Nov. 11th, 2010


Nov. 11th, 2010 08:46 pm
dalishstorm: (Cadryn Amell)
Anon is in the mood for some fluffy smut.

Zevvy and Warden bathing in the river. Hairwashing and slow molten lovemaking plz.

Any flavor Warden, human preferred.
An assassin's work was typically clean, and Zevran found himself ill-suited to the butchery the Warden's party often found themselves in. The killing itself was no problem, and he welcomed the challenge, but the gore—today, for example, the four of them stumbled into camp covered in darkspawn and werewolf blood, the two wardens insisting that Zevran and Leliana immediately clean up instead of helping out around camp. And that was something Zevran was infinitely grateful for—regardless of Alistair's personal hygiene, both Wardens were adamant about whoever traveled with them in a day as the advance guard being fastidious.

Camp was set in a bend of a wide stream with high, heavily entrenched banks, and as both rogues made their way toward the water, Zevran asked, “My dear Leliana, would you perhaps need some help with your hair?”

She smiled, but narrowed her eyes at him in a brief glance as she kept walking at his side. “I know your game, Zevran. So thank you for the offer, but I don't think I will need any company.”

“Such a shame,” he said, sighing and shrugging in exaggerated fashion. “I suppose when werewolves fall upon us alone and naked, we will simply have to accept our fates.”

“Do not joke about such things. And either way, you are not watching me bathe.”

Zevran didn't have the energy to continue the argument, so they parted ways, each going opposite ways around the bend. Wandering downstream, Zevran found a wide, flat blue stone jutting out of the bank in a jumble of smaller boulders, the water around it deep and still. He stripped quickly, and set about the boring, laborious task of cleaning his armor and padding and everything else of darkspawn filth, in hopes everything would be dry by the time he was done bathing. Not that he'd mind walking back into camp nude, but the protestation would be... less than welcome today. Wynne's nagging and Morrigan's disgust and Oghren's jeering and Alistair's stuttering blushing—most of the time their reactions were amusing, and exactly what he desired, but even Zevran tired of using his sensuality as a shield. The longer he traveled with these people, the less interested he was in keeping up appearances, but he wanted to keep most of them at arm's length. And this was easiest.

He got all but the worst of the ground in blood and other filth out of his armor and clothes and laid them aside on that flat sun-warmed stone, closer to shore. Slipping into the chill water, he resolved to bathing quickly, but still longed for a warm tub. Such indulgences had been rare in his time with the Crows, and rarer yet in his travels with the Warden, and it made them all the more precious.

The water came up to the middle of his chest at its deepest point, and when he undid his braids and dunked his head the water rolled off pinkish, distressingly so. He felt around carefully for any injuries but found none, and so repeated the motion, holding his head under for a while in the cold water. Something like this would've been much easier than seeking out the Grey Wardens. It wasn't as if he needed an honorable death, any sort of death would do. When his lungs began to burn Zevran resurfaced, slinging his hair back and gasping a deep breath. No, he didn't need an honorable death, but he was too much a coward to hold the blade himself, and now he was oath-bound.

Zevran felt the ripples in the water breaking against the backs of his thighs just seconds before arms encircled him, drew him against a solid, warm body, nude as his own. For a moment he imagined the hard flesh behind him, well-defined lines to be a softer, rounder body, slimmer in certain places and more robust in others, perhaps Leliana.... But fingers dragging gently across his scalp and a resonant voice whispering in his ear dispelled the image. What was said never really mattered, more the tone.

Zevran preferred the soft lines of a woman's body, but he was also used to lovers with a much harsher touch, especially in men. Before the Warden, he'd not really understood the term lovemaking, finding it no more than a poetic term, one he could occasionaly use to describe the sort of sex he had with overly emotional marks. There seemed to be no special attachment in the Warden's attentions, no smitten love-sick behavior as he would expect of one so previously inexperienced, and that made it extremely novel. There were no expectations, the Warden wanted only what he could give. And Zevran asked nothing more of the Warden. He could pretend, at times, that he wasn't oath-bound, that this wasn't simply to work his way into the Warden's good graces, that they were equals, partners of some sort who simply enjoyed each other's bodies.

