#zevran/warden

[tobythewise]

Happy friday!! For Zev/Warden, “If it hurts, it hurts.” (from the high pain tolerance prompts)

Thank you so much for the prompt! I know this is from the pain tolerance prompts but I took this in a completely different direction XD

Warnings for Zevran/Warden (Warden Tabris warrior named Tristin) reference to sex, first times and poor Tristin being clueless about such things. Written for @dadrunkwriting

By the Maker! He’s ached for this for so fucking long. Tristin can barely believe they’re actually here, in the tent they’ve started sharing weeks ago, completely naked. 

“Zevran,” he breathes out, reaching for the assassin he’s come to care about so deeply. They’ve just taken care of the last of the Crows coming after Zevran. He’s finally free. 

For a moment, Tristin truly thought Zevran would take this moment to leave. He’s never been so pleasantly surprised to be proven wrong. 

“I’m here, my dear,” Zevran says softly, laying his body against Tristin’s. Tristin sucks in a sharp breath, overwhelmed by the feeling of naked skin pressed against his own. He’s never done anything like this. Never had the time. He was betrothed and when that came to a very traumatic and abrupt end, he didn’t have time because of the whole ‘becoming a Grey Warden’ thing. 

Everything is new and intense. It borderlines on too much yet not enough at the same time. 

Tristin’s hands shake and he takes Zevran’s face, kissing him softly. Kissing, they’ve done before. The rest of this, not so much. Tristin wanted to take things slowly, and Zevran was more than accommodating. He’s tired of waiting. He wants Zevran, body and soul. Especially knowing that tomorrow isn’t promised. 

Zevran pulls back, his hand gripping Tristin’s wrist. “You’re shaking. And becoming tense. What’s going through that beautiful head of yours?”

Tristin lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He looks into Zevran’s golden eyes. “I’m just preparing myself,” he explains in a gruff voice. “I know this is going to hurt.”

Zevran startles, his eyes widening. “What?”

“It’s okay,” Tristin quickly reassures. “I still want to do this. I need you, Zevran. If it hurts, it hurts.”

“That’s not. I’m. Tristin, no.” 

Tristin is pretty sure this is the first time he’s left Zevran tongue-tied. He’s confused by what he’s said wrong. From the little experience he’s heard about, it usually hurts the fuck, especially if you’re a man having sex with another man. 

“My dearest warden,” Zevran says slowly, this thumb running over Tristin’s cheek. “Tattoos hurt. Headaches hurt. Taking a dagger in your stomach hurts. But sex, my love? Sex feels wonderful if done correctly. Tonight? I wish for you to feel nothing but bliss.”

Tristin feels his chest lighten. “Oh,” he breathes out. “Okay. I trust you, Zevran.”

Zevran grins down at him. He leans down and takes Tristin’s lips in another kiss and Tristin lets himself let go and enjoy himself, knowing he’s in good hands. 

It turns out, not for the first time, Zevran was right.

[carnalapples]

Hello, happy DADWC! The AO3 tag generator app has produced the tags below, which I now submit as a prompt:

Aftermath of Violence, Domestic, Opposites Attract

Alternately:

Dreams, Power Imbalance, Skinny Dipping

Thank you for the prompt!! I started this about 3 different ways, but I have some Zevran/Cousland tonight for @dadrunkwriting:

Dreams, Power Imbalance, Skinny Dipping

They’ve made camp not too far from a lake tonight; nothing like the terrible lake that swallowed up the tower they’ve just come from. Zevran has dreamt of that lake for three nights straight. Dark, quiet, ripples swelling through the water with shocking regularity. Better that than what they found inside.

Cousland sets the campsite each night with a decisive finality; he will stop still in the center of a clearing and they will all slow to a halt, slow to realize he’s been left behind. Sometimes he will even tilt his head as he does so, like those dogs he is so fond of, and then declare it fit for camp. Zevran does not know how much the lake factored into his decision at all, but he will not waste his questions on such trivial information. 

