Black Silk

Jul. 26th, 2010 02:54 am
dalishstorm: (Default)
Not a prompt response, but relevant to future ones.

Pirate Neirin, yarr! I can see it now.

Zevran found himself standing at Neirin's open door, grip so tight around the earring that the hard edges and the stud were driving painfully into his palm, but he had no words and no strength to move forward, to make himself known, lost himself in thought.

There'd been no time for anything, really, between Neirin's “recovery” and the Landsmeet. Of course, it wasn't so much a recovery as Neirin being functional again, able to finish all they needed before the Landsmeet in a flurry of action. He still tired quickly, had trouble breathing under stress physical or otherwise, and his eye.... Well, they had used the injury to their advantage, because the Warden had looked broken, that dark silk patch covering his eye, stark against his pale and still bruised skin, and it had made the nobles whisper behind their hands. Neirin, for his part, had borne their stares stoically. It was not a badge of honor, standing there in the Landsmeet chamber, but it was a mark of Loghain's cruelty and madness, and Neirin's triumph.

They were about to leave for Redcliffe, and Zevran had thought to give Neirin the earring now, as they'd discussed. Instead he stood in the door, lips thin and jaw tight, watching Neirin shrug into his robes with short, jerky movements that indicated pain, quick, harsh breaths, the blue fabric sliding over pale skin it complimented so well and deep bruises only half faded. You have been through worse, as has he, was no comfort at all. Comparing it to his own experience made it no easier for Neirin to bear, nor any easier for Zevran to watch.

It was when he came to the patch that Zevran burst into action, moving swiftly, fluidly to the mage's side, covering the hand that held the patch to untangle its straps in his own, closing a fist over Neirin's, the earring trapped there as well now. Neirin startled, looked up at him in surprise, then smiled. “Zevran.”

Zevran said nothing, running his free hand down Neirin's jaw to his chin to tip his head up slightly, then brushed unbound pale hair away from Neirin's face.

The area beneath Neirin's injured eye was still dark with the remainder of a mostly-healed bruise, but the swelling was gone now. They had not spoken of it, and had very little privacy, so Zevran had purposefully avoided looking at it. Now they were no more than a breath apart, Neirin's face tilted up to look at him questioningly, and Zevran could examine it and satisfy all his fears.

“Zevran?” Less certain, this time, but Zevran was afraid to say anything yet, too lost in what had once been a perfect, soulful blue eye, now cloudy and glazed. It seemed to track his motions, but Zevran assumed that was habit, associated with the fact that Neirin's other eye was fine.

“Can you see at all with it?” Zevran asked, voice quiet, almost as if afraid of his question and afraid of the answer—for speaking a thing made it more real.

“A little,” Neirin breathed, equally quiet. “Vague shapes and colors. You're distinctive, so I can tell who you are when you're this close, but I can't make you out at all. Just colors and shapes.”

Zevran ran his hand up the side of Neirin's face, so close to the eye that the smaller elf blinked reflexively, and Zevran darted in to lay a kiss on his closed eyelid, soft, and he let it linger when Neirin didn't protest. When he drew back Zevran whispered, “I would have you whole if I could, but I do not find you wanting, like this.”

Smiling playfully, Neirin finally drew his hand out of Zevran's, started untangling the straps of the patch. “Leliana says it makes me look distinguished.” Zevran took the patch from him and Neirin held it in place with one hand while Zevran all but embraced him to tie it on, careful of Neirin's loose hair. “I think it makes me look like a pirate. What do you say to us joining Isabella's crew when this is all said and done?”

“If that is your desire,” Zevran said, forcing a neutral expression and a considerate tone. “I have no need of plunder, though.”

“Says the man who salivates at the sight of unworked precious metals.”

Leaning back to observe his work, Zevran found the dark eye patch even more startling than the injured eye, as usual, because it stood out so very stark against Neirin's pale complexion. But he was smiling brightly, more life in him than Zevran could recall having seen in their entire journey. “I have all the treasure I could ever desire right here: spun gold,” he rain a hand through Neirin's hair, “sapphire,” his thumb under Neirin's good eye, “ivory...” trailed that same hand down Neirin's face and neck to rest on his shoulder.

