It's liberating; it's a relief. It's not Crowing. It's them, like they've been for years, only now particularly naked and particularly close. Alistair smiles wider. "Does that mean—" He has to pause for his breath to stutter. "—you won't want to have a go on your throne later?"
Joking. Alistair wouldn't—well, he might, if the hall were empty. But he's joking.
The smile falls off his face when Zevran moves his hand, mostly because his mouth is falling open for a deep inhale, then staying open to answer Zevran's teasing tongue with less art but plenty of enthusiasm and to suck loosely on his lower lip as encouragement to follow while Alistair eases back flat, where he can dig his heels into the mattress for leverage and assign both hands to the important task of kneading Zevran's ass in time with the roll of his hips.
It doesn't take long for him to go unsteady, breaths trembling and movements jerking. He would be embarrassed but for all of the slowness getting here, and the long months of gritting his teeth and coming into his hand thinking of something like this, and the longer months since anyone he genuinely wanted touched him. Or maybe he will be embarrassed later despite that. But right now he's shameless, too flushed from want to blush from shyness and secure enough in the knowledge that they aren't in a blighted tent and no one can hear that he doesn't bother trying to swallow or muffle the needy sounds in his throat.
"Maker," he manages, and he slips a hand loose and between them to keep their cocks pressed together. "Don't slow down—I'll take care of you, I'll—" Maybe being left hanging is less of a concern with two men. He can't really think that through at the moment, fighting to keep his eyes open and his hands steady.
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Joking. Alistair wouldn't—well, he might, if the hall were empty. But he's joking.
The smile falls off his face when Zevran moves his hand, mostly because his mouth is falling open for a deep inhale, then staying open to answer Zevran's teasing tongue with less art but plenty of enthusiasm and to suck loosely on his lower lip as encouragement to follow while Alistair eases back flat, where he can dig his heels into the mattress for leverage and assign both hands to the important task of kneading Zevran's ass in time with the roll of his hips.
It doesn't take long for him to go unsteady, breaths trembling and movements jerking. He would be embarrassed but for all of the slowness getting here, and the long months of gritting his teeth and coming into his hand thinking of something like this, and the longer months since anyone he genuinely wanted touched him. Or maybe he will be embarrassed later despite that. But right now he's shameless, too flushed from want to blush from shyness and secure enough in the knowledge that they aren't in a blighted tent and no one can hear that he doesn't bother trying to swallow or muffle the needy sounds in his throat.
"Maker," he manages, and he slips a hand loose and between them to keep their cocks pressed together. "Don't slow down—I'll take care of you, I'll—" Maybe being left hanging is less of a concern with two men. He can't really think that through at the moment, fighting to keep his eyes open and his hands steady.