[ 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. ]
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Date: 2015-12-26 07:37 am (UTC)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. ]