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[ombranera]

I will write back as soon as possible.

Regards, Zevran

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crystal, "tomorrow," as promised

[byblow]

I don't know. I like honesty. And you've been so nice to me, it was starting to get a little suspicious. No one likes me that much.

[ A joke! Mostly. Kind of. ]

Look, don't beat yourself up. You've had plenty of that. Tell me, how's Vita?

crystal, "tomorrow," as promised

[ombranera]

Alistair- [ Brandy. He needs brandy for this and he has none- there's a slide of fabric on stone as he settles in the hall, sitting with his back to the door. ] I did not mean it. Any of it. I was tired and angry and lost and you kept looking at me as though if you simply tried hard enough it would fix me that isn't- it is not how this works. I do not know how it works but I have to be the one to do the fixing.

[ Fine, a change of subject. ]

Well. She misses you. I think she is trying to seduce you.

crystal, "tomorrow," as promised

[byblow]

I know. [ Or: he doesn't really 100% know, or didn't know, or else he would have cut it out. ] I'm sorry. I don't know how to see you hurt like that and not try to do something, but I know I wasn't helping. This is good, I think. [ The distance. ] And I can comfort myself with the fact you needed six bedmates to replace me.

[ And he makes a strangled noise that's a little bit like a laugh. ]

Maker's breath. She's twelve. [ Or something. ] You can tell her I miss her, too, but only if you make it sound very avuncular and appropriate.

crystal, "tomorrow," as promised

[ombranera]

And I should not have said what I said. About Jonas, about Duncan- about any of them. [ Especially Loghain and Anora. That was low even for him. ] I- Mi dispiace, Amico.

[ He manages another soft laugh- strained. ]

Six and a half- we must not forget Doghren. And- She is sixteen, I think. Again, Crows do not keep track but to the best we can tell? Sixteen. I believe she is under the assumption that bedding you would cement her place in Skyhold as you are dear to me and they all know I will not bed them for anything. They have tried. It has been....an interesting week.

[ombranera]

[ Not the best angle, nor the easiest with the corset holding so much of his hips and ribs straight- but Zevran holds himself up enough with one elbow to stare down at Dorian with dark, kohl lined eyes glimmering in the candle light. Curls in tangled dispensary about his face- it is a sight to see. Zevran has quite a view himself, Dorian's mouth stretched about him, slick and shining, a delightful image of true Northern hedonism at it's best.

It's only years of long practice and a determination to see the man undone entirely that prevents Zevran from shooting off before he's ready. ]

I knew your mouth was good for more than witty quips and sensuous smirking- [ Voice thick- he is practiced not unaffected, Zevran coaxes him in closer- to take more. ]

[liberalum]

[ Which is convenient, because Dorian isn't quite able to deliver much in the way of witty quips right now -- but his eyes seem to convey sensuous smirking all the same, before they close again. Fingernails dimple the skin at Zevran's thigh, blunt and sharp all at once.

With coaxing, Dorian obliges. With a slide of lips and tongue and the barest hint of teeth, he sinks Zevran deeper into that heat, one hand snaking closer so as best to close around the base of the elf's cock. Not to handle so much as mirror that same pressure, from base to tip.

The next sound he makes is more than content. A moan, genuine and low, and along with the touch of fingernails, is his own kind of coaxing. ]

[quietblade]

He smiles into those little nips, brushing over Zevran's own lip for a lazy kiss. He felt so utterly relaxed and he could probably fall asleep just like this - nimble fingers in his hair and tracing around his horns. When the elf starts to massage the base of the curled horns, he groans slightly and leans into the touch. That was a sorely neglected area.

"Mm... I have never been this relaxed. Ever. Probably not even when unconscious." He chuckles, stealing another lazy, affectionate kiss. "I'm utterly impressed... and beaten."

