#Alistair x Zevran

[alltears]

dragon age twitter au? dragon age twitter au. ORIGINS EDITION PT 2

[valorant-reverie]

If you shipped Zevistair in the Dragon Age days then you ship Bloodweave now in the BG3 days

I’m sorry but I don’t make the rules

[adoribullpavus]

guys tag this with your forbidden dragon age ships. i'll go first.

[cactusnymph]

Prompt 33, bandaging the other’s hand and not quite letting go, for dragon age? ❤️

"Ah, I miss our dear Wynne and her impressive bo—"

"Don't. Say it."

Alistair has no capacity for Zevran's jokes right now. Every single muscle in his body is hurting and his blood is humming with the awareness of at least a dozen Darkspawn in the area close by.

Zevran's ability to make light of situations is something that Alistair might be able to admire if Zevran wasn't also bleeding out of various wounds.

Having Wynne here would make all of this so much easier and way less dangerous.

"It would do you good to think of something nice in a dark situation like this, my dear Alistair", Zevran says and doesn't bat an eye when Alistair goes to wash one of the deep cuts between his ribs. Zevran's pain tolerance is a frightening thing to behold.

The sweat on his forehead and his unusually pale skin tells a different story, of course.

He wishes he didn't drink his last healing potion an hour ago. While Zevran's pain tolerance might be very impressive, Alistair knows that he's the one who can take the heaviest hits. He should have taken the brunt of this.

"Yet again you're not following my advice. You look as if you're thinking of funerals and Mabari excrements", Zevran says and manages a smirk.

"I'll start thinking about nice things once you stop bleeding out", Alistair mumbles, pressing a bandage on one of the wounds and tying it as tightly as possible to stop the bleeding. Then he moves onto the next.

Three Darkspawn down the tunnel behind them.

He hopes Nerian is safe. Usually Alistair wouldn't mind if Morrigan's head got ripped off by an ogre, but maybe not while they're already in such dire circumstances.

"Is that worry I detect, my friend?"

For some reason Alistair wishes that Zevran wouldn't keep calling him that.

"I don't want Nerian to look at me with a disapproving frown when I let you die", Alistair lies, rummaging around in his pack to see if he has any elfroot left to disinfect some of the nastier cuts on Zevran's thigh.

Since they headed into the Deep Roads Alistair didn't exactly have time to examine his feelings for—well. Neither Nerian nor Zevran. Instead of taking some quiet time to contemplate his attraction towards not one but two men, Alistair is zoned into the constant humming of the Darkspawn blood flowing through his veins.

He could really use a good night of sleep under the stars without nightmares of the Archdemon.

"Ah yes. Your fellow Grey Warden has a fierce aura of disapproval about him whenever something displeases him. I can see how that would strike fear into your heart", Zevran says and watches Alistair's every move as he does his best to clean the wound with water and elfroot.

Alistair glances up at Zevran's pale, sweaty face and swallows.

"So. I noticed you—uh. Stopped. With the. With the flirting", Alistair finally says. This is absolutely the worst time to address this, but Alistair could do with a little distraction from the horrors and maybe Zevran feels the same.

Zevran chuckles weakly and Alistair is concerned about the way his eyelids droop.

"I am nothing if not respectful", Zevran says, making Alistair snort. "And since I noticed that you fancy our dear leader I have graciously decided to take a step back."

Five Darkspawn fifteen meters ahead.

The air smells like dust and blood.

"You don't have to", he finally mumbles, his ears burning with shame and the blood rushing into their tips.

There's a beat of silence while Alistair starts bandaging Zevran's hand. He's very aware of every callus and the way they're almost holding hands like this, with Alistair cradling the bleeding palm in one hand while cleaning the wound with the other one.

This is ridiculous. He has to concentrate.

For a breathless moment Alistair is scared that Zevran went unconscious, but when he glances up he registers that Zevran studies his face, his expression unusually serious and below all the strain there's a hint of curiosity that makes Alistair's cheeks burn and his heart hammer in his rib cage.

"Well, aren't you full of surprises", Zevran says with a lopsided smile. Alistair fumbles with the final bandage as he tries to sort the Darkspawn awareness from the rushing of blood he feels while he feels Zevran's eyes on him.

He only realizes too late that the bandage is already done and he's still holding on to Zevran's hand. Alistair takes a deep breath before hastily letting go and turning away from Zevran to grab his shield.

"Stay there", he orders and in one fluid motion beheads a Darkspawn turning the corner.

