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Open RP Post
SFW, NSFW, AU, OU, etc. Drop a prompt like it's hot and let's go!
SFW, NSFW, AU, OU, etc. Drop a prompt like it's hot and let's go!
[ continued from here ]
"Right, well," Alistair says. "That's what I'm here for."
Taking blows. And delivering unpleasant news and witty one-liners, of course, always. And ducking his head in (his stupid long nose in the way, he hates it) to rest his mouth at the juncture of Zevran's ear and jaw and neck. He doesn't think of Zevran as soft, but he has soft places, unguarded by bone, and Alistair has already decided—over the course of all his brooding and dwelling and stair-tripping—that they're his favorites.
He has a series of brief impulses. Pointing out he didn't think he was Zevran's usual type—but Zevran isn't his, either, and not even because he's a man. Asking again if he's sure. If he'd really prefer this to how they've always been or if he's trying to keep Alistair happy. If he knows that Alistair will try not to be jealous and terrible if he carries on with the socks on the doorknob after this, but it will kill him, so maybe the should talk—
More delays. Nah.
"I love you," he says instead, because he hasn't said it yet. Not like this. He wraps his arm low around Zevran's back again and slips a hand just far enough beneath his shirt to curl against his side. Soft places.
"Right, well," Alistair says. "That's what I'm here for."
Taking blows. And delivering unpleasant news and witty one-liners, of course, always. And ducking his head in (his stupid long nose in the way, he hates it) to rest his mouth at the juncture of Zevran's ear and jaw and neck. He doesn't think of Zevran as soft, but he has soft places, unguarded by bone, and Alistair has already decided—over the course of all his brooding and dwelling and stair-tripping—that they're his favorites.
He has a series of brief impulses. Pointing out he didn't think he was Zevran's usual type—but Zevran isn't his, either, and not even because he's a man. Asking again if he's sure. If he'd really prefer this to how they've always been or if he's trying to keep Alistair happy. If he knows that Alistair will try not to be jealous and terrible if he carries on with the socks on the doorknob after this, but it will kill him, so maybe the should talk—
More delays. Nah.
"I love you," he says instead, because he hasn't said it yet. Not like this. He wraps his arm low around Zevran's back again and slips a hand just far enough beneath his shirt to curl against his side. Soft places.
"Frightening me? Yes, Amora, that is what you are here for." He'd lost a few years watching Alistair fall- Zevran knew well what such a blow could do- had experienced it himself before. Jonas could have him killed for getting Alistair injured and he'd just been coming back around to the idea that perhaps surviving wouldn't be quite so terrible- and up Alistair sat. Breathless and hardly bothered, asking if he was well.
He'd lost the first scrap of his heart that day, even if he didn't think he had anything of him left to give. Even if he didn't know what it was he lost.
Zev tilts his head to the side easily, giving Alistair more room to work with if he chooses to work and it simultaneously is and isn't the usual practiced motion, all enticing sighs and postures and movement. It's...honest. Most of his training is too deeply ingrained for him to ignore but this? The shiver, the soft sigh- that is real. That is for Alistair and Alistair alone. Many have had him- many human men with their fumbling hands and their bruising grip but none of them treated him half so kindly. None of them had the long Therin nose to bump against his jaw an remind him of who this is. None of them simply pressed instead of bit.
Every inch of his body has been held and marked and touched and taken- rarely has it been given so honestly, nor accepted so graciously.
Never has he been nervous.
Alistair would laugh if he brought it up- he has half a mind to just to feel that huff of crackling warmth against his throat when he says three words that drop the bottom out of his world. Dancing around it is one thing? Saying it- he doesn't know how to respond. Can't do anything but press his hands against Alistair's shoulders and take a slow shuddering breath through it. "Like this. Frightening me like this."
He'd lost the first scrap of his heart that day, even if he didn't think he had anything of him left to give. Even if he didn't know what it was he lost.
Zev tilts his head to the side easily, giving Alistair more room to work with if he chooses to work and it simultaneously is and isn't the usual practiced motion, all enticing sighs and postures and movement. It's...honest. Most of his training is too deeply ingrained for him to ignore but this? The shiver, the soft sigh- that is real. That is for Alistair and Alistair alone. Many have had him- many human men with their fumbling hands and their bruising grip but none of them treated him half so kindly. None of them had the long Therin nose to bump against his jaw an remind him of who this is. None of them simply pressed instead of bit.
