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[ombranera]

I will write back as soon as possible.

Regards, Zevran

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[disgracedchampion]

"Mmm? Perhaps I should show you..." with Zevran tucked in his arms again he waltzed him slowly against the nearest wall, soft hay under his feet doing little to slow his movements. Well aware of his feet and his surroundings, he was careful not to trip his companion up in the process of successfully pinning him against the wall and at the same time giving their activities as much cover as possible. While they still might be overheard, at least no one would see them unless they actively decided to look.

Satisfied, but beyond caring about interruptions as right now there were far more important things in need of his attention, Michel dropped to a crouch in front of the assassin, guiding him in exactly the position of his earlier vision. Using the wall as leverage just in case Zevran could not hold onto him well, the Chevalier hooked each of the assassin's legs over his shoulder in turn before hoisting him up grateful for the space they had to work with.

He wasn't the expert at teasing that Zevran was and perhaps his own attentions might come off clumsy, but everything that had been done to him Michel had carve it into his bones. Experiences were learning tools and while his would take time to hone, he would insist on learning the nuances that brought the elf pleasure. Some things were obvious, others less so and he believed, very much in returning what he was given. He had once explained that he would never ask Zevran to do anything he wasn't willing to do himself.

"If there's anything you do not like, tell me, bel homme..." he looked up at Zevran through the frame of his companion's thighs, nudging him gently with his cheek before leaning forward, delicately nosing at the mound of flesh trapped in leather. His intention was clear enough, but there was no harm in giving Zevran the opportunity to accept what they were doing or reject it outright.

[ombranera]

"I am." Normally he need be asked to do such a thing- but Michel likely would not think to ask. It was a trick seldom returned and thus something he reserved for ether his most demanding or reciprocal lovers...but Michel? May never have experienced the liked and thus it was one more thing, one more sensation and experience he could brand into the Chevalier's skin and burrow into his memory as belonging to him and him alone. Another way to crawl deep into his skin and take root, leave him twisting for want of more. For need of another kiss, another touch, another night.

Had he any manner of forethought Zevran might nave noticed how deeply he dove and how much of Michel he kept when he resurfaced from this strange, possessive place. They were not playing that game quite so well, now. They were not playing it at all- but something in Michel called to him all the same. Responded to how his hands stroked and his lips pressed in calculated affection. He had made no rules, there were no bindings. Not so much as a watchword so this wasn't- would not- be that.

No, this was something else. But it was something he would give- did give, without batting an eye, dragging lips and tongue down from tailbone to the ring of his entrance, tongue laving in a flat stroke across much as he'd massaged him gently with oil before daring to tease a finger within. Like this he could not watch Michel's face- but he recalled the way his head tilted back, the way he bit his lips, the angle of his brows, the flush of his cheeks- he could hear well enough and that? Would have to do. Provided he worked hard enough to prompt some of that sweet Orlesian sighing. Little by little he worked that knot of muscle into something loose and easy, licking around the rim, teasing the tip of his tongue inside when he felt there was enough give- pulling back to breathe cool air over skin made slick. Every dirty trick that came to mind save for biting.

He did not think that would go over well with Michel and thus, kept his kisses and the slow thrust of his tongue tender.

[justice_is_blond]

He makes a quiet noise as Zevran starts touching him, bending his head forward and beginning to relax. Having someone's hands on him in a gentle manner is something entirely unfamiliar after so many years.

"I'm, mm. Not feeling picky. Who could be, with this much promise?" Sure, plenty of people would probably be picky but Anders is so definitely a beggar in this situation, and a beggar being presented with the ultimate feast no less. "It's been longer than I'd care to admit." He hasn't even had coin for buying attention for the length of an evening, forget having the time for it. Being on the run is exhausting.

"I take it this is when I don't ask if you do this for all apostates who have, well." He's not going to list all of it. Especially when the true joke of the matter is that there's no one else quite like him - mass murderer and sane abomination both. For a relative value of sane. He reaches back, gently running his hand over one of Zevran's thighs as he had earlier.