A gentle tug with one arm encouraged Zevran to lean back against him, and Zevran obliged, putting some of his weight against the Warden. With Zevran braced against him, the Warden freed up both hands to work at the mess of Zevran's hair, and by the smell and feel of it he wasn't using the harsh soap Zevran had brought with him but some of Leliana's soft, foreign concoction. It would leave him smelling of herbs for some time, but pleasantly so. Wriggling slightly against the Warden, and getting the expected involuntary reaction, Zevran sighed in exaggerated contentment. “If this were a warm candlelit bath and you had a bottle of fine wine waiting for me, I would think you were trying to seduce me, dear Warden.”

A low, rolling chuckle from the Warden reverberated through them both. “I'm not so good with heat, you know, but I'll see what I can manage.” The Warden paused in his work on Zevran's hair to lean down and lay a kiss at the nape of his neck, a second further down, one squarely between his shoulder blades, all perfectly along his spine.... and by the time the Warden had straightened the water seemed much warmer, not as warm as Zevran desired but a great deal more comfortable. Closing his eyes, Zevran focused on the fingers dragging across his scalp, slowly working in the soap and oils, occasionally brushing the tips of his ears ever so lightly..... There were certainly advantages, at least, to bedding an accomplished mage, little comforts like the increase in water temperature, and Zevran issued an involunatry moan as the soft drag of fingers across his scalp ended.

The first handful of water to pour over his head was a surprise more in its warmth than anything else, a temperature a little closer to what Zevran desired. This sort of treatment was more than a little unsettling, as no one had ever paid him such care, and Zevran suspected the Warden had noticed his ill humor and carefully designed this encounter to relieve him of whatever burdens troubled him... he didn't like being manipulated, even thusly, but calmed himself with the thought that it was with no foul intent. What had the Warden said, just a few nights ago? I need nothing from you in return. Your pleasure is enough.

Zevran didn't even pretend to understand yet, but he wanted to. With the soap and the blood and the grime washed from his hair Zevran turned to face his Warden, taking in the mage's surprisingly sleek build, little beads of water rolling down the lines of his body, the auburn hair slicked to his skin and the wholly contented smile just curling his mouth but shining brilliantly from green eyes just slightly narrowed in some private mirth. Zevran quickly found himself backed against one of the smaller boulders in the stream, and beckoned Cadryn closer with a look. The mage obeyed, of course, leaning down to kiss him, running two fingers up the length of Zevran's jaw. It was a slow duel of tongues, and when they drew apart Zevran exhaled, “If your intent was to bed me, dear Warden, I think you have succeeded.”

“Whatever my intent was is unimportant,” Cadryn offered, trailing those two fingers back down Zevran's jaw and along the sleek muscles of his neck. “If you want me, well... here I am.”

Zevran took the grin from that cheeky response with a kiss, Cadryn's hands sliding lower and their hardening sexes brushing together, sending an electric sensation through Zevran's skin, deepening his needy ache. If this was the Warden's idea of oath-bound servitude, tender gestures and lazy sex, he'd take it.

Cadryn kept him pinned there, one hand bracing against the rock and the other tracing every scar he could reach with feather-soft touches. Slick, warm skin glided over slick, warm skin as they ground against each other, kissing until their combined need was too great and there wasn't enough air between them to get a lungful or breath. With Cadryn curled over him, panting heavily into his ear, wandering hand finally stilled on the small of Zevran's back and slowly drifting lower with every thrust and grind (and keeping his back off that water-smoothed rock), Zevran had the presence of mind to leave a little love-bite on the Warden's collarbone before the need to move and relieve this building heat overcame him.

Which of them came first, Zevran decided afterward, was completely irrelevant; they were both certainly an enticing sight with their shared release spread across each other's stomachs, and it meant more tender attention from the Warden in cleaning up, which Zevran did his best to return. No one had ever treated him like this, how Cadryn treated him at every opportunity, and they were far beyond the point of leery suspicion. Whatever the Warden's game was with this gentle manner but insistence he needed no promises from Zevran, the assassin couldn't fathom, but he found with each passing day he didn't care, so long as they could keep playing at it.


Nov. 11th, 2010 08:49 pm
dalishstorm: (grumpy theron)
RL has really been kicking me in the teeth lately, so I'd like to make a request in the hopes of cheering up...

Zevran is blood-controlled by an enemy mage and ends up seriously wounding the Warden (who he is in a relationship with) while under the spell. This anon would like to see the hurt/comfort/forgiveness/guilt sex that occurs afterwards! (no preference as to which flavor of m!Warden, so long as it's a dude)
The world disappeared under a red haze and Zevran knew only one thing: a sweet voice whispering, “Kill him,” gently into his ear. And it was all that mattered, that he please this speaker. It was a delicious sort of helplessness, freedom from choice, and falling on the other elf in a rain of blows, watching more red blossom under his knives, was one of the most satisfying sensations he'd ever known.