Every inch of his body has been held and marked and touched and taken- rarely has it been given so honestly, nor accepted so graciously.
Never has he been nervous.
Alistair would laugh if he brought it up- he has half a mind to just to feel that huff of crackling warmth against his throat when he says three words that drop the bottom out of his world. Dancing around it is one thing? Saying it- he doesn't know how to respond. Can't do anything but press his hands against Alistair's shoulders and take a slow shuddering breath through it. "Like this. Frightening me like this."
Alistair hums, "Hmm?" against his skin, where he is struggling against the urge—not to bite, but to be less chaste. The space left between their chests feels occupied by something fragile and small that could easily be crushed. But though this isn't only lust, that is, definitely, a thing. A part of it. He can smell the oil in Zevran's hair. His is breathing getting deeper without changing pace, his hand shifting against Zevran's side.
Frightening, he said. He's frightened. Alistair lifts his head to check his face, to try to get a measure of that fear.
"It's only me, Zev," he says. His hand wanders higher, to his ribs, before he changes his mind about trying to coax Zevran out of his shirt just yet, if he's feeling unsteady. If he might feel exposed. Alistair shifts back away from him, one hand braced on the bed behind him, and grins. "I was thinking about you earlier today. Not even anything very scandalous, just, ah—anyway, I fell down the stairs. Out in the courtyard, in front of everybody." He's already reaching over his shoulder for the back of his shirt, to pull it off. "Want to see the bruise?"
Frightening, he said. He's frightened. Alistair lifts his head to check his face, to try to get a measure of that fear.
"It's only me, Zev," he says. His hand wanders higher, to his ribs, before he changes his mind about trying to coax Zevran out of his shirt just yet, if he's feeling unsteady. If he might feel exposed. Alistair shifts back away from him, one hand braced on the bed behind him, and grins. "I was thinking about you earlier today. Not even anything very scandalous, just, ah—anyway, I fell down the stairs. Out in the courtyard, in front of everybody." He's already reaching over his shoulder for the back of his shirt, to pull it off. "Want to see the bruise?"
Edited 2016-01-19 01:25 (UTC)
The great Zevran Arainai, undone by- well. Not an innocent to be certain, Alistair has had his lovers. He knew the mechanics of this, what went where and how it was done and knew enough about Zevran's own minefield of issues with sex and men and human men and noble men to take care- even if Zevran hadn't at all considered that they might end up like this when he revealed every soft place on him, everywhere not covered by bone. Those same places Alistair is touching now and slowly using to drive him to distraction.
He is here. He is undone. He is afraid for how wrong this went before. How it broke him.
How it'll ruin him to lose this- and it may yet ruin him to keep it. That is his position, as the ruiner, the seducer. To have their positions swapped is as unnerving as it is amusing. He frowns at the murmur, as if 'only Alistair' makes this less. It makes this more to the point of too much and they have not yet removed their trousers. "You fell down the stairs thinking about me?"
Alistair what.
"Exactly what about me caused you to fall down the stairs?" Too worried to be amused and this? This is a poor sign, how his hands slide to lift Alistair's shirt not to tease or touch but to make sure he's unharmed.
Brasca. This is bad.
He is here. He is undone. He is afraid for how wrong this went before. How it broke him.
How it'll ruin him to lose this- and it may yet ruin him to keep it. That is his position, as the ruiner, the seducer. To have their positions swapped is as unnerving as it is amusing. He frowns at the murmur, as if 'only Alistair' makes this less. It makes this more to the point of too much and they have not yet removed their trousers. "You fell down the stairs thinking about me?"
Alistair what.
"Exactly what about me caused you to fall down the stairs?" Too worried to be amused and this? This is a poor sign, how his hands slide to lift Alistair's shirt not to tease or touch but to make sure he's unharmed.
Brasca. This is bad.
"Your—Zev. It's nothing."
Exasperated, fond; despite the concern on Zevran's face, Alistair follows through with his plans to pull his shirt off over his head and drop it on the floor. The expanse of faint (truly) purple on his back can only help. Nothing's broken. He's gotten worse injuries from falling out of bed. He twists and bends and turns sideways to display some of it without unseating Zevran from his lap.