“You're shameless,” but Neirin's voice was colored as the soft blush that spread over his cheeks. “Now, where's that earring?”
dalishstorm: (Zevran)
Original prompt: Zevran/M!Warden.

Neither are great at talking about their feelings [for each other]. They would rather use different words and leave it to the other to interpret and are better at showing it than...saying it.

OP would like to see a situation where they have to, for whatever reason, overcome that uneasiness and talk. Fluff and reluctance-to-talk-about-feelings and h/c maybe?

...and then I guess they could get past the awkward moment and skip right to the steamy bits. Yep.

Fort Drakon had been unkind to Neirin. They all knew the story by now: Loghain wanted a confession out of the de facto Warden Commander, that the battle at Ostagar had been planned to lead Cailan astray, and now they sought to undermine Fereldan sovereignty, inciting rebellion and raising an effectively foreign army right within their borders.

Their attempts to wring these lies from Neirin were written in his skin, in welts and burns, in his crushed right wrist and his dislocated shoulders, written over the evidence of his thorough trouncing at Cauthrien's hands, the cracked and broken ribs from her shield and the eye swollen shut, all manner of disconcerting colors in the bruising, the one Wynne still wasn't sure she could save. And that angered him, the thought of Neirin marked in a way they could not cover up and forget, so he pressed Wynne on how unacceptable it would be for Neirin to lose the eye, that she must try harder or find a better healer.

Worst, of course, was the mark written across Neirin's heart. They'd done nothing sexual to him, but the memories were already there, the pain and the helplessness. Any sleep that was no magic or drug induced was far from restful, a smattering of taint-fueled dreams and those where his life in the Tower was slowly merging with what had happened in Drakon, and from his deluded mutterings everyone knew Neirin's business, now.

And Zevran had rejected him. That was his chief concern, watching Neirin doze quietly in a drugged state, clean white bandages far from stark against his pale skin, small and frail amidst the human-sized bed at Eamon's estate--Neirin had finally propositioned him instead of the other way around, blushing and eager, had pleaded most convincingly for his touch. But Zevran had turned him away, and when Neirin questioned had snapped, pushed him away.

So now he sat at Neirin's bedside—they took it in shifts, so someone was always with him in case he woke or needed help—unable to tear his eyes away from the heavy bandage over one eye or the bandages peeking over the covers, the bruises on his shoulders so large he could see the very edges of them curling up around Neirin's neck, hideously dark for the mage's snow-pale skin. What if that had been the very last they knew of each other? If Neirin had died? He had been afraid, before, of being too attached, but now he was terrified by what could have been.

Towards the end of his shift watching Neirin roused, murmured sleepily, “Zevran?” He sounded surprised.

Si, I am here.” Zevran sat a little further forward in his chair, leaning towards Neirin. “How do you feel this time?”

You're here,” was all he managed, a soft whisper. “I thought I was dreaming. That I had dreamt you—that I was back in the Tower and all of this—you could still be a dream.”

With a gentle smile Zevran reached for Neirin's undamaged hand, took it up in his. “I assure you, I am quite real.” Though the smile came easy, such talk frightened him. The very last thing they needed, he needed, was a Warden unhinged.

“I know, I know.” Neirin looked away briefly. “A dream would not have turned me away.” Zevran could only stare dumbly, startled by the forward manner and the dry acceptance in Neirin's voice. When he heard no protests, Neirin looked back, met Zevran's gaze, and tried to explain. “What you've done for me is more than I thought I would ever have. I don't feel guilty any more, I don't hate that part of myself that lusts, don't feel like I need to bury it any more, and I'm grateful. You've made me whole. How could I not fall in love with you? I know you're used to a very different sort of lover, but you made those exceptions for me, and I... well, I took it too far, clearly, wanted too much. More than you can give. I know the part of you that loves is hurt as badly as I was, but I don't know how to help you, and I realize now it was presumptuous of me to assume--” the mage's voice hitched briefly, but he issue no tears, “--to assume that I could help you, that if I healed that wound you might love me back. I am sorry I can't help you, sorry I expected more, and you were right to turn me away.”

All this was too much, and he started, “Neirin, please--” uncertain of what he meant to say.

