[ OPEN ] Well I can't stand to be with myself, this liberation's seemingly rare

[ombranera]

WHO: Zevran and Various
WHAT: Zevran sparring and dealing
WHEN: Throughout Drakonis
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Violence, swearing, usual Zevran Content Warnings Apply. Open prompt below, poke me on plurk for a closed starter. Prose or actionspam welcome!

As much as he'd protested Alistair running off on some mission in the west- the time apart gives him that much more chance to train. He'd been doing so privately in the barn, occasionally squaring off against Settimo when they both had the time and patience for Settimo's paranoia and Zevran's over-adjustments for the blind side. Learning to fight with only one good eye is slowly driving Zevran to frustration. Settimo could not come at him hard enough to be a challenge, he could not learn his new limitations without a solid effort on both their parts.

Setting aside his vanity he takes to the training grounds- but working on stuffed dummies is only good for so much. Soon enough he is picking out soldiers and rogues to come at him in the dirt circle. Day to day it goes much the same. Zevran stands with bad eye covered and his swords, with his hands, with a single short sword and calls any that would step up to help him regain his awareness. It is, to be honest, slow going. More often than not if his opponent has any manner of skill he ends up on his ass. But he grits his teeth, stands, and goes at it again. And again. Afterward he recovers with the highlight of his training- a bucket of water to sluice off the sweat and grit of the day. Whether it's the relief the cold brings or the appreciative looks it tends to earn? He doesn't say. But thus he spends his days, training himself or wrestling with the fledglings, who will offer their own commentary and catcalling in Antivan during his other matches.

Comments

[ombranera]

"Good, so good." Not as stable as it could be- keeping his voice even was difficult when Michel nosed and bit at his throat, teased his ear with breath and lips and teeth. So small a thing, that, but more than enough to drive Zevran to distraction. Not so far that he lost track of the angle of Michel's hips, the flush in his skin, the smooth rolling of his hips as though he were, in fact, riding. Many lovely details to paint a sultry picture. Anyone else would know and shift how they sat to make a better image. Taunt Zevran with their appearance or play coy, or grumble demands to have him instead. But Michel-

Enjoyed. Reveled in this. Took his pleasure as it was given and asked for so little aside from the silent plea to be allowed to be quiet. As much as Zevran enjoyed coaxing out soft cries from his throat, he was feeling indulgent. Protective, possessive. "Look at you...Perhaps I should find a mirror for our room so you might see the picture you make."

Easy to degrade like this, to imply a lack of virtue, a lowering of oneself- but Zevran did not wish to do so.

"Beautiful, Soleil. You are so lovely like this." He twisted his wrist, pressed up harder, gave Michel more room to work with, more to take in.