[ombranera]

Zevran has to lean away so that Taas might see him- but it is a small price to pay to see that lazy smile, that quiet contentment. Knowing that he put it there, that he's wrung out every last bit of tension left in the man? Satisfies that tiny part of him desperate to please, to serve, that craves approval. The rest of him is simply glowing with pride at having managed the feat.

"And this, Uragano, is how Antivans conquer." With luxury, with warmth, with sensual hands and smirking lips and a fair deal more fondness than even Zevran quite expected. "Now whatever shall I do with my spoils, mmm..."

[quietblade]

He should be proud. Very, very proud. Taas is complete putty in the elf's hands, brought apart by touches and scents and warmed Antivan brandy in a tiny fragile cup. Ruined, reshaped underneath the touch of such an artist. It was very different from how the qunari conquered, but in the end? The results seemed the same.

He was at Zevran's mercy, now. It makes him smile, watching the elf enjoy his victory. Such a beautiful, beautiful man. It's surprising how fond he had gotten of him, and it was something new to explore. Enjoy. For now.

"You definitely deserve a reward..."

[ombranera]

"I think you said something about sitting on your face, yes?" Remembering well the work Taas did with his mouth when given leave to do so- as surprising as it had been the first time Zevran had been far too eager to move on to really let either of them sink in and enjoy it. Lazy as they were both feeling now, they can take their time, be slow and thorough.

Zevran leans down for one last soft kiss before leaning back to unlace his leathers, peeling himself out of them in a careful show of dexterous flexibility. "Is this still on the table- or shall I ride your fingers?"

[ombranera]

Something Zevran may have to explain in the future- that there was as much pleasure for him in pleasing someone he lay with, and far more pleasure for him when finding those tiny, secret spaces in Michel that even he did not know he had and bringing them to the light. Turning them about and toying with them before they were set on the shelf to be pulled down at a later date. For he knew from now until someone came by and did it better (ha, at that), Michel would connect this pleasure, these moments and feelings? With him. And Zevran was perversely selfish enough to wish to brand every brilliant, new secret with his name. To wish Michel to carry him in his very bones.

Perhaps that was why he adjusted his grip on Michel's thighs, grinding him slowly into the silken sheets as much as he worked his tongue in slow and deep. Everything that earned a moan, everything that wrung out a soft sound he did again, harder, sharper, sweeter. He would have Michel biting his fist or calling his name before the moment had passed. His hands shifted from hips, trusting that Michel would continue the lazy grind, and moved his hands to the swell of Michel's ass so he might hold him open and vulnerable in the dim light with his thumbs. To lave the flat of his tongue over the sensitive ring, to give himself the room to truly fuck Michel with his tongue.

Any questions he might have had as to whether or not he enjoyed it? Were answered by the sounds spilling from the Chevalier's throat.

[ombranera]

Andraste preserve him from the whims and wiles of a curious Chevalier. If anyone told him at the beginning he would have Michel like this- he'd have thought them mad. No noble bent to the task quite like this, disgraced or no. No human offered themselves and turned about to offer the same in turn to an elf. That Michel was elf blooded made this slightly less bizarre- no. It made it more bizarre. He'd made well despite his blood, kept it a secret, and dallied here with him all the same.

Eagerly. From the press of his mouth, the sounds in his throat- he relished this. Enjoyed not only the idea but the task. Maker's breath- he wasn't prepared for what he'd awaken in Michel when he first pulled on that glove.

Zevran curled his fingers in Michel's hair, teasing at his scalp with his nails, grip going tight when Michel began to unlace them. With his mouth. It was a practice he knew well, one he could pull off but this- that mouth, those eyes. He had to fight for some semblance of normalcy, of control even as he rolled as much as he could into that mouth. There were blue, silken smallclothes to be found, slick and straining against his cock. "You are taking your sweet- ha- time."

