[ Zevran crackles a soft, half hitched laugh, torn between rolling into Bull's palm yet again or slipping off for the oil. It is the swat that makes the choice for him, rolling free to stand off to the side of the bed and strip off his trousers. It is not half so graceful as he might manage- no one looks terribly alluring hopping on one foot while attempting to untangle the other-
But he need not be terribly alluring with Bull. He needs only to be honest. It's refreshing, actually.
[ Bull's already shifted back to lean against the headboard of the bed, taking the opportunity to finish disrobing as well. Might as well. Save them the trouble later, when he's got him all worked up again.
This has no pretense to it, no need for Zevran to perform. He's a friend, here, and occasionally a friend with whom Bull will get up to all sorts of creative misadventures in bed. And there's nothing but warmth in that eye as he watches Zevran approach.
Warmth, and appreciation. Elf's still one hot piece of ass, no question there. Bull lets out a low whistle. ]
Sure you didn't drop something behind you? Might want to check.
[ Actually rolling his eyes it not something Zevran does with his lovers- he is to be charming, suave, mysterious. Such an action is none of these things and infinitely closer to his actual self for it, and yet he does it all the same with Bull, turning about and bending over to stretch out his spine and legs if nothing else. ]
I do not see anything, perhaps you are mistaken.
[ That his spine pops should worry him more than it does. It's what he gets for skipping his usual morning routine. Rolling back up pops a few more times and he sighs. Tomorrow he will start up again. ]
[ There is an ease here, a lack of need for showmanship. Not that any of that makes Zevran any less of a lover. Yet it's still refreshing to see him as he is, without the masks, and still in the process of healing.
It's always going to be a process. But that smirk is real enough. ]
Not nearly. Come here.
[ And he grins unrepentantly, crooking a finger to beckon him closer. ]
[ Again- warm and curling, a little teasing, mocking the sentiment of chivalrous affection as much as he plays into it, sweeping back to Bull's side- though he does not straddle him just yet. He stands before his massive friend, hands on his hips, head tilted faintly to the side.
An opportunity for Bull to get a good, long look. All the little tan cuts interrupting the tattoo from where the mages pulled from him he has yet to fill in. The sharpness that came from not eating well (not eating at all for awhile), the scars on his face. Not a challenge to find him handsome but-
Proving to himself he can stand under such scrutiny. That he can bear it. ]
[ And Bull grins at the sight, cocking his head slightly and not bothering to hide how he's drinking in the sight. What Zevran sees as flaws are easily just another point of interest, something that's been lived in. Has texture, a story, even if it's a terrible one.
He has his own written plainly across his body, points at which he might have fractured, fallen, and didn't. Why on Earth would he find that unappealing on anyone else? ]
[ Zevran crackles a laugh, ducking his head for a moment as he clears his throat. No there is no flush to his cheeks- dark as his skin is? Normally he does not need to worry about hiding it.
But such open appraisal not only of his perfection, but of his flaws. Appreciating them- he does not know how to take it even as he is warmed by it. Of course Bull being Bull will tell.
Oddly enough, he doesn't mind it half so much as he should.
Zevran slips into Bull's lap, arms sliding about broad shoulders as he nuzzles his way along the line of Bull's throat. ]
Hey. Dagger's every bit as good as a broadsword. All depends on what you do with it.
[ Bull chuckles, though he can't resist reaching down at the remark, smoothing a hand over his thigh before dipping between, pressing his palm up against his cock once more like a cage. A bit of friction to rub up against.
Nor can he resist giving the lobe of his ear another brief nip. ]
[ He crackles a soft laugh, hips rolling easily into Bull's hand. Slow at first, then with a faint insistence as it's a bit of friction rather than a full grip.
Not at all above such tactics he whines, pulling back enough to give Bull his saddest, most hangdog look- eartips dipped low, eyes wide and doelike. ]
No? War hammer? I'd say battleaxe, but people get funny ideas about us to start with. Don't want their imaginations going to the wrong place.