[disgracedchampion]

Michel wasn't entirely certain how much he was going to enjoy this personally, or if the act would bring Zevran any pleasure, but his companion was resolute and Michel was nothing if not accommodating. It was new, it was with Zevran, and no experience his companion visited upon him so far had been anything short of extraordinary. A touch could melt the Chevalier, a kiss could set every nerve on fire, and when he turned the full force of his Antivan leather on the warrior, Michel succumbed to his bedmate's whims. Apart from his arousal sandwiched between his stomach ant the bed, he was completely pliant and willing under leather clad hands.

This time his hands weren't bound so he was able to fold his arms under his head and grip the sheets, anchoring himself and mentally preparing himself for this new experience. It wasn't as though having Zevran between his legs was different, but the act was, it inspired those same feelings of vulnerability that Michel pushed down and yet he could move and get out if he wanted. He simply didn't want to.

He could already feel the rippling pleasure running down his spine at the seductive descent of lips and tongue, his body jerking once from surprise before settling against the bed and acquainting himself with this new sensation. Initially it was strange, a tongue was different from a finger or the swollen head of a cock rubbing against that tight ring of muscle. Growing used to it, however too very little time...warm, wet, soft and stimulating so many sensitive nerve endings. The heat Michel had been holding onto crept its way along his shoulders up to his ears, no doubt his face was getting warm as well, but it was pressed into the fold of his arms. His breathing became a shaky, wavering thing as Zevran's tongue continued in its attention.

The brief dip inside cause the breath to catch in the back of Michel's throat, followed by a soft contented noise, a lazy moan. When cool air struck him the muscled ring contracted and the Chevalier could feel the involuntary hitch of his hips as he pushed up...it was strange, but it felt just as good as he hands smoothing over his body had--slippery and familiar. He wouldn't have minded if Zevran got his teeth involved, if it was an act that got his bedmate off.

Deriving pleasure from biting would take training on Michel's part given his pain tolerance.

[ombranera]

"It is difficult to relax enough while on the run, but you are no longer hiding- or so the cover goes." Zevran murmurs, tugging Anders close enough to continue massaging the lather down his spine. When he smooths it down as far as the water might permit he rinses it carefully before he loops his arms around his waist and lean in properly. With their difference in height he can easily rest his cheek between Anders' shoulder blades for a moment and simply be, giving that extended contact that he's likely been aching for as much as Zevran had during his first few terrifying weeks of freedom after the blight.

He keeps his hands above Anders' hips- for the moment.

That may or may not change.

"Only the truly pretty ones that I am fond of." And he is- despite what Anders has done. He has no room to look at him and spit for the murder- it is not how he might have done it and he might not agree entirely with the logic behind such a move- but it is done. Nothing can be changed.

[ombranera]

"Oh-" Less coy and more breathless, not that he had much time before Michel was pressing him back to the nearest wall. Stuck between a man and a hard place- it should be worrying. Concerning. He should be focusing on all the ways he could twist out or leave if he needed- not how the heat roiling off Michel was intoxicating and how the idea of being had here against the wall in the hayloft would fuel his dreams for the better part of a month if not longer. No, he should be more aware.

But when Michel dropped to his knees with all the grace of his training, that was a visual that would haunt him for the remainder of his life; settled between his leather clad thighs like he was made to be there. Like this was what he was meant for, not battle. Not war. Zevran sucked in a sharp breath and held himself as needed for Michel to stand and-

"Maker-" Andraste preserve him. He was going to die with the vision of those too blue eyes peering up at him while Michel's mouth hovered over the bulge of his erection. He could not truly intend-

But he did and Zevran braced himself against the wall to give him the leverage he would need, one hand slipping back to hold himself upright against the rough wood and the other slipping forward to comb through his hair. "Trust me- you will know if I do not approve."

what happens in nevarra stays in nevarra. end of wintermarch.

[liberalum]

That can't be comfortable.