[ombranera]

There we are-

[ He curls his nails against Dorian's scalp, dragging them in a long scrape- mussing the curls that stay in place through product or magic. Which doesn't matter, the pull and glide of Dorian's lips, the rumble of his voice, the press of his nails? That is what matters. The tight heat pulling him through as he breathes slow and even to keep himself from straining against the corset, the subtle shift of Dorian's hips against the sofa.

That won't do. He's not in much room to do anything just yet, though. ]

No need to take your time, Pavone.

crystal, "tomorrow," as promised

[byblow]

I suppose the part about Duncan was a bit out of line. [ Wryly--but he's cracking, sounding a little bit less like he's doing the aural equivalent of holding Zevran at arms length with his arms braced. ] It's all right, Zevran. It's nothing you need to worry about.


They've tried--they're all twelve. [ But that's sad. ] They can't think we carried them all the way from Antiva just to turn them out in the cold.

crystal, "tomorrow," as promised

[ombranera]

It was all out of line, Alistair. I am apologizing- you needn't forgive me and you needn't accept it, but do not borrow wounds that are not yours to carry. [ In fact he's fairly certain he won't be forgiven for-

Well.

Ever. He'd attacked like a Crow to cut a man down. What does it matter if he feels poorly for having done his job so well? ]

No, they think they were brought here to die. Throwing themselves upon your mercy seems the wisest course. I should know, I did much the same.

crystal, "tomorrow," as promised

[byblow]

[ Baffled pause, skeptical tone: ] You want me to say it isn't all right?



They already have my mercy. They reminded me of you. [ A beat. ] You're not going to throw them out, are you?

crystal, "tomorrow," as promised

[ombranera]

It would be more honest than the 'it's fine, Zevran, don't worry Zevran'. I know where I stand with you. I always have. This ambiguity- I do not care for it.

[ Alistair chose a wonderful time to indulge in tact. ]

No. That would be the same as killing them, and I would like to think I've learned something of Mercy.

[disgracedchampion]

Michel really couldn't complain, not about Zevran's attentiveness, not about his thorough exploration of the Chevalier's body. Mapping out every pleasure center, exploiting the places that Michel never would have known , never would have imagined made him weak. His limbs felt like they were made of molten liquid and he could feel himself yielding, bending to Zevran's desires, hips rubbing smoothly against silken sheets. Part of Michel knew before this was all over, these sheets would be a perfect mess, but felt good, the friction of those sheets between his thighs, the pressure of the mattress against his cock. Once Zevran got him started he couldn't stop, his entire body rolled into every thrust, from his shoulders down to his hips as he fucked the mattress as eagerly as his body desired to be fucked by Zevran's tongue.

It was a peculiar desire, a desire he shouldn't entertain so completely, he felt open and even more exposed than when Zevran had him on his back. Still, he was unable to stifle a groan each time Zevran dipped into him, exploiting him, taking him with that soft, sultry organ. It didn't have that same fullness as the assassin's cock had, but there was a sensual life to being rimmed by the elf that he couldn't deny. Perhaps he should have been embarrassed by an act that was clearly intimate and left him vulnerable with his back and ass exposed. He certainly felt like he should be, but the feelings were more gripping, knotted, and tense--like something he had no relief for and so he did indeed take it out on his fist. When he felt particularly good he bit down on his knuckles and arched his body, moans soft and endless. In a more relaxed state he continued to roll lazily against the mattress, sucking on the pads of his fingers to help sate his own oral needs.

crystal, "tomorrow," as promised

[byblow]

It is fine, and I don't want you to worry about it. [ Is it still tact if he sounds a little irritated? But only a little. ] Look, Zevran. [ A pause, then, deliberately: ] Zev. You didn't really say anything I haven't heard before. Or said before. I know what I am. The only new part is that it was you saying it and—laying it out so well. But I understand why you did. I can be hurt [ and wary :c ] and forgive you at the same time. I'm pretty big, you know. There's room for two feelings at once in here.

[ He's flicking his own chest. It's probably not audible. ]

As long as you're not giving me up for someone better. I know Doghren is the full package, but...

