usually returned to her own tent when she was finished. Zevran was not certain if this tradition of hers was some concession to propriety (unlikely) or the delicate sensibilities of some of their traveling fellows (even less likely) or if she simply had no interest in waking up beside him when dawn came. 

Knowing her as he did now, he supposed it was most likely some fourth reason that had nothing to do with any of the other things. Perhaps she lovingly polished each of her blades alone in her tent until daybreak. He would not put it past her. But, he realized as she moved to stand, this routine might be more easily broken than expected.

And…perhaps he had grown more attached to it than he might have thought.

“Wait,” he said, his voice abrupt in the quiet of the night. Arianwen paused on her knees. 

“What?” she whispered. “I thought you were sleeping.”

Zevran found her hand in the dark on the second try. It was braced on her knee, but she allowed him to pull it away and press it to his mouth instead. Could he tell her not to go? It didn’t seem right, but he could not immediately determine why. She had surprised him by staying when he’d made it clear he had no interest in lovemaking tonight. They had spent plenty of nights together and apart since they’d begun doing whatever it was they were doing. None of the nights together had not featured some sort of…well. 

It surprised him now to realize that it had been pleasant to feel her against him as he’d fallen asleep, even if he would have gladly gone without the noise. 

“I do seem to recall you sleeping, too,” he told her. “Quite comfortably, in fact.”

He could feel her expression in the silence that followed. It would be the one in which her brows furrowed and she looked at him sidelong, as if trying to weigh whether he was making a joke or not. 

“You woke me. Did you not…” she trailed off, taking her hand from his. Zevran peered into the darkness, making no sense of her expression and trying nonetheless. 

“I did not mean to,” he told her truthfully. 

She moved—he could not see how—and a moment later he felt her breath on his cheek. 

“What do you need?” she asked. 

Zevran turned his head, nose brushing against the curve of her cheek. Her face was the only part of her not obviously scarred, he had found. Her cheek was very soft against his skin, the fine hairs there tickling softly. When he leaned his cheek against hers, she didn’t waver an inch.

“There is nothing that I need,” he told her, emphasizing the last word, “but I would very much like for us to go back to sleep. Together.” 

Slowly, one of her hands came to rest on his knee. Her index finger tapped once, twice. This was a tell: she was thinking very hard. Zevran privately thought that he might be the only one in the world who would know when she was bluffing at cards, should she ever play them. Her face was impossible to read at first glance, but the rest of her body spilled her secrets easily enough. Months on the road had taught him this as they’d taught him everything else he knew about her. 

Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Some decision was being made, some calculus of factors entirely beyond him. She had done this before she’d told him to keep his earring, too. The verdict had not been in his favor then. He wondered if he would fare so poorly now, too. 

Zevran thought of the weight of her body over his chest, of the way she’d looped leg and arm over him while they’d slept. He thought of the ragged sounds she made in her sleep when the nightmares came, of the way she wrapped herself around him when the foul dreams woke her in the night. 

He thought of how the leather and steel scent of her comforted him when his own dark dreams paced close and set shining teeth at his throat. The smell of leather reminds me of home, he’d told her months ago. It reminded Zevran of her now, too, until the three were all twined together as one. He did not want her to go—not yet. He had grown accustomed to sleeping beside her until the moment before she needed to leave. 

“Arianwen,” he said, and felt the falter in her tapping. “Mi vida. Come to bed.” 

Her sigh rustled his hair. 

“I should never have told you I like the way you say my name,” she told him, but he could hear that he’d swayed her already. Only a little more and they could go back to sleep. A few hours more—only a few, but they mattered. He wanted every single moment he could coax out of her. He wasn’t above fighting dirty for them. 

“Surely you do have no desire to lace up your boots and stumble through the dark of the whole clearing only to climb into your cold bedroll alone,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her cheek. “My dearest Arianwen. Surely not that.”

The blankets over him shifted when she slid beneath them again. The tip of her braid trailed over his arm. A victory—and it felt like one, for all that it had been a battle of words rather than blades. 

“If you are sure I won’t keep you up,” she said doubtfully. “I’ll stay. Until watch.”

Keep him up—was that what she’d been worried about? 

Zevran frowned as she settled in beside him again, less than an inch separating their bodies. He lowered himself back onto his bedroll and reached for her hip. 

“Come closer,” he told her. “It is cold.”

Tabris came, settling against him stiffly, then relaxing by degrees. Zevran kissed the top of her head and she relaxed further still. After a moment, she tugged the blankets more fully over both of them.

“You wanted me to stay just so you could be warm,” she murmured, though there was no heat to the words. Already, he could feel her slipping into sleep. She fell asleep easily enough, his Warden, though she woke at the slightest provocation. Zevran ignored the surge of affection at the thought, though it grew more difficult to disregard when she slipped an arm around his waist. 