Neirin shushed him, smiling a little. “I've had a lot of time to think about this. It would please me if you stayed to see the Blight through, but you're free now, with Taliesen gone. I free you of any obligations to me, then, including those of the flesh, and if you wish to leave and seek your own way, I won't protest. That's your right. You've already been more help than any simple blade would have been.”

Overcome with a need to shut Neirin up Zevran leaned forward, laid a soft, chaste kiss against his lips, but Neirin turned away from it after no more than a brush, frowning. “You don't have to do that,” Neirin muttered. “I don't need your pity.”

Zevran settled down on the bed this time, close to Neirin, legs drawn up so he could turn on the bed and face the smaller elf, still clutching Neirin's undamaged hand. “I am no good at this, my dear Warden. At words. I only know how to speak with my body. I was confused, yes, when I turned you away, but I have had some time to think as well while you were gone and while you were sleeping. And what if you had died?” Shaking his head, Zevran looked away, unable to meet Neirin's impassive gaze. “I would have regretted those words that passed between us for the rest of my life. I realize now that I have been trying to say it to you all along, in the way I make love to you, and with the earring, but I am a fumbling idiot and you are so very dense in spite of your silver tongue.” Zevran looked back now, found Neirin's one good eye wide with shock. “I--You mean more--” Zevran swore, covering his face with his free hand, groaned in exasperation. “I cannot say it.”

Please,” Neirin whispered, and when Zevran looked he was just as small and frail and weak as he seemed, trembling and wounded. “Please say it. I know it hurts you, but please.”

So Zevran leaned in, tangling his hands in Neirin's hair, kissed him softly on the lips, moved back down to his jaw, up his ear, because this gentle passion made it easier to whisper--in Antivan, of course, because it was still too hard in Fereldan--”You are everything to me, Neirin. A new beginning, life and death, the innocence neither of us ever had, and I--” He paused, nearly choked on the words, because a lifetime of being told it was wrong was still so hard to break. Zevran realized Neirin was silently weeping, for he'd understood the tone if not the words, and in a moment of exultant defiance Zevran managed, in Fereldan, “I love you. The scars will never leave us, but we have healed each other, made each other whole. How could we not love each other after all this?”

They kissed more deeply, and Zevran still tasted a faint hint of copper in Neirin's mouth, but pushed it to the back of his mind, focusing on the motions and the texture. Neirin still fumbled in this, but he was improving, and there was more emotion in this kiss than Zevran had ever known, a shared proclamation without words. Parting left Neirin breathless, and Zevran began kissing his way around to one of Neirin's ears, giving it gentle attention while Neirin gasped beneath him. One hand tangled in the mage's unbound hair, and the other traveled low, pushing the covers aside and trailing down his abdomen, skipping lightly over the bandages holding Neirin's chest together, across the smooth, taut skin of his stomach, dipping beneath the waist of his soft linen trousers to tangle in the curls down there, to fondle his half-hard need to something a little more urgent. He squeezed gently, stroked with just his fingers, kissed his way back down Neirin's ear to his neck, sucking at each familiar sensitive place until it reddened, teasing the darkened flesh with his tongue, and Neirin responded as expected, hardening in his hand with a soft moan, rubbing against Zevran's grip. But he fell back with an obvious wince, breath catching.

“Hurts,” Neirin whispered, voice husky. “I can't get enough breath, can't move around my ribs.”

“Another time, then?” Zevran asked, keeping the disappointment from his voice, only mirth. He was, after all, terribly pleased with this turn of events, even if Neirin couldn't engage in any celebratory activities, and drew back up to a sitting position. Neirin only nodded, trying to calm himself with shallow breaths, clearly still in some pain. “I still have the earring, you know. I want you to have it.”

“My ears aren't pierced,” Neirin said flatly. “And that sounds like a proposal.”

“Only if you wish it.” Zevran made no effort to contain his surprise and his hope at the suggestion.

“When I'm well,” Neirin said, “we'll have to pierce one ear. I think I'd like that, to wear your mark--we'll have to find something for you, though.”

“A tattoo, of course.” Zevran smiled impishly. “Your mark of choice on me. Across one ass cheek. A brand of ownership, of sorts.”

Neirin smiled, feigning a little disgust. “You only say that because it's the only place you haven't inked already.”