[ Anyway. ]

Have you told them so?

[disgracedchampion]

After being dismissed from his position, though it was really a given rather than a formal dismissal, Michel found his perceptions had been altered quite a bit. Traveling with Empress Celene. witnessing her relationship, Felassan's dubious influence in perhaps that he had been right about some things, and giving into temptations he knew he had no right to. It changed everything. it changed him...perhaps not in his own ideologies as a Chevalier, but in the things he wanted as a man and a person. Things that the world he knew would strike him down for or attempt to wrest from him.

Beautiful, physically strong in his own right, and he'd not judged Michel in spite of the man's position...he was an Orlesian, he was a Chevalier, he had the privileges of nobility in spite of his origins. Most would frown upon such things, the fact that Zevran did not and...interestingly enough initiated contact between them in spite of this knowledge seized his attention so completely.

Nudging the fabric of Zevran's pants out of the way he nosed himself against the mound laboring underneath smallclothes and he rather found the kind worn in this part of the world rather attractive. Whether Zevran noticed it or not, Michel tried to watch him discreetly, but his companion was devastating in his smallclothes alone. Leather was attractive and very well suited to the elf, but if he could have the man in any way it would have to be stripped down to that little slip of a garment. Admiring only for a moment, Michel's lips covered the already wet front of the material, head tipped to the side slightly so that he could suck along the rigid length. He wanted to fix it into his memory, the way Zevran's hips rolled into the heat of his mouth, the way he tasted even through the fabric, the scent...leather and a musk that was distinctly his own, whatever soaps and oils he used on his body.

"Mmm?" he hummed gently, the sound vibrating from his lips as he tipped his head back to look at his companion, "you smell and taste good...I want to remember..."

But he could be more direct if Zevran so wished it, granted at the moment his mobility was limited, he relied on rooting against eh final barrier just enough to relieve the elf of his tight confines before eagerly resuming. He had no experience in this, only memories and a drive to make the assassin feel as good as Michel had felt. He rolled his tongue against the flushed apex before slowly drawing Zevran into his mouth. He was careful to gauge what he could fit given his lack of expertise and not wanting to involve his teeth in any way. Comfortable with the swollen head and a fair bit more he hollowed his cheeks, sucking him slowly, rhythmically as his eyes remained fixed on Zevran for signs of...anything.

[ombranera]

When Michel's voice became muffled- obscured by something other than his fist or the press of his crossed arms, Zevran had to prop himself on his elbows to look up and see what it was the man bit to quiet himself. Of everything in mind- the pillows, his bicep once more, the back of his hand- Zevran had not expected Michel to be sucking on his own fingers. A sharp crack of heat lanced through him, stealing the breath from his lungs, scattering his many sordid plans on what he ought to do next. Though he had little more than the mattress to grind against himself, bound tight in his leathers, Zevran's voice curled in a throaty moan.

"The things you do to me, Soleil." Horrible, wicked, delightful things. Zevran tugged on Michel's hips to urge him to roll over, already propping himself on his knees to pull at the lacing of his trousers. Disrobing was swift- he was beyond all teasing, all torment as he slipped up to straddle Michel's hips once more. He'd offered to ride him, nights ago. Now he meant to make good. Zevran rose up enough to coat his fingers with oil, eyes dark, body flushed with desire, and made quite certain he had Michel's eyes on him before he reached back to breach his own body with a finger. His eyes slipped half closed as he rolled back against it- inked cock hard and beading with precum at the tip. "I want to feel you."

