Chapter Text
Tonight is a slow night. There are only a few regulars sitting in the main room of the brothel, each accompanied by their favourite hosts. Arms are wrapped around waists, fingers are weaving through hair and there’s whispered chatter, just the faint tension of promised pleasures that always floats in the lower floor of the establishment.
Without anyone to attend to, Zevran is perched on a stool at the edge of the bar so he’ll see both the entrance and the lovely barmaid he’s been exchanging pleasantries with. Further in the room, he sees Taliesen descend the stairs with a satisfied-looking human at his arm. They exchange a smile. Zevran’s friend lets his client go with a wave and a wink.
Zevran is about to join him for a chat, when a hand grabs his shoulder. He spins around. “Señora?”
The woman indicates the door to the backroom by a nod. Zevran follows her. The room is dark, only lit by a single candle on top of a pile of crates. It makes the Señora’s green eyes stand starkly against her dark skin.
“You have a special client,” she says once the door closes behind them. “Here’s the address of the inn he’s staying at.” She hands him a piece of parchment.
Well that’s unusual. “Special client?” he enquires, twisting the parchment in his hands without reading it.
She nods. “Rich bloke. He sent a messenger with payment and instructions.”
“A messenger, hmm?” Zevran leans forward and whispers like a secret, smile on his lips, “What did he ask for?” The Señora nods at the parchment, so he unfolds it. On it are scribbled an address, and a request. “Human or elf man, not too submissive,” he reads. His grin widens. “I believe I can do that. May I enquire about the pay?”
“Handsome,” is the only response he gets.
“Very well! Let us meet this mysterious man of wealth.” He winks at the Señora, smooths his shirt for good measure, and with that he slips out the brothel through the back door.
The inn is quite far from the brothel, so far in fact that Zevran has to walk around the Royal Palace’s perimeter to get to it. The streets are dark, and he’s thankful for the blade in his boot. Not that he’s very good with knives, or any kind of fighting, really… But the hilt pressing into his calf with each step is reassuring.
The inn itself is nestled at the end of a dark alleyway. It looks shabby. Definitely not the kind of place one would think a man of means would stay in… Although, as it occurs to him, that’s most likely why someone wishing to remain discrete would have picked it.
The door is heavy. It gives under Zevran’s shoulder with a low creak that echoes in the empty street.
The main room is small, and the patrons rare. One of them catches Zevran’s gaze as he walks in and gets up from his table in a hurry to meet him. He’s barely out of his teenage years, features still too awkward to be those of a man. The messenger, then.
“He awaits in his room,” he murmurs when he gets within earshot.
The boy leads him to a door at the end of a dark hallway, before disappearing so fast Zevran doesn’t have time to thank him. He smooths his hair and clothes one last time, puts his best suave smile on, and knocks firmly on the door.
“It’s open,” says a voice from inside the room. Interesting accent. Fereldan?
Zevran didn’t quite know what he’d expected. Probably some old merchant intending to relax after a day at the market. Or maybe one of his regulars looking for a special evening with their favourite.
But the human inside is neither old, nor a familiar face. He looks to be in his early twenties, close to Zevran’s own age. His blond-red hair is cropped short, just like the hair on his face. He’s sitting behind a large desk covered in papers that he begins gathering when his guest steps into the room. Zevran just has the time to notice the rich fabric of his clothes before he remembers his manners and bows low.
“I am Zevran,” he says, working his voice in the deliberate and low-pitched way that he knows has the most success. “You sent for company?”
“I did.”
The man considers him appreciatively for a second, before going back to the gathering of his papers. Zevran takes the opportunity to walk around gingerly, scanning the room. It’s not as shabby as the rest of the inn suggested. The bed is simple, but made with clean-looking sheets, and there’s even an empty tub peeking from behind a room divider. Zevran wonders briefly whether this place is a popular place for rich folk to meet incognito. That would certainly explain the decrepit look of the outside of the establishment.
“Zevran, you said?”
He turns back towards his host with a shining smile. “Indeed,” he confirms.