“I need to talk to you,” he says. Zevran lets him wait a moment before looking up from his toolkit. He is missing a pick, the smallest one. The witch probably took it, though he thought she would have far more fun stealing from Leliana. 

“Then let us talk,” he says, successfully having tamped down the dull concern that spiked in him at those words. Cousland shifts on his feet, then takes off in the general direction of the lake. Zevran has to scramble to keep up with his long strides, which Cousland does not quite realize for a minute or two. Even once they are far enough to not be overheard, the man keeps walking. Zevran glances up at him, and his jaw is tight, the joint protruding. Still, Zevran does not get the sense that he is going to die today, that his time is up. There has been no change in the day. Perhaps he has only grown used to the expectation. 

“What did you wish to speak with me about?” he asks, because it has grown evident that Cousland will not speak for a while yet. The man seems to startle at his voice, which makes him smirk.

“Loghain,” he says after a moment. “I wish to know how he came to hire you.”

“I told you,” he responds. “He put out a contract. We took the contract. The contract was given to me. Murder is a very efficient business in Antiva.”

Cousland takes this in, weighing his sentences in his mind. Before he can make any pronouncements, the woods open up into a view of the lake.

“Perfect for a swim in the nude,” Zevran says, because he is tired of speaking about the mistakes of old men, and certainly of his own.  

“Zevran,” he says. 

Each time the Warden says his name, Zevran reads it for any hint of his true sentiment toward him. This man holds Zevran’s life in his hands. It’s only the truth. The truth stopped making him uncomfortable a long while back. Any semblance of a clue could save him.

But Cousland has perfected the noble’s voice and the noble’s countenance; he is always coolly indifferent, or dryly amused, always seals his emotions over with an agent that dulls them. And Zevran did come here to die.

“Surely, you do not mean to tell me that you’ve never swum naked.”

“No,” Cousland says. He blinks, and his lashes cast a shadow across his cheek, severe. “I have not.”

“This is all right. Spontaneity is not for everyone.”

“I can be spontaneous,” he says. Zevran looks at him: his socks, neatly pulled up to matching heights, his sleeves rolled up three times each and crisply creased, his hair oiled and pulled back into its tie.

“I am sure.”

Cousland stares at him. And then he bends down to take off those lovely socks. 

“You’re not going to let me do this alone,” he says. Zevran grins; not so much because he enjoys winning, but because he knows how much it costs Cousland to lose. He starts with his tunic, loosening the laces and tugging it over his head, and he does not know if it is disappointment he feels when the other man does not even look up from his work on his belt.

When they’ve both stripped naked, Cousland eyes the water for a moment before taking slow, halting steps toward the line where it laps at the bank.

“You’ve made it this far,” Zevran teases. The man turns back to him, for a moment. And then he runs the rest of the way, jumping into the water without another thought. He sends up a big splash with his entry, and his head surfaces above the ripples soon.

“How is it?” he calls out.

“Bracing,” Cousland shouts. What a word. A Fereldan sort of word. For when you cannot even admit that you are miserable in the cold. Perhaps this is the sort of thinking he should grow accustomed to, now that he can no longer go home. 

When he walks to the water to join him, Cousland’s eyes do not leave his. Zevran is not sure whether this disappoints him or not, but it does unsettle him. It twists up inside him like a knife. But he stands at the edge of the bank, his toes curled around the edge, and he pushes off, the way he was taught when he was nine years old. The Crows value grace in everything; grace is what elevates murder to an assassination. It turns death into an art. He slices through the water and lets the noise of the world be cut off. All that remains down here is dark and quiet and Cousland’s body, so close to his.

He breaks the surface and inhales deep. 

“There you are,” Cousland calls. Does he sound worried? Zevran cannot tell. And yet this does not worry him. Nothing seems to worry him right now. He came to Ferelden to die, and somehow, he is alive. He persists and he remains.

“Sometimes, I can’t believe I’m here. It’s like something out of a dream,” he sighs. 

“Your dreams sound terrible.”