“Oh? There is somewhere more appropriate yet untouched.” At Neirin's open shock and revulsion, Zevran grinned widely. “It is not unheard of.”

“I think perhaps not,” Neirin said, settling into the pillows and soft bed. A contented smile broke over his face. “Maker's breath, Zev, you're perfect. I'm lucky--I love you. I hope you know that now.”

Si, amore. I know.”
dalishstorm: (Zevran)
Original prompt: Zevran/Mage!PC awkward vanilla sex

PC was abused in the Tower (can be by either/both mages and Templars) and this is his/her first experience with sex that is remotely consensual/normal.
The Warden was a maddening creature. Sleek, confident, with a presence that more than made up for his race and size and apparent frailty. No one seemed to notice his ears, or to truly look down on him as soon as he began speaking in his rich tenor. They saw only mage, and Grey Warden. He was commanding, handsome even in his delicate build, intelligent and quick-witted. And maddening, because nothing Zevran said or did could perturb him like the other companions. Neirin responded to every flirtation and barb with his own sharp tongue, always smiling.

And sympathetic. He asked all the right questions to work his way under Zevran's defenses, listened to every word with a soft smile and gentle understanding, never pity. Just once, Zevran wanted him to react in some other fashion, be openly disgusted or to laugh in Zevran's face at his weakness so that Neirin would seem normal by Zevran's standards, but it never happened.

Neirin sat with him on watches sometimes, and tonight was such a night. Their easy banter had fallen to a comfortable silence, Neirin staring into the fire with a faint, amused smile lingering from some joke or other Zevran could no longer really remember. Firelight made the sweeping tattoo across Neirin's face dance, gave his pale skin a little more color, turned his vivid blue eyes a strange shade and honeyed his light hair. Like this the Warden seemed more mortal, more approachable, and a little spark of lust tinged these strange emotions, made Zevran decide it was the right time.

Settling a hand on Neirin's shoulder, Zevran noted briefly the surprised flinch, but Neirin turned as he'd hoped. “Zev?”

Zevran didn't hesitate, leaning across the distance to kiss him, the hand on Neirin's shoulder sliding down to trace the fine muscles of his arm. When Neirin stiffened, uncertain, Zevran tightened his grip just a little, made this kiss more urgent, trying to more properly demonstrate his desire for the Warden. Neirin's lips parted to allow him entrance, so Zevran deepened the kiss, I will show you what you do to me, I must make you understand, must know if you feel the same--

But Neirin was suddenly fighting, pushing him away, and Zevran had to let go. Neirin stood abruptly, backing away, pale as fresh linen and shaking, eyes wide and lost. The mage tried to speak, mouth working around the words, but no sound came except, “You—I--”

And he bolted like a terrified halla, gone so quickly that Zevran wondered for an instant if he'd been there at all, sitting by the fire and trading witty little barbs and snatches of armchair philosophy all night.

The next day Neirin behaved normally, but Zevran was beginning to put together the pieces. Neirin was oh so careful about avoiding physical contact, even when injured, but subtle about it, so subtle even Zevran only noticed it in hindsight. Any serious discussion of physical intimacy shut him up almost immediately. And Zevran could not recall seeing the mage even partially nude, which struck him as very odd for so confident a man, and for their situation.

He didn't like the scenario this was forming one bit, so when he cornered the elder mage during their travels Zevran asked, “My dear Wynne, I have a question, if I may.”

Scowling down her nose at him, clearly expecting some trap, she said, “So long as it does not involve my bosom, I suppose I may attempt to answer.”

“Our Warden,” Zevran said, nodding to the elf, who was having some heated discussion with Morrigan at the head of their column, Alistair at his other side looking distinctly bored, “did he have many lovers in the Tower?”

“None that I am aware of,” Wynne said. “But he was always a quiet, bookish thing, painfully shy. I don't know where he found all this confidence, but it makes me happy to see him so full of life.”

Which told him very little, really, neither confirming nor denying his suspicions. And they were suspicions Zevran was loathe to test. So things continued as if nothing had happened at all, until Zevran made his proposition one night.