[ Which, to be fair, Dorian's own outfit can't be all the way comfortable either, even when compared to an elven man dressing as the fairer sex enough to be convincing. He makes himself comfortable, anyway, lounging in place, returned from a late evening to a parlour of the Thevenet estate. He is dressed in deep blacks with touches of shining goldens, robes in the Tevinter style, and if anyone had imagined he took too much care with his appearance in Skyhold, it's nothing when he has access to a proper tailor, some necessary cosmetics, and jewellery. He sports the black wooden ring that Benevenuta had given him, but gold hooks into previously hidden holes in his ears, and black pencil upticks the corners of his eyes.

In a way, this is Dorian's version of comfort. He's working on a glass of wine, which he'd managed not to spill upon flopping onto the nearest empty lounge, only to twist a look backwards at the sound of Zevran entering, likely passing through. His costume gets a critical up and down from Dorian, not for the first time. ]

But I suppose we make our own fun.

[ombranera]

[ It isn't his role to mind everyone of their little company- but it is habit. To slip in unnoticed and check on Taas, on Benevenuta and Nerva, on his fellow Antivans. Something he'd picked up during the Blight and while this is a terribly different merry band of misfits doing very different work such things are hard to break. He simply meant to slip in long enough to make certain Dorian is A) breathing B) not drinking anything poisoned and C) secure.

It is the last rather than the second that has his concern. He tests the lock with a faint jiggle before blinking across at the mage. He's done his part to be demure and invisible.

But for the moment? He lets the mask slip aside, somewhat. Makes a choice to act on this teasing, coy thing they've nudged at for the trip since they hit the border by slipping away from the door- his usual silent, predatory walk somewhat at odds with his waifish appearance; none of the swaying hips, none of the induced jiggling for his false breasts. Casual as anything he slips a hand down to steal that glass of wine, leaning against the back of the chaise as he sips.

Not poisoned, good. ]

Are you, perhaps, offering to make me more comfortable?

[liberalum]

[ Well this is a strange kind of double-vision to be experiencing; Zevran may look the part, but a surprising amount of body language and manner contribute to selling it. He is suddenly a man in a dress.

And stealing Dorian's wine, which is given up with a waggle of his fingers.

There must be something freeing in being so forthright. It isn't an unfamiliar concept to Dorian, for all that it always feels like a decision he is making. Currently, his blood is warm on wine and he's had some marvellous flirtations with beautiful men while out, tonight, and now from his reclined position he studies Zevran above him, the cut of his jaw that artfully applied makeup attempts to soften. ]

That depends. Must I stand up immediately?

[ombranera]

I think you are able to reach most everything from where you are and it would be a shame to ruin such a lovely image.

[ A mage in sensual, indolent repose. He had not often lingered in the Imperium long enough to truly admire the fashions, the styling, the subtle nuances of the same and how it might chance or accentuate a person's figure but now- wine in hand? He takes his time. Lets his eyes sweep in a long line from the tips of Dorian's boots to the curl of his mustache. ]

The pin for my dress is well within your reach, yes?

[ A slim, serpentine little thing holding the drapes and folds of the rather simple gown in place set at his right hip. ]

[quietblade]

Damn. Just. Damn. Zevran was going to kill him if he kept looking that good, leaning so prettily, kissing his hand... he didn't seem to have any guard up either, free to show how he felt. At least that was what Taas was hoping, because the elf looked happy. Safe.

...and fuck, if he isn't perfect with that gold hair and tan skin adorned with tattoos. So many, curving over his side and hiding scars he could only feel if he ran his hand down that chest. Hidden, forgotten. Healed.

Then the clever hands are on his chest, the warm oil leaving the wide expanse nice and smooth as the fingers found and unraveled the little kinks in his muscles. A tease at his nipples and the warrior doesn't even hold back the appreciative little groan. That was nice.

"I don't know if I'll be able to move after this. You should come sit on my face when you're done." He's pretty certain Zevran can't massage his tongue into the Fade like he had done with the rest of his body... but who knows?