Cousland laughs. “My dreams are terrible. Now, at least.” He kicks his feet a little, sending a spray of water up. “Well, what do you dream of?”

He dreamed of the lake for three nights straight.

“I dream of you, of course. Every night.”

“Zevran,” he says again, but it’s softer, fond even beneath the exasperation, around it, within it. Inseparable.

“Yes, my lord?”

Cousland appears to flinch at this. “Please don't do that,” he says in a weak voice. A tender voice.

“It is only the truth.”

He frowns at this. Zevran reaches forward and takes the strip of leather that binds his hair between his thumb and forefinger. Slowly, he pulls, freeing his hair until it brushes his jaw. Cousland frowns deeper. His eyebrows make this little furrow whenever he does so.

"I am no lord. Not here. Not anymore."

But nobility is in everything he does, Zevran has seen it. The way he eats at camp and the way he speaks to anyone they meet. The sort of detached manner with which he approaches the world. And he knows it because he has seen the inverse; when Cousland laughs at Alistair's terrible jokes, or he listens to one of Leliana's stories the whole way through only to find that there is no point. When he jumped into the pond, limbs flailing. It was utterly graceless. He has seen the rarity of its absence.

If you say so, he could say. Drive that frown a little further into his face. He should. There's nothing for the two of them. But because he is feeling a little merciful, he is quiet.

[kidlightnings]

I wasn't going to post this but hey why not, maybe some Kyros enjoyers would enjoy him in the dragon age universe

Worldstate: Kyros disappears immediately, with Zevran, after killing the archdemon to pursue Morrigan, having completed the dark ritual with her. The events of Awakening are completed by the Orlesian Warden, and the events of Witch Hunt have Zevran there too

a warm hearth

872 words | e for everyone is sad | mentioned/playful zevran romance, discussed committed morrigan romance

a warden and his ex go looking for his wife. they speak of futures that will never be. if you could imagine any ending, would it not be a gentle one?

Come with me? I could use someone watching my back.

-

Zevran isn't entirely at ease. He never is, these days, eyes flitting towards shadows and then turning and putting on that easy smile. He knows. They both know. This isn't just some companionable journey to find a missing person. It never was, not entirely.

And Zevran could use someone watching his.

They sit, warming their hands at the fire while snow falls in the mountains.

“Ha, were things any different,” he lilts, “I'd ask you if you knew the best way to keep warm in the snow was.”

And Kyros can only chuckle.

“I do, you know,” he answers with a tired smile. “And I don't regret that. Heat sharing. You know.”

Zevran laughs in return.

“You've such a good humor. But you're a married man, and I, a rogue who can't help poking fun at his very attractive companion.”

They share the laugh that dies down as another bundle is added to the fire, sticks that were sodden by snow and struggle to catch when first licked by the flames.

“How long has it been?” Kyros asks out of the silence.

Zevran looks up, eyes shifting towards the sky as though he could see the moon through the snow-heavy clouds.

He counts on his fingers and his tongue presses between his lips.

“Nine- the moon…it was waning… nine and a half moons? Give or take a few days.”

Kyros eyes drift down to the fire. His thoughts drift to her, alone, laboring, alone. His lips press together.

“She is a clever woman,” Zevran says, and Kyros feels the shift in his brow, his eyes, before he can stop it.

“She changes herself to a bear, and suddenly any challenge of motherhood is nothing to her, hah, imagine, anything that might come at her, a she-bear is nothing to trifle with. She is certainly doing much better than we find ourselves.”

He exhales, and brushes his eyes with the back of his hand as though wiping ashes away. Zevran’s arm slings over his shoulder.

“This is why you bring your good friend the crow along, is it not? Not for tracking, but so you don't mire yourself in your worries. I shall bring you a shiny ribbon, and you can weave it into your nest like a good doting mate when we find her.”

He tries to mask the sniffle into a snort of amusement.

“And then you lay your eggs in the nest and they'll be raised alongside our own, hmm?” Kyros asks, feeling ridiculous for pushing the analogy along.