"I stopped paying attention and slipped, that's all. It's funny." Now. It's funny now. At the time it was embarrassing and one more injury to stack on top of his self-loathing and wounded heart. But that was hours ago, before Zevran let him kiss him. Now it's fine. "I was thinking about you," he says again, straightening up, but his voice has changed, and he catches one of Zevran's hands to trace the edges of one of his fingers between his own.
Exasperated, fond; despite the concern on Zevran's face, Alistair follows through with his plans to pull his shirt off over his head and drop it on the floor. The expanse of faint (truly) purple on his back can only help. Nothing's broken. He's gotten worse injuries from falling out of bed. He twists and bends and turns sideways to display some of it without unseating Zevran from his lap.
"I stopped paying attention and slipped, that's all. It's funny." Now. It's funny now. At the time it was embarrassing and one more injury to stack on top of his self-loathing and wounded heart. But that was hours ago, before Zevran let him kiss him. Now it's fine. "I was thinking about you," he says again, straightening up, but his voice has changed, and he catches one of Zevran's hands to trace the edges of one of his fingers between his own.
"You fell on the stairs like a fool thinking of me?" That- that does not make sense.
Wait.
Alistair 'found every trap in the room with my face' Therin tripped on the stair, not normal. Blaming it on him? That is new. Zevran twists enough to peer at the bruising, muttering under his breath in Antivan. "What about me had you tripping?"
It could be flirtatious, it could be teasing- but Zevran is nothing but cautiously curious with that. Whatever he thought it- well it could be a compliment or it could be something he needed to change and-
There are few things in this world he might find worth changing for. Alistair? Is one of them.
Wait.
Alistair 'found every trap in the room with my face' Therin tripped on the stair, not normal. Blaming it on him? That is new. Zevran twists enough to peer at the bruising, muttering under his breath in Antivan. "What about me had you tripping?"
It could be flirtatious, it could be teasing- but Zevran is nothing but cautiously curious with that. Whatever he thought it- well it could be a compliment or it could be something he needed to change and-
There are few things in this world he might find worth changing for. Alistair? Is one of them.
"Your hands, at that par-tic-u-lar moment," Alistair says, staccato emphasis in place of elaborating on all of the other moments he's nearly walked into doors or dropped something in the last few days. He lifts the hand he's caught to kiss Zevran's knuckles with ridiculous, overdone chivalry and a smile that says he knows it.
But it's what Zevran deserves—not as recompense for all of the hardship, but because he's always deserved it, for being exactly as funny and clever as he thinks he is and kinder and braver than he can see—and it's what he's going to get. His knuckles kissed, then the underside of his wrist, then—
"—Maker. I fell for you," Alistair says against his skin. "I can't believe I missed that opportunity." It is probably for the best that he did. He can only ask Zevran to endure so much before he changes his mind about this whole thing.
But it's what Zevran deserves—not as recompense for all of the hardship, but because he's always deserved it, for being exactly as funny and clever as he thinks he is and kinder and braver than he can see—and it's what he's going to get. His knuckles kissed, then the underside of his wrist, then—
"—Maker. I fell for you," Alistair says against his skin. "I can't believe I missed that opportunity." It is probably for the best that he did. He can only ask Zevran to endure so much before he changes his mind about this whole thing.
"My hands." Incredulity, thy name is Zevran. What in his hands could drive Alistair to such distraction? For all that they have kissed, for all that he has wanted- reconciling Alistair as a sexual creature is going to take some time. A little less if he continues with such overdone sweetness.
He blushes.
Zevran Aranai, lothario of Antiva City, blushes.
It's sweet- he is not prepared for sweetness and sincerity, for the press of lips so light and undemanding on his hand, his wrist, the words warm against the flutter of his pulse. He can feel the terrible joke before it's spoken. "You are ridiculous."
He blushes.
Zevran Aranai, lothario of Antiva City, blushes.
It's sweet- he is not prepared for sweetness and sincerity, for the press of lips so light and undemanding on his hand, his wrist, the words warm against the flutter of his pulse. He can feel the terrible joke before it's spoken. "You are ridiculous."
Alistair nods merrily behind Zevran's wrist, bright-eyed and pleased that Zevran has noticed. He is ridiculous. There's nothing to be frightened of.
