Things he does with tools and techniques and names- with ropes and oil and metal picks, stone plugs, with ice and wax and leather and watchwords. Much as all of that rouses Zevran to the point of distraction most days it is this that twists the breath from him. That soft stillness, that quiet acceptance. The familiar curve of Alistair's smile and unfamiliar longing there.
All the tools and toys and tricks can wait forever so long as he has this.
Many men, many hands, many times he's done this and more or less, the show is the same. He knows the steps, how to twist himself into the most desirable and alluring curves, how to shape his breath around names. Cutting all of that away- it is difficult. He's as jittery about not offering a performance as Alistair is about performing and for a moment he thinks it might be simpler, kinder, to fall into the act- then there's that twist. That drag. Held before but never with such tender reverence. Never with those eyes on him like he's the best thing in the world. Zevran shivers though heat lances through him. Coils in the pit of his stomach like a waiting thing, precum beading at the slit already. Not enough to make the glide smooth but then the jostle, the awkward shuffling that twists a laugh from him and he can give Alistair this.
Can tuck his face against Alistair's forehead and shudder out a slow breath, peel back the masks and layers, hook an arm up around his shoulders to tangle a hand in his hair and let his hips roll into that spit slick hand. It isn't perfect- and it doesn't need to be.
no subject
All the tools and toys and tricks can wait forever so long as he has this.
Many men, many hands, many times he's done this and more or less, the show is the same. He knows the steps, how to twist himself into the most desirable and alluring curves, how to shape his breath around names. Cutting all of that away- it is difficult. He's as jittery about not offering a performance as Alistair is about performing and for a moment he thinks it might be simpler, kinder, to fall into the act- then there's that twist. That drag. Held before but never with such tender reverence. Never with those eyes on him like he's the best thing in the world. Zevran shivers though heat lances through him. Coils in the pit of his stomach like a waiting thing, precum beading at the slit already. Not enough to make the glide smooth but then the jostle, the awkward shuffling that twists a laugh from him and he can give Alistair this.
Can tuck his face against Alistair's forehead and shudder out a slow breath, peel back the masks and layers, hook an arm up around his shoulders to tangle a hand in his hair and let his hips roll into that spit slick hand. It isn't perfect- and it doesn't need to be.