[ That grin stretches wider, letting Zevran press and rub as he tried to sate that itch, or at least push it in the right direction. It makes for a nice image, him all squirmy and needy like that.
[ And his hand pauses, arches back enough that the pressure eases, and there's a lot less to be rubbed up against. He doesn't plan leaving him like that for long, though. He's not that cruel.
[ And he does, just like that, leaving Zevran pouting in full, ears dipped to the lowest possible angle he can manage without spraining something, eyes wide and a little wet, lips in a moue of displeasure. ]
[ But Bull's got a fix for that, reaching to tug Zevran in and kiss those pouting lips. His version of an apology, perhaps. A rather vehement apology, as that. ]
You like it.
[ The words smear against his mouth with an unrepentant grin as he pops the cork, warming the oil on his fingers first before curling an arm around the elf propped against his lap. Just one finger at first, trailing back and forth, circling him before beginning to press shallowly against that initial resistance. ]
Besides, you know I give you what you want. Eventually.
[ Vehement and marvelous. Zevran melts against him in an instant, all feigned petulance dropping away in favor of sincere enjoyment.
Not that Bull's entirely forgiven, he tips his head to the side enough to nip at his bottom lip in reproach at that gradual, sliding finger. He can take more. Has. Even if he felt precarious and fragile at the moment.
Perhaps it is better that Bull is taking his time. ]
Usually when I've completely forgotten how to speak Common, but, yes.
[ They're taking it slow. Better Zevran squirm a little in impatience than trip over something they're not expecting and stopping. So he'll have to cope with a little gentle handling, easing into him as Bull occupies Zevran's mouth.
Another nip counters, tugging briefly before humming in thought. ]
[ Slow is good. Slow is what he craves, for all the frantic energy prickling at his spine. Breathing through what he wants, to lay that in someone else's hands and trust him to give him perhaps not that, but what he needs?
Does not come easily. But he tries. Hooks his hands along Bull's horns to massage the space where bone meets skin, bite back at those lips as much as he pants out soft sighs. ]
Enough to get by. Never could learn to speak it, though.
[ Common was difficult enough, for most Qunari. But there were some things that didn't need translating. Zevran when he got excited, when he was moaning out words in that slurred pitch? Said all he needed to understand.
It's the sort of thing he listens for, even now, to know when to flex his finger or thrust up, playing him open as he pants softly against his lips. ]
[ There it is. Something like a rhythm, the beginning of one, matching the shift of Zevran's hips and stroking against him from the inside. Quick, at first, then slow, long, dragging upon withdrawal.
Bull's forehead presses against his as a second finger starts nudging. He can take it, sure, but he wants to make certain he enjoys every second of it. ]
[ He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes falling closed to better focus on the slow drag of Bull's fingers, hips hitching down for more. Keeping up with the pace is difficult when it keeps changing- keeps him off balance enough that every stroke crackles something bright and hot in the pit of his stomach.
Two has him still and tense for a moment, distracting himself with the stubble on Bull's jaw- with brushing his lips back and forth across it to taste skin until too much becomes just enough. ]
[ It's slowed considerably now, the pace with which he crooks his fingers and pushes deep into Zevran, but the rhythm becomes predictable. Rise and fall, ebb and flow. Breathe.
Let him adjust. He won't shy back unless he uses the word, turning his head to catch the corner of his mouth with a soft nip. ]
If I told you the word for 'more', for example. Bet you'd pick that up quick.
[ Of course Bull could. Of course Bull did, every shivery hitch of his hips against the slow press lulling him into utter bonelessness- the tightening spiral in his gut less a wild, crackling inferno and more a slow wash like the tide.
Like a worn down shore, ready to be reshaped- he aches for more. ]
[ Bull rumbles, nips against the smooth edge of Zevran's jaw. ]
Isaam.