Inspired he snaked a hand up to tug those same fingers Michel had been sucking on and bring the hand back, the oil from his own hand easing the way as he worked one of those long, fair, calloused fingers inside of him. "Here, please-"

[disgracedchampion]

The curl of his tongue around his own fingers had been and idle, mindless exercise in tempering his desires, he was entirely unaware that the act inflamed Zevran's lust and would have been more conscious about it if he had known. Perhaps it was better that he did not, perhaps these things he did unconsciously were better left to be naturally observed. Feeling good and making an outlet for himself was entirely part of his process and sometimes being unaware of such things made it all the more wondrous when Zevran moaned, or looked at him that way. When his companion surged with need for him and he couldn't put a finger on why it was, Michel felt the humming of his own lust vibrate through his body, blood singing in his veins.

"Ah...?" It didn't take much convincing to roll the Chevalier over onto his back, though it did distract him from his fingers, the only evidence now that he'd been sucking on them was the moist remnant of the activity on his lips. He gazed at Zevran, eyes slowly coming into focus as he watched him undressing hurriedly and then that beautiful body was straddling him. His cock gave an interested jump in response to the scene that was playing out before him, the way his bedmate was flushed and laden with desire and then he began fingering himself. A gasp found its way past Michel's lips before he could help himself and he extended one hand to briefly, delicately run his fingers along the length of Zevran's cock. His fingers followed the lines of his tattoos from base to tip where he swiped at the precum welling up there.

There was a powerful urge to pull Zevran down against him and kiss him breathless, an urge that battled with a need to watch him just like this. The longer he battled with this urge, the easier it was to be taken off guard when Zevran caught the fingers he'd been sucking on not long ago, still moist. It was surreal to watch Zevran guide his hand, watch his finger sink into that soft, oiled up warmth...tight, inviting...and he didn't resist. The fingers that had been lightly stroking Zevran's cock moments before drifted upwards to the assassin's face where he traced the elf's soft lips, smearing the dewy fluid there, "yes...yes..."

Anything. He followed Zevran's prompting, finger searching, twisting, pressing deep and seeking out the same bundle of nerves that brought Michel so much pleasure, "...so beautiful..."

crystal, "tomorrow," as promised

[ombranera]

I was offered a truly obscene amount of money and status to remain as a court assassin. I declined. [ For so, so many reasons. ] There is no one I would give you up for, Alistair. Not a one.

[ In all his years and all the world, every bed he's shared and every laugh, every death, every tangled, knotted thing that sat between him and those he does continue to keep in touch with- nothing compares to the ease and stability, the knowledge of having Alistair's regard and support.

His brother.

Nothing is worth losing that. ]

What do you think I said to them in Antivan, on the road back to Skyhold when I gave them the knife? They know their options.

crystal, "tomorrow," as promised

[byblow]

But Doghren—

[ It's a weak start to a forced joke; really he's disarmed, surprised at the sincerity when he'd been trying to offer a way out of the mire of apologizing, and relieved of weight he wouldn't have genuinely admitted to carrying. He has to stop and steady himself silently. ]

Thank you. [ Thank you? He feels like a nerd. He clears his throat. ] See, this is why I need to be here. After everything you've survived it would be really embarrassing for both of us if I smothered you to death trying to give you a hug.

[ Not actually less nerdy. Oh well. ]

I don't know. I was a little distracted by you giving them a knife. [ And not speaking Antivan. He hums though, thoughtfully. ] What made you understand we weren't going to turn you out or kill you?

[liberalum]

[ Dorian tips his head ever so into that hand, encouraging the blunt scrape of nails tingling over his scalp, whether ignorant to the mess its making of his hair or, more likely, not minding it at all. Context is everything. His tongue curls along tight, swollen flesh, and he spears Zevran with another look at that urging.

He lifts his head, that tight, wet heat replaced swiftly by the long strokes of his hand, no desire to break build and moment just to free his mouth, which is damp and swollen, devoid of sharp smirks, even though he finds something like them in his voice. ]

Whyever not? We have all night.

[ But it proves to be a benign threat, stung with sarcasm, for he takes Zevran back into his mouth and takes him deeply. His hands grip onto Zevran's hips, fingers setting firmly into the rounder muscle and flesh of his backside. ]