The desk is now empty, two neat piles of papers resting at its feet. The man is still sitting in the chair, both arms propped on the armrests and a goblet – of wine, presumably – loosely held in one hand. “You can call me Aedan.” He watches Zevran walk back around the desk. “It’s not my real name,” he adds.
Zevran chuckles. “I had figured as much.”
They stare at each other for a second. He really is a handsome man, Zevran thinks, and he lets the twinkle of that thought reach his eyes. The man tilts his head in entertained curiosity. The smile on his lips is faint, but relaxed.
Zevran decides to take a chance. Slowly, but without hesitation, he strides to the desk and hoist himself on it. Aedan watches him with the same amused expression, sitting back to let him throw his leg over him so it can hang on his other side.
Zevran does enjoy a captive audience. Checking under half-closed lids that he’s got his full attention, he reaches behind his head and begins unravelling his braids. He closes his eyes and arches his back, as though his own fingers against his scalps are the only things that matter to him right now. He hears a ruffle of fabric when he reaches the end of the first one, and he forces himself not to check. He begins working on the second braid, allowing himself to bite at his bottom lip to stifle a moan. It might be a bit of an obvious routine, but it’s always worked, especially since he got those tattoos on his cheek.
Only when his hair is fully loose does he open his eyes again. Aedan seems to have slumped a bit in his chair. His cheeks have taken a pink tinge, and his thumb is swiping mindlessly at his bottom lip. He licks them when he crosses Zevran’s gaze.
The goblet of wine is swaying in his hand. Zevran leans forward very slowly, close enough that he can feel the man’s breath on his lips, and then he draws back before he can realise that he’s snatched the goblet from his hand.
Aedan doesn’t protest, he just waves his hand in defeat. Zevran’s grin grows wider, and he props the heel of his boot on the armrest, right next to Aedan’s elbow. It’s a movement that’s met with the exact reaction Zevran had aimed for: Aedan’s eyes are attracted to his boot, follow the curve of his leg, and land straight onto his groin.
Zevran has a victorious smile ready for him when he looks up. Aedan licks his lips again and watches as he takes a sip of wine before putting the goblet down on the desk. Zevran props both hands flat on the desk behind him, displaying himself as prettily as he can and making sure the collar of his shirt slumps down to expose his collarbone.
He mostly expects Aedan to rise and push him fully onto the desk, so it’s a surprise when he remains seated. After another glance at his face, his attention returns to the bulge in his trousers at eye level. He undoes the lacing with slow movements, while Zevran makes sure to squirm a little for effect.
He can almost hear Aedan swallow when his half-hard cock pops free. Zevran slides his boot farther down the armrest, opening his other leg wider in a clear invitation.
The first contact he’s rewarded with is a warm hand wrapped around the base of his cock. He makes sure to push a moan with his exhale, paired with a slight undulation of his body. Aedan watches his display with knowing, but appreciative eyes. Even between his eyelashes, Zevran can see his blush deepen right before he leans forwards and takes the tip of his cock in his mouth.
“Yes,” he breathes out as he feels a tongue swirl around and under. Blushing, but no virgin, then, he notes. And indeed, the man knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t tease, but instead quickly sets a rhythm, bobbing his head up and down with unrestrained enthusiasm. He doesn’t let his fingers go to waste either. One hand digs further into his trousers, while the other clutches at his hip tightly.
Zevran lets his hands lose grip with every downstroke, lets his balance slowly escape him with every moan he pushes out of his lungs, until he has to give a wordless warning before letting his upper body fall back against the desk. Aedan shifts in his chair to follow him. If it’s an uncomfortable position, he doesn’t show it, and barely interrupts his rhythm.
Zevran makes his chest rise and fall as dramatically as he can, biting onto a finger for show while not stifling his noises in the slightest. He allows his legs to shake around Aedan’s body, his boot to fall from the armrest, and the movements on his cock pick up pace.
“Aedan–” he warns.
Their gazes meet, but the rhythm doesn’t slow. So Zevran lets his head fall against the wood of the desk and doesn’t hold back his orgasm. He comes into Aedan’s mouth, who swallows it without missing a beat.