The teasing mischief in his smile sharpens for a second when Zevran turns a color Alistair has never seen on him: that's my job, he could say, or you're not so tough. But he really isn't so tough, is the thing. Alistair's face softens again, goes a little overwhelmed on his own behalf; he's never had anything as rare or as nice or as easily damaged as a lapful of Zevran Arainai with his guard down.
He kisses his cheek, where the blush is. He feels like he's been kissing everything in reach, constantly, but he's a little giddy off the fact that he can (without being a bastard or getting his heart broken) and the almost-as-new fact that he wants to. "Your hands," he says again, in belated confirmation, and moves the one he's holding to his own shoulder for safekeeping. "On me." Sheepish. Conscript the boy out of the Chantry— "I'm going to stop trying to flirt with you now."
The teasing mischief in his smile sharpens for a second when Zevran turns a color Alistair has never seen on him: that's my job, he could say, or you're not so tough. But he really isn't so tough, is the thing. Alistair's face softens again, goes a little overwhelmed on his own behalf; he's never had anything as rare or as nice or as easily damaged as a lapful of Zevran Arainai with his guard down.
He kisses his cheek, where the blush is. He feels like he's been kissing everything in reach, constantly, but he's a little giddy off the fact that he can (without being a bastard or getting his heart broken) and the almost-as-new fact that he wants to. "Your hands," he says again, in belated confirmation, and moves the one he's holding to his own shoulder for safekeeping. "On me." Sheepish. Conscript the boy out of the Chantry— "I'm going to stop trying to flirt with you now."
Perhaps this is safe enough- it is Alistair after all; the boy that sleeps in stables and wears wet socks and finds every trap with his face and his feet and whines piteously over splinters but shrugs off seeping gutwounds to ask after someone else's sprained ankle. Everything in him is...
It is everything Zevran is afraid of ruining by being him- but if he were going to taint Alistair, to break him, wouldn't that have happened already?
Like touching something fine and silver till the blood on his hands caused it to tarnish. That is his expectation, that is his fear beyond the mere loss. But held like this, looked at like this- he doesn't know what to do. What Alistair wants other than to simply hold him. "I think you are doing quite well."
He tips his head down, easier not to look at him and feel his skin so red and thy aren't even naked yet, Maker, what is wrong with him. "For someone that has no idea what it is they are doing, that is."
It is everything Zevran is afraid of ruining by being him- but if he were going to taint Alistair, to break him, wouldn't that have happened already?
Like touching something fine and silver till the blood on his hands caused it to tarnish. That is his expectation, that is his fear beyond the mere loss. But held like this, looked at like this- he doesn't know what to do. What Alistair wants other than to simply hold him. "I think you are doing quite well."
He tips his head down, easier not to look at him and feel his skin so red and thy aren't even naked yet, Maker, what is wrong with him. "For someone that has no idea what it is they are doing, that is."
"Hey."
Whining, but also quiet. He pushes his nose into Zevran's cheek. It's not entirely unlike a dog trying to tell another to knock it off.
"I have half an idea what I'm doing."
And the half he doesn't know—which is the bottom half, to be specific—he's imagined. He'll figure it out. Surely this will be easier and less terrifying than his other first time, trying to learn what to do with a woman without even having had his own body to practice on—
That might not be what Zevran meant. Alistair falls still, considering, cheek to cheek and exhaling over Zevran's ear.
"I can prove it," he offers.
Whining, but also quiet. He pushes his nose into Zevran's cheek. It's not entirely unlike a dog trying to tell another to knock it off.
"I have half an idea what I'm doing."
And the half he doesn't know—which is the bottom half, to be specific—he's imagined. He'll figure it out. Surely this will be easier and less terrifying than his other first time, trying to learn what to do with a woman without even having had his own body to practice on—
That might not be what Zevran meant. Alistair falls still, considering, cheek to cheek and exhaling over Zevran's ear.
"I can prove it," he offers.
"You didn't even know you wanted me until three days ago." It'd been frustrated, earlier. Now it is...wary. Amused and fond, yes, but wary. Before...he'd been angry that Alistair could change on a whim and upend everything, that he waited this long to come around to the idea. Most of Zevran is certain it won't work. Can't work. Alistair feels and feels keenly and cares deeply- he does not question that he thinks he is in love- nor does he question the honesty of his desire. But...
Too often have those that expressed no interest suddenly found themselves intrigued and after a night disillusioned. He does not think he could bear it, should that happen with Alistair.