No one is going to die today. Not on his watch.

feel free to send me one of these <3

[crackedeluvian]

hey. zevistair fans. is there any fanart you have posted that youcan provide me . please i just wanna see them be gay

[tobythewise]

Welcome to DWC! Happy friday! For Zevran/Alistair: “Hey, so about—” “I suddenly have memory loss and don’t remember who you are.”

Thank you for the welcome and for this brilliant prompt!! 🥰💚 I hope you enjoy!

(Written for @dadrunkwriting content ahead: mentions of drinking, a drunk kiss, and getting together)

Alistair wakes up in his tent with a pained groan. His mouth is parched and tastes like dirt, his head is somehow both spinning amd pounding, and his stomach is sour. The smell of booze comes from his breath, making him all the more sick.

By the Maker, what did he do last night?

Oh right. They found themselves at the Pearl, deal with yet another job their fearless leader took on. After that, they somehow found themselves playing cards with a pirate named Isabela and after that there was alcohol. A lot of it.

Alistair hasn’t had many opportunities to get drunk, not while living in Redcliffe and certainly not while studying at the Chantry. So for the first time, he accepted every glass put in front of him. Looking back, he really should have stopped after two, but once he started it felt like a cop out to stop. If Wynne could handle a few drinks, surely he should be able to as well!

That was his line of thinking anyway.

Now? Now Alistair promises himself to never drink again. He’s sticking to water going forward.

Alistair smacks his lips, realizing the last time he woke up with his mouth tasting this vile was his Joining. Great, now he’s going to start associating alcohol with Darkspawn blood.

Covering his face with his hands, Alistair groans long and low. Just then, the flap of his tent folds open, letting sunshine through.

“Close that,” he grumbles without looking up. “Too early. Too bright.”

A warm chuckle makes him part his fingers, finding Zevran carefully closing the tent flap behind himself. Alistair’s stomach does a flip only this time it’s followed by a warm tingly feeling instead of the urge to throw up.

“Ah, I had a feeling you would be feeling a bit rough this morning, my friend. I’ve brought you cold water to help.”

Without saying a single word, Alistair reaches out and takes the water skin from him. Their fingers brush and a shiver runs through him. There’s something nagging him at the back of his mind, something that happened last night.

It must not have been that important if he can’t think of it.

Alistair takes a long swing of water, thankful at the way to washes away the gross taste in his mouth. He looks over at Zevran, finding him staring. Alistair feels himself flushing, something he does often when he’s around Zevran.

And of course because he’s him, the attention makes him panic. Alistair takes a large swig, the water shooting down the wrong pipe and suddenly he’s choking on water, coughing it back up while trying not to spit any water onto Zevran.

With dexterity and smoothness that Alistair is jealous of, Zevran slides further into the tent, kneeling next to him. His hand slides across Alistair’s back, patting him a few times.

By the Maker, the blushing is back and it’s even worse now that he’s so close.

Alistair turns his head, finding himself almost nose to nose with Zevran. This close, he can make out the little golden specks in his brown eyes. He’s so close it would be so easy to….

Oh. Oh no. Holy shit. Oh god.

Alistair’s eyes widen as he realizes what he couldn’t remember about the night before. He was so drunk he could barely walk which meant Zevran had to practically carry him here. While the assassin was helping him into his bedroll, Alistair pulls him down into a sloppy, drunk kiss.

They kissed.

He kissed Zevran.

Alistair can tell the moment Zevran notices that he remembers. His eyes grow soft and he puts on an easy smile.

“Hey,” Zevran starts to say, “so about—“

Alistair does the most mature thing he can think to do in this moment. He shoves Zevran back, falls back into his bedroll, and pulls it over his face.

“I suddenly have memory loss! I don’t remember who you are!”

There’s a long moment of silence. It goes on so long that Alistair is half convinced that the man he’s grown to have a giant, embarrassing crush on has left his tent. He just wants to hide and pretend none of this has happened because he’s not sure he’ll survive the teasing this situation is going to leave him with.

“If you wish to play it this way, I am not one to push,” Zevran finally says, his voice surprisingly soft. “In my experience, drunk lips tell what one is too scared to share while sober. If that’s not the case, consider this conversation to have never happened.”

Alistair swallows around the lump in his throat. It would be so easy to let it go, to pretend it was all a drinker mistake. But for once, he wants to be brave. He wants to take a leap. Zevran is worth that.

Pulling the blanket down so only his eyes are showing, he stares up into Zevran’s eyes. “And if my drunk lips were telling the truth?”

Zevran’s lips curls into an easy smile. “Then I would ask you to never kiss me while drunk again.” Before Alistair can apologize or throw himself from the tent in embarrassment and rejection, Zevran continues. “When our lips meet, I want all of your wits about you. I want you to experience our kiss fully. I want your sober lips to talk to me, my warden.”

