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“So, Zevran. I…got you something," Alistair says, the words coming out more nervously than he'd intended. He shifts on his feet, watching Zevran carefully for his reaction.
Zevran just raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a teasing smirk. "For me?” He asks. “And what, pray tell, have I done to deserve such a thing?"
Alistair hesitates, second guessing himself for a moment. "Didn’t… didn’t you say it was your name day today?"
Zevran’s brow furrows for a moment, as if he’s trying to read Alistair’s sincerity. Then, it dawns on him—he had mentioned it in passing. He just hasn't expected anyone to truly take notice, or care.
"Ah, yes," he says with his usual teasing lilt. "So it is, but I did not expect to be showered with gifts." He pauses, giving a dramatic sigh. "Though I don’t suppose I would say no to piles of gold... rubies, perhaps. A palace made of marble? Oh, and a dozen beautiful young virgins feeding me peeled grapes while I—"
Alistair frowns. "Well, it’s certainly not that,” he says. “It’s… it’s not much, honestly. It’s probably not even—well, it’s definitely not the best quality, seeing as how being a Grey Warden isn't exactly the top paying—"
"My friend," Zevran drawls, letting out an exaggerated sigh, though his voice is tinged with amusement. "I grow weary of your rambling. Give me my gift already!"
With a nervous chuckle, Alistair hands over the small, square box, his fingers trembling slightly as Zevran takes it, his heart racing with anticipation. He watches as Zevran opens it, and hears Zevran’s breath catch slightly as he brushes his fingers over the delicate gold chain tucked inside.
Alistair shifts anxiously, scratching his head. "I might have been mistaken, but I—well, I think that's the one you looked at when we were in Antiva City a few months back. If it’s not, you can just—"
Zevran’s gaze snaps up to meet Alistair’s, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Alistair feels his heart skip a beat, his stomach tightening as he waits for Zevran to say something—anything.
When he does speak, his voice is softer, the teasing lilt all but gone, his eyes narrowed at Alistair. "You remembered that?"
Alistair swallows, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "I… Well, yes. You seemed to really like it, and I thought—" He pauses to clear his throat, his voice breaking. "I just thought that with everything….you should have something nice for your name day."
Zevran hums and lifts the anklet from the box, turning it between his fingers with a reverence that catches Alistair by surprise. It's really nothing.
"I do indeed have fine taste," Zevran murmurs, his usual mischievous demeanor disappearing momentarily. But then the moment shifts, and he breaks into a grin again, holding the anklet out to Alistair. "Now you must put it on me, of course.”
Alistair rolls his eyes. "Fine, but only because it’s your birthday," he mutters, though the corner of his mouth tugs upward as he kneels down before Zevran. His fingers brush against Zevran’s as he takes the anklet from him, and Zevran places his foot upon his upper thigh, the weight making warmth bloom in Alistair’s chest. Alistair doesn’t think they’ve ever been this close in proximity before and his fingers tremble as he drapes the delicate chain around Zevran’s slender ankle.
His fingers brush Zevran’s skin again as he adjusts the anklet, making certain it’s tight enough that it won’t fall off, and Zevran inhales sharply at the unexpected intimacy of it.
"For a soldier, you have a very gentle touch," he notes softly, and Alistair tries very hard not to blush.
"There," Alistair finally says, his breath catching when he finally fastens the clasp, his heartbeat pounding in his ears for reasons he doesn't understand. “All done,” he adds softly—almost reluctantly, as Zevran slowly lowers his foot.
"I…thank you for the gift,” Zevran murmurs, his tone more sincere than Alistair expected, though he’s never truly been able to tell when Zevran’s charm is genuine and when it’s just a mask. This, however, is the first time that uncertainty has ever truly bothered him, the first time he's ever been desperate to know the truth. “It was very thoughtful of you.”
Alistair gives a noncommittal nod, even as he feels the heat rise in his face. He can’t look at Zevran for too long, not with the fluttering in his chest and the lump in his throat. His hands have gone all clammy now too, his breathing shallow for no reason. “It was... nothing,” he mutters. “Really. I just thought—I just thought you should have it.”