Organizing these thoughts would be so much easier if Alistair wasn't breathing on his ear. It's faint brushes of warmth that have him shivering. "...how?"
Too often have those that expressed no interest suddenly found themselves intrigued and after a night disillusioned. He does not think he could bear it, should that happen with Alistair.
Organizing these thoughts would be so much easier if Alistair wasn't breathing on his ear. It's faint brushes of warmth that have him shivering. "...how?"
Edited (dimes don't exist in thedas wtf me) 2016-01-20 05:27 (UTC)
"I'm an idiot," Alistair says, more dismissive than apologetic. He didn't know; he should have; he does now. It's as startling yet utterly predictable as the first snow of winter. The wonder wears off and it's clear it was always going to happen. His hands find the hem of Zevran's shirt again. "And three days is so long."
Not as long as five years. But still: long, when he hasn't been with anyone in years, or felt this way ever, or had any privacy to.
Deal with it.
You know.
How, Zevran asks, and Alistair slides his shirt up to his ribs. "Can I—?"
They could wait. They could cuddle. They could go get something to eat and take a walk. But his voice wavers on just those two words, so he doesn't try adding more.
Not as long as five years. But still: long, when he hasn't been with anyone in years, or felt this way ever, or had any privacy to.
Deal with it.
You know.
How, Zevran asks, and Alistair slides his shirt up to his ribs. "Can I—?"
They could wait. They could cuddle. They could go get something to eat and take a walk. But his voice wavers on just those two words, so he doesn't try adding more.
"Only sometimes, never about anything important." Which this isn't- not truly. Not in a way that matters as they have sorted it out more or less. Alistair cares, wants and Zevran...
Zevran has never truly been able to deny Alistair something he has asked for. He does it so rarely and no small part of him has wondered what it might be like to have him. To have those hands trace his tattoos in more than idle curiosity, to have his mouth on his jaw instead of caught in his hair in the middle of the night. None of his imaginings will do him justice- even how he had assumed Alistair would kiss is wrong.
Nothing Zevran has considered or knew of men or of Alistair in particular can prepare him for this.
"...yes." Agreeing automatically and without thought would've been habit- this is equally cautious, equally wondering. He wishes to see where this goes.
Zevran has never truly been able to deny Alistair something he has asked for. He does it so rarely and no small part of him has wondered what it might be like to have him. To have those hands trace his tattoos in more than idle curiosity, to have his mouth on his jaw instead of caught in his hair in the middle of the night. None of his imaginings will do him justice- even how he had assumed Alistair would kiss is wrong.
Nothing Zevran has considered or knew of men or of Alistair in particular can prepare him for this.
"...yes." Agreeing automatically and without thought would've been habit- this is equally cautious, equally wondering. He wishes to see where this goes.
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.
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.
He does not laugh- he isn't ticklish and for a moment he wishes he was- that it hadn't been trained out of him. That he hadn't been shaped for this with such a thorough hand. All these little things he cannot give honestly or easily because of the crows, all these little things Alistair deserves to have in a lover.
Lingering is impossible when he doesn't look- doesn't watch or wonder or appreciate in the usual manner.
Of course he doesn't, it's Alistair, he has ever had his own way of doing things. Such as rolling him onto the bed. Distracted by the kiss Zevran doesn't have time to wonder at what Alistair is playing at, what his plan might be- the first sign of lift has his legs hooking around is waist out of reflex. He's done this before. Done it thousand times but no while so uncertain, not while laughing and meaning it against lips he wants to kiss for the rest of his days.
"You could have simply rolled me over, you know." Propped up on his elbows he stares and some of the old lessons settle in- the position is familiar and he needs that shield right now. Just for a little while longer as he tips one leg in close enough to run his thigh along Alistair's hips. Both of them cannot be shy in this. Nothing'll get done. "I am willing to argue for an eighth."
Lingering is impossible when he doesn't look- doesn't watch or wonder or appreciate in the usual manner.
Of course he doesn't, it's Alistair, he has ever had his own way of doing things. Such as rolling him onto the bed. Distracted by the kiss Zevran doesn't have time to wonder at what Alistair is playing at, what his plan might be- the first sign of lift has his legs hooking around is waist out of reflex. He's done this before. Done it thousand times but no while so uncertain, not while laughing and meaning it against lips he wants to kiss for the rest of his days.