“Yes, of course,” he agreed. She made a soft noise, rousing at the words. 

“Say’t again,” Arianwen said. 

“Say what?” he asked. 

Arianwen squeezed him slightly and tucked herself more fully against his shoulder. There was a scar beneath the place where her ear rested, a very thin line just below the joint of his shoulder. She’d stabbed him there all those months ago when they’d first met. One evening, when they’d been dozing in the afterglow, he had casually pointed the silvered line of scar tissue out to her. Tabris had scowled at him and gone all stiff—he still had no idea why—and she’d made a point of not holding him like this for weeks afterward. What a relief it had been when she’d forgotten again. 

By day, she was quick and dangerous and sharp. He liked that about her, he’d found. But he liked her like this, too, somnolent and warm against him in the night. This—her head on his shoulder, her arm around his waist—this was his alone. 

There had been very, very few things in Zevran’s life that had belonged to him alone. He had gone without sleep, without affection, without comfort for so long that he knew better than to disregard such things when they were offered openly. No—such things were the sort one held onto with both hands, even if it took some extra coaxing in the dead of night. 

“You know what,” she told him. 

Zevran smiled to himself, allowing his eyes to slip closed again. 

“Goodnight, Arianwen,” he said. 

“”Night, Zevran,” she echoed, her voice slow. “Until watch.”

“Until watch,” he agreed, and paused. “Arianwen.”

She made a soft sound, neither sigh nor purr nor moan, and melted against him. Zevran lay awake for some time after, his eyes shut tight, his hands as still as he could make them. She did not snore, and he did not wake her. 

Tabris’s watch came and went. 

They both slept soundly through it.

(For Day 5 of Zevwarden Week: Bodies and Minds. Thanks again to @zevraholics for organizing!)

[crabs-with-sticks]

Hi Crabs! How about "strange is the call of this strange man" for Mara x Zev? Happy writing!

ALRIGHT SO. I really just took this prompt and ran away with it in a completely different direction. The original quote is from a song, and its about Euridice being tempted into the underworld by Hades who is promising her safety from poverty, y'know sad n tragic n all that good stuff.

I however, in all my genius, bring to you: Zevran trying to do a crow impression.

@dadrunkwriting

A Crow by Any Other Call. 479 words.

“Do you even know what a crow sounds like?”

“Of course I do mi amor! I am one after all!” They were only slightly drunk. Well, to be more precise, Mara was only slightly drunk. Zevran was one drink away from the dictionary definition of ‘plastered’. Scratch that. Half a drink.

Mara snorted, “okay, so do it again.”

Zevran cleared his throat, stopping in the middle of the pathway that led to their rented accommodation. “Okay, here goes. Hcaw! Hcaw!”

The laughter burst out of Mara’s stomach out of nowhere, enough that she saw several globules of spit fling through the air. “That is not at all what a crow sounds like Zev.”

He wobbled over to her, with what his imbibed brain likely though was a seductive smile, though it would have been more effective if he did not keep readjusting it to a look that was somehow even more ridiculous than the last one. He leaned in close and draping his arm over her shoulder (for balance even as he tried to cover that fact up), whispering right into her ear, “should I try again my dearest most loveliest Warden?”

“I have a feeling you will try no matter what I say,” she said, attempting to talk through the waves of laughter that were rocking through her.

“Mmm quite right indeed.” He leaned back, tilting his head back to crow into the sky, at first removing his arm from around her, but quickly recalculating when he began to tip backwards. He sucked in a deep breath even as Mara was spluttering with laughter next to him. “CAw-ghhh!” His impression caught in his throat and he coughed violently through the words, still attempting the impression even as his lungs betrayed him.

Mara laughed, her belly aching, and started pulling him along with her back to their rooms. “Okay, well that was somehow worse than your first three attempts!”

Zevran just looked at her with a love struck grin, and pressed a sloppy and wet kiss to her cheek, “have I ever told you how beautiful your- your- ears are!”

“Ears? That's what you’re going with?” Mara asked, her eyebrow discovering new heights.

She wasn’t sure if his brain just didn’t process her words or he just ignored them, “your ears are the perfect shape, and the- the- angel- no. The- the-.”

“The angle?”

“Yes! The angle! Perfect! Wonderful! Absolutely and truly sublime!”

Mara grinned, scrunching up her face to the favour, a kiss on his cheek, long and lips pressed hard against his skin, releasing him with a loud ‘mwah’ sound. “Compliments aren’t going to get me to say your crow impression was good you know my love.”

“Ah well, it was worth a shot,” he said. Though since Mara turned away, neither her nor any other being was able to witness the puppy dog eyes of love that Zevran gave her as he beheld the magnificence of her ear, pale against her dark hair with a simple golden earring hanging from its lobe.

