Oh, an invitation? It would be rude to ignore it. His lips trailed downward, brushing along the low thrum of Cyril's pulse. "Mhmm."
A nip. The barest scrape of his teeth before he leaned away, disengaging entirely to turn and walk to the edge of the camp, eyes heated over his shoulder. "Coming?"
"More than once, perhaps." He crackled a laugh as he led the way, weaving a path to one of the aforementioned private alcoves. Leaning back against the wall to watch Cyril's approach, he began loosening the laces at the neck of his shirt to reveal the first curls of his tattoo.
Cyril was pretty impressed by that line and wondered why he hadn't thought of it first. He was also far too pleased at the sight that came to him when he came around to join Zevran.
His eyes took in the ink that lined Zevran's neck before he leaned closer. He reached up to help Zevran out of his shirt and pressed his mouth against the decorated skin. He licked and nipped along it, enjoying every moment of exposing Zevran's skin.
Shirt off all the more of his tattoos were exposed, curling around his torso, the length of his arms and vanishing in a sensuous line under the waistband of his trousers. The only interruption a bandage about his shoulder and his ribs. "Mind those, if you would. I have no desire to revisit the healer."
That said- he was all for enjoying this to the fullest, hands skating along Cyril's ribs to find their way under his shirt, arching against his lips. "Eager, are we Tesoro?"
Cyril only pauses briefly when he sees the wounds and then mostly to take stock of them so he can be careful not to accidentally hurt Zevran.
Cyril himself is almost entirely wound and scar free. He pulls up to help Zevran pull off his clothes. "For someone as handsome and charming as you?" he asks, smiling. "Why wait?"
"Why indeed?" So much unmarked skin- for a moment he considers Cyril's possible age and shakes off the concern. He is old enough, he is consenting, he is utterly gorgeous. Why worry? Right now he's far more interested in sliding his hands along that pale skin and reveling in the contrast. "How is it that you are so fair? I would have thought you to have spent most of your life in the sun."
Cyril chuckles a bit, as if at a private joke. "Very carefully," he admitted after a moment. "I'm afraid I'm a little more vain that any one else in my clan. But it serves me well." He spreads a hand over the uninjured part of Zevran's stomach. "When it allows me to see and touch someone as fine as you." Then, after a moment. "I'm afraid I never got your name, nor gave you mind. I'm Cyril of Clan Ashara." Cyril also isn't a Dalish name but he still seems proud of it.
Clan Ashara- that was familiar. Did he not meet several someones of that same clan earlier in this day?
Did he not seduce one of them as well?
For a moment he was puzzled- then of course the flat of Cyril's hand brushed across an old scar on his stomach, skin rendered sensitive to the contact. "Mmm...Zevran Arainai. A pleasure to meet you, Cyril."
A pleasure to have him as well. He cradles the side of Cyril's face in one hand, tugging him in for a thorough kiss.
There they were, all the better to really get into it and-
Oh. He knew him?
What is it about their clan that they know of him and possibly imagined him? It's flattering but- Dalish from the Marches. "Clearly I have been spending my time in the wrong country, for you to be dreaming of me elsewhere."
Cyril smiles at that, though the grin has taken on a more boyish tone now. Less all about the seduction and more about being excited.
"There aren't many heroic elves in stories," he points out after a moment. He came a little closer then, worried that talking about 'growing up' with stories of the Fifth Blight might make him seem too young. He was just barely a teenager when the Fifth Blight took place.
Instead of talking about that, though, he puts his arm around Zevran and nuzzles his neck again. "You can tell me all about it later, after we've had our fill of each other."
Ah, a fan. It's been some time since he's seduced a fan- of course ten years ago all he need do is smile and he had his lap filled with lovely, grateful women and handsome, strapping men. A hero's touch, they'd said. He'd wondered if they cared that his hands were more stained with blood than gilded with gold.
Which of course brings to mind the mental image of Cyril in all his fair, vain glory arching whilst painted with red or gold. With skin as pale as his? it would stand out. Would that he had the time...well. They do have plenty of time and he did have that one salve to soften scars that went on crimson. What to do about the gold, though... "And I do mean to have my fill of you, Tesoro. Someone so fine and so fair deserves a proper ravishing."