"You could have simply rolled me over, you know." Propped up on his elbows he stares and some of the old lessons settle in- the position is familiar and he needs that shield right now. Just for a little while longer as he tips one leg in close enough to run his thigh along Alistair's hips. Both of them cannot be shy in this. Nothing'll get done. "I am willing to argue for an eighth."
"That's mean." He's thrilled. "You're mean."
He finishes loosening the laces on one boot—Zevran can kick it off himself if or when he wants to—and switches hands to do the other, leaning backwards to reach, with his other hand curled around Zevran's thigh.
He's looking now. The expanse of his skin, and the whorl of tattoos, and the laces on his trousers. It's just Zevran; it's nothing he hasn't seen a hundred times. But he thinks, I'm going to lick that—one of the tattoos, the curve of his sternum, maybe his collarbone—and it's like a shift in the light.
He leans forward, finally, to brace on one arm above him, and he does hesitate. It's a visible moment. A pause, a downward glance between them that's cut short by shyness, before he looks Zevran in the eye and smiles (self-conscious but determined, a look he gets for one reason or another nearly every day) and pulls at the tie on his trousers with the same inelegant efficiency as his boots. He has done this before, even if he hasn't done this before.
"Scale of one to ten," he says: "How good at this do I have to be to keep you from changing your mind?"
He finishes loosening the laces on one boot—Zevran can kick it off himself if or when he wants to—and switches hands to do the other, leaning backwards to reach, with his other hand curled around Zevran's thigh.
He's looking now. The expanse of his skin, and the whorl of tattoos, and the laces on his trousers. It's just Zevran; it's nothing he hasn't seen a hundred times. But he thinks, I'm going to lick that—one of the tattoos, the curve of his sternum, maybe his collarbone—and it's like a shift in the light.
He leans forward, finally, to brace on one arm above him, and he does hesitate. It's a visible moment. A pause, a downward glance between them that's cut short by shyness, before he looks Zevran in the eye and smiles (self-conscious but determined, a look he gets for one reason or another nearly every day) and pulls at the tie on his trousers with the same inelegant efficiency as his boots. He has done this before, even if he hasn't done this before.
"Scale of one to ten," he says: "How good at this do I have to be to keep you from changing your mind?"
Edited 2016-01-21 19:00 (UTC)
"You enjoy it." Subtly masochistic, is Alistair. Actual masochism- all those bindings and shades and demons- Zevran cannot easily imagine him indulging in such things and has set all those expectations aside. But the teasing, the biting, the wallowing in misery. That much they have in common.
It's sweet, how it makes him smile.
Zevran does indeed kick free both of his boots, down to his leathers and the four knives strapped to his thighs and calves but they'll get to those in time. For now it's him and his skin and Alistair looking for the first time with those eyes and...he does not know how to sit. How to arch his back or roll his shoulders for the light to hit him, and since he was twelve he has always known how to stand to make himself appealing.
Fumbling for a point of reference and Alistair simply smiling like this is going to be alright. Perhaps it is.
Now he dares to reach out, sliding his hand from Alistair's wrist to elbow to shoulder, catching him by the back of the neck to coax him closer. "Mmm...seeing as this is your first time? I think I can let you slide with a five. Maybe a four since I like you so much. Sex can be taught."
It's sweet, how it makes him smile.
Zevran does indeed kick free both of his boots, down to his leathers and the four knives strapped to his thighs and calves but they'll get to those in time. For now it's him and his skin and Alistair looking for the first time with those eyes and...he does not know how to sit. How to arch his back or roll his shoulders for the light to hit him, and since he was twelve he has always known how to stand to make himself appealing.
Fumbling for a point of reference and Alistair simply smiling like this is going to be alright. Perhaps it is.
Now he dares to reach out, sliding his hand from Alistair's wrist to elbow to shoulder, catching him by the back of the neck to coax him closer. "Mmm...seeing as this is your first time? I think I can let you slide with a five. Maybe a four since I like you so much. Sex can be taught."
He's easily coaxed, easily distracted when he wants to be, and he does. The hand on his arm knocks him off course, no more hasty disrobing, probably a good thing—he hasn't been touched in a while, not like this, so it gets all of his attention—and he slides a little closer on his knees, leans further in.
