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[ You do realize, Zevran says, and Alistair's face does a thing that it does pretty often: it tries valiantly to look knowing and unsurprised, and fails. He focuses too much on smoothing out the line that appears between his eyebrows and forgets not to clench his jaw.

So that would be a no. He thought Zevran just liked shiny things.

But it was a long time ago, and his face smooths out--genuinely, without effort--into a faint, warm smile, which is all the warning he gives Zevran before sitting the rest of the way up and giving him a proper hug. The hug is careful of his freshly inked spots, but otherwise unabashed, bare skin and all. ]

You're getting soft, [ he says. It isn't an insult. ] But I was always soft, so you have a long way to go if you want to catch up. Now get off of me. [ He hasn't let go yet; he does now, as an afterthought. ]

[ Something his face does often, and something that never fails to make Zevran feel slightly guilty for showing him how many ways in which the world might disappoint him. Zevran reaches up to pat his cheek ]

None of the fearsome scowling. It is long past, yes?

[ Over and done and all the better to be put behind him-

then suddenly Alistair's arms were about him. Inked skin against cotton and it may get a little blood on Alistair's shirt but it wouldn't bother him. He snorts a soft laugh and sighs, leaning into it. The embrace is comfortable- and terribly warm.

Humming under his breath he presses his nose against the skin peeking out at the collar of Alistair's shirt. ]

Mmm...no. I think I am comfortable here. You are so warm and soft, after all.

Not really soft, right? [ That's the only part of all of this that he protests. Blood on his shirt: fine. Cold elf nose on his neck: all right. The rest of said elf taking up prolonged residence on his lap: kind of nice, not in a sexy way, just your run of the mill lifetime-of-starving-for-affection way, etc. But soft? ] Soft in the heart, I mean, sure. Maybe in the head. But otherwise rock solid and muscular and such. Right?

[ He isn't serious. He's perfectly aware of having to cinch his armor straps a little firmer around his sides and his belly and of the soft spot under his chin, and he knows he's handsome anyway. But if he's going to be an chair, he reserves the right to demand praise.

And ask personal questions. Like: ]

Hey, Zev, what was Rinna like? Can I ask that?

Comfortably so. Like a firm cheese, not like a custard. Otherwise, yes, you are a solid example of unadulterated machismo. Were you not a sibling to me I would ravish you where you sit.

[ He rubs his nose back and forth over that warm skin, ridding himself of the chill in his nose. He has half a mind to press his cold hands to the small of Alistair's back but that would earn more squirming- and some of his humor drops away at the question.

He hasn't spoken of her, not in truth, not in years. ]

Beautiful. Vicious. She had a rumor to her I think you would have appreciated, a laugh like music, eyes like sapphires. I had never before met a woman that was so skilled or so certain.

[ When Bull makes his way up from the tavern proper, it's about ten minutes short of an hour. But really, it's been a day. It's been a month, all told, and he's ready to shed it and enjoy himself.

Of course, part of that is pretty simple. Bodies work a certain way with reliability. But this isn't just a case of needing to get off. The elf's interested him, has a story written into him that Bull can read in portions, enough to know that Zevran probably needs a little more than an in-and-out fix. Luckily, he's good at sorting out exactly what that entails, what both of them are going to want out of this.

There's no latch on the door. People know better than to come up here unannounced. Most of the time. The door makes a Hell of a creaking sound when it opens, however, and Bull's frame appears in the doorway. Upon spotting Zevran leaned against the wall, he chuckles, and lets the door fall shut behind him. ]

Here this whole time, huh?

[ He'd expected to be kept waiting for a little while. But when the space of ten minutes becomes twenty, becomes half an hour, becomes three quarters? A small part of him wonders if he's been had. If this is an elaborate trap- the Crows know his sort, know his needs, they'd built them into him after all and any Mercenary worth their salt isn't above turning over a high payday on someone they don't know. What had been casual leaning streatched into checking the locks on the windows, on the door, looking for points of ambush, looking for traps or weapons hidden around the bed.

Nothing that an assassin would use. But if The Iron Bull wished him dead he wouldn't need knives.

Twice more he had paced the room before settling back against the wall, anticipation and anxiety winding the knot in his gut tighter and tighter till he felt he could be sick with it.

The rush of relief when Bull ambles up and closes the door behind him is almost staggering. He isn't sure for a moment if he's lightheaded in truth or it's his imagination, it's enough for him to need a bit before answering. ]

Of course.