“Ah, just so,” Zevran continues. “A fine brood of magpies you'll raise. A bear and an apostate. They'll be proper heretics, and the safest children in the world.”

Kyros sees that distance enter his eyes.

“They would be,” he murmurs.

“If some bastard comes crawling home, I'll be certain to check them in with you,” Zevran continues. “A steady diet of lyrium and…ah…what do bears eat- honey and berries and halla, is it?”

Kyros’ snort is then a genuine one of mirth.

“You always had the look,” Zevran says, expression sobering. “Maker guide you, you were meant for a home, not the wilds.”

He shakes his head. “I'm compromising,” he says. “A home in the wilds.”

“And what if she slams the door, hmm? Then the crow and the warden will take in every wayward orphan, shall we?”

Kyros' breath catches. His eyes turn from the fire, and he looks up through thick lashes at Zevran.

“Well, you'll tend the hearth. And I'll earn the coin to keep our bellies full, no? Though that face could earn a plenty too!”

His chest is tight.

He shifts a bit under the arm slung - companionably, surely - over his shoulder.

Zevran pulls back, puts some air between them.

“I…” Kyros starts.

“Ah, listen to me carry on with this nonsense! Pay it no-”

“Would like that,” he interrupts.

Zevran catches his eyes with his own, wide.

“Really. If she meant what she said, if she really, truly, wants nothing to do with me, I'd like that. A lot. Not in a second choice way- I-”

Kyros looks away, heat in his cheeks, words too thick in his throat to pass his tongue.

Zevran is quiet.

The fire snaps and wheezes, steam escaping the damp wood.

“I know,” he finally says. “Your heart. It has too much room.”

Kyros nods quietly.

“She was enchanting,” Zevran continues. “In the way I'd worry for my throat to be bit out in the night. That isn't an entirely unappealing apprehension,” he chuckles. “Better to die to a beauty, no?”

Another small, slow nod.

“Well. We all have had enough choices along the road. Ha, you were my easiest one, little wave.”

Kyros feels his chest tight, like he can't breathe.

That space closes again, and warm lips press to his temple.

Innocent.

Chaste.

But for the heat burning in his cheeks, and falling down into the cage of his ribs and lower to the cradle of his hips.

“Let us get some sleep,” Zevran urges, then, drawing back. “And we'll leave the question of if I'll have a darling wife and a brood of orphans for another day.”

[kanis-things]

[necromosss]

"If you meant what you said Alistair, then swear on the divine. 'Tis not often you get to be in her presence" "I- It's- You never stopped being mean, do you?"

[anikorsmthnidk]

it's 2024 and i'm playing DA for the first time gods am i weak for the guys trying to kill me the first moment we meet

[milton-chamberlain]

Once again we have to do what Bioware doesn't do themselves

[eidothean]

My Crow Rook headcanon is that sometime during the story Rook goes home for family dinner and is like ‘… so I’m seeing someone … he’s a Dalish grey warden’ and Viago spits out a five hundred euro mouthful of wine (which Rook has poisoned just to see if he notices) and experiences one million catastrophic war flashbacks to the last time an Antivan Crow was ‘seeing’ a Dalish grey warden and gets up to find a quill to put a contract on Davrin’s life and Teia yanks him back by his coat and is like ‘ooh is that the handsome one’ and Rook is nodding enthusiastically while Viago stares into his dinner plate like it’s the abyss

[okthisway]

Zevran please

[crovvlipso]

Zevran as my rook's father. Girl dad zevran 😩

[nesquako]

Dragon age is more alive than ever and i want to share my wisdom in this matters

[stealingpotatoes]

had WAY too much fun with the dao + camp designs so i now bring you dao gang designs across the games <3

(commission info // tip jar!)

[itseghost]

the captured! quest was so funny that i actually drew multiple things at once

[zazrichor]

I will kill any god you ask.

[gowenxd]

I miss them :')

[necromosss]

I miss my Warden & Zevran so much and I thought 'lmao what if I made their child as my Rook' and when i checked on the years its possible to do so and i went a little nuts so

yep💖