And just like that, Zevran’s playful, teasing demeanor is back. He grins, his eyes lighting up with that teasing glint as he waves his foot around, admiring the way the moonlight catches the gold. “Of course. No less for the Princess of Antiva, yes?”
: : :
The thing about the anklet, Alistair thinks, is that he thankfully doesn’t have to see it all the time. If it had been something more obvious—like a pendant or a ring—he would have likely blushed every time he caught a glimpse of it, remembering the way Zevran had looked at him when he gave it to him. That night, when Alistair had knelt down to slip the delicate chain onto Zevran’s ankle—it all comes rushing back every time he thinks of it. And that’s a problem.
He hadn’t expected any of it. He hadn’t expected the warmth that had stirred in him when he saw how Zevran’s eyes had softened, how surprised he’d been that someone had remembered something that he mentioned. And he certainly hadn’t expected how that simple act, just giving a friend a gift, could somehow feel so... intimate.
And yet, here he was, weeks later, still thinking about it.
Today, they’re taking a rest by a stream on their way to Denerim. The sun is high, and it’s warm enough for everyone to strip off their shoes and wade into the water. Alistair is just sitting on a boulder by the bank, idly dipping his fingers into the stream, his mind elsewhere. The others are scattered about—Morrigan and Sten lounging near the edge of the water, and Leliana and Zevran sitting in the grass, talking quietly.
Alistair’s gaze drifts over to them aimlessly, but then it catches on something. Zevran has kicked off his boots and is lounging in the tall grass, his legs stretched out in front of him, one foot propped up on the other. And there, gleaming underneath the sunlight, is the anklet Alistair gave him, and his heart skips a beat. He had almost wondered a few times if Zevran might have taken it off, or maybe he had just been pretending to like it and never wore it again after that night. But seeing it now, out in the open, for everyone to see…it stirs something deep in Alistair’s chest, a confusing mix of feelings he can’t quite name and doesn't understand. His eyes linger on it for just a second too long, watching the light glint off it, and his stomach does that funny flip again.
Alistair isn’t sure what he expected when he bought it, or why he even had bought it in the first place. He hadn’t planned for it to be this... significant. He’d just seen it, and thought it would look good on Zevran, and Zevran had liked it, and it was his name day, so he’d bought it. It should have been that simple. It should have stopped there. It was just supposed to be something nice, something thoughtful. But now, it feels like more than that, like it means something it shouldn’t.
His eyes drift back to Zevran’s face, and their gazes meet for a brief moment before Zevran flashes him a knowing grin. Alistair quickly looks away, his cheeks hot, like he just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and a hot flush creeps up his neck. It’s like Zevran had been watching him all along, like he knows something Alistair doesn’t. And Alistair doesn’t know, he really doesn’t. He just knows that seeing Zevran casually lounging out in the open like that, the gift he’d bought for him on full display for everyone to see…He can't explain it, it’s too much. It makes Alistair’s stomach twist in a way he isn't sure he likes.
“What?” He asks, trying—and failing—to sound casual.
Zevran doesn’t answer immediately, almost like he’s enjoying watching Alistair squirm. “Oh nothing,” he finally replies, the hint of a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. “I was just thinking how fortunate I am to have such a sweet and thoughtful friend.”
There’s something about the earnest, easy way Zevran compliments him that makes Alistair’s chest tighten all over again. He’s never known how to take a compliment anyway. He always feels embarrassed by them, like he should apologize for making someone feel that they needed to compliment him in the first place. It just feels wrong. Instead, he clears his throat, desperately trying to remain composed.
"It is okay to stare, you know," Zevran murmurs. "It does look quite good on me."
“I—I wasn’t staring,” Alistair says, though it sounds weak and pathetic even to his own ears. “I…wasn’t.”
Zevran’s grin widens, just a little. “Of course not.”
Alistair feels a knot of frustration forming in his stomach. This is so stupid. He can’t believe he's acting like this all because of a stupid anklet. But then, he wonders if it's maybe not the anklet that’s the problem.
Maybe the problem is that Zevran knows.
He knows something that Alistair doesn't. And it's infuriating.