"Four," he says. "Four sounds, um. Within the realm of possibility." Zevran doesn't need to pose. If it were obvious Alistair would laugh. If it were subtle he might explode. And then Zevran would have to explain himself to everyone. "Would you round up from three and a half?" He should probably stop talking. He's probably losing points. But he can't help it. "I mean, you like me a lot."
It's mutual. Alistair's pupils can't get much wider, or his faint smile much more affectionate, and after a second he's brave enough to spread a hand on his chest and slide it thoughtfully down to his stomach.
"Four," he says. "Four sounds, um. Within the realm of possibility." Zevran doesn't need to pose. If it were obvious Alistair would laugh. If it were subtle he might explode. And then Zevran would have to explain himself to everyone. "Would you round up from three and a half?" He should probably stop talking. He's probably losing points. But he can't help it. "I mean, you like me a lot."
It's mutual. Alistair's pupils can't get much wider, or his faint smile much more affectionate, and after a second he's brave enough to spread a hand on his chest and slide it thoughtfully down to his stomach.
"I do not know. Three and a half is...I think we are using different scales. Three and a half is you soiling your trousers before we ever get them off and moping in the corner of the room while I promise such things happen often." He leans up enough to press their lips together, soft and searching. Reassurance that this will be well, that at least one of them knows how this is done- even if he hasn't done this quite so tenderly in over a decade. "Four is we actually get around to touching one another. And I would very much like to."
So smooth, Zevran. He crackles a soft laugh at himself, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Alistair's trousers.
"Touch you, that is." Right. He's supposed to be good at this but Alistair keeps looking at him with his heart in his eyes and he doesn't- he isn't prepared for how that twists in his chest.
So smooth, Zevran. He crackles a soft laugh at himself, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Alistair's trousers.
"Touch you, that is." Right. He's supposed to be good at this but Alistair keeps looking at him with his heart in his eyes and he doesn't- he isn't prepared for how that twists in his chest.
Alistair's eyebrows go up as his shoulders slump down—that is a low bar, and a relief—but a second later he's smirking, shrugging, tilting his head with a wincing one-eyed squint, like weeeeeell. He isn't truly worried, only teasing and self-deprecating, but it has been a year or two. The flush on his face is spreading down to his chest; the muscles in his abdomen twitch against Zevran's hooked fingers; he's hard, increasingly far from only half so, and it's just caution and willpower keeping him from being hungry and grasping.
Managed expectations are good.
"Yeah," he says, and then, "Yes," the way he was raised to speak, and, "Zev—"
I love you, he almost says, like a reflex or a nervous cough, but he doesn't want to make Zevran lose his footing again now that he seems to have found it. He kisses him instead: on the cheek first, a firm press of affection in place of words; then the mouth, firmer, hand sliding around to the small of his back. I want you is probably safer territory than I love you.
Managed expectations are good.
"Yeah," he says, and then, "Yes," the way he was raised to speak, and, "Zev—"
I love you, he almost says, like a reflex or a nervous cough, but he doesn't want to make Zevran lose his footing again now that he seems to have found it. He kisses him instead: on the cheek first, a firm press of affection in place of words; then the mouth, firmer, hand sliding around to the small of his back. I want you is probably safer territory than I love you.
It is easy to learn to manage one's expectations when one expects nothing- let alone something so rare and fine as this. Zevran would be lying if he ever said he hadn't imagined having Alistair in his bed in less than a platonic fashion- during the Blight he'd whiled away many an hour considering how he would arch, whether he'd bite his lip or moan with abandon.
He should not find this so endearing but...it is Alistair. He cannot help but be charmed.
This, at least, he knows how to do. Knows to do well even if his fingers are not quite so deft in unlacing Alistair's trousers, taking that 'yes' as permission to slither a hand inside and stroke his cock. Sneaky, yes, but if he didn't start this they would never start, hovering with clumsy albeit affectionate touching and as much as he enjoys that part of him wants this done so it will stop being so awkward. The rest just wants to have Alistair, all of him, in every way he's imagined. Sweet as the kiss is, Zevran has no wish to be undone by tenderness and thus bend to the task, nipping at Alistair's bottom lip, tongue flicking across the seam for entry. Surely he knows how to do this. And if not? Zevran has experience enough for the both of them.
He should not find this so endearing but...it is Alistair. He cannot help but be charmed.