[ The word has a guttural weight to it, even the 's' a harder sound than in Common, less slippery than the natural flow of Antivan. But Zevran has time to practice. And if he gets it right?
[ Like rock grinding against metal, low and rumbling and inevitable. Reasons he never learned much Ander- the glottal and guttural twist to the tongue was difficult after the lilt and glide of Antivan.
But he tries. ]
Isaam?
[ Still too slick, too light, too breathy on the 'aah'. Zevran swallows, tries again. Less slick, less light, but not quite hard enough. ]
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[ Zevran crackles a soft, half hitched laugh, torn between rolling into Bull's palm yet again or slipping off for the oil. It is the swat that makes the choice for him, rolling free to stand off to the side of the bed and strip off his trousers. It is not half so graceful as he might manage- no one looks terribly alluring hopping on one foot while attempting to untangle the other-
But he need not be terribly alluring with Bull. He needs only to be honest. It's refreshing, actually.
Oil in hand he turns on his heel, smirking. ]
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This has no pretense to it, no need for Zevran to perform. He's a friend, here, and occasionally a friend with whom Bull will get up to all sorts of creative misadventures in bed. And there's nothing but warmth in that eye as he watches Zevran approach.
Warmth, and appreciation. Elf's still one hot piece of ass, no question there. Bull lets out a low whistle. ]
Sure you didn't drop something behind you? Might want to check.
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I do not see anything, perhaps you are mistaken.
[ That his spine pops should worry him more than it does. It's what he gets for skipping his usual morning routine. Rolling back up pops a few more times and he sighs. Tomorrow he will start up again. ]
Satisfied?
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It's always going to be a process. But that smirk is real enough. ]
Not nearly. Come here.
[ And he grins unrepentantly, crooking a finger to beckon him closer. ]
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[ Again- warm and curling, a little teasing, mocking the sentiment of chivalrous affection as much as he plays into it, sweeping back to Bull's side- though he does not straddle him just yet. He stands before his massive friend, hands on his hips, head tilted faintly to the side.
An opportunity for Bull to get a good, long look. All the little tan cuts interrupting the tattoo from where the mages pulled from him he has yet to fill in. The sharpness that came from not eating well (not eating at all for awhile), the scars on his face. Not a challenge to find him handsome but-
Proving to himself he can stand under such scrutiny. That he can bear it. ]
Here I am, Toro.
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[ And Bull grins at the sight, cocking his head slightly and not bothering to hide how he's drinking in the sight. What Zevran sees as flaws are easily just another point of interest, something that's been lived in. Has texture, a story, even if it's a terrible one.
He has his own written plainly across his body, points at which he might have fractured, fallen, and didn't. Why on Earth would he find that unappealing on anyone else? ]
A whole lot of badass in that little package.
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But such open appraisal not only of his perfection, but of his flaws. Appreciating them- he does not know how to take it even as he is warmed by it. Of course Bull being Bull will tell.
Oddly enough, he doesn't mind it half so much as he should.
Zevran slips into Bull's lap, arms sliding about broad shoulders as he nuzzles his way along the line of Bull's throat. ]
I would not call my package little.
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[ Bull chuckles, though he can't resist reaching down at the remark, smoothing a hand over his thigh before dipping between, pressing his palm up against his cock once more like a cage. A bit of friction to rub up against.
Nor can he resist giving the lobe of his ear another brief nip. ]
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[ He crackles a soft laugh, hips rolling easily into Bull's hand. Slow at first, then with a faint insistence as it's a bit of friction rather than a full grip.
Not at all above such tactics he whines, pulling back enough to give Bull his saddest, most hangdog look- eartips dipped low, eyes wide and doelike. ]
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[ That grin stretches wider, letting Zevran press and rub as he tried to sate that itch, or at least push it in the right direction. It makes for a nice image, him all squirmy and needy like that.
But at the puppy look he groans. ]
No, don't start with that. That's not fair.