[ He's got a lot less slink to him now, a certain tension knotting those thin shoulders. The elf could just be having second thoughts, but no, that doesn't quite account for it. A couple of things in the room have been shifted, but nothing taken or removed. He doesn't keep anything of value up here anyway, but the small details are telling enough.

Makes a certain amount of sense, when it adds up. Bull's got a habit by now of picking up the strays, the misfits. It's not usually his policy to fuck them, but in his defense? Zevran asked very nicely. ]

Figured I wouldn't show? Or that someone else would?

[ It doesn't really need an answer. Bull eyes him for a moment before nodding towards the bed. ]

Sit.

[ Though quietly spoken, it's clearly an instruction to be followed. ]

I...

[ To offer an answer would require a level of honesty he isn't entirely comfortable giving to someone he doesn't know at all. His body he'll share freely- but his fears? Those he holds to his chest.

Not giving an answer is equally damning- he wrestles with his options for the moment he's given leave to consider it before Bull gives the first order.

Falling into obedience has never been quite so soothing. It spares him having to answer or not, from having to gauge his every reaction for what it might give away or what he wants to give away, having to do so day in and day out for the past several months while surrounded by those that are learning his face, his smiles, his masks is exhausting.

Another reason to reach out to the Bull.

He sits as directed, hands resting lightly on his knees, eyes still on the Qunari. He is massive- weathered and scarred and dangerous. Powerful. Even without the lock on the door some small part of him relaxes to knows that whatever wants to get at him? Must go through Bull first. ]

[ Funny how quick that silver tongue fails him. Observing the elf tells him all he needs to know, answers or not, and Bull studies him openly for a moment. This is a man who's used to running, who's used to dancing away from his past, from responsibility or commitment, before it can leash him.

But sometimes it takes a leash to feel truly unrestricted, and bonds of a physical nature to be free to struggle, without consequence. Bull knows that better than most. With a huff, Bull reaches for the buckle on his shoulder harness, the slither of leather through metal oddly loud in the close quarters of the room. ]

Alright. We'll make it simple. Whatever's outside this room? It doesn't get to come in here. You're safe. I'm not going to hurt you, not without your permission.

[ Keeps it on the table. Depending on how things go. ]

You decide you've had enough, you say 'katoh'. We'll stop. No questions asked. Nod if you're good with that.

[ It's a choice, still. He can walk any time he wants, but it's coached as a command. Easy to follow. Easy to just hand over the reins like he's aching to do. Probably not what Zevran was likely expecting when he came to him, but...

Those muscled shoulders stretch as the leather falls heavily to the ground, and Bull waits patiently for that affirmative he knows will come. ]

[ Dropping baggage is never so easy as wishing it gone, at least not on his own. If it were so simple a thing he wouldn't be wound quite so tightly, would not have so many masks, so many fake smiles. But being told that such things have no please here? Ordered in some small way to put it from his mind as long as he is in this room?

Somehow that makes it possible. A little of the tension in his shoulders goes loose, a subtle softness overtaking the faint clench of his jaw and grip of his hands on his own knees. The idea of being hurt shouldn't make his breath quicken- he knows how he was built, how he works, how others might see it. Knows that many wonder if he isn't tired of such things, if pain isn't some sort of backhanded self flagellation for his supposed sins.

Applied properly- he savors it. Something tells him that Bull? Can apply it properly. Zevran wets his lips, and nods. No hesitation. Let someone else carry the weight for awhile. ]

Good.

[ There it is. Like a knot that needs an initial tug to loosen. The approval is there in that steel-gray eye as Bull nods in turn. This is how it is. This is how it's going to be. Ultimately Zevran remains in control of this, every step of the way. Any point is an opportunity to decide he'd rather take his fun elsewhere.

He just doesn't have to acknowledge that fact for a while. ]

Turn around and kneel for me.

[ Meanwhile, there's a length of decorate rope hanging off of one of the ruined tapestries in here that isn't precisely for decoration. It comes loose easily enough, its prior use betrayed by the comparative lack of dust.

There's still the elf's clothes to consider, how many layers stay on and how many will end up tugged open or rucked up or aside in the proceedings. But that's an easy matter to rectify as they come to it. And disheveled's probably a good look on him. ]

[ There's a moment's hesitation- not due to not wanting to follow the order or any true willfulness but the lack of specificity. The Crows had been thorough and most others had incredibly precise requests.

It lasts only a moment before he kneels- if Bull was going to be specific? He would have been and he had said earlier that everything else? Doesn't matter. If he does as he's told he might get another one of those words- it's such a simple thing. One word, a glint in Bull's eye, but it had warmed him through.