[disgracedchampion]

Michel tipped his head into the fingers running though his hair, content in the knowledge that Zevran would steer him away from doing anything his companion did not like or find pleasing. With that reassuring thought he nuzzled his face against one leather-clad thigh before nosing his way back to Zevran's bound erection, following the shape of him as he strained before he began mouthing the mound, all soft lips and warm breath as his memory recalled some of Zevran's own skills and what he might like.

A few passes with gentle lips and moist heat and he took Zevran carefully with his teeth, leather creating a fine barrier so that when he sank his teeth in it would only feel like pressure. Being a man helped him to be gentle as well, he didn't want to tarnish this memory by causing pain, intentional or otherwise...his companion had been so very careful with him after all.

With a spirited look behind his eyes Michel withdrew after a moment, just enough to grant him access to the fastenings of the elf's pants which he nudged at and tugged at gently until laces yielded to him. In this position his access was limited and he couldn't tug Zevran's pants down, but this was okay, because as of now he was only teasing--teasing open his front, teasing his lips and tongue past the leather barrier. Whether he was met by smallclothes or the elf's cock directly it wouldn't stop him from stroking his companion with his tongue, a new experience for him, but one he wished to return.

[justice_is_blond]

He exhales noisily as Zevran's hands work their way down and then around, eyes tightly shut as he tries to drown out the thoughts about how this isn't really happening, he's fallen asleep somewhere, and so on. It's difficult to accept that someone is willing to touch him like this. And yet Zevran is here, solid and warm against Anders' back and holding him. There's a sting in Anders' eyes and a tickle in his throat that must most definitely be the steam and nothing else, despite how his next breath in is shaky.

Maybe only an assassin who had traveled with Jonas as well could understand Anders enough to offer this.

"It's been some time since I've been called pretty." That's probably what happens when one can as easily count ribs as fingers in the baths. He remembers distant time spent tending to his looks and his outfit, practically preening. Showing off. Enjoying fabrics and oils and scents. Anders sighs again, and a little of the tension Zevran can undoubtedly feel leaves him. He doesn't have the freedom to go back completely - it would strain Justice too far - but there are little things he can afford. Lives aren't hanging on every minute here. And the disguise must last.

"That the source of the words is gorgeous himself gives it some meaning. And I've always been fond of flattery and the feeling of strength in the frames of anyone I've slept with." He reaches up and traces his hands along the arms wrapped around him. "It's highly attractive."

It felt good to be held, which meant it felt scary, which meant Anders was going to fill this silence with words.

"Is this when I find a seat and trust myself to your hands and blade?"

[ombranera]

"Then you have been keeping poor company." Survival is not pretty, this Zevran knows- but the spark in Anders, the humor, the passion? That is lovely. The angle of his jaw might be sharper and the ache in his bones more intense, but he is still the handsome mage Zevran met years ago with a twist of humor to his lips and a wariness to his frame. Power and paranoia- Zevran has ever found such things attractive; he is wise enough not to say anything when Anders' breath goes thin.

He knows this pain. Knows this reluctance to trust a change of pace. It only makes his desire to make this good for Anders stronger still. Zevran presses his lips to Ander's shoulder, holding him for a little while longer. A few moments to find their center and while this easily could become a part of the seduction; better to make Anders feel clean and pampered first. It'll make what comes after worth more.

"Come. Sit against one of the boulders and I will rinse your hair, trim it, and shave your stubble. A little is manly and virile but at the moment it obscures your very fine jaw." The same jaw he leans up enough to drag his teeth against in a subtle tease.

What? He's working to Ander's comfort, and part of that is easing the discomfort. Fear is not sexy.

[ombranera]

"With an invitation like that, how can I possibly refuse?" He crackles a laugh, pulling himself up high enough to sit on Taas' ribs and work the lastbit of tension from his chest- much like he had for his legs earlier he turns his attention to one shoulder, working out every knot with careful placement of hands and forearms, going so far as to brace Taas' elbow against his thigh to give him the leverage for a forceful stroke. Hands, now.

