Zevran knows what he's reaching to do. What Alistair's intentions are with the slide of that hand and the breathless twist of laughter and he wouldn't mind it- doesn't mind it- because it's them. It's not Crowing or quiet mortified fumbling in a tent. It's not posturing or binding or being held down, it's not owning and being owned.
It's- them. A little odd, a lot playful, a little uncertain where hands go and mouths go and a lot sure of how to grind their hips and where their hearts truly lie. It's them- it's Alistair (as though he could forget with that nose) and its beautiful. The scrunch of his eyes, the sharp stutter of his hips, the scrape of his breath. Humans are, on the whole, strange when they come. Faces a rictus of bliss, like taking a blow or holding in a sneeze. Undignified. Alistair, who has never been dignified, who has taken a great many blows, who is as human as any man he's ever known-
Charms him with that moment of tense quiet, face slack and familiar and beautiful for it, and the immediate drawl thereafter. He cold joke, he could roll over and make a show of it-
Or move as he's bid, let his arms loop around Alistair's shoulders and let him take the lead. It's the easiest thing in the world despite every instinct to the contrary- so he does. He clings and sucks in a sharp breath, Antivan twisting in the air between them- everything he'd never say in common, every promise he can't make, every word Alistair longs to hear but he cannot bear to speak- as his hips snap up into his hand and his head falls back, eyes half lidded and sightless as he spills between them.
"Nn." Words. Words ought to be a thing, he knows. A witty line, a smug grin- but all he might manage is a slow lolling of his head forward to bump their noses together and an equally sappy smile. "I have more practice than you."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2016-10-11 08:41 pm (UTC)It's- them. A little odd, a lot playful, a little uncertain where hands go and mouths go and a lot sure of how to grind their hips and where their hearts truly lie. It's them- it's Alistair (as though he could forget with that nose) and its beautiful. The scrunch of his eyes, the sharp stutter of his hips, the scrape of his breath. Humans are, on the whole, strange when they come. Faces a rictus of bliss, like taking a blow or holding in a sneeze. Undignified. Alistair, who has never been dignified, who has taken a great many blows, who is as human as any man he's ever known-
Charms him with that moment of tense quiet, face slack and familiar and beautiful for it, and the immediate drawl thereafter. He cold joke, he could roll over and make a show of it-
Or move as he's bid, let his arms loop around Alistair's shoulders and let him take the lead. It's the easiest thing in the world despite every instinct to the contrary- so he does. He clings and sucks in a sharp breath, Antivan twisting in the air between them- everything he'd never say in common, every promise he can't make, every word Alistair longs to hear but he cannot bear to speak- as his hips snap up into his hand and his head falls back, eyes half lidded and sightless as he spills between them.
"Nn." Words. Words ought to be a thing, he knows. A witty line, a smug grin- but all he might manage is a slow lolling of his head forward to bump their noses together and an equally sappy smile. "I have more practice than you."