ombranera: (Default)
Zevran Arainai ([personal profile] ombranera) wrote2016-01-07 04:15 pm

Open RP Post



SFW, NSFW, AU, OU, etc. Drop a prompt like it's hot and let's go!
byblow: (8)

beautiful post all for meeeee

[personal profile] byblow 2016-01-16 09:15 pm (UTC)(link)
[ continued from here ]

"Right, well," Alistair says. "That's what I'm here for."

Taking blows. And delivering unpleasant news and witty one-liners, of course, always. And ducking his head in (his stupid long nose in the way, he hates it) to rest his mouth at the juncture of Zevran's ear and jaw and neck. He doesn't think of Zevran as soft, but he has soft places, unguarded by bone, and Alistair has already decided—over the course of all his brooding and dwelling and stair-tripping—that they're his favorites.

He has a series of brief impulses. Pointing out he didn't think he was Zevran's usual type—but Zevran isn't his, either, and not even because he's a man. Asking again if he's sure. If he'd really prefer this to how they've always been or if he's trying to keep Alistair happy. If he knows that Alistair will try not to be jealous and terrible if he carries on with the socks on the doorknob after this, but it will kill him, so maybe the should talk—

More delays. Nah.

"I love you," he says instead, because he hasn't said it yet. Not like this. He wraps his arm low around Zevran's back again and slips a hand just far enough beneath his shirt to curl against his side. Soft places.
byblow: (13)

[personal profile] byblow 2016-01-19 01:02 am (UTC)(link)
Alistair hums, "Hmm?" against his skin, where he is struggling against the urge—not to bite, but to be less chaste. The space left between their chests feels occupied by something fragile and small that could easily be crushed. But though this isn't only lust, that is, definitely, a thing. A part of it. He can smell the oil in Zevran's hair. His is breathing getting deeper without changing pace, his hand shifting against Zevran's side.

Frightening, he said. He's frightened. Alistair lifts his head to check his face, to try to get a measure of that fear.

"It's only me, Zev," he says. His hand wanders higher, to his ribs, before he changes his mind about trying to coax Zevran out of his shirt just yet, if he's feeling unsteady. If he might feel exposed. Alistair shifts back away from him, one hand braced on the bed behind him, and grins. "I was thinking about you earlier today. Not even anything very scandalous, just, ah—anyway, I fell down the stairs. Out in the courtyard, in front of everybody." He's already reaching over his shoulder for the back of his shirt, to pull it off. "Want to see the bruise?"
Edited 2016-01-19 01:25 (UTC)
byblow: (47)

[personal profile] byblow 2016-01-19 04:28 am (UTC)(link)
"Your—Zev. It's nothing."

Exasperated, fond; despite the concern on Zevran's face, Alistair follows through with his plans to pull his shirt off over his head and drop it on the floor. The expanse of faint (truly) purple on his back can only help. Nothing's broken. He's gotten worse injuries from falling out of bed. He twists and bends and turns sideways to display some of it without unseating Zevran from his lap.

"I stopped paying attention and slipped, that's all. It's funny." Now. It's funny now. At the time it was embarrassing and one more injury to stack on top of his self-loathing and wounded heart. But that was hours ago, before Zevran let him kiss him. Now it's fine. "I was thinking about you," he says again, straightening up, but his voice has changed, and he catches one of Zevran's hands to trace the edges of one of his fingers between his own.
byblow: (58)

[personal profile] byblow 2016-01-19 07:30 am (UTC)(link)
"Your hands, at that par-tic-u-lar moment," Alistair says, staccato emphasis in place of elaborating on all of the other moments he's nearly walked into doors or dropped something in the last few days. He lifts the hand he's caught to kiss Zevran's knuckles with ridiculous, overdone chivalry and a smile that says he knows it.

But it's what Zevran deserves—not as recompense for all of the hardship, but because he's always deserved it, for being exactly as funny and clever as he thinks he is and kinder and braver than he can see—and it's what he's going to get. His knuckles kissed, then the underside of his wrist, then—

"—Maker. I fell for you," Alistair says against his skin. "I can't believe I missed that opportunity." It is probably for the best that he did. He can only ask Zevran to endure so much before he changes his mind about this whole thing.
byblow: (1)

[personal profile] byblow 2016-01-20 12:12 am (UTC)(link)
Alistair nods merrily behind Zevran's wrist, bright-eyed and pleased that Zevran has noticed. He is ridiculous. There's nothing to be frightened of.

The teasing mischief in his smile sharpens for a second when Zevran turns a color Alistair has never seen on him: that's my job, he could say, or you're not so tough. But he really isn't so tough, is the thing. Alistair's face softens again, goes a little overwhelmed on his own behalf; he's never had anything as rare or as nice or as easily damaged as a lapful of Zevran Arainai with his guard down.

He kisses his cheek, where the blush is. He feels like he's been kissing everything in reach, constantly, but he's a little giddy off the fact that he can (without being a bastard or getting his heart broken) and the almost-as-new fact that he wants to. "Your hands," he says again, in belated confirmation, and moves the one he's holding to his own shoulder for safekeeping. "On me." Sheepish. Conscript the boy out of the Chantry— "I'm going to stop trying to flirt with you now."
byblow: (26)

[personal profile] byblow 2016-01-20 04:19 am (UTC)(link)
"Hey."

Whining, but also quiet. He pushes his nose into Zevran's cheek. It's not entirely unlike a dog trying to tell another to knock it off.

"I have half an idea what I'm doing."

And the half he doesn't know—which is the bottom half, to be specific—he's imagined. He'll figure it out. Surely this will be easier and less terrifying than his other first time, trying to learn what to do with a woman without even having had his own body to practice on—

That might not be what Zevran meant. Alistair falls still, considering, cheek to cheek and exhaling over Zevran's ear.