Zevran lets his body slump completely on the desk for a little while, before gathering himself and making a show of stretching his muscles with a satisfied sigh and closed eyes.
When he looks back at Aedan, he’s sitting neatly in his chair once again. The blush of his cheeks is nearly gone, although the way he’s swiping at his swollen lips gives his recent activity away. Zevran grins at him while tucking himself back in and leans forwards to press the tip of his boot to his inner thigh, close to the bulge stretching the fabric. “We still have some time, if you’d like me to take care of that,” he says, voice hoarse.
The man shakes his head. “Can you just stick around for company?” he asks instead.
Interesting. Zevran shrugs. “Your gold,” he just says as way of an answer. He shakes his messy hair in a failed attempt to get it under control and pulls his legs up to cross them in front of him.
The man gets up and strides towards the door, and for a moment Zevran thinks he might be leaving, but then he turns around with a basket in his hands. “I have some food. If you want.” He puts the basket on the desk and hoists himself next to it. The desk creaks under their combined weight, and Zevran wonders briefly if they’re both going to be sent tumbling, but it seems to hold.
Aedan takes some fruit and pieces of cheese from the basket and begins to nibble on them, gaze lost in empty space. Zevran stares at the movement of his jaw around the food, and the way his lips close around a strawberry-stained finger. He’s so much more used to people gazing at him than the other way around that he feels dizzy for a second.
He clears his throat and grabs a bunch of grapes to get rid of the aftertaste of the unexpected. “First time in Antiva, hmm?” he asks before popping a grape in his mouth.
The man looks startled out of his thoughts. “Uh? Oh. Yeah.”
“Official duties?” Zevran risks. That gets him a squinted look.
“Who said anything about official?”
Zevran shrugs and reaches for the discarded wine goblet. “Rich men use my services all the time. But they always come to me, you see. The Señora doesn’t send her people running across town. You must be an important man.” He takes a sip of wine. The man relaxes a bit, though he doesn’t take his eyes off him. Zevran considers him for a few seconds. “May I be so bold as to ask you something?” he finally says.
“Go ahead.”
“I doubt this is the first time you are paying for company,” Zevran speculates. “Whoever you are, are you not afraid that some less scrupulous guest might spill your secrets?”
“Everyone’s been too smart for that so far.” Aedan bites into a piece of cheese.
Zevran laughs. “Ah, but you haven’t been in Antiva before!” He twists his shoulders and throws a heavy-lidded glance at him. “Never trust Antivans.”
“Not even you?” There’s a smile playing at the corners of Aedan’s lips.
Zevran raises the goblet he’s holding. “I did steal your wine, did I not?”
His comment is rewarded by an honest laugh that warms something in him. “You really are all hooligans.”
Zevran gives an exaggerated sigh. “I know, I know.”
They eat in silence for a while. Zevran passes him the goblet when he gestures for it, and he smiles at him when they lock eyes. This is nice, Zevran finds himself thinking.
It’s not that he hates his job. It’s a job. It keeps a roof over his head and a nice amount of coin in his pockets. His clients are alright, for the most part, they’re respectful and they enjoy Zevran giving them a bit of a show.
But even then, it rarely gets to a point where it’s… Nice. Where Zevran wishes he could stay for longer. Spend some more time together, just to chat, or maybe to fool around. Whatever feels right.
But that’s not how his services work. “I should go back, else the Señora will worry,” he says.
Aedan nods slowly, not quite meeting his eyes. “Of course.” He hops off the desk right when Zevran does, and walks to the entrance, where his coat is hanging. “Here,” he says, digging into his pocket. He deposits three sovereigns into Zevran’s hand. “A little extra, for not having finished my wine.”
Zevran slips the coins into his boot and gives a bow. “You know where to find me, should you find yourself in need of company.” His grin widens. “I’m sure I could show you a great deal more about Antivan ways.” He throws a wink at Aedan over his shoulder, and then he’s out the door in a flash.