"Oh, Zevran, how pretty!" Leliana’s voice suddenly intrudes, her attention drawn in by the shiny piece of jewelry dangling from Zevran's ankle. She sits down on the ground along with them and reaches out to touch it and—Alistair feels a surge of possessiveness rear up inside of him that he didn't know he was capable of.
His breath catches in his throat, and he watches, frozen, the knot in his stomach growing and tightening as Leliana’s fingers hover near the delicate chain. He knows he's being totally irrational. Leliana’s just admiring the gift he bought for Zevran, nothing more. He should be happy about that! But it's like the thought of anyone else touching it has awakened a part of him he didn't know existed, and he doesn't know how to feel about it.
“Wait,” he blurts out, an uncomfortable rush of heat flooding his face when they both turn to look at him. “It’s...It just looks delicate. Might get caught or—”
When he glances over at Zevran again, Zevran’s usually charming smile is still there, but now there’s something else in it, a mix of amusement and something else—curiosity, maybe? Alistair isn't sure, and that feeling of frustration rises in him again.
"Ah, our dear Warden friend is just being cautious," he tells Leliana. "I am afraid I lost this the other day in a fight and made the poor man help me look for it for ages. It is quite special to me, you see, and I would be more than bereft if I were to lose it."
"I see," Leliana nods solemnly, still admiring it.
Alistair marvels at the effortless way Zevran deflects the attention, so easily slipping into his usual charm. The fact that he makes up some kind of tale to explain his reaction to Leliana somehow makes Alistair feel even more conflicted. Now it feels like a secret just between them and that—that makes Alistair feel dizzy.
But Zevran just continues. “Yes, Leliana, you know how things can get tangled in the heat of battle. And a piece like this,” he lifts his leg slightly, letting the chain dangle in the sun. “It’s far too precious to risk losing, don't you think?”
Leliana gives Zevran a knowing look, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. She’s quiet for a moment, watching the two of them, but her eyes seem to linger on Alistair just a moment longer before she says. “Oh yes, I understand. Of course,” she says solemnly. “It would be such a shame to lose something so dear to you.”
As she walks off, Alistair steals another glance at Zevran, only to find that Zevran is still only watching him, a sly smile on his lips.
Alistair groans quietly, dropping his face into his hands.
Maker help him, he’s in trouble.
: : :
Weeks later, they are making the trek to Haven, when Zevran—too distracted by riling Wynne up to be paying enough attention—stumbles into a steel trap. He assures them all that he's fine, but Alistair has seen enough injuries on the battlefield that he has his doubts. He tries to ignore it, tries to tell himself that he should just trust Zevran to know best, but the way Zevran had hobbled back to camp won't leave his mind. Tomorrow, they have much farther to walk, and Maker only knows what they'll find in Haven, so he really needs to make sure Zevran is up for it.
When he steps outside of his tent later that night, Alistair finds Zevran sitting on a tree stump, his foot dangling above the ground as he warms himself by the fire. He looks up as Alistair approaches, eyes widening slightly as if he hadn't expected it to be him. "I say, is everything alright? I do believe I heard Morrigan screeching at the Warden’s beloved hound just earlier.”
“Oh…yeah,” Alistair mutters. “I'm...honestly not sure. She'll get over it, though. Probably.”
He hesitates for just a moment before continuing, knowing that Zevran is probably just going to try to argue with him about it, but still, he needs to be certain he’ll be ready for anything. Any one of them being injured puts the rest at a greater risk, and Alistair isn't willing to lose anyone else that he cares for. This was one of the first things Duncan taught him.
“No, I just wanted to come by to make sure you’re alright,” he says. “I mean… you really should let me check that foot. Just to make sure it isn’t infected, at the very least.”
Zevran's brow lifts slightly and his smirk falters for a moment, before he recovers. “Oh. I am completely fine, my friend,” he says with a flippant wave of his hand. “I am an assassin, after all, lest you forget. I have had much worse.”
“Yes, thank you, I am aware of that," Alistair says, rolling his eyes. "But you see, that's the funny thing about infections. They don't really care if you're a Ferelden farmer or a fancy Antivan Crow. And you really don’t want to risk blood poisoning. Just trust me on that one.”