This, at least, he knows how to do. Knows to do well even if his fingers are not quite so deft in unlacing Alistair's trousers, taking that 'yes' as permission to slither a hand inside and stroke his cock. Sneaky, yes, but if he didn't start this they would never start, hovering with clumsy albeit affectionate touching and as much as he enjoys that part of him wants this done so it will stop being so awkward. The rest just wants to have Alistair, all of him, in every way he's imagined. Sweet as the kiss is, Zevran has no wish to be undone by tenderness and thus bend to the task, nipping at Alistair's bottom lip, tongue flicking across the seam for entry. Surely he knows how to do this. And if not? Zevran has experience enough for the both of them.
He knows how to kiss, Zevran, and his mouth was already about to open, anyway, to let a sigh escape; now he exhales into Zevran's mouth instead, and it's a stuttering thing, in time with the slide of his hand. Zevran's hand isn't without signs of use, but it's softer than his own. Smaller. And his tongue—there's tongue, right. Alistair knows how to kiss. A head tilt to get his stupid nose a little less in the way, though only so much can ever be done about it; a hand moving up to Zevran's jaw to tip his head back just a bit. He'll take a first move as an invitation. Permission. And he'll revisit the idea of licking Zevran's collarbone when he's done trying to outmaneuver him for the right to lick the backs of his teeth.
The hand on his cock is permission, too, but it's only his thumb he hooks into the waist of Zevran's trousers, against his back; he slides his hand around to his hip at a downward angle that pushes them down enough to reveal an extra inch of brown skin.
"Can we get rid of these," he says, mumbling and still making half an effort to kiss him, "before—"
Before. He tilts his hips without quite meaning to and shifts one leg, restless and flushed.
The hand on his cock is permission, too, but it's only his thumb he hooks into the waist of Zevran's trousers, against his back; he slides his hand around to his hip at a downward angle that pushes them down enough to reveal an extra inch of brown skin.
"Can we get rid of these," he says, mumbling and still making half an effort to kiss him, "before—"
Before. He tilts his hips without quite meaning to and shifts one leg, restless and flushed.
A stupid nose that reminds Zevran who he's with, as though the stuttering sighs and slow, tentative motions aren't proof enough. Laughing right now isn't probably in their mutual best interest but he can't help but be amused by everything that makes this Alistair rather than every or any other man he's had over him in bed. The soft press of his mouth, the eager cant of his head, the reluctant acceptance of some manner of lead- Zevran shivers and yields, letting him press as far as he likes. Every right, every question he can want an answer to? Is yes. Please. More.
"Mm?" He pulls back enough to drag his teeth over Alistair's bottom lip, eyes hooded as they flick from his mouth to the space between them, where his hand's still sliding in a lazy drag up and down Alistair's cock.
"Making a mess of you does have an appeal..." And he could. Is thoroughly tempted to, is teasing at it with the pad of his thumb rolling over the slit back and forth in an idle motions. "But if you say please, maybe."
"Mm?" He pulls back enough to drag his teeth over Alistair's bottom lip, eyes hooded as they flick from his mouth to the space between them, where his hand's still sliding in a lazy drag up and down Alistair's cock.
"Making a mess of you does have an appeal..." And he could. Is thoroughly tempted to, is teasing at it with the pad of his thumb rolling over the slit back and forth in an idle motions. "But if you say please, maybe."
Alistair huffs a laugh that's all breath while his body bows, involuntary and a little jerky, and he scrambles to get a hand over Zevran's and hold it still against his best interest, or against his second-best interest after the interest he's currently pursuing—
"You can do anything you want to me," he says, meaning it, which is a testament to either his lack of imagination or his excess of trust, "but I want to touch you. I want to stop being nervous about it."
He's not too nervous. There isn't enough homophobia in Ferelden to hold him back, no doubt about what he wants, only the usual fear of anything new. He gives a flash of a smile, self-deprecating but shameless, but then it disappears and leaves nothing but sincerity.
"Please."
"You can do anything you want to me," he says, meaning it, which is a testament to either his lack of imagination or his excess of trust, "but I want to touch you. I want to stop being nervous about it."
He's not too nervous. There isn't enough homophobia in Ferelden to hold him back, no doubt about what he wants, only the usual fear of anything new. He gives a flash of a smile, self-deprecating but shameless, but then it disappears and leaves nothing but sincerity.
"Please."
Edited 2016-02-19 16:49 (UTC)
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