Alistair huffs—this is important—but it's a short, pleasant huff. He's not going to argue. He's busy. Flagrantly running his hands up the undersides of Zevran's arms while he gets his shirt off: more important.
Shirt discarded, Alistair doesn't lean back to look at him. He knows what Zevran looks like. All the tattoos, all the muscles and angles. Chest to chest, hands on Zevran's bare back; this isn't all that new, either, other than the context, and the need to be mouth to mouth as well pulling like a revenant. He's really, really an idiot.
A quick kiss—meant to be quick, anyway, but it catches and lingers until Alistair drops his arms to wrap low around Zevran and stands up, straight off the bed, hoisting him along. It isn't effortless—Zevran's small but not insubstantial—but the only sign is a heavy exhale, not quite a grunt. He blushes, too, but it isn't from exertion, and there's not really anything shy about it. He's grinning.
There is a purpose to this other than showing off and playfully robbing Zevran of some dignity. Alistair turns back to the bed and walks two clumsy paces on his knees before the blankets catch and trip him and force him to deposit Zevran on the bed—not neatly, but as gently as he can.
"A quarter," he amends, knelt between his knees; "I have a quarter of an idea what I'm doing." But the hand that reaches blindly back to pull at Zevran's boot laces is fairly sure of itself, and the fingertips he touches to the skin beneath Zevran's belly button only slightly less so.
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Date: 2016-01-21 09:17 am (UTC)Shirt discarded, Alistair doesn't lean back to look at him. He knows what Zevran looks like. All the tattoos, all the muscles and angles. Chest to chest, hands on Zevran's bare back; this isn't all that new, either, other than the context, and the need to be mouth to mouth as well pulling like a revenant. He's really, really an idiot.
A quick kiss—meant to be quick, anyway, but it catches and lingers until Alistair drops his arms to wrap low around Zevran and stands up, straight off the bed, hoisting him along. It isn't effortless—Zevran's small but not insubstantial—but the only sign is a heavy exhale, not quite a grunt. He blushes, too, but it isn't from exertion, and there's not really anything shy about it. He's grinning.
There is a purpose to this other than showing off and playfully robbing Zevran of some dignity. Alistair turns back to the bed and walks two clumsy paces on his knees before the blankets catch and trip him and force him to deposit Zevran on the bed—not neatly, but as gently as he can.
"A quarter," he amends, knelt between his knees; "I have a quarter of an idea what I'm doing." But the hand that reaches blindly back to pull at Zevran's boot laces is fairly sure of itself, and the fingertips he touches to the skin beneath Zevran's belly button only slightly less so.