Zevran meets his gaze for a moment, his smile fading into something more serious, a rare expression for him. “You really are quite worried, aren’t you?” he asks, but there is no real heat in his words. He shifts on the stump, and extends his leg slowly, as if simply humoring Alistair. “Alright, then. Go on, check away, I suppose.”
Alistair exhales, a little relieved that Zevran isn't going to fight him on it. He kneels down on the ground before him, his heart thudding a little faster now, though for reasons he can't quite place. He carefully reaches for Zevran’s foot, trying to ignore how close they are, and how the energy between them has suddenly shifted.
Upon initial inspection, it seems Zevran was probably right. The skin is only slightly bruised, but there are no signs of infection, no swelling, no open wounds. He seems to be in the clear. Still, Alistair’s fingers linger, tracing the edge of the bruising gently, the soft skin of Zevran’s foot warm under his touch. He doesn't even realize what he’s doing until Zevran lets out a small, soft gasp.
When he looks up at him, Alistair’s mind feels like it’s spinning. The way Zevran is sitting before him—so calm, actually accepting his help this time—it makes something inside Alistair stir, something new and warm, but something that frightens him all the same.
Zevran shifts again, his knee brushing lightly against Alistair’s side, and the anklet Alistair had bought for him catches his attention. As soon as his eyes land on it, it feels like everything else stops.
"You know," Zevran purrs. "On second thought, I think you may be right. My poor, wounded foot might require a bit more... attention." He not-so-subtly pressed his foot into Alistair's palm. "I am thinking a massage, perhaps. To ensure the blood flows properly."
Alistair's breath hitches, and his pulse races at the suggestiveness in Zevran’s tone. He swallows hard, his mouth suddenly gone dry, then glances up at Zevran, searching for any sign of mockery. But for once, he finds only sincerity.
"Y-yes, of course," Alistair stutters, his voice barely above a whisper. He hesitates for a moment, unsure where to begin, before tentatively wrapping his fingers around Zevran's ankle once more. He keeps the touch careful at first, sliding his calloused palms up the smooth skin in a slow, sensual caress, and strokes the tendons gently with the pads of his thumbs
“Mmm,” Zevran lets out an appreciative hum and leans back slightly, tilting his head back to expose the column of his throat, his pulse visibly fluttering beneath the surface.
"You know, you do not have to be so gentle with me, dear Warden,” he murmurs, a languid huskiness in his voice, as if he's so relaxed he’s moments from drifting off. “Why don't you use those big, strong hands like you mean it?”
Alistair flushes under the direction and simply nods, too afraid of what might come out of his mouth at the moment were he to open it, and digs his knuckles into the arch of Zevran's foot. And Zevran's hips twitch involuntarily in response, a low grunt falling from his mouth that goes straight to Alistair’s cock. Feeling emboldened by Zevran’s response and encouragement, Alistair applies more pressure, kneading the muscles and tendons with a firmness that borders on painful. His thumbs trace circles over Zevran’s instep while his fingers massage his heel, his free hand gripping the back of Zevran’s calf for leverage, holding him steady.
The more he works, the more Alistair can't help but imagine what it would be like to massage other parts of Zevran, if he would make the same noises then, or more. For instance, if he were to let his hands wander and began to massage Zevran's legs, digging his thumbs in to work out the tension in his calves or the muscles in his thighs, how would Zevran react then? The mere thought of it makes his face go warm and his cock shamefully begins to swell, tenting his trousers.
Drowning in his own shame, Alistair accidentally tightens his grip—almost painfully so—and Zevran lets out a small noise, bringing Alistair out of his stupor. Alistair loosens his grip once he realizes it, but then his gaze falls upon the gold chain around Zevran's ankle once more and this time, he chooses to reach out and touch it.
Zevran's eyes darken when Alistair's fingers graze the anklet, another breathy gasp escaping his lips when Alistair slips his finger in between the chain and the delicate, sharp bone of his ankle, slowly dragging it back and forth, the thin chain chafing against Zevran’s skin as he did so.
