"Rea—" lly, he was going to say, distracted by at least five different very important things, a list beginning and ending with Zevran's teasing thumb. But even so, Zevran's audible italics penetrate his thick-blooded haze. He stops, lifts his gaze from the expanse of his bare skin beneath him, and gives him a wary, tilted look, thinking with the small available portion of his brain about the sorts of things he's vaguely aware Zevran does. Things with equipment. Things with names.
But Zevran won't really want to do anything Alistair doesn't enjoy. He knows that. He replaces the wariness with a smile and doesn't take it back. "With me." An echo just to show he's listening, turned breathless on the second syllable when Zevran's hand moves.
He doesn't get that breath back. He curls his hand where it's guided on Zevran's cock—awkward angle, he'll get used to it—and exhales, "Oh," at the way Zevran shudders. He hadn't been too nervous, but now something in him stills and quiets, visibly. The edges of his smile soften. His eyes slow from darting to intent roving.
He stops talking.
He shifts back to sit on his heels, disheveled and flushed from his cheeks all the way to his open trousers, so he can watch while he flexes his fingers and shifts his hand. He'd known about the tattoos, but he'd never thought about them, beyond wondering at how much it had to hurt. Now he uncoils one finger to trace a line.
Even with the hungry pulse of his own cock, he could have kept himself occupied here for a little while, but he glances at Zevran's face again and suddenly looks shy. He moves—forward again, and sideways and down, to settle onto the bed alongside him and put his chin on Zevran's shoulder, nose tip against his ear lobe. He has to let go of him in the process, which is just as well. He turns his head to lick his palm, politely, and then he's fast to creep his hand down Zevran's belly again and take hold of him.
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Date: 2016-02-25 09:02 pm (UTC)But Zevran won't really want to do anything Alistair doesn't enjoy. He knows that. He replaces the wariness with a smile and doesn't take it back. "With me." An echo just to show he's listening, turned breathless on the second syllable when Zevran's hand moves.
He doesn't get that breath back. He curls his hand where it's guided on Zevran's cock—awkward angle, he'll get used to it—and exhales, "Oh," at the way Zevran shudders. He hadn't been too nervous, but now something in him stills and quiets, visibly. The edges of his smile soften. His eyes slow from darting to intent roving.
He stops talking.
He shifts back to sit on his heels, disheveled and flushed from his cheeks all the way to his open trousers, so he can watch while he flexes his fingers and shifts his hand. He'd known about the tattoos, but he'd never thought about them, beyond wondering at how much it had to hurt. Now he uncoils one finger to trace a line.
Even with the hungry pulse of his own cock, he could have kept himself occupied here for a little while, but he glances at Zevran's face again and suddenly looks shy. He moves—forward again, and sideways and down, to settle onto the bed alongside him and put his chin on Zevran's shoulder, nose tip against his ear lobe. He has to let go of him in the process, which is just as well. He turns his head to lick his palm, politely, and then he's fast to creep his hand down Zevran's belly again and take hold of him.