"You might be surprised, I have been tasked to tending to some particularly stubborn people in my time." A few knights after the grand tourney more disgusted by being handled by an elf than they were in need of his skills. As they died quickly enough from the poison in the massage oil, well. He didn't take it personally. It wasn't his favorite means; poison was rarely so quick and clean as a dagger- not that he is thinking much of either at the moment. No, he was seeking out the spots of tension and knotted muscle under Michel's skin- the fluidity of his gestures, how he moves with the Chevalier to accommodate his need to touch speaks to years of experience both in the massage and in being touched back just as much.

Some humans simply cannot help but want to touch- when they aren't bothered by his being an elf. He does not mind- hands slipping back up from ribs to catch one of Michel's hands, working fingers and palm and wrist- rolling out tension that he finds, smoothing his skin with more oil. More than the massage, he turns enough to press his lips to the skin of Michel's wrist, working his teeth and tongue over the now slick skin fluttering over his pulse. It is a slow seduction, methodological and languid- exacting in which marks he wishes to make, eyes ever on Michel's. Something in watching how they go dark and hazy with desire knots tight in the pit of Zevran's stomach.