"Ahh, Warden..." Zevran pants, his voice dripping with need. "You're making it rather difficult for me to maintain decorum here."
Alistair's mouth falls open as Zevran lifts his foot and places it higher on his thigh, allowing just the top of his toes to brush his erection. Alistair gasps, his eyes going wide, and Zevran takes this as encouragement, rubbing the sole of his foot against the bulge in Alistair's pants. The touch sends a spark of pleasure straight to Alistair's core and he has to bite down on his tongue to hold back the moan threatening to escape.
"Zevran, what..." He manages to choke out. He knows he should push Zevran away, try to reclaim some semblance of dignity, but all he can think about was how good it feels, the way the Zevran’s toes had curled as he pressed his foot against his aching cock, the feel of the delicate gold chain beneath his thumb where he’s still gripping his ankle.
"Alistair, you are my dear friend," Zevran says, low and seductive. "But you are not very subtle with your interests."
He then increases the pressure, rubbing his foot along the length of Alistair's cock through his trousers, applying just enough weight to tease without actually relieving the ache—in fact, Alistair would probably say that what Zevran is doing now is making it worse.
The more Zevran’s foot strokes over his cock, the more Alistair's vision blurred, his face flooding with shame and embarrassment. He squeezes his eyes shut, unable to meet Zevrans' gaze as Zevran curls his toes again, making Alistair’s hips twitch with each light movement. This time, Alistair is unable to prevent the moan from slipping out, and his face flushed hotly when he hears what he sounds like.
Zevran’s movements grow more deliberate after that, more purposeful, each brush of his foot against Alistair's cock making him shudder, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter within his core. His hips buck instinctively, seeking more friction, seeking relief from the pressure building within him. It should be embarrassing. He should feel humiliated—but all Alistair can think is that he’s never been this hard in his life. It’s genuinely so much that it’s beginning to border on painful.
But as with most things, Zevran is relentless about this as well. He begins to move his foot faster, increasing the friction, rubbing and teasing, until Alistair's entire body is trembling and Alistair abandons all pretense of dignity. Tightening his grip on Zevran's ankle, he presses Zevran’s foot even firmer against his cock and with a choked out sob, starts to roll his hips against it, squeezing his eyes shut as he humps Zevran's foot like—like some kind of dog in heat. Maker, what has happened to him?
Zevran's eyes flash with heat as he watches Alistair's desperate, frantic thrusts, the wet spot forming on the front of Alistair's trousers telling him exactly how close the man is to release.
"Mm, yes, just like that," Zevran purrs, then he reaches down and tips Alistair's head up to meet his gaze. Alistair's face burns as they make eye contact, his cock throbbing where it's still pressed against the sole of the other man’s foot.
“Maker,” Alistair pants, and tries to shut his eyes again, but Zevran just clicks his tongue at him and shakes his head. Alistair makes a pathetic whining noise in the back of his throat in response, his thumb and forefinger still tangled up in the chain around Zevran's ankle, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. “Fuck, Zevran, I can’t—”
"Ah, but that is where you are so very wrong,” Zevran says, then brutally grinds his heel against the head of Alistair’s cock in a way that causes Alistair vision to white out. “Now. Let go for me, my Grey Warden."
With a choked cry, Alistair's hips jerk forward one final time and just like that, he comes undone, his orgasm so forceful it feels as if it's ripped from his soul. His cock pulses where it remains trapped in his trousers and smalls as he rides out the waves of it, his body shuddering and trembling with each aftershock of pleasure.
When he finally slumps back, spent and sated and too sensitive for anymore, Alistair finally releases Zevran’s ankle. He can't imagine what he must look like—utterly debauched, his hair disheveled, his clothes rumpled, and a large, telltale stain darkening the front of his trousers, chest still heaving with ragged breaths. If only the Revered Mother could see him now.
"By the Maker..." he whispers, his voice hoarse. "What have you done to me?"
“Ah, Alistair. Don’t you know?” Zevran murmurs, leaning in until his mouth is so close that Alistair can feel his breath on his own lips.
"Know what? Alistair asks, heart pounding.
“I could just as easily ask the same," Zevran whispers, finally closing the distance.