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WHO: Zevran Arainai, Alistair, & Open
WHAT: Zevran is not dealing with sentiment well
WHEN: Mid-Firstfall
WHERE: The tavern, the stables, his quarters, the healing tents, the courtyard
NOTES: Drinking, swearing, emotional vomiting.

It took a day or two to thaw out properly from the mire. To sleep, to scrub the muck from his skin, to feel alive again. Of course with the break from the mission and a quiet space to sleep it only served to remind him of how difficult it had been on the road. Of the sounds he had heard of the wardens tents. Of what their troubled sleep meant for one Warden in particular.

[ Tavern - OPEN ]

Zevran attempted to spend his days as he would before the arrival of the Grey Wardens. Some time working on his poisons and traps, some time in the tavern listening to gossip and spinning tales, playing joyful, soothing music for the weary souls within. But for tonight there was no music, there was no smiling. Zevran kept his back to the wall, his hand on a glass of wine or ale, bottle waiting for the next poor on the table beside him, eyes on something small and glinting he rolled between his fingertips. Sentiment. What good had that ever done him? What benefit did it ever hold? It was a weakness. It was an illness. And yet here he sat, sick with it. Normally the approach of company would earn a smile, a flirtatious remark- but for one night? He had no desire for masks.

[ Stables - CLOSED to Alistair ]

"As promised." The words were loose in a way only drink made them. Lulling and swooping rather than the clipped roll of his usual pattern of speech, but Zevran was at least a little drunk and looking to become a good deal more drunk before the night was through. Trouble was he trusted very few people enough to indulge as much as he desired in all of Thedas, fewer still in Skyhold. But here, staring at this ridiculous Warden in the hay with at least one dog? A warm twist of fondness bid him offer a very special bottle of Carnal, 8:69 Blessed. As he had said before, Alistair could not start his whiskey without something particularly exquisite. Between that, the carved rune stones still in his pouch, and a wrapped wheel of small cheese in addition to a bottle of his own brandy for the night? He would forgive being forced to drink in a stable. So long as it was in Alistair's company.

[ Zevran's Quarters - OPEN ]

Well this was mortifying. He had somehow misplaced his key- his spare key, and his spare, spare key in the course of the night- or he had locked all of them inside save for the one he'd slipped into Isabella's boot earlier in the day and now? Now he was crouched, fumbling with his lockpicks in a way he hadn't since his earliest years as a Crow. The lock was simple, he knew it was simple- he also knew himself to be terribly, terribly drunk. Enough so that he was not kneeling before the door in any attempt of stealthy entry and instead sitting before it, working with his picks while swearing a blue streak under his breath in Antivan, Common, with a spattering of Orlesian and even some Tevene. Until he sobered up? He would be at it for awhile. Brasca.

[ Healing tents / Courtyard the following morning - OPEN ]

Another reason why he rarely drank. The migraine. The cotton in the mouth feeling. The twist of wire that strung his guts together. Food was probably not a bad idea bu the smell of- well- anything made it twist sharper, tighter, like a dagger to his very middle. Not productive for eating anything that will settle his stomach. Water helps but it does not do much other than remind him that he should eat, but he cannot eat, and light and sound are an aching mass of unpleasantness he did not wish to linger on. Bundled tight in a cloak that was far softer on the lining than on the exterior, he stumbled his way across the courtyard to the healing tents. Perhaps one of them would give him something if he looked sad enough.

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Michel was surprised, but not necessarily put out by lips finding his own, and he couldn't deny that there was an impulse to withdraw, confusion immediately gnawed at the back of his mind. That would have been absurd, absurd because had he not initiated this in the first place? And because it had been quite some time since he'd kissed anyone with such soft lips...he wanted to sink into it further. Being the pragmatic that he was he did not, pulling away when Zevran did, "ah...well that is a...relief. I would never wish to offend an assassin...especially when it is so rare to find one as amiable as you."

Ah, a pet name in his mother language? It was possibly more harmless flirting without any sort of genuine meaning to it, after all he was with an assassin and among their skill sets was the art of seduction. Still it was charming, and he had an intoxicating scent of leather...oils and other pleasant aromas. Michel offered one of his small smiles, "I'm not sure how fine my company would be, I've been riding for a few days."