Were his arm not in such a state- this is where he would sweep Cyril off his feet and up onto the nearest ledge. As his arm IS in a delicate state- he settles for sweeping him low by tugging him close and bearing down to the soft nest of pillows he may or may not have set up earlier with the intent of sleeping here after he'd set his traps.
Cyril helps by angling his legs and body weight to make it easier for Zevran to move him around. He doesn't make a big show of it or bring much attention to the injury. The point is to make things as seamless and painless as possible.
He settles on the pillows and grins up at Zevran. "Promises, promises," he teases a bit. He likes the idea of a proper ravishing and really is just teasing Zevran as a casual way of making sure he knows there are no protests to that idea.
"Are meant to be kept, yes?" And he means to keep this one, lips already pressing to Cyril's curve of a smile. It is rare for him to find a Dalish elf so game- rarer still that he finds some of their bravado and desire for contact almost familiar. There's a comfort in that- and a new weight of expectation. Apparently he was some manner of hero.
It would not do for him to disappoint.
Limited as he might be, never let it be said he was anything but a thorough and attentive lover. As such he spends a moment trailing his hands along the fine shape of Cyril's body, tracing the softness of his skin, adding the press of his nails here and there to see how he responded. Perhaps the slow drag of his teeth against Cyril's bottom lip as he pulled away to breathe, considering his next move.
It's very easy for Cyril to be responsive to Zevran's attention. He's careful to bite his lip to stop him from making noises that are too loud. He doesn't want to attract attention from anyone who happens to be passing by. Still, he groans softly any time that Zevran scratches or bites him lightly. That sort of claiming only makes things more memorable for him.
He also openly touches Zevran. He's still careful to avoid the injury, but he lets his hands trail over Zevran's good arm, back, and his face. His fingers eventually end up touching Zevran's hair.
Marks are welcome- excellent. At every reassurance it's enjoyed it makes the grazes of his nails and teeth happen more often as he works his way from Cyril's lips to his angle of his jaw, the curve of his throat. Fitting his lips over the fluttering of his pulse satisfies some visceral urge in him that he squashes for now.
Treasuring. Ravishing and treasuring. A tender love bite, not a mauling.
He does grin at the hand in his hair, pausing long enough to reach back and unfasten the braid, letting the long blond strands fall about them. Cyril is free to play with it as he wishes while Zevran busies himself with working thin red lines along his ribs with his nails and a bruise upon his throat.
Cyril's fingers do move through Zevran's hair, enjoying the feel of it as he enjoys playing with and untangling it from the lingering bit of the braid.
His body squirms into Zevran's touches and the scratches. He really has to keep his teeth pressed into his lower lip to stop himself from crying out too much. He's going to enjoy looking at any lingering marks later. For now, all he can do is happily respond by arching his back and giving Zevran as much access to his skin as he can.
It will be the first of many, Zevran intends to leave quite the mark on Cyril. Something about skin so fair begs to be bruised and with how he arches into every touch? Zevran is fairly certain he could have Cyril begging for more soon enough.
Throat to chest and he's biting his way lower, pausing to lave his tongue over bruised or reddened skin to soothe the sting. "How may I have you, Tesoro? Like this, spread beneath me as you attempt to muffle your cries? Perhaps against the wall, pinned between me and the unyielding stone?"
Cyril is almost begging now if not for the fact that he's enjoying the teasing and marking a little too much.
"Why must me choose?" he asks. "Can't we start with one and move to the other?" He's smirking as if it's just a joke but there's something in his eyes that shows he would gladly follow through.
"Mmm. Now there's a thought. I have one as well, though it is more of a question." He pulls away enough to take Cyril's wrists in his hands and tug them up, resting them against the cushions above his head. The grip is gentle, easy enough for Cyril to break if he so desires "And this? Yes or no?"
"Yes," Cyril responded with such breathy enthusiasm that it's impossible to mistake it for anything other than total consent. If anything he just seems all the most excited.
"Your word?" He held Cy's wrists as he pulled a length of rope from his belt, doubling it for a stable knot that he begins one handed. He would need that word before he actually bound any part of Cy.
"Word?" Cyril asked, which was a sign that he was more new to this than he let on. He knew he enjoyed things, but he hadn't been in any sort of relationship that had brought watch words in.
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"Lead the way," he said.