Neirin's smile slipped away when he asked, “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“If you are asking if it will go beyond a massage, well, let's just say you won't be disappointed with any of the techniques I've picked up over the years.” Zevran punctuated the line with a grin, realizing it wasn't his wittiest ever, but he felt it would serve best here.

“No.” Immediate, and Neirin seemed pale again, eyes dark. “This can't happen. Ever.”

For the next few days Neirin seemed a little more quarrelsome, and all their companions shot nasty glares at Zevran, making assumptions that he did nothing to discourage. But Zevran was frustrated with the other elf, confused, uncertain about what he should do or how he should behave now that he'd been rejected and Neirin seemed distant.

Oddly enough, it was Shale who broke the silence between them. “It seems the Painted Elf seeks the attentions of the Grey Warden.”

Unable to contain a grin, Zevran glanced at Neirin leading them, that heavy braid swaying as he walked, the staff across his back all but dwarfing the small man, and marveled for a moment at the contradiction he presented—larger than life, a walking myth, and a puzzle Zevran was determined to figure out. “Indeed he does,” Zevran quipped, smiling foolishly. The thought of Neirin did weird things to him, uncomfortable emotional things, but try as he might he couldn't contain it sometimes.

Some of the swagger came back into Neirin's step after that conversation, and everything fell back into place. Awkward at first, but soon they were spending their watches by the fire together again in easy company. Zevran didn't press the matter, though it was to thoughts of Neirin he satisfied himself in the lonely hours of the night.

After meeting Ignacio in Denerim, telling Neirin about Rinna was a risk he had to take. The man was already skittish in matters of intimacy, and if Taliesen should suddenly appear as Ignacio implied he might, the other Crow's very presence might ruin what little progress they had made. It was a small thing, a silly thing to care about, but Neirin didn't shirk from a simple hand on his forearm, or from careless touches, any more, and at least it was something. It was more than the mage allowed anyone else.

And Neirin listened to him in the firelight with his usual understanding, taking Zevran's story in quietly, only prompting or asking questions when it seemed necessary. At the end Neirin said, “Thank you for trusting me with this, Zevran.”

They sat in silence for a little while before Neirin spoke, facing the fire. “I suppose I owe you something in return.”

“You owe me nothing, my dear Grey Warden.”

“An explanation,” Neirin continued as if Zevran hadn't spoken at all. “I've been cruel to you, in a way. You should know... I do want you. You're the first person to elicit such a response in me. Ever. I had thought that part of my heart and body long dead, buried for my own safety. But here you are.”


The other elf silenced him by holding up one slender hand, then lowering it to grasp Zevran's near hand, twining their fingers together. Zevran had never realized quite how thin and fragile the bones seemed. Still, though, Neirin stared into the fire, refusing, unable to look at him. “I was caught reading some forbidden tomes by an older apprentice when I was about thirteen—I don't know my exact age, so I can't say for certain. She promised to keep silent if I served her around my lessons. So I did. At first it was simple things, doing research for her, chores, all the minutia someone about to become a full Circle Mage would find tedious. After her Harrowing, the tasks became more illicit, more dangerous... she was involved in lyrium trade with the Templars, one of the dealers for them, and had me conduct the more dangerous parts of the transactions. I didn't go to anyone because I was terrified of her—she manufactured some proof against me as a blood mage, and used it to keep me in her service. Of course, if I'd known any blood magic, I would've used it to free myself from her grasp.”

Neirin grew quiet for a moment, and his grip tightened almost painfully in Zevran's hand. But Zevran said nothing—he had suspicions about where this was going, and the look in Neirin's eyes told him for lost again.

“She started offering me for favors. I was young, but I looked younger, because I was so small. At first, just other mages, and it was bad, but it wasn't—it wasn't like the Templars. The mages, they just wanted someone smooth-skinned and young. The Templars wanted a mage to punish.” Neirin's voice grew quiet and dark, thick with emotion, and Zevran caught sight of a few tears glittering in the firelight. I have been somewhere similar, he wanted to say, but he didn't dare speak or move, afraid of startling Neirin. “I was more afraid of being labeled a blood mage, though. I was more afraid of losing my place in the Circle. I wasn't afraid of dying, but I was terrified of being thrown out, of going to Aeonar or being made Tranquil. My body wasn't my own, but at least my mind was, and at least I could still feel. Not that the thought of becoming Tranquil wasn't tempting at times. I almost went to Irving to beg for it once, but she made sure I couldn't get away. It stopped when I made friends with Jowan. She tried to get rid of him, but she couldn't shake him, and that meant someone was around to wonder where I was at night, someone who was close enough that I couldn't hide the injuries from them.”

