Fanfic: Socks
Written in response to one of the prompts onswooping_is_bad in honor of reaching 1000 members. It is crossposted there, as well as at onemorealtmer as usual.
Title: Socks
Words: 964
Rating: T
Characters: Zevran/f!Tabris (Taniva) featuring Sten, Alistair, Wynne, Morrigan, and Leliana
Summary: A bit of unwinding at Redcliffe, early in the party's progress.
Socks
What was left of Redcliffe adored them, and they were all granted a place to sleep free of charge. It probably helped that there were so few people left, so there was no lack for beds. Being the hero rather than the rogue might have its advantages after all.
Still, after luxuriating for a while in the ability to stretch out, clean on a bed rather than grimy on a pallet, Zevran regretted that there had been space enough for the men and the women to have separate quarters. Not that Alistair wasn’t pretty to look at, of course, and even Sten had an impressive build; but Alistair was still mistrustful of him, and Sten overtly unfriendly in general.
Their room was as quiet as an unpopular man’s funeral. The qunari sat in a corner, mumbling to himself in what was apparently some form of meditation, and Alistair was sprawled across his own bed diagonally, well-muscled buttocks toward Zevran in a way he would have taken as an invitation if they were friendlier. Boredom finally drove him to rise and head for the door.
But that inspired Alistair to stir. “Wait. Where are you going?”
“Am I under some kind of house arrest?” He leaned against the door frame, swiveling his hip slightly and putting on a flirtatious smirk. “Or are you working up the courage for something more interesting?”
“Let’s call it that first one.”
Zevran shrugged and dropped his pose. “We have just barely secured the town, you know. We should make sure the women are safe.”
Alistair propped himself up on his elbows - it was wicked how good he was at being alluring when he had no understanding of the principle - and raised an eyebrow. “And you thought you’d just go and check. By yourself. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“We have already found one spy. I am the one who knows how to recognize that kind of threat, and I am much better at making a quiet approach than you are.”
“Hmm. That’s fine if there are spies. What if there are monsters? Undead things?”
“I have been holding my own against those as well, I think.”
“I think I should go with you.”
“An excellent idea,” said Sten. “You should both go. Take your time.”
Alistair got up from the bed. “Do you ever get the feeling he doesn’t like us?”
“He does not seem to share our appetite for witty repartee, does he?”
Naturally there was no threat whatsoever lurking in the hallway, and Alistair insisted on knocking and being invited in properly. No understanding of the principle.
The women had a table. Morrigan and Wynne were sitting at it, each nursing a goblet of wine. (They had wine.) Leliana and Taniva were laying across the same bed in opposite directions, Leliana humming something and Taniva waving her feet in the air in time with the tune.
Faced with all of this, what Alistair thought to say was, “Taniva, your socks.”
Which compelled Zevran to look at them. True, they were odd. They went to her knees, and matched only in that they were both randomly striped in a bewildering assortment of colors. Unexpectedly… whimsical.
She turned her head to regard the men at the door with an unusual lack of concern, and Zevran concluded that she’d had some of the wine herself. “My socks? All my socks look like that.”
“I think they’re cute,” Leliana said.
“I think so too.” Taniva lifted her arms over her head so that they dangled off the foot of the bed - it was as if everyone was conspiring to arouse him in contexts where there was no way to move forward.
Still, he would make the best of it. Certainly this looked like more fun than he’d been having with Sten. He sat down in the open space on the bed and pulled Taniva’s feet down into his lap, under the pretense that he was looking more closely at the socks. “Did someone make these? It is hard to imagine that you bought them.”
“Shianni used to knit them for me, out of whatever we could get that looked pretty.” She flexed both feet at him. “They are the most magnificent things I own.”
He smiled and traced one hand along her calf, tactfully stopping at the knee. All about the socks. “They are quite magnificent. And resourceful as well. It is a shame we never see them under the boots.”
“Pft!” Leliana gave a half-hearted push to his shoulder. “You don’t care a thing about socks. You’re awful.”
“It’s true,” Morrigan purred from the corner. “He just wants the excuse to play with your feet, Taniva.”
The Warden only giggled. “I don’t care if he plays with my feet. He’s pretty.”
“Ignore that,” Morrigan said, looking at Zevran with a sternness that actually seemed false. How much had they been drinking? “It’s the wine talking.”
“Ladies!” he protested, beaming. “Are all of you aligned against me, then? This is such a vicious company.”
“I haven’t said anything yet,” Wynne pointed out, and even she seemed to be in high and tipsy spirits. “That said, I am absolutely against you. Let me bring you a cup.”
“Bless you, Wynne. You are a wonderful woman. And quite well-endowed, if I may say so.”
“You may,” she said, pouring, “but not when I have had fewer than three glasses of wine.”
As he took his cup, Zevran spared a glance at Alistair, who was still standing in the same place, gaping at how perfectly the elf had insinuated himself among the women. He smiled up at the naïve young man. “Come, have a seat, Alistair! Sit at my feet and I will teach you everything I know.”
