"A seventh," Alistair allows, but underneath the self-deprecation he's heartened, with a grin that can probably be felt all the way up in his forehead. He takes a breath and moves, a full-body readjustment: extracting his unused arm from where it's pinned under him to snake it beneath Zevran's neck and shoulders instead, bending his legs to tangle at the knees and ankles. "Do you want—"
Something. He manages flashes of ideas. Hovering over him. Kissing his throat and chest and stomach. Thighs. Thighs are a thing that Zevran has. That Alistair would probably be allowed to put his mouth on.
He doesn't. He's just getting the hang of the hand thing, and thinking thighs makes his vision unfocus almost as much as shifting his hips to push against said thighs. He swallows and tips his head up to root out Zevran's mouth.
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Date: 2016-05-01 05:23 am (UTC)Something. He manages flashes of ideas. Hovering over him. Kissing his throat and chest and stomach. Thighs. Thighs are a thing that Zevran has. That Alistair would probably be allowed to put his mouth on.
He doesn't. He's just getting the hang of the hand thing, and thinking thighs makes his vision unfocus almost as much as shifting his hips to push against said thighs. He swallows and tips his head up to root out Zevran's mouth.
"Fifteen sixteenths."