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. ]
[ And as his fingers start to move again, his lips catch against Zevran's mouth, stealing a short but heady kiss from him before murmuring against his mouth. ]
Again.
[ More meaning depth, pace, meaning more than just fingers, once he's been made ready. But he'll happily keep him like this, working him open until he's boneless against him and begging, working to remember that foreign tongue. ]
[ Impossible to catch his breath, to focus on anything more than the slow, steady press of Bull's fingers and the shape of that word when he's claimed thusly-
He had half a mind to ask what 'please' might be but the thought of wrapping his head around two words of Qunlat?
Just the one. Over and over, sliding to either side of sibilant or too guttural as he over-corrects while melting against Bull. ]
[ He's given this, his space to melt, cupping a hand to the back of his head and threading those scarred fingers through his hair. There's nothing else he has to do now except enjoy this, roll the feel of that word on his tongue until he's satisfied, while Bull feels him part around the steady thrust of those digits. Slick and unrelenting.
Three fingers now, and if he spreads them it's enough to encounter that resistance anew, that line that marks too much closer again than before. But it's all at the same slow, steady pace as before.
Bull takes a breath, smelling oil and sweat and arousal on the air and on Zevran's skin, and leans close enough to press his knotted, scarred forehead to the elf's. ]
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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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[ As he speaks, he's sinking in, two knuckles deep, slow but angled. ]
When I've got my fingers pressing up into you just right, and you feel that punch in your lungs. Isaam.
[ But there's no withdrawal, not yet, just that steady pressure, waiting for the word. ]
Again.
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Isaam.
[ Stuttered, stalled. He sucks in a breath and focuses on the pressure that keeps him from breathing too deep. ]
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[ And as his fingers start to move again, his lips catch against Zevran's mouth, stealing a short but heady kiss from him before murmuring against his mouth. ]
Again.
[ More meaning depth, pace, meaning more than just fingers, once he's been made ready. But he'll happily keep him like this, working him open until he's boneless against him and begging, working to remember that foreign tongue. ]
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[ Impossible to catch his breath, to focus on anything more than the slow, steady press of Bull's fingers and the shape of that word when he's claimed thusly-
He had half a mind to ask what 'please' might be but the thought of wrapping his head around two words of Qunlat?
Just the one. Over and over, sliding to either side of sibilant or too guttural as he over-corrects while melting against Bull. ]
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Three fingers now, and if he spreads them it's enough to encounter that resistance anew, that line that marks too much closer again than before. But it's all at the same slow, steady pace as before.
Bull takes a breath, smelling oil and sweat and arousal on the air and on Zevran's skin, and leans close enough to press his knotted, scarred forehead to the elf's. ]
That's it. You're getting it.