More of that- he's eager for it. There's still that practiced grace, that trained poise in how he kneels, the lingering awareness of what looks most pleasing from what angle, how to accentuate it; not quite so strong as it had been below but- habit. It'll fall away soon enough- especially when he sees the rope. ]

How do you ravish someone while they're sitting? I've always though of ravishing as being more horizontal or--mobile, [ Alistair says, brow furrowing, but he's quick to follow up with, ] Don't tell me. It's rhetorical. Let me wonder.

[ He has his limits, and having Zevran explain sex in any amount of detail while on his lap and nuzzling his collarbone is somewhere beyond said limits.

And another kind of limit: he'd asked about Rinna with some degree of scheming, a plan to narrow down the field of candidates for Zevran's eternal true love and all of that, but once Zevran begins talking about her Alistair isn't able to think that way, suddenly aware of how callous it might be. So no comparisons, no extracted list of requirements. He raises a hand to rest on Zevran's back and nudges his head with his chin with thoughtless affection. ] Did you know her very long?

Years. We worked as a trio for some time before Fereldan. It was a slow fall; neither of us truly understood what was happening. Sex is sex. Sentiment is- everything we had been told, everything we were said it was wrong. That it was unwise. Finding time to be away from Taliesin became difficult the longer we were together, he likely suspected something but we would sneak away. Not even to make love but to simply be. To talk. To hold one another.

[ Without the flirting or the groping or the kissing. It'd been baffling and strange and wonderful to him then- so young and so enthralled with the newness, the depth of this emotion. The fragility and secret of it. He closes his eyes and listens to the steady thrum of Alistair's heart. ]

She would have left with me if I'd asked- if I'd thought to ask. We would have been killed in short order but for a day, perhaps a week? We might have been free. [ a beat. ] She would have liked you. Not even to bed you but- to tease you. Be friendly. I do not know what makes me say that but- she would have.

[ He knows a thing or two about embodying the role until it's second nature, until you forget you're going through the motions. It's certainly an appealing picture, and only bound to become moreso.

There's no praise forthcoming this time, but one massive hand does press against his back, centered at the curve of his spine. It's a steady pressure, lingering there for a time. ]

Breathe.

[ It's a point of focus for now, nothing more. They haven't gotten to anything too intense yet, but it's good to establish that point to return to, should they need it. And once he feels the swell of breath under his palm he moves to continue, drawing back one of Zevran's wrists. Then the other. They're slender, almost too delicate for an assassin, and he could hold them in one hand all too easily.

Instead, that rope circles his wrist, twists into a knot, and doubles back. Firm, but not tight enough to hurt. He could do these knots in his sleep, but he remains attentive, that gray eye fixed on Zevran for his reaction. ]

[ Breathe. The first thing he'd ever learned to do, even before the Crows, was breathe quietly. But this isn't the slow steadying, silent things he'd done as a boy- nor the meditative breaths he'd take as a Crow to center himself before the hunt, before the kill. It is slow and even, deep and grounding- less to soothe and more to make himself solid. Aware- as though he can be anything but under the Bull's steadying hand.

It barely takes any effort at all for his arms to be moved into position, he falls into place eagerly, head lolling low against his chest. The knots are familiar, the posture more so, but this- there's an energy to the air he can taste. Rather than tensing against it Zevran settles into place along with the knots, the removal of choice taking the weight from his mind. ]

[ That energy there is the proof of how bad the elf's needed this, or something like it. Lot going on behind that pretty smile, but there's no demand to drag it to the surface. With a thoughtful hum Bull leans closer, breath warm against the nape of the elf's neck. ]

Think you can wriggle your way out of that?

[ It's as good as an invitation to try, even as Bull tugs at the middle knots, the pressure tightening as he does so. But it's only a test of what he's already certain of, reinforcement of the fact that he can struggle, that he's free to, without changing anything. ]

[ A shiver rolls through him at that breath- he can't help tilting his head to the side to invite more than mere breathing. Guiding from the position of the submissive party is habit, it's instinct, he truly cannot help it. He also is fairly certain it won't fool the Bull.

Especially when he can't keep up the attempt when challenged. He has his daggers strapped to his forearms but that- that isn't the point. When the pressure increases he flexes- fights the bonds with sharp twists and finds-

He can't. They're sound. He can thrash and twist but nothing short of a knife or dislocating a thumb (which had been an option once) will see him free. A little more of that tension settles. ]

Good.

[ Those daggers aren't going anywhere. The others, though...any good assassin keeps more than just the two.

Ignoring the way Zevran tips towards him in invitation, Bull keeps a steady hold on the rope. It'd be enough to keep him upright even if he wasn't kneeling, and it means he's free to run a hand along his side, down the narrow slope of his hip, feeling out where the rest might be hiding.