Silence fell between them again, just the crackling fire and the night sounds and the pressure of Neirin's hand. When Neirin finally turned to look at Zevran, he was smiling through silent tears. “I've never told anyone, because I was ashamed. I've always thought, if I had been stronger, it would never have happened. That it was my fault, somehow. I know... I know that similar things must have happened to you in your life, and here you are, strong and more or less whole in spite of it. That gives me hope. Thank you, for listening.”

“Thank you,” Zevran said, giving Neirin's hand a little squeeze back, “for your trust. I understand why you would be hesitant, and I will ask no more of you than you are willing to give.”

“That's just it, Zevran. I'm tired of this. Of being afraid every time you touch me, of being unable to—to even--Maker, I can't even talk about it.” Neirin covered his face with his free hand, groaning out his frustration. “I can't even touch myself without seizing up. Do you know what that's like? Andraste's Ass, I'm a man, and men have urges, but it feels so wrong. I want you. I want you to help me.” The hand over his face fell to his lap.

Zevran let his voice slink a little deeper, let his words roll out seductive, “What do you desire of me?”

When Neirin shuddered this time, it didn't seem to be in fear or revulsion. “I want you to—to make love to me.” As he said it Neirin grimaced, as if the words were distasteful. “I know I'm not supposed to feel this way about it. I want you to show me why. Tonight. I can't take this any more.”

And now Zevran's mind was racing. He wasn't sure how to deal with someone so clearly damaged, not in bed, at least. No one had ever extended him any gentleness or concern in such matters, but certainly he had made love in a romantic sense to marks before. “Leliana should be taking over for us soon,” Zevran said. “Until then, would you permit me to hold you?”

Momentarily Neirin stiffened, almost pulling his hand away, before relaxing and hesitantly leaning into Zevran. Zevran disentangled their fingers and wrapped an arm around Neirin's shoulders, taking that near hand up again with his other and stroking the back of it soothingly. After a while of this Neirin sighed, relaxed further into him, even going so far as to bury his face in the crook of Zevran's neck, nuzzling him experimentally. The Warden's motions were still awkward and jerky, but it seemed more our of unfamiliarity than fear.

When Leliana came to relieve them Zevran had abandoned Neirin's hand to make the same sort of motions along one thigh, and Neirin had looped an arm around his lower back. He was growing more comfortable with simple touch, but Zevran doubted the elf could go all the way, so to speak, in one night. But they would certainly try.

Leliana's only comment was a soft smile, a knowing glance to Zevran—he trusted she'd be discrete about this, so as not to embarrass the Warden later. So Zevran led him away to the Warden's own tent, stopping briefly for a most necessary item. Neirin didn't question.

He didn't encourage Neirin to lay back, but instead had the man stay on his knees once in the tent, standing before him in a like stance, kissing and caressing softly. Neirin fumbled to return the touches, but that effort alone pleased Zevran. He had expected many things from the Warden, but not trust like this. It became harder and harder to ignore his growing regard for the Warden, knowing now that it was almost certainly reciprocated.

That made it easier to be sweet and gentle, things he wasn't used to. Of course, Neirin was a terrible kisser, and Zevran wondered briefly if he'd ever been kissed at all, but it didn't really matter all that much. Zevran was more interested in instilling enough desire in Neirin that he could maybe forget for a moment, to make him feel wanted. Laying a trail of kisses up Neirin's neck, pausing to murmur, “I have desired you since my first night with the group,” catching the lobe of the other elf's ear between his teeth and softly nibbling his way up, caused Neirin to gasp and push against him, shuddering violently, and then to make a little choking sound. Zevran pulled away to find silent tears again, Neirin's eyes wide with some unreadable emotion.

“Do you want me to stop?” Zevran asked, cupping Neirin's cheek with one hand and stroking away the tears with a thumb.