A hard impact threw him off, landing in a heap some distance away, and back to reality. It wasn't much different, really, his vision going dim for a moment as his skull cracked against the floor, ears ringing. It took longer than he would've liked to gather his senses. Zevran got to his knees, moving slowly because the world was still spinning. He saw Alistair standing over the Tevinter mage, flicking blood from his sword before sheathing it, and Morrigan somewhat nearer, kneeling on the floor, hunched over Vanastin's prone body. Zevran pushed himself up to his feet and stumbled over, almost forgetting his own sword and dagger.

The Warden had let go of the bow, but still held onto one arrow in a white-knuckled grip, his skin gone pale under so much blood. Zevran's strikes had all been true, mostly killing blows, and only Morrigan's meager healing magic kept Vanastin breathing. Dark eyes under half-lidded eyes rolled to him, acknowledged Zevran's presence. “Zevran.”

“Shut up,” Morrigan spat. “You can waste your breath on your fool lover later. Alistair! I need you to carry him.”

Si, amore? He almost said, but just reached down to wrap a hand around Vanastin's upper arm, heedless of the blood—his hands were already dark with it, anyway.

Quick as a flash of lightning, so fast even Zevran could hardly follow the motion, Vanastin wrenched himself up and lunged with the arrow in his hand, driving it into Zevran's arm. The Antivan cried out more in surprise than pain, and jerked away as Vanastin collapsed and tried to curl up around the wounds, gasping weakly but smiling. “We're even.”

Alistair carried the Warden back, but Morrigan kept a hand on the elf, kept pushing as much healing power as she could into him, which was just enough to keep him alive, never quite enough to stop the bleeding. So by the time they reached Eamon's estate everyone was covered in the Warden's blood, and when they entered Wynne happened to be in the front room, talking to Leliana. The elder mage immediately began ordering people around, telling a servant run for this, run for that, led Alistair back to the Warden's rooms all in a hurry—and they shut the door in Zevran's face.

He finally came out of his daze. I did this. He looked down at his hands, the arrow shaft broken off in his forearm and blood up to his elbows. And after we have just come to terms with our desires. This may as well be Rinna's blood.

Leliana's hand on his shoulder surprised him, and Zevran turned to her. “I'll do what I can for your arm,” she said, so he followed her to another room nearby. Alistair's, Zevran thought, but he didn't care at the moment. Leliana sat him down in a chair and carefully removed the arrow, her touch delicate and her hands steady, removed his bracers, then washed the blood from his arms in a basin. “You hurt him, didn't you?”

“There was a blood mage,” Zevran managed. “I could not fight him.”

“And that arrow is his,” she said, frowning a little.

“He said, 'We're even' after he put it there.”

“He'll forgive you,” Leliana said, frown dissolving into a little smile. “Vanastin is cruel, surely, but he is not so cruel. He will understand.”

If he lives. But Zevran said nothing, and let her finish by packing a poultice into the wound before bandaging it. Without magic it would scar, but this was one mark Zevran felt he'd earned. If Vanastin died.... Zevran knew now he would die with the Warden, whether physically or otherwise. They'd saved each other, after all.

He sat up all night, waiting for some word on Vanastin's condition. It was well past midnight when Wynne exited the room, drying her arms with a clean towel, and announced, “He'll live.” She didn't seem particularly pleased, and wearily trudged off to her room. Zevran slipped in as servants finished carrying out the supplies Wynne had used, and there was still so much blood--

None on Vanastin, now. He was pale as the bandages covering him, the tattoos across his face standing out starkly, and moonlight streaming in through the windows made him radiant and ghostly. He looked fragile, too, small against the large bed, but Zevran knew it was a trick on the eyes. Vanastin was anything but--

No, he was fragile. But Zevran had to see that weakness in himself before he could see it in Vanastin. They had so neatly shown each other the night Vanastin killed Taliesen that they were both vulnerable, and doubly strong for seeing it in each other. Standing here, watching his lover (they were now, after all, strange as it seemed) struggle to breathe and shiver in the chill night air, Zevran knew Vanastin would be angry, would probably unleash some of that cruelty their companions feared, but it wasn't the hunter, merely the beast he had become.