Alistair might not remember much about their first kiss but their second kiss? He commits it to memory, completely sober.

[thedragonagelesbian]

To The Sticking Place

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins

Rating: T

Pairing: Alistair/Zevran

Summary: When Alistair runs out of the Landsmeet, Zevran goes to find him, and they wander through Denerim together, talking everything over.

Someone in the Denerim Market District was hawking a set of Grey Warden armor— the genuine article, according to the merchant ratcheting up its price by insisting it guaranteed protection against the imminent darkspawn invasion. The chunky chainmail didn’t suit Zevran, but when he saw a tarnished golden token with a familiar worn rune on the ground nearby, he had to stop. A few silvers later, he learned the armor had belonged to a puffy-eyed man who had been eager to get rid of it and didn’t think to haggle. With a bit more asking around the market, Zevran followed the trail from a street vendor selling hot sandwiches to a man selling wrinkly and wriggly puppies to finally, the Chantry.

 It was there that he found Alistair doing something he had never seen him do before: praying. Wedged between dozens of other sinners and mourners trying to clear their slate before the Blight came for them, Alistair was kneeling before the likeness of Andraste, his face dimly lit by the single candle cupped in her marble hands. He seemed unremarkable: no heraldry of the wardens to mark him as Fereldan’s almost-savior, no crown to distinguish him as its almost-king.

 Resolved not to draw any unwanted attention, Zevran drew up his hood and skirted around the shadows of the nave until he was crouched by Alistair’s side.

 “You dropped this, my dear friend.”

Keep reading on Ao3

[sulky-valkyrie]

happy Friday!!! for dadwc. 100 words challenge.

Zevistair / Zev×Bela

"Broken dagger"

muahhhhhhhh

How about BOTH?! 💜💜💜 for @dadrunkwriting

"Is your dagger broken?" Bela teased as they left Nuncio’s body to rot.  “Last time, you didn’t wait until Luis was cold.”

Zevran looped an arm around her shoulders.  "Ah, mi tesoro, we are not as young as we were.  Never fear, it may take me longer to draw it, but it can still sink deep."

She grinned.  "Never thought I'd see the day a Crow confesses to a slow blade."  

"Bela, a slow blade can still bring a great death, as you well know."  Zevran caught her fingers and pulled them to his lips.  "A little death, at least."

Zevran was juggling something by the fire.  

“What is that?” Alistair asked as he sat down next to him.

He shrugged as he spun it on his fingers before holding it out.  “A gift.”

Alistair frowned and took it.  “Who gave you a broken dagger hilt?”

“It is a sad tale.”  Zevran picked it back up.  “Perhaps not a gift, then, but a memory.”  He threw the hilt toward the trees and smiled over his shoulder.  In the flickering light, Alistair saw it didn't reach his eyes.  “You needn't be troubled, my dear Warden.  It, and Rinna, are long gone.”

[rosella-writes]

Happy Fridaaaay! For DADWC: "First one to make a noise loses" for either Alistair/Zevran or another pairing if you like it better? :D

Thank you so much Gin 🥰 this one got smutty lol.