Hands earned their own attention, working out tendons, smoothing oil over callouses- and dropping a kiss to the center of his palm. One side and then the other before he slumps- panting for the effort but infinitely pleased.

Worth it. Worth every bit of work he's poured into this.

Oil slick hands cradle Taas' face as he leans in, pressing their lips together in a kiss that's more affectionate and chaste than his usual. Give him a moment to enjoy this.

[liberalum]

[ The corner of Dorian's mouth turns up at compliment -- so easy -- and he drags away his focus on Zevran's face to search for this pin, a zigzagging look downwards that follows the sweeps of dress to where it closes. So he only repositions himself to reach with better grace, tugging the pin loose, fingers articulate and deft despite the haziness of the wine glasses that have come before the one Zevran has taken hostage.

Rather than simply let the gown fall freely, Dorian ushers it back with his knuckles brushing down the hem, his hand dipping further to settle on the elf's cinched waist.

His teeth show white as he grins at the sight of the harness, the infrastructure of the ruse revealed. His chuckle is warm, slithering out between his teeth, and finally pushes himself up to sit. ] Now that, [ he says ] was never going to do.

[ombranera]

[ Not near so filmy as the gowns worn by the noble women of the household- but fine enough to not so much fall into place as slither in soft layers giving way to the hard, lean lines of him beneath. The illusion of softness is a carefully crafted one he gives up gladly- the strap of the gown slipping down one shoulder as he reaches up to unfasten the bands that keep his bust in place.

Lovely as it might make him to a man of a mind to appreciate such things- Dorian is not. He finesse's it free and sets it aside without losing the gown or reaching for his corset's laces. ]

You've more appreciation for a muscular frame than the softer curves, yes? [ He'd noticed- it had been difficult to not. Voice warm and rich with honey'd promise He swings a leg over Dorian's, settling in his lap as though he belongs there. For the moment? He does. ] Now I am quite comfortable. But are you?

[liberalum]

[ Well this takes him back. The fabric slipping off one of tanned, lithe shoulder, the sensuous settling in his lap, even the shape of an elf ear through Zevran's hair made tragically mousier than usual. Dorian's hands slip beneath the fall of the open dress, feeling up the stiff boning in the corsetry, a hand coming around to wander fingers along the flat plane of Zevran's chest. ]

I have my preferences, [ he confirms, affected in his delicacy. Leaning into the back of the couch, he winds an arm around Zevran's waist, settling him in closer. ] Nor do I mind a little discomfort.

[ His thumb settles at Zevran's chin, fingers at a delicate splay along his jaw, before he gently pushes the rouging at the elf's lips aside enough to smear through powder. ]

So long as it is both fleeting and temporary, [ he qualifies. ]

[ombranera]

[ A familiar dance, an easy play to follow, all slow touches and lingering eyes, proprietary tugs and casual assumption of temporary authority. He moves as he's pulled and takes the hands on him as permission to let his own wander, tracing idle paths up the backs of Dorian's shoulders to rest at the nape of his neck. Hair shaved short has such a fascinating texture- he drags his fingers back and forth along the fine hair there in slow, irregular sweeps. ]

Mmhmm. [ Zevran tilts his face into Dorian's hand, parting his lips enough for his tongue to flick out and trace the pad of his thumb in a playful swipe. ] The relief that comes after is far more satisfying, I find.

[liberalum]

Quite.

[ The fingertips playing through his hair have his eyes hooding just enough to indicate pleasure, and he's a little forgotten where he is, as a part of him is back in Minrathous, seeking out the few corners where elves aren't slaves, in the shadows where he is less careful than he is anywhere else.

Not quite by chance, a few candles within the room gutter and wink out, leaving enough to see by, but corners cloaked in black.

