Nerevar let wander his eyes as if he had never seen Voryn's bedchambers before: his lips were set in an unreserved fascination, though upturned as always, and his eyes had grown wide as if to parade the monument of a future memory, and his glances would often glide to and fro a particular setting rich in revelations. The reason as to why Nerevar thought it necessary to bathe his eyes in the simplicity of the chambers eluded Voryn, but it did not deter him in the slightest but for a sliver of the mind.
Voryn's bedchambers, although big in size, had not the portrayal of an ample standing, even though House Dagoth was well affluent. In the Hortator's inspection, under a hundredth scrutiny, it suddenly became clear to him why the room lacked the overbearing luxury that all House nobles were so wont to express and to show off, to use and to weaponize, either in privacy or during an esteemed council meeting. Voryn's sobriety gave the room a cognizant sense of character that an overly lavished room would lack, and it seemed to Nerevar that it wholly fit the Grandmaster of House Dagoth. Only the bare essentials seemed to line the scarlet walls, with the only item worthy of luxurious display the double bed with its scarlet, soft spun sheets.
They spoke little as Nerevar, his bejewelled feet bare, walked the cold stone tiles until Voryn's exasperated plea to "at the least put on something warm!" conjured an amused smile onto Nerevar's face. The Grandmaster couldn't help but watch his Hortator look at the books that lay open and unstudied still on the fungal wood table, basking in the pale red hue of Masser's light. Voryn had feigned exhaustion in favour of settling down in his recliner with a book of Dwemeri observations on steam outlets before Nerevar had come in unannounced.
Nerevar had been en route to Mournhold before he'd heralded his and his entourage's arrival before the lands and doors of Kogoruhn, much to Voryn's surprise – as well as to his brothers'. The negotiations with the Dwemer near Dagon Fel he had returned from were, as Nerevar had informed him proudly during supper, growing firmer and more clear-cut on account of Nerevar's shrewd leadership. Naturally, Ayem had had a hand in it, but Voryn couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at how Nerevar had been handling his newly appointed duties. But now the Hortator, and all Voryn's younger memories of him, graced him once again, filling the after hours by Voryn's side, as if they hadn't spent almost half a decade apart.
Voryn didn't mind it at all, his visitation that was, though he remained cautious, and continued to dance around the subject concerning Nerevar whenever possible, whenever inquiries would inevitably be made if the Hortator would so much as look a little too long, too longingly, at Voryn's profile during a council meeting. Like vultures the nobles swooped down on the tiniest of whispers, and Voryn swore – only once, under the influence of Dagoth Brandy – that even his brothers were talking in hushed whispers about a silly occurrence that Voryn would rather forget had ever happened. The rumours didn't quite have the inconspicuous passing as that of an uninteresting, visiting noble, even if Voryn's father had been any more a figure of subterfuge. The rumours were simply put, hard to quell, even behind closed doors, it seemed.
Nerevar, fed up with the silence, had taken a seat on the recliner next to Voryn and had already considered many a time tonight to pester his sweet friend into talking to him, to turn his attentions away from the book. They had exchanged pleasantries of course, but Voryn had been so preoccupied with the inscriptions that he didn't think to entertain his Hortator any further than he believed was necessary. Nerevar's character was one of extravagance, and Voryn, subtle with his meanings and sly as a cliffracer, knew when and how exactly to push the other mer's buttons. Nerevar seemed to enjoy their unrestrained going back and forths, and Voryn found he quite liked it too, especially when, at times, it had led to more intimate intricacies between the two of them, but those outcomes had been non-existent as of late. War did nothing to lighten the heart, after all.