Zevran tugged the blankets up to Vanastin's chin, and the unconscious Dalish leaned into the warmth of an accidental touch.

Vanastin woke a few times during the next day, but never for more than a handful of minutes at a time. He was weak, disoriented, and Zevran did his best to keep the others out. Wynne's presence couldn't be helped, and she looked on both the elves, the one in her care and the one underfoot, disapprovingly. Vanastin had an image to keep, and letting the others see him like this would give them the impression he had vulnerabilities—he did, of course, but it would create some sort of sympathy, make him more approachable in their companions' eyes.

The others had just gone to bed, and Zevran decided to check on Vanastin one last time before retiring himself. He found the Warden leaning heavily against the windowsill nearest the bed, breathing hard, dressed only in his bandages and a pair of too-large linen trews. Zevran paused in the doorway, uncertain if he should go get Wynne or talk the Warden into getting back in bed.

Before he could decide Vanastin spoke. “Zevran,” his dark voice breaking on the gravel in it, wavering, but he clearly wasn't so bad off if he had heard Zevran's entrance. “Come here.”

Zevran obeyed, as surely as he had obeyed the blood mage's sweet voice in his ear, closing the door behind himself and stepping up to Vanastin's side. From his posture the Warden was putting most of his weight against the wall, and despite his pallor Vanastin was smiling, eyes bright. Seeing the Warden like this was unsettling, and Zevran was almost afraid to touch him. But he wasn't afraid of Vanastin's wrath any more, didn't care if this was some calculated move to lull him into a sense of complacency before Vanastin struck out.

Reaching out, Vanastin wrapped a hand around Zevran's upper arm, and pulled himself close, shaking with the effort. Zevran had to wrap his arms around Vanastin, afraid the smaller elf might collapse, and Vanastin buried his head in the crook of Zevran's neck, still smiling.

“You must be delirious,” Zevran said, “or playing with me most cruelly.”

“The former,” Vanastin muttered against his skin. “I don't have the energy to be cruel right now. You almost killed me, Zevran. Do you realize what that means?”

“That you will return the favor once you are well enough?” Vanastin just laughed, started pulling Zevran's collar aside, looking for the flesh beneath with his lips.

“I don't have to pretend,” Vanastin said. “You've demonstrated that you're my equal.”

“No more of this wolfish dominance, then?” Zevran asked, twining a hand in Vanastin's loose hair but keeping an arm around his waist to keep him upright. “What if I have grown fond of it?”

“Shut up,” Vanastin snapped, and Zevran grinned—that was more what he expected. “I want you. And I'm in no shape to fight about it, so--” Zevran's mouth closing over the tip of one pointed ear drew a sharp gasp out of the smaller elf, cutting off whatever else he meant to say.

It was too easy to work Vanastin into heavy gasping breaths, his attempts at a returned carress half forgotten, by drawing his lips down the smaller elf's ear, nipping and nibbling along the way, taking the lobe of Vanastin's ear into his mouth and sucking briefly. Kissing his way across the bottom of Vanastin's vallaslin, Zevran found the other ear and repeated his attentions in reverse, the hand in Vanastin's hair slipping down to tease the first ear with gentle strokes.

When he had wrung every soft sound he could out of these attentions, Zevran slid down along the artery in Vanastin's neck, following his thready pulse down to the hollow of his throat, the dip of his collar bone, tasted all this skin as if it were new. For how often they'd enjoyed one another leisurely, it more or less was new. His hands slid down to Vanastin's hips, passing over bandages with a feather touch, and the trews needed no more than a nudge to come sliding off. With his lips Zevran followed the line of a bandage from Vanastin's shoulder down over his collarbone, caught another one high on his breast, ended up teasing a nipple with his tongue.

That was when Vanastin swayed in his grasp, hands suddenly going to Zevran's shoulders in a shaky grip. Zevran's grip around Vanastin's hips tightened, bruising hard to keep him up, and the smaller elf gasped, “Zev....” Not the nickname, but too breathless to manage his full name.

Straightening, Zevran wrapped his arms around Vanastin and hoisted him up, leaving the trews behind, and he carried the smaller elf, who wrapped his legs around Zevran's waist with a wicked, if dazed, smile, eager hardness rubbing against the leather of Zevran's clothing. It wasn't easy, of course, but the distance was short, and he managed to make the transition smoothly, laying Vanastin down on the bed and then drawing back, sitting between the smaller elf's spread knees. Vanastin gave a little laugh, a strange sound, at the sight of Zevran sitting there, such a delightfully predatory look on his face.

