He knows how to kiss, Zevran, and his mouth was already about to open, anyway, to let a sigh escape; now he exhales into Zevran's mouth instead, and it's a stuttering thing, in time with the slide of his hand. Zevran's hand isn't without signs of use, but it's softer than his own. Smaller. And his tongue—there's tongue, right. Alistair knows how to kiss. A head tilt to get his stupid nose a little less in the way, though only so much can ever be done about it; a hand moving up to Zevran's jaw to tip his head back just a bit. He'll take a first move as an invitation. Permission. And he'll revisit the idea of licking Zevran's collarbone when he's done trying to outmaneuver him for the right to lick the backs of his teeth.

The hand on his cock is permission, too, but it's only his thumb he hooks into the waist of Zevran's trousers, against his back; he slides his hand around to his hip at a downward angle that pushes them down enough to reveal an extra inch of brown skin.

"Can we get rid of these," he says, mumbling and still making half an effort to kiss him, "before—"

Before. He tilts his hips without quite meaning to and shifts one leg, restless and flushed.