His eyes chase the sight of tongue and tooth, and Dorian accepts the invitation he believes it implies. Dorian pushes his posture up to press his mouth to Zevran's in the same movement. His clothing is beginning to feel as restricting as some several layers of silk and hide can be, the dig of buckles tugging at tailoring. (As is standard: his heart skips a bit at his own actions, as if hijacked by someone else's disapproval.) ]

[ombranera]

[ A low chuckle, breathy and warm, rolls out of him at the guttering of the candles. Mages and their tricks- though it does beg the question as to what manner of tricks Dorian may have up his very fine silken sleeves. It is not the only thing that begs for Zevran's attention, the warm gilding of what light is left carving soft shadows along tanned skin that has been untouchable for the bulk of their trip.

No longer.

He meets Dorian halfway, hand gliding down to find those strange clasps and buckles, to ruffle and rumple Dorian's otherwise polished appearance; a small part of him viscerally pleased by any opportunity he has to ruin such things. It is less vicious here as he finds skin under silk and his lips part under Dorian's, a blatant invitation for him to press further, to take what he wished. ]

[liberalum]

[ There's certainly no fight or attempt to control or redirect Zevran's roaming hands; the slight shift and squirm of Dorian beneath him more helps than hinders, shoulder slipping free of the luxurious drape of black silk. There's usually a point where physical excitement shifts to outweigh the more mental hooks that tug his enthusiasm backward, and here, it begins early, with the sound of leather slipping through metal, and the feel of curious fingers seeking and finding warm skin.

And then Zevran's mouth, parting under his own. He buries a hand in the elf's hair, finding a firm handling high at the top of his neck, kissing him deeper with a bolder raking of teeth and tongue.

His other hand clasps at the other man's hip, gripping. ]

[ombranera]

[ Lovely shoulders, Dorian has. Always flirting with exposure, barely covered, teasing when he walks or lounges- getting a hand on it to feel out the warm curve, the wine languid muscle beneath bronze skin is quite satisfying. He should sketch him like this, he thinks, attempting to follow the drape of silk to bare more of Dorian's skin. Half dressed and writhing.

Zevran would regret not being able to see it if he weren't so enraptured in being the cause of Dorian's writhing.

Pressed close like this the slow grind of his hips is less like posting and more of an intention- taking his own claim even as he yields so sweetly to the harder press, sucking on Dorian's tongue. ]

[liberalum]

[ For someone whose voice carries as it does, Dorian is about as vocal as someone familiar with him might expect, but quieter at the same time. His smothers his hum of approval into the kiss, and isn't rushed, going from one place to the next. But when he does move, it's sudden.

Although perhaps not unexpected. Zevran's hands can feel muscle coil and harden at his shoulders, a gathering of strength that manifests as arms locking around the elf's waist and pulling him over and into the couch, landing him where Dorian had been posed only moments ago.

Necessarily, the kiss is broken, giving them a pause. Some of Zevran's makeup has been redistributed, by now, but not quite as messily on Dorian as it is on Zevran. Judging by the crooked smile that Dorian gives him, it isn't a bad look.

Settled on him like Zevran is his prey, freshly caught, in need of guarding, he reeeaches to collect up his wine that had been set aside, checking how much is left. ]

[ombranera]

[ There is that tell- familiar enough from partner to partner, dalliance to dalliance for Zevran to roll as much with the motion as he's moved. It gives him a moment to fall back and pose a little in the dim light, head tipped against the sofa, arms looped easily about Dorian's shoulders, one long, bare thigh hooked about his waist for leverage. The filmy fabric of his gown coils under and around his shoulders, draping less artful than Zevran might like but it has been some time since he's done this in a dress. A little disarray is permitted.

It lends the requisite honesty this deserves as it is, above all else, an honest attraction that has led them here.

Again he combs his fingers through Dorian's hair, eyes warm as he tugs more of the black silk loose. The corset he'll keep on- it's too much effort to lace himself back in afterward- but the dress and the robes? Need to go. Dorian will find a fair third of the glass left while Zevran finds the room to shrug out of the lingering gauze of his gown. ]