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A nip. The barest scrape of his teeth before he leaned away, disengaging entirely to turn and walk to the edge of the camp, eyes heated over his shoulder. "Coming?"
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His eyes took in the ink that lined Zevran's neck before he leaned closer. He reached up to help Zevran out of his shirt and pressed his mouth against the decorated skin. He licked and nipped along it, enjoying every moment of exposing Zevran's skin.
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That said- he was all for enjoying this to the fullest, hands skating along Cyril's ribs to find their way under his shirt, arching against his lips. "Eager, are we Tesoro?"
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Cyril himself is almost entirely wound and scar free. He pulls up to help Zevran pull off his clothes. "For someone as handsome and charming as you?" he asks, smiling. "Why wait?"
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Did he not seduce one of them as well?
For a moment he was puzzled- then of course the flat of Cyril's hand brushed across an old scar on his stomach, skin rendered sensitive to the contact. "Mmm...Zevran Arainai. A pleasure to meet you, Cyril."
A pleasure to have him as well. He cradles the side of Cyril's face in one hand, tugging him in for a thorough kiss.
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"Zevran Arainai? As in, the elf who helped the Hero of Ferelden stop the Fifth Blight?"
He stares. "How is it that you are even more handsome than I imagined?"
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Oh. He knew him?
What is it about their clan that they know of him and possibly imagined him? It's flattering but- Dalish from the Marches. "Clearly I have been spending my time in the wrong country, for you to be dreaming of me elsewhere."
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"There aren't many heroic elves in stories," he points out after a moment. He came a little closer then, worried that talking about 'growing up' with stories of the Fifth Blight might make him seem too young. He was just barely a teenager when the Fifth Blight took place.
Instead of talking about that, though, he puts his arm around Zevran and nuzzles his neck again. "You can tell me all about it later, after we've had our fill of each other."
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Which of course brings to mind the mental image of Cyril in all his fair, vain glory arching whilst painted with red or gold. With skin as pale as his? it would stand out. Would that he had the time...well. They do have plenty of time and he did have that one salve to soften scars that went on crimson. What to do about the gold, though... "And I do mean to have my fill of you, Tesoro. Someone so fine and so fair deserves a proper ravishing."
Were his arm not in such a state- this is where he would sweep Cyril off his feet and up onto the nearest ledge. As his arm IS in a delicate state- he settles for sweeping him low by tugging him close and bearing down to the soft nest of pillows he may or may not have set up earlier with the intent of sleeping here after he'd set his traps.
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He settles on the pillows and grins up at Zevran. "Promises, promises," he teases a bit. He likes the idea of a proper ravishing and really is just teasing Zevran as a casual way of making sure he knows there are no protests to that idea.
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It would not do for him to disappoint.
Limited as he might be, never let it be said he was anything but a thorough and attentive lover. As such he spends a moment trailing his hands along the fine shape of Cyril's body, tracing the softness of his skin, adding the press of his nails here and there to see how he responded. Perhaps the slow drag of his teeth against Cyril's bottom lip as he pulled away to breathe, considering his next move.
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He also openly touches Zevran. He's still careful to avoid the injury, but he lets his hands trail over Zevran's good arm, back, and his face. His fingers eventually end up touching Zevran's hair.
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Treasuring. Ravishing and treasuring. A tender love bite, not a mauling.
He does grin at the hand in his hair, pausing long enough to reach back and unfasten the braid, letting the long blond strands fall about them. Cyril is free to play with it as he wishes while Zevran busies himself with working thin red lines along his ribs with his nails and a bruise upon his throat.
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His body squirms into Zevran's touches and the scratches. He really has to keep his teeth pressed into his lower lip to stop himself from crying out too much. He's going to enjoy looking at any lingering marks later. For now, all he can do is happily respond by arching his back and giving Zevran as much access to his skin as he can.
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Throat to chest and he's biting his way lower, pausing to lave his tongue over bruised or reddened skin to soothe the sting. "How may I have you, Tesoro? Like this, spread beneath me as you attempt to muffle your cries? Perhaps against the wall, pinned between me and the unyielding stone?"
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"Why must me choose?" he asks. "Can't we start with one and move to the other?" He's smirking as if it's just a joke but there's something in his eyes that shows he would gladly follow through.
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i'm so sorry this is so late
s'awright!