“No,” he stammered. “Zev. I—I don't want you to stop. I....” Pausing, he closed his eyes, took a shaky breath. “I want to be so full of you there's no room for anything else, if only for a little while. No responsibilities, no memories, no pain. Just you.”

So Zevran dove right back in, worshiping Neirin with hands and lips, slowly working the robes off of him, occasionally pausing to discard something of his own. Neirin tried to return the motions, until Zevran stilled his hands by covering them with his own. “This is about you, Neirin.” Saying the Warden's name felt strange, but somehow right. “There will be time for that later.”

By the time they were both divested of their clothing Neirin had no tears left, but he shook slightly, still unnerved by the contact but clearly wanting more by the flush to his pale skin and his lusty gasps, and his clear arousal. Fear sparked behind his eyes at Zevran's size, but Zevran redirected his gaze with a hand on Neirin's chin, forcing him to make eye contact. “I assure you, that is one weapon I am most skilled with.”

The jest earned a small, nervous smile, and Zevran urged him to lay back with gentle pressure on the elf's shoulders. Underneath those robes he was so pale, so slim, so finely boned, marked by a few small scars in discrete places—it would be easy for someone to hurt him. Zevran had no interest in tracing those scars or adding to them, though, felt no need to add to the marks left by previous men and women. This wasn't a claiming or a conquest, after all. So Zevran focused on the natural lines of Neirin's body, tracing down the light muscles of his chest and abdomen with fingertips, stroking his hardness briefly, and Neirin gasp harshly and arched up into his touch.

Zevran gave him a moment to recover, and asked, “Are you certain this is what you want?”

Closing his eyes and swallowing harshly, Neirin nodded. “Don't ask me again.”

Zevran moved away just long enough slick both hands with the oil retrieved from his tent, and one he wrapped around Neirin's erection, stroking him slowly, with no intention to bring the mage to climax yet, only to relax him. Still, when he touched Neirin's entrance with a slick finger, the smaller elf tensed, tried to pull away with a fearful noise, but Zevran shushed him, murmured soft encouragement. For a long while Zevran simply stroked, circling the ring of muscle there, gentle touches, until Neirin relaxed enough to allow a single finger.

Zevran kept going slowly, working up to a second before he went searching, trying to acquaint himself with Neirin's body, fond the spot he was looking for—and Neirin made the strangest face, a weird, strangled noise. “What--” Zevran pressed again, curling his fingers, and Neirin threw his head back, moaning. Once Neirin was properly stretched and clearly enjoying himself, Zevran laid a kiss against Neirin's lips, and this time the other man responded enthusiastically. Neirin made a little sound of discomfort as Zevran finally slid into him, but didn't draw away from the kiss, only shuddered a little.

They took it slow, Zevran giving Neirin time to adjust, and once Neirin nodded for him to continue Zevran sat a comfortable pace. He kept one hand working at Neirin's hardness, matching that pace, and leaned down to continue kissing and whispering soft encouragement. When Zevran adjusted his aim to strike at the spot, Neirin gasped in surprise, as if he hadn't expected it again, and wrapped his arms around Zevran, arching into him and eventually responding to his thrusts with a like motion. As he drew closer Neirin's soft pants and sighs became little moans, and he even wrapped his legs around Zevran. Zevran had to readjust for the change in position, but Neirin's enthusiasm encouraged him—he urged Neirin to sit up with him, such that Zevran was kneeling and Neirin straddling him. It gave the smaller elf a little more control, was a less submissive position.

After so long unsatisfied Neirin had little stamina, but he came beautifully, tossing his head back and sliding himself fully onto Zevran, spilling himself between them, crying out his orgasm in a sound so intensely sensual that the sound alone nearly undid Zevran. Zevran followed, emptying himself into the smaller elf as Neirin sagged against him, burying his face in Zevran's shoulder.

They remained like that for a while, Neirin clinging to him desperately, until Neirin's shoulders began to shake and he gave a quickly-stifled sob. “I had no idea,” he moaned into Zevran's shoulder. “No idea it was supposed to be like that. Maker. Thank you, Zev.”

Zevran curled around Neirin to lay a kiss in his hair. “Thank you, Neirin. You were everything I had hoped you would be, and more.”


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January 2013

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