"I can prove it," he offers.
byblow: (8)

[personal profile] byblow 2016-01-20 03:27 pm (UTC)(link)
"I'm an idiot," Alistair says, more dismissive than apologetic. He didn't know; he should have; he does now. It's as startling yet utterly predictable as the first snow of winter. The wonder wears off and it's clear it was always going to happen. His hands find the hem of Zevran's shirt again. "And three days is so long."

Not as long as five years. But still: long, when he hasn't been with anyone in years, or felt this way ever, or had any privacy to.

Deal with it.

You know.

How, Zevran asks, and Alistair slides his shirt up to his ribs. "Can I—?"

They could wait. They could cuddle. They could go get something to eat and take a walk. But his voice wavers on just those two words, so he doesn't try adding more.

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byblow: i'm trying to work with you but you're being insane (89)

[personal profile] byblow 2016-04-12 05:00 am (UTC)(link)
Alistair doesn't connect the dots until he sees him.

He should have been able to, probably, but in his defense—first of all, the idea is preposterous. Second of all, he's very tired. He has a lot on his mind and several angry, armed people on his trail, and if it weren't for the letter from Zevran in his pocket he might not have paid any attention to the zealots in Haven until Hawke brought them round to his cave to visit.

But he does have the letter, so there is no cave. There's snow and ice and familiar trails, a swirling green wound in the sky, and a very odd look from the guard he talks to at the gate. I'm looking for an elf with, ah, he says, twisting three fingers through the air near his cheek. Fifteen minutes later he's sitting in a room in a chantry waiting for something called a Herald of Andraste, which feels an awful lot like sitting in another room in another chantry and waiting for a Grand Cleric. That never went well for him.

Maybe Zevran has killed someone or other, he thinks, and now Alistair will have to explain that he didn't know and wasn't involved, and they won't believe him and won't care that he's a Warden and he'll hang. Hanging wouldn't be the worst thing that's happened to him this week, but he could still do without, if it's all the same to everyone invol—

The door opens. His inner monologue stops, his eyes snap up. Three seconds to take in the armor, the deferential guard, and the glow; then the dots finally connect. Twenty different things happen on Alistair's face in smudgy overlapping succession before he settles into a baffled, worried half-smile.

"I was going to say, Zev, I'm in a little trouble—" A line in itself unremarkable, but with his plan to lean nonchalantly on something or other while smirking, maybe it would have been charming and scampish, who knows. Instead he's standing up straight, no smirk, only a concerned search of Zevran's face and glowing green hand. "—but it looks like you have me beat."
byblow: (7)

[personal profile] byblow 2016-04-29 01:28 pm (UTC)(link)
"Apparently," Alistair says, doing Eyebrow Thing #29, which means I don't see how you can be so calm about this but I'm not going to panic and look ridiculous in comparison.

He's heard things. Not many things, busy ferreting after corrupt Wardens and red lyrium and poking his fingers into the wasps' nest of inprisoned darkspawn magisters and their purported deaths, but—things. Reconciling the Herald of Andraste with Zevran will take him a few minutes (or hours or days), and in the meantime he looks at the guard in the doorway with obvious uncertainty, unsure whether Zevran is being guarded like a prisoner or guarded like a dignitary.

"Are you all right?"
byblow: (37)

[personal profile] byblow 2016-04-29 01:59 pm (UTC)(link)
When the guards go, Alistair's shoulders relax, but he hasn't had time to smile fully before Zevran asks. His face tightens, and he doesn't answer. He doesn't dream he's fooling anyone, but there are more important things. Zev's hand is glowing. Alistair holds his own, non-glowing hand out with an air of expectation—give him that—and belatedly finishes smiling, at half force.

"Does it hurt?"
byblow: (26)

[personal profile] byblow 2016-04-29 03:03 pm (UTC)(link)
For his effort Zevran gets a brighter smile, sharper, and a burst of an exhale that might have elevated to a laugh under better circumstances. The hand, Alistair takes like a curious object, something fished off of a corpse or out of a crevice in a cave; he bends his head to examine it, then pokes the center of the glow with his thumb and the look of a man who is half expecting an explosion.

None comes, and Alistair isn't sucked through a sudden vortex into the Fade, and Zevran—presumably—does not die.

"Huh," he says, and looks up from Zevran's palm to his face. "Andraste herself, was it?"
byblow: (71)

[personal profile] byblow 2016-04-29 03:46 pm (UTC)(link)
"If you find eerie green light soothing, sure," Alistair says. He does read the signs, does relinquish the hand—with an air of apology, for the poking, but not too much of one. He won't fuss. Not so blatantly, at least. After a moment he decides, "This would happen to you."

Wrong place, wrong time, big names and luck that could either be very good or very bad depending on the angle it's viewed from. It fits right in with his other stories, really, even if the scope is a bit more—monumental. Maybe Zevran will wind up with a statue of his own somewhere. Maybe. They might round the ears off.

He puts his hand on Zevran's shoulder—the other one, the one not attached to anything that glows, subtle fussing—to give it a bracing squeeze. "So," he says, "can you protect me, if I need it, or should I be asking someone else?"
byblow: (43)

[personal profile] byblow 2016-04-29 07:33 pm (UTC)(link)
Alistair doesn't wiggle his eyebrows, because that would require energy and levity and a comfort for that sort of joking that he doesn't currently possess, but he does quirk them up, just once, as if to convey that the possibility of wiggling has been considered. "You are good at that," he says. "I've been declared a traitor and so on. Again. I think I managed to lose the Wardens who were following me—I know these mountains better than they do—but if they find out I'm here, I'm."

In trouble. But not nearly as much trouble as Zevran seems to be in. That's almost comforting.

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