[proffbon]

Local Dalish man discovers bisexuality (he's bisexual)

[pisscrossiant]

Imagine Alistair being so oblivious to the fact the F!warden and Leliana are together,

*Leliana and the Warden cuddling while Leliana plays with the Warden's hair*

Alistair: so Leliana do you have a bf yet :)

*cricket sounds*

Or imagine how oblivious he is to M!Warden and Zevran being together,

Alistair to Morrigan: Do you think the Warden has a gf yet?

*The Warden and Zevran making out in the background*

Morrigan: ... Bitch turn around.

Alistair: *Turns around* they're such good friends :)

Morrigan: you really are dumber then the dog.

[unlikelysaintdelele]

Back on my Warden Amell bullshit!

I always knew Adalia was just the first draft of my canon playthrough. Being an Amell, she has a blood connection to Hawke, which is such a cool detail—and Cullen’s crush on female Amell adds another connection I enjoy. But as I’ve refined her character, I realized she wouldn’t actually fall for Alistair.

She hates (loosely used) nobility in terms of social structure and how it pushes people into doing something they don’t want simply in the name of blood, which is why she didn’t want Alistair to become king. He LOVES being a Grey Warden, why would she take that away?

Plus, she dreams of travel and adventure, craving stories from beyond Ferelden, which led her to bond deeply with Zevran and Leliana. She got so engrossed in their stories that I accidentally made Zevran catch feelings—a situation I had to quickly shut down since I was very calculatingly romancing Alistair. Still, Zevran wanted to follow her anywhere, and I keep noticing how perfectly they fit together. Adalia adored his humor, and her flirty, playful nature complements his so much better than Alistair’s would.

And on top of that, her cousin Hawke also pursues a fair-haired elf! Alistair just feels better suited to someone else—maybe a dwarf or human noble.

[infinityoftwo]

A Continuation?? Redraw?? of this. Velanna finally got a coat

[chaoticbardlady99]

*cracks knuckles* alrighty- my shit job has come to an end and I now have two weeks of free time. However, my writer’s block is insane.

Please put some fic requests in my inbox if you have any! I need a warm up! Astarion is preferred, but I’m also a huge dragon age person and am willing to write for just about any one of those characters.

Smut, canon, etc- is all encouraged and if you want an OC thing, drop a description of their character and such and I would be happy to write a character x oc too :)

[kiivg]

.King’s Council.

[ghostwise]

zevran/hamal for the kiss prompts...? :)c im not entirely clear if im supposed to pick one or you roll but if you'd like a pick then 18, or feel free to random roll if you prefer! 🥰

18. A kiss while laughing

He’d eaten fresh oysters only once before.

Years ago—curled up on the lap of some nobleman, who he’d later killed in spectacular gore, whose face he no longer remembers—but he remembers the taste. They tasted like the sea, like sweat on skin, firm with a little give. Delicious.

Not to mention expensive. He vaguely remembers hearing that only magic could keep them fresh enough to last all the way to the tables of dukes and duchesses in distant Orlais. Even here in Antiva, they are not cheap.

There’s a whole tray of oysters on the table in front of him.

“We did not order-” he says, but the waiter is already gone.

Hamal smiles at him. “Happy anniversary, vhenan,” he says quietly.

“How-? When did I ever mention-?”

“A year and six months ago. Half-asleep in the middle of an angry rant in Haven.” Hamal pauses, and he cannot hold back a self-satisfied grin. “Bitching about the weather and the food.”

“It was cold!” Zevran exclaims.

“Cold and damp. Not warm, like the waters of Rialto Bay, with the moon on the waves and the oysters harvested not even a half hour ago…” Hamal completes. “You seemed fond of them at the time. Though I must say, I did not expect them to look so… peculiar.”

Zevran laughs in utter disbelief. And there’s something else beneath the laughter, some thrill that brings a flush to his cheeks.

“They’re an aphrodisiac, you know!” he says.

“O-oh?” Hamal blinks, taken aback, and he regards the oysters with such suspicion that Zevran laughs harder.

“Well, you never mentioned that.”

“I didn’t!”

“Huh.” Hamal stares at the oysters, their inviting little grey bodies in the shell, glistening with lemon and marinade. He looks up at Zevran and grins. “Well, go on! While they’re fresh!”

Zevran is already on his feet, pulling him into a giggling kiss.

Happiness. That is what is beneath the surprised laughter, driving the eager heartbeat in his ribs. A years’ worth already, and more to come. More kisses and more anniversaries.

Firm, with a little give, Hamal kisses him back.

[eliphasgraham]

Everytime i hear this banter between Bethany and Isabela i think about my dwarf warden who had a threesome with her and Zevran and i just decided she was talking about the Hero of Ferelden in drag.

And i drew it because no one can stop me.