“You’re evil.”
Zevran laughed.
Title: Socks
Words: 964
Rating: T
Characters: Zevran/f!Tabris (Taniva) featuring Sten, Alistair, Wynne, Morrigan, and Leliana
Summary: A bit of unwinding at Redcliffe, early in the party's progress.
Socks
What was left of Redcliffe adored them, and they were all granted a place to sleep free of charge. It probably helped that there were so few people left, so there was no lack for beds. Being the hero rather than the rogue might have its advantages after all.
Still, after luxuriating for a while in the ability to stretch out, clean on a bed rather than grimy on a pallet, Zevran regretted that there had been space enough for the men and the women to have separate quarters. Not that Alistair wasn’t pretty to look at, of course, and even Sten had an impressive build; but Alistair was still mistrustful of him, and Sten overtly unfriendly in general.
Their room was as quiet as an unpopular man’s funeral. The qunari sat in a corner, mumbling to himself in what was apparently some form of meditation, and Alistair was sprawled across his own bed diagonally, well-muscled buttocks toward Zevran in a way he would have taken as an invitation if they were friendlier. Boredom finally drove him to rise and head for the door.
But that inspired Alistair to stir. “Wait. Where are you going?”
“Am I under some kind of house arrest?” He leaned against the door frame, swiveling his hip slightly and putting on a flirtatious smirk. “Or are you working up the courage for something more interesting?”
“Let’s call it that first one.”
Zevran shrugged and dropped his pose. “We have just barely secured the town, you know. We should make sure the women are safe.”
Alistair propped himself up on his elbows - it was wicked how good he was at being alluring when he had no understanding of the principle - and raised an eyebrow. “And you thought you’d just go and check. By yourself. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“We have already found one spy. I am the one who knows how to recognize that kind of threat, and I am much better at making a quiet approach than you are.”
“Hmm. That’s fine if there are spies. What if there are monsters? Undead things?”
“I have been holding my own against those as well, I think.”
“I think I should go with you.”
“An excellent idea,” said Sten. “You should both go. Take your time.”
Alistair got up from the bed. “Do you ever get the feeling he doesn’t like us?”
“He does not seem to share our appetite for witty repartee, does he?”
Naturally there was no threat whatsoever lurking in the hallway, and Alistair insisted on knocking and being invited in properly. No understanding of the principle.
The women had a table. Morrigan and Wynne were sitting at it, each nursing a goblet of wine. (They had wine.) Leliana and Taniva were laying across the same bed in opposite directions, Leliana humming something and Taniva waving her feet in the air in time with the tune.
Faced with all of this, what Alistair thought to say was, “Taniva, your socks.”
Which compelled Zevran to look at them. True, they were odd. They went to her knees, and matched only in that they were both randomly striped in a bewildering assortment of colors. Unexpectedly… whimsical.
She turned her head to regard the men at the door with an unusual lack of concern, and Zevran concluded that she’d had some of the wine herself. “My socks? All my socks look like that.”
“I think they’re cute,” Leliana said.
“I think so too.” Taniva lifted her arms over her head so that they dangled off the foot of the bed - it was as if everyone was conspiring to arouse him in contexts where there was no way to move forward.
Still, he would make the best of it. Certainly this looked like more fun than he’d been having with Sten. He sat down in the open space on the bed and pulled Taniva’s feet down into his lap, under the pretense that he was looking more closely at the socks. “Did someone make these? It is hard to imagine that you bought them.”
“Shianni used to knit them for me, out of whatever we could get that looked pretty.” She flexed both feet at him. “They are the most magnificent things I own.”
He smiled and traced one hand along her calf, tactfully stopping at the knee. All about the socks. “They are quite magnificent. And resourceful as well. It is a shame we never see them under the boots.”
“Pft!” Leliana gave a half-hearted push to his shoulder. “You don’t care a thing about socks. You’re awful.”
“It’s true,” Morrigan purred from the corner. “He just wants the excuse to play with your feet, Taniva.”
The Warden only giggled. “I don’t care if he plays with my feet. He’s pretty.”
“Ignore that,” Morrigan said, looking at Zevran with a sternness that actually seemed false. How much had they been drinking? “It’s the wine talking.”
“Ladies!” he protested, beaming. “Are all of you aligned against me, then? This is such a vicious company.”
“I haven’t said anything yet,” Wynne pointed out, and even she seemed to be in high and tipsy spirits. “That said, I am absolutely against you. Let me bring you a cup.”
“Bless you, Wynne. You are a wonderful woman. And quite well-endowed, if I may say so.”
“You may,” she said, pouring, “but not when I have had fewer than three glasses of wine.”
As he took his cup, Zevran spared a glance at Alistair, who was still standing in the same place, gaping at how perfectly the elf had insinuated himself among the women. He smiled up at the naïve young man. “Come, have a seat, Alistair! Sit at my feet and I will teach you everything I know.”
“You’re evil.”
Zevran laughed.