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[ The more he squirms and earns little for it, the sadder his eyes become, the lower his ears droop. ]
Neither is teasing me. [ Is he pouting? Yes, just a little. ]
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[ And his hand pauses, arches back enough that the pressure eases, and there's a lot less to be rubbed up against. He doesn't plan leaving him like that for long, though. He's not that cruel.
But his expression will probably be worth it. ]
C'mon. Hand over the oil.
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[ And he does, just like that, leaving Zevran pouting in full, ears dipped to the lowest possible angle he can manage without spraining something, eyes wide and a little wet, lips in a moue of displeasure. ]
So cruel to me, Toro. So cruel.
[ He passes the oil along, still pouting. ]
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You like it.
[ The words smear against his mouth with an unrepentant grin as he pops the cork, warming the oil on his fingers first before curling an arm around the elf propped against his lap. Just one finger at first, trailing back and forth, circling him before beginning to press shallowly against that initial resistance. ]
Besides, you know I give you what you want. Eventually.
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Not that Bull's entirely forgiven, he tips his head to the side enough to nip at his bottom lip in reproach at that gradual, sliding finger. He can take more. Has. Even if he felt precarious and fragile at the moment.
Perhaps it is better that Bull is taking his time. ]
Usually when I've completely forgotten how to speak Common, but, yes.
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Another nip counters, tugging briefly before humming in thought. ]
We've only just started. There's time yet.
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Does not come easily. But he tries. Hooks his hands along Bull's horns to massage the space where bone meets skin, bite back at those lips as much as he pants out soft sighs. ]
Do you even understand that much Antivan?
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[ Common was difficult enough, for most Qunari. But there were some things that didn't need translating. Zevran when he got excited, when he was moaning out words in that slurred pitch? Said all he needed to understand.
It's the sort of thing he listens for, even now, to know when to flex his finger or thrust up, playing him open as he pants softly against his lips. ]
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[ Wait, give him a moment, it is hard to think past the slow press of Bull's finger. Unrelenting indeed.
His breath hitches, hips rocking up for a half moment before rolling down, taking more as he attempts to find his thread of thought. ]
Challenging.
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[ There it is. Something like a rhythm, the beginning of one, matching the shift of Zevran's hips and stroking against him from the inside. Quick, at first, then slow, long, dragging upon withdrawal.
Bull's forehead presses against his as a second finger starts nudging. He can take it, sure, but he wants to make certain he enjoys every second of it. ]
You've got a clever enough tongue.
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[ He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes falling closed to better focus on the slow drag of Bull's fingers, hips hitching down for more. Keeping up with the pace is difficult when it keeps changing- keeps him off balance enough that every stroke crackles something bright and hot in the pit of his stomach.
Two has him still and tense for a moment, distracting himself with the stubble on Bull's jaw- with brushing his lips back and forth across it to taste skin until too much becomes just enough. ]
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[ It's slowed considerably now, the pace with which he crooks his fingers and pushes deep into Zevran, but the rhythm becomes predictable. Rise and fall, ebb and flow. Breathe.
Let him adjust. He won't shy back unless he uses the word, turning his head to catch the corner of his mouth with a soft nip. ]
If I told you the word for 'more', for example. Bet you'd pick that up quick.
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[ Of course Bull could. Of course Bull did, every shivery hitch of his hips against the slow press lulling him into utter bonelessness- the tightening spiral in his gut less a wild, crackling inferno and more a slow wash like the tide.
Like a worn down shore, ready to be reshaped- he aches for more. ]
What is Qunlat for more? Please.
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Isaam.
[ The word has a guttural weight to it, even the 's' a harder sound than in Common, less slippery than the natural flow of Antivan. But Zevran has time to practice. And if he gets it right?
Well. He'll get what he asks for. ]
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But he tries. ]
Isaam?
[ Still too slick, too light, too breathy on the 'aah'. Zevran swallows, tries again. Less slick, less light, but not quite hard enough. ]
Isaam-
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