"All the more reason you are in need of my deft hands- after so long a journey an Antivan massage would likely do you a world of good. I can only imagine the aches and pains you must endure even now. It would be impolite of me not to offer my skills to help you unwind after so arduous a journey." Zevran remained as much in Michel's space as he would permit, head canted, lips quirked in a smile. Allure was easy enough to read when one was accustomed to it- how much Michel was interested, well. Zevran could not quite tell but it was early and he did have a great deal to drink the day before. But there was at least a spark of interest.

Not making an attempt to play on that would be foolish indeed.

"I--" it wasn't very often Michel found himself rendered completely immobile of thought, then again he didn't often engage in long conversations of things that were idle. If he spoke it was usually of something important or some biting, cutting, witty observation of sorts. While he certainly had been in an environment where seductions and flirtations were carried out in such a casual manner, it was...galvanizing to have it turned in his direction. More perplexing that it was an elf, "--do not misunderstand, you are...inexhaustibly attractive...," was that overstating, he's trying to be polite without being overly politic, "...but so soon after you've just been...ill, it is...perhaps...not wise...and I really do not know how to respond to such an offer."

On various levels. Perhaps he should take up the Orlesian custom of wearing a mask, because right now he felt like a true ass.

"I am not so ill that I cannot do a good turn for one that has offered me the same." He dared enough to take a step closer, hands light on Michel's shoulders. All told it would take but lifting himself on his toes to claim another kiss. Perhaps a proper one before the knight saw fit to scurry back out into the light of day and duty. Here in the back halls? There was little of either and no reason not to attempt to coax out a proper blush- or a proper reaction.

It's the most fun Zevran had since his first week in Skyhold.

He lifted himself up on his toes enough to linker a breath away, voice dripping with honey and sinful promise. "You could say yes. Join me for a short while. I dare say we might find one another invigorating. Or...you could say no and walk back the way you came. Or you might simply say 'another time', and I shall hold you to it."

"Fair enough..." was that the best response in his arsenal? It was when all he could focus on were those hands on his shoulder and whether or not he should gently extract himself lest he end up being caught. He ought to, there was something unsuitable in the way those hands made his face feel a little to warm, he felt less like a warrior and more like an initiatory being wooed for the first time. He was not a new hand at rolling into bed with someone, he was definitely unused to the ceremony, however.

In short sex and physical relationships he's had, seduction was an entirely new kind of beast to him.

Especially now that he found himself nearly nose to nose with the notion of it? Was this warm sense of veneration part of it? Was he simply so exhausted from being ceaselessly on the move for over a year that falling into it, even for a little while? He wasn't certain what compelled him, but he dipped down a bit until their lips were flush against one another's.

For a moment he wasn't certain if the bait was ripe and the line would take- it was more forward than most humans liked their elves- having their preference for the demure sort that did as the were told and were flattered for their attention. Being bold was a bit trickier of a play but with the want in Michel's eyes, the weariness of his shoulders? Perhaps the honey will be enough for this trap. Everything he'd been trained in told him this should take- but there was the human element that made for new and fascinating variables

Not a word more, not a thought- lips against his and Zevran repressed a chuckle.

Caught.

Zevran took the invitation as given to press fully against Michel's chest, hands sliding from his shoulders to his jaw to hold him there while he leaned into the kiss properly.

Zevran would never know that Michel wasn't entirely human among other thoughts that rushed through him as he returned that kiss. Like how the want in his eyes was for more than what Zevran was offering, but for the simple idea of elven agency in a human dominated society. How Briala had that agency in the arms of the most powerful figure in Orlais. Would holding on to Zevran for a little while feel something like that, or was he simply outside of his senses.

He was exhausted and that was it.

He's not so certain he would be able to use that as an excuse later, but for now it seemed adequate enough. Hypnotically drowsy enough sink into Zevran. Wind his arms around that light, adaptable body and hoist him off the ground easily enough as his jaw worked under those fingers.

The bubble of laughter in his chest at being lifted was soft enough that Zevran was able to twist it into a sigh of pleasure- and he was genuinely pleased. Many remedies are there for a worn body and aching head but a good orgasm? Happened to be his favorite. At the very least Michel would be a marvelous distraction from both the hangover and that which caused it in the first place. As he was hefted Zevran snaked his legs around Michel's waist, mounting him for better leverage.

Braced like this he could curl a hand in Michel's hair- muss it up a little, tease at his scalp as much as he teased at his lips with his teeth and tongue.

[Went ahead and move it here if you don't mind.]

We've come a long way from where we began

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guh sorry for my slowness, finals were hell

education > rp, s'awright!

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Wanna move this to an inbox?

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