Delirious, indeed, Zevran thought, but running his hands down the inside of Vanastin's thighs found the skin cool, not fevered, and he followed the carress with a line of kisses, trying not to think about how very, very red the blood had been, how good it had felt, and how this submission was likely just some strange side effect of blood loss, that Vanastin would be back to himself soon enough. Zevran wanted to take advantage of the situation, wanted to tie the Warden down while he was willing to let Zevran have his way, and to tease him mercilessly, have him begging for an end in the same breath as he was begging Zevran to keep going. The Warden wasn't well enough for any such antics, though, if his breath was hitching so easily.

When Zevran's mouth finished trailing down his thigh and went lower still, a little nudge spreading Vanastin's legs further and exposing his entrance, Zevran's tongue flicked out against the circle of soft skin and the ring of muscle there, testing, tasting, and Vanastin made a little sound of satisfaction low in his throat. He teased like that for a bit, soft flicks of the tongue making Vanastin squirm with an uncharacteristic lack of restraint, but when he began to lap and press for entrance, tongue just barely wriggling in, Vanastin fully voiced a moan, as lascivious as the ones he'd given under Zevran's hands in Orzammar.

It so surprised Zevran that he stopped for a moment, listening to Vanastin gasp for breath. He repeated the motion again, pressing further this time, and though it wasn't quite as loud Vanastin voiced his pleasure again, making no effort to bite back those sounds at all. Once more, and Zevran drew back, earning a whimper. He sat up, looking down at Vanastin, who had fisted his hands into the sheets, ashen skin flushing with new heat, chest heaving with the effort to draw in enough air. When the pause had lasted long enough Vanastin's dark eyes slitted open to return Zevran's gaze, and he croaked, “What--” He didn't have the breath to finish the question, voice breaking on the gravel in it.

Zevran descended on Vanastin's cock this time, offering that same sort of attention with the smooth seal of his lips, working his tongue against the bottom of Vanastin's hardness. In no time at all Vanastin was coming hard, a harsh gasp half-voiced escaping him at the height of pleasure, and Zevran fancied he heard his name in it.

For a while Zevran nuzzled at Vanastin's hip, waiting for the smaller elf's breathing to calm, watching him carefully from his vantage. This whole occurrence had almost been too strange to believe, and it had him wanting to get away from Vanastin. It was one thing to find the same weakness in each other and to become proper equals,but Vanastin's behavior tonight had been wholly disconcerting. As soon as he thought it safe to leave Vanastin alone, Zevran stood to go.

No,” Vanastin whined, and with some of his usual speed and grace he lashed out, grabbing Zevran's wrist. “Emma lath, stay, please.” He turned to find Vanastin looking at him strangely, dark eyes seeming almost wet, some intense emotion in them.

“Wynne will have my head.” But Zevran was already sitting down on the bed. Vanastin shifted his hand to twine his fingers with Zevran's, and his grip was tight, possessive.

“Don't care. Tell her I threatened you.”

“Have you? Was that a threat?”

“No.” Vanastin all but pouted, or what passed for the stoic Dalish elf, looking away and staunchly refusing to make eye contact again. “But she'll believe it.”

So Zevran stayed until Vanastin was soundly asleep, then slipped away to take care of his own aching need. But it wasn't to thoughts of how Vanastin had seemingly let go, or fantasies of tying the Warden up and making him plead for release. No, Zevran found that he came to the intense look in Vanastin's eyes and the need in his voice when he'd begged the Antivan to stay, and afterwards he somehow felt just as guilty as when he realized he'd nearly killed Vanastin. With a sigh, Zevran threw himself down against his own bed, staring up into the dark.

Vanastin's cruelty had been so much simpler, and Zevran almost longed for it.
dalishstorm: (grumpy theron)

I would very much like Zevran and m!Warden of choice sexing in their tent.

Zev rides on top; kink is that they're trying very, very hard not to make any noise.
I botched this one.  Oops!

It had taken no small effort, but Zevran—with a little help, of course—had finally talked their savage-natured leader into shelling out the coin for rooms at an inn, giving them a couple of days to recuperate after the grueling trek through the Circle Tower. Lucky, that, it was during a terrible rainstorm, one no one but Vanastin fancied camping in. Some of them had to share rooms, but they had a warm meal with none of Alistair's unwelcome “help”, comfortable beds... it was that latter Zevran was almost regretting now. Zevran and Vanastin had been sleeping together for a little while, and he'd grown quite used to Vanastin's hard lust, that sex with the Warden was more like wolves rutting. With a merry fire in the hearth against the Fereldan chill, Zevran wanted little more than to rest, for once. But they shared a room, naturally, and Vanastin was insistent.