For @dadrunkwriting Pairing: Zevistair Rating: E Warnings: consensual breath play

~~~

A game, he’d called it. 

It’ll be fun, he said. 

You like trying new things, he insisted. 

Alistair desperately tried to remember all this and more as he squinted through tears at the glow of the firelight through the tent wall. Zevran’s fingers were hooked in his hair — they pulled his head back almost to its limit, baring his throat and almost cutting off the breath that would’ve made noise. 

Noise that wasn’t allowed. 

He wanted to. Maker, he wanted to. He wanted to moan until Zevran shut him up. He wanted to breathe out ragged sighs for every one of the deep thrusts into his body. When Zevran held him — his hand slid now from his hair to cup his throat — with fingers digging into his waist like this, even fear of lightning couldn’t strike him now. The niggling voice of the Chantry sisters faded to nothing. 

Alistair figured they hadn’t anticipated him to engage in this particular type of debauchery, but that was neither here nor there. 

He tried to focus again. Why wasn’t he supposed to make a sound? It wasn’t like their camp members hadn’t heard them at this before. His mind half-floated, giddy on the lack of breath as Zevran’s grip tightened. But then Zevran’s fingers in the meat of his side twitched, and Alistair remembered. 

A challenge, amore. You, me, competition. The first to make a sound loses.

And what do I get when I win?

Why, you wake up to a mouth on your cock, of course.

And you make breakfast. 

For you, caro, I will. But only if you win. 

Alistair was no longer so sure he wanted to win, all things considered. Granted, the things considered were Zevran’s hands, Zevran’s cock, Zevran’s scent and presence and the soft little sigh he made just now when —

“Fuck,” Zevran spat, bending over Alistair’s back with a sudden jolt of his hips. Alistair leaned back against him, breathing deeply past Zevran’s loosening grip on his throat — Zevran’s breath brushed his ear, then his lips, then his teeth. “My lovely warden, how good you feel.”

Alistair finally allowed himself a pathetic, reedy little moan that ended in a whimpered, “Andraste’s tits.”

Zevran rolled his hips forward in an indulgent, slow slide — hot wetness slid down Alistair’s thigh. Finally, Zevran’s clever assassin’s fingers crept from where they dug into Alistair’s side and grasped his cock instead. 

“I had no hope of winning, caro,” Zevran murmured in his ear, his voice flatteringly rough. “Not when you were doing so well, and deserved to hear it said. And… and — cazzo, tesoro —”

Alistair had something smart, something ridiculous, on the tip of his tongue, but Zevran’s hand wrung it from him with stroke after stroke. Zevran’s free hand slid back up to Alistair’s throat, but cupped it gently this time — he just held him, slipped out of him and held him back against his body as they knelt on bedrolls over lumpy ground. Alistair couldn’t say a word, not until he came with a jerk into Zevran’s palm — even then, it was a hissed “Maker” through clenched teeth. 

Zevran kept going, indulgently palming him with the wetness of Alistair’s own spend until he almost begged him to stop. Even then, Zevran didn’t let him go. Alistair just slumped back into his lap, supported by luck and Zevran’s arms around him. 

Zevran slowly, treasuringly, gently mouthed a chaste chain of kisses from Alistair’s ear to the crook of his neck, then nuzzled his nose into the warmth there. Alistair almost held his breath — he knew how rare such moments had been for the assassin in the past, and how dangerous those few had been. He wanted this one to be safe. 

“I lost on purpose, you should know,” Zevran said suddenly, his usually silky voice still roughened up from emotion or sex or both. “Can’t have you making breakfast in the morning, dear Warden. Morrigan would kill us both.”

Alistair huffed out a tired, disbelieving laugh. “Sure it’s… not because you wanted to… you know. That?”

“Suck your cock to wake you?” Zevran said. Alistair could feel his smile against his neck. “You can say it, you know. No lightning will strike you.”

“No lightning will strike me,” Alistair repeated. “What a relief. You should rehabilitate chantry-trained rabble more often! You know exactly what to say.”

“You are unbearable.”

Alistair laughed properly this time, then turned with a grunt and unceremoniously grasped Zevran’s face. He kissed him soundly, until the assassin whimpered soundlessly into his mouth.

[blarrghe]

Strange Feelings in the Party Camp

Rating: M | Category: M/M/F | Words: 24 429  | Chapters: 8/?

Alistair is in love with Violet. Violet is sleeping with Zevran. Zevran is too good a friend to Alistair. Violet is too good a friend to Zevran. And can love even really be on the table, when you're all probably going to die?

Chapter 8: No One Is Jealous

Chapter Snippet:

It is a relief to be back where the days are bright and warm, even if it is still not under sky. It is a relief to smell something other than sweat and death. It is a relief, Maker it is too much of a relief, to see Zevran’s face beaming out at them through the crowd that gathers at the Deep Roads’ gates. 

Violet runs to him without thinking, sweat-smelling and bile-covered and tired, she jumps into his arms in a fierce hug. He grins, pats her shoulders, and lets her go. Only then does she feel guilty. Her heart had soared to see his smile, the flash of his bright jewelry and sandy hair over the heads of grim dwarves. Her heart had soared in a way that was not unlike the way it had when Alistair swept her off her feet the night before they'd left, tossing her to bed in a royal bedchamber. It soars in a way that, for Zevran, she is supposed to be through with. 

And guilt seeps deeper still when behind her, Alistair charges in. He does not charge in jealously. He charges in and right past her, tacking the elf in a strong-armed hug of his own. 

[nesquako]

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

[marduksstuff]

I REALLY LOVE ROMANCE WITH ALISTAIR

[alltears]

dragon age twitter au? dragon age twitter au. ORIGINS + VEILGUARD!!! HAPPY MORRIGAN RETURN HAPPY RELEASE DATE HAPPY PREORDER!!!!

[sinizade]

"You must think I'm royally stupid."

"I think you're royally tough to kill, And utterly gorgeous."

A remake of one of my first Zevran drawings

[dailydadoodles]

Meanwhile, at camp:

[art-bloob]

Been playing origins and inquisition concurrently lmao