Through Zevran's pouting Alistair only smiles, endeared but unapologetic. He'd been prepared to spend the rest of his life lovesick and silent if it meant Zev could relax and be himself when they were alone. He's not giving that up over an erection. It doesn't matter how well Zevran's tattoos complement the lines of bone and muscle.

Which is very well. For the record. When there are less pressing (get it) concerns he'll look into that further.

"Ser," he says, only not thumping a fist to his shoulder in salute because his hands are busy slipping from hip to ass to drag Zevran closer for—for practical purposes, preparation to hoist him up, but he loses the thread, pupils blowing wide from the friction and hands, ass. He's never—not horse playing, not in jest—

It's a good ass. He needs a moment. And he spends that moment kissing Zevran on the cheek, stubbornly sweet even if he's rubbing his cock helplessly up against him at the same time.

"Okay," he says, "okay, I'm—" picking him up, in one motion that isn't quite fluid, that requires releasing him with one hand to brace against the arm of the sofa, but it's only three steps to the bed. And there's a moment of warning—the same glint in Alistair's eye that he gets before a terrible joke—before he leans over and drops Zevran down onto it from a height that verges on ungentle.