Of course, it gives him a good feel of the man under his clothes, all lean muscle, easily felt beneath the few layers of fabric still keeping him decent. When he feels something else, the rigid handle of a blade, he eases it free nice and slow. The blade glints in the light as it turns it over, hovering just above Zevran's collarbone like a threat. Or a promise.

Then it clatters to the floor behind them, and the search begins again. Slow. Thorough. No inch of him is spared, though rough fingers slipping up beneath the hem of his shirt and beneath the waist of his pants, peeling him out of his boots. Each blade is given a cursory look and then discarded, one by one.

Might hang on to one of them, by the end of it. ]

[ A proper crow keeps at least seven. Zevran? Tonight he was wearing ten. Two in his forearms and others of varying sizes sewn into the hems of his clothing, strapped to his ankles, his thighs, the small of his back. Knives for throwing, for puncturing, for the quick slash- he keeps as many tools upon his person as possible. With each knife the heat in the pit of Zevran's stomach grows, his breathing evening out slow and deep. Hanging, almost entranced in Bull's grip, he leans as much as he can into every stroke.

Nevermind that it loses him his daggers- that hand so large, so warm, so solid against him when he feels fit to unravel entirely? Settles him.

The threat of the blade has his skin flushing in the dim light, a sigh twisting free. ]

You, ah- [ He swallows- licks his lips. ] You missed a few.

[ Strapped to the inside of his thighs, thin ones, meant for throwing. ]

Did I?

[ When Bull's head turns, that huff of breath catches the outer shell of Zevran's ear, moments before that massive hand smooths over his hip. It's nearly large enough to span his thigh entirely, thumb following the crease of his leg and trailing along the inside before pressing down on something hard, rigid. Too far down to be anything too fun, but there's a point to be made. ]

What about now? Did I miss anything?

[ He sounds amused, thumb stroking back and forth, applying pressure along the length of the blade. Getting that one loose is gonna get interesting. ]

[ Oh that isn't fair- and yet he cannot complain. At this point the anticipation of actual touch will likely drive him far and wild before Bull ever takes him in hand. Again he angles his head, his throat, trying for more while not moving at all, thigh tense under his hand not out of fear. Maker, no. Trembling, tightly wound like a horse.

He wants in a way he hasn't for a few months at least. Perhaps longer. ]

Yes. And you know it.

[ He turns his head enough to offer Bull a coy smile, hips canting toward him as much as he's able in this position. ]

Can't be too careful. You only need to get caught by surprise by an assassin once.

[ The Bull smirks right back. But then Zevran is tugged off his knees by the rope, all but tossed back into the pillows to sprawl on his back. Pants are the next thing to go, and there's no ceremony in the way they're tugged open and dragged down his thighs. Just a lot more obvious now how much Zevran's enjoying all of this.

Has to be a relief not to have to play up to him, to seduce. Nothing for the elf to do but squirm, wait to be touched, to be praised, or to be ravished. Hasn't even touched him yet and he's all breathless and trembling.

Oh yeah. This is gonna be a fun evening. Bull grins openly now, but instead of reaching down to pull those slim daggers loose he leans, bows his head and...

Yes. Tugs one loose with his teeth. ]

Normally one doesn't survive the- [ No room to finish the thought as he's hefted and tossed like he weighs nothing at all, sprawling on his back against the bed, for a moment he's laughing, giddy with the strength presented, by the promise of more than teasing touches, by not having to work for this.

it's a terrible burden, having to be the seducer every single time. Part of him is terribly aware he's placed that role on Bull's shoulders but this is more honest, less practiced.

Here they both get something from it.

His laughter twists into a low moan, hips moving to make stripping his trousers easier- the thick lines of ink that curl around his thighs and splinter off into thin tendrils to wind up the length of his cock all the more apparent when he's this hard. For a moment it seems like he might get a brush of lips- a lick, a breath- something when Bull leans lower.

The image is almost too much, Zevran's head falls back with a low, wanton groan. ]

Maker- your mouth.

[ This is normally about the time hands go for the horns, but Zev doesn't have that option. Sounds about right, though, that needy little noise, and Bull chuckles before spitting the blade off the side of the bed. The clatter is obvious enough. ]

What about it?

[ Sounds like he might have some opinions about it. Feedback's never a bad thing, and it's something for him to do while Bull retrieves that second dagger, dragging it out purposefully slow, close enough to tease the tip against his skin in a thin line. Not enough to cut, not as long as he stays still. ]

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