It was a cool evening in the barren Ashlands, just enough so that Voryn, even through the warmth of Red Mountain – Kogoruhn did border its foothills – could speak of a difference in what he considered a normal temperature shift. Wrong he might be; his conclusion compromised when he felt sturdy hands softly pulling and pushing his shoulders, his neck, around his spine, massaging the knots and beckoning him closer to the other's own body with each careful but attentive pull. Indeed, Nerevar could be sly too, especially with a particular piece of knowledge at his disposal on how he could embolden one's spirits. The person in question, feeling ridiculous – he was almost one and a half centuries old; there was no room for prolonged infatuation – tried to turn away and hide the blossoming shade of red that accompanied his sighs of barely-concealed restraint, though fondness shone brighter through his tells, and Nerevar was well aware of it.
"Do you deny me now, sweet Voryn?" Nerevar asked softly into his ear, stroking back behind it a strand of hair as black as raw ebony, testing the waters; his tone traipsing along the fine lines between desire and genuine inquiry as his hands – he had placed them trailing on Voryn's arms – meandered towards the other mer's hands still holding onto the book, now with little strength in their grip.
"You play foul, my Lord," Voryn answered, meaning to sound indifferent, stern, but failing, and muttered the words faintly into warm air. Soon enough he found he couldn't move away from Nerevar, as his Lord, previously unbeknownst to Voryn, had taken a seat next to him and had him backed up against the backrest of the recliner that bore the heraldry of House Dagoth. And, in mere moments he realised, and he realised it a bit too late, that Nerevar had taken his lips from him as well. The Hortator molded the soft and plump pads between his own and placed one hand at the jointure between Voryn's waist and hip, smiling into the kiss when Voryn uttered a long, muted sigh before wholly baring his neck to him. He was closely pressed to him, deteriorating the little sense Voryn yet harboured within.
Nerevar was unhesitant in his advances and gently, but not without urge, bit into the side of his neck with fervent hunger as soon as he had lowered Voryn's light nightgown to the waist until it was left pooling in front of his loins, like a collection of the night, sky as nothing, with no moon and no stars.
Voryn's spine tingled and formed an arch when he felt the sensation of a suckle most familiar to him. It seemed Nerevar had not forgotten their countless trysts as muscle memory urged the Lord downwards, slowly meandering his hand towards the sensitive area of Voryn's abdomen. Voryn gasped in the kiss and grabbed with a sudden and anxious panic Nerevar's errant hands. The hands stilled and instead of his trembling body, they now held Voryn's trembling hands.
"Ask me to leave and I shall," Nerevar said to him in a candid voice, the ghost of his breath like a chilly breeze against Voryn's warm and well-kissed lips. Nerevar gently grasped his wrists and brought the hands up to his mouth, kissing the long and slender slopes of each well-formed appendage. The act was an ironic contradictory to what his lips had passed on mere moments ago, as it only let seep through enough desire not to let his actions come to mere chance, as if his Lord already had his answer, as if his Lord knew Voryn had longed for this, too.
–
When Nerevar pulls at the strings of the waistcloth, Voryn is left without his ever-present stoicism, like a wave swept apart in the wake of the power in which Nerevar embraces him. Voryn's hands slacken and without their weight on the other's, he molds his body where his Hortator wishes him to be. He closes his eyes and lets Nerevar in, wholly and without the murmur of doubt that had previously seemed to restrain his every action.
Now he feels warm and mutable, impassioned with want in ways he would never express verbally. He is pliant beneath Nerevar's body and in so doing, wills his thoughts to scatter around, losing them as he allows desire to bestow upon him the courage to let himself go, to surrender. His Hortator is insatiable and his hands are as adventurous as they are strong; he holds Voryn's body close to his in every way perceived strong and proprietary, they grab and stroke and take and give to him every little jolt of pleasure Voryn would never dare don armour for, with his hips held like that; held like treasured things.
His body is anticipated as he is awashed with the wave that leaves him no more capable than the mutterings of moments spent in exertion. The invisible sheet of heat colliding with cooling sweat is deafening to his senses; renders him barely able to utter a single sound other than strangled gasps, and soon enough, he feels like he is touched by all elements all at once.
With Nerevar at the centre of it.