He'd been expecting a pinch, an elbow, a huff—but Alistair will take this, too. His mouth is under Zevran's hand but his nose wrinkles and his eyes squint from his grin above it. It's a little smirky, because that's just how his face works, but mostly warm and a little addled from the press of their hips and cocks and this probably isn't a good moment for him to actually question his sexuality for the first time but he does anyway. A flicker of wonder at whether he likes this because he likes men or if he just loves Zevran so much that it overflowed, there for a moment and then extinguished by how damn little it matters when there's skin, everywhere, because Zevran somehow seems to have more of it than someone his size rightly should.

"Zev," he echoes in agreement, muffled against the anchor, which he doesn't lick or bite. If it were the other palm, he totally would. Instead he makes due with shifting flat onto his back and dragging Zevran along with him, above him, one hand left on his thigh to keep him aligned—because it's a good alignment, Alistair likes it, no confusion or mystery about how to rock and slip back in answer—and the other elbow bent so he can lift his torso up and nose past Zevran's hand to kiss him again.