Disrobing was utilitarian, no art or seduction in it, but Vanastin paused briefly to make that strangely affectionate gesture, running his fingers alone one of Zevran's ears and up into his hair. The Dalish elf leaned forward with the gesture to whisper in Zevran's ear, “Not a sound more than I would make. And if you come first, you'll find no rest here.” The growl in his dark voice sent a shiver down Zevran's spine, and it wasn't purely pleasurable.

Even as Zevran rifled through his pack for the little vial of oil he needed to prepare himself, he was contemplating Vanastin's threat. Did Vanastin mean they'd spend the night so occupied? Or that he'd turn Zevran out to find a bed elsewhere? The Warden kept a firm grip on the group's purse strings, which meant Zevran would be finding someone else's bed to warm or pitching a tent, since he was unlikely to get any charity from their companions. Before he'd come to a conclusion Vanastin had snatched the vial from him and pushed Zevran to the bed, straddling the backs of the Antivan's thighs and effectively pinning him.

Zevran spent a long moment in anticipation before Vanastin slid a hand up the inside of one thigh, touch light. The Dalish elf had obviously paused to warm the oil between his fingers, because the slick touch at Zevran's entrance was warm, strangely gentle, circling the ring of muscle,
teasing..... Zevran was used to preparing himself, and had intended to make a show of it tonight. He'd experienced a light touch from Vanastin before, but it was rare, usually calculated to disguise some other cruelty or a rare reward.

But Vanastin took his time, and by the time Vanastin slowly pressed a single finger into him, well slicked, Zevran felt like he was on fire. He wanted more, he wanted it faster, he wanted... He had to bite back a moan, gritting his teeth against making any sound. Two fingers wasn't quite enough, even when Vanastin curled his fingers to press against him just so.... When Vanastin withdrew he was left empty and wanting, quivering with need, and pushed himself up from the bed's surface slightly to take his own aching hardness in hand.

Vanastin settled a hand on his back and pushed Zevran to the bed, trapping his hands and refusing him that release, before sliding in, agonizingly slow. And he kept at that, pace slow but angle perfect. Being pushed to the bed and trapped so rang all sorts of alarm bells for Zevran, but he quickly found he didn't want to move, it all just felt too good, and a certain heat was already curling in his belly.

Zevran had to gnaw at his lip to keep from making noise, and Vanastin even leaned down, brushing Zevran's hair aside to expose one ear, worked his way down from the tip sucking and nipping as he had before, sometimes delicately and sometimes savagely, the hand on Zevran's back supporting him and his free hand trailing down to grip at Zevran's hip, fingers tight.

By the time he drew back Zevran was contemplating the night spent cold and alone outside to keep himself from peaking too early, and the night's first clap of thunder disguised a full-throated moan that managed to escape him. It might be better, Maker, to succumb and be done with this torment and suffer whatever punishment Vanastin had in mind with his threat....

Vanastin finally spilled himself into Zevran with a gasp, coming hard, but as soon as he was spent withdrew, leaving Zevran on the verge of his own orgasm and wanting. The Antivan couldn't hold back a desperate, “What--”

But Vanastin was already urging him to roll over, and once he had nipped one of Zevran's ears hard, and Zevran drew a little blood biting his lip against crying out. “You can make all the noise you want, now.” Vanastin grinned wickedly, and worked his way down in a series of soft kisses and harsh bites and dark love marks, leaving Zevran hard but drawing away from the edge, even has his own aching need drew across Vanastin's sculpted body as the smaller elf ventured down. He took Zevran into his mouth and thrust two fingers in to fill that aching void at nearly the same instant, and Zevran made a little noise of surprise.

Somewhere between the third finger and realizing that Vanastin was swallowing around him, Zevran came blinding-hard with a harsh cry. When he surfaced from it, limbs trembling, he looked down to see Vanastin still crouched between his legs, a last splatter of Zevran's release against one cheek with a thin trail leading to Vanastin's mouth, the nearest bit of which was licked away once he had Zevran's attention. The sight sent another thrill of pleasure through Zevran, and he settled back with a sated, exhausted moan.


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