ombranera | Open RP Post

"Really?" It shouldn't come as a surprise that Alistair would toss something like that about so casually, mean it, and think nothing of what Zevran might wish. If he were the true kind of ass he knows himself capable of being he had a list. As he's here, caged in with warmth and sentiment and laughing at Alistair's attempt to still his hand-

He knows what he wants. "With you, Alistair. Not to you."

An important distinction. His thumb gives one last lazy flick before he reaches down to unlace his own leathers, hitching them down and open, easing his inked cock into the light between them. Carefully he untangles their fingers, twisting his hand about to grasp Alistair's wrist and guide his hand into place. Shape his fingers around the heated length of him- and show without reservation or fear the shuddering ripple that runs through him, the catch in his breath, the darkening of his eyes.

"Rea—" lly, he was going to say, distracted by at least five different very important things, a list beginning and ending with Zevran's teasing thumb. But even so, Zevran's audible italics penetrate his thick-blooded haze. He stops, lifts his gaze from the expanse of his bare skin beneath him, and gives him a wary, tilted look, thinking with the small available portion of his brain about the sorts of things he's vaguely aware Zevran does. Things with equipment. Things with names.

But Zevran won't really want to do anything Alistair doesn't enjoy. He knows that. He replaces the wariness with a smile and doesn't take it back. "With me." An echo just to show he's listening, turned breathless on the second syllable when Zevran's hand moves.

He doesn't get that breath back. He curls his hand where it's guided on Zevran's cock—awkward angle, he'll get used to it—and exhales, "Oh," at the way Zevran shudders. He hadn't been too nervous, but now something in him stills and quiets, visibly. The edges of his smile soften. His eyes slow from darting to intent roving.

He stops talking.

He shifts back to sit on his heels, disheveled and flushed from his cheeks all the way to his open trousers, so he can watch while he flexes his fingers and shifts his hand. He'd known about the tattoos, but he'd never thought about them, beyond wondering at how much it had to hurt. Now he uncoils one finger to trace a line.

Even with the hungry pulse of his own cock, he could have kept himself occupied here for a little while, but he glances at Zevran's face again and suddenly looks shy. He moves—forward again, and sideways and down, to settle onto the bed alongside him and put his chin on Zevran's shoulder, nose tip against his ear lobe. He has to let go of him in the process, which is just as well. He turns his head to lick his palm, politely, and then he's fast to creep his hand down Zevran's belly again and take hold of him.

Things he does with tools and techniques and names- with ropes and oil and metal picks, stone plugs, with ice and wax and leather and watchwords. Much as all of that rouses Zevran to the point of distraction most days it is this that twists the breath from him. That soft stillness, that quiet acceptance. The familiar curve of Alistair's smile and unfamiliar longing there.

All the tools and toys and tricks can wait forever so long as he has this.

Many men, many hands, many times he's done this and more or less, the show is the same. He knows the steps, how to twist himself into the most desirable and alluring curves, how to shape his breath around names. Cutting all of that away- it is difficult. He's as jittery about not offering a performance as Alistair is about performing and for a moment he thinks it might be simpler, kinder, to fall into the act- then there's that twist. That drag. Held before but never with such tender reverence. Never with those eyes on him like he's the best thing in the world. Zevran shivers though heat lances through him. Coils in the pit of his stomach like a waiting thing, precum beading at the slit already. Not enough to make the glide smooth but then the jostle, the awkward shuffling that twists a laugh from him and he can give Alistair this.

Can tuck his face against Alistair's forehead and shudder out a slow breath, peel back the masks and layers, hook an arm up around his shoulders to tangle a hand in his hair and let his hips roll into that spit slick hand. It isn't perfect- and it doesn't need to be.

Alistair doesn't think about how many hands have done this, though he might later—how many hands have done it better, specifically, might be the larger sticking point, something to fret about when there's less immediate evidence at hand that Zevran doesn't mind. And when he has the ability to think about anything at all that isn't skin. Zevran's is soft. All cocks are, presumably—like velvet over bone—but Alistair's only ever held his own and felt the rough snags of his calluses more keenly than anything else. If he were only too overwhelmed to think straight instead of too overwhelmed to speak coherently, he might have said something stupid.

He does say, "Zev," but that's all. And this isn't so terribly different from lying beside a woman, really, except—less fiddly. His arm learns the angle, and his legs shift restlessly but he takes his time, alternating steady strokes and brief, curious exploration—fingers over the leaking slit, around the base, a tentative twist to brush fingertips toward his balls—and trying to pay attention to his breathing.

"Mmhmm?" As though he can hold a conversation like this- well. He can, he has, he's had to be able to detach himself from what his body was experiencing in more than one way to finish the job properly. Settling deeper into his skin to enjoy it takes more work than standing apart. It takes focus. Most others he would not bother but this? He wants to feel. Every idle brush, every hesitant shift- all of it. As such his voice is low and warm and distracted, hips hitching up into Alistair's grip, breath slow and shivery.

So simple a thing, the touch. So complicated the vulnerability. Half in his head and half present but Alistair needs him here, so here he will be. "...Maybe more than an eighth."

"A seventh," Alistair allows, but underneath the self-deprecation he's heartened, with a grin that can probably be felt all the way up in his forehead. He takes a breath and moves, a full-body readjustment: extracting his unused arm from where it's pinned under him to snake it beneath Zevran's neck and shoulders instead, bending his legs to tangle at the knees and ankles. "Do you want—"

Something. He manages flashes of ideas. Hovering over him. Kissing his throat and chest and stomach. Thighs. Thighs are a thing that Zevran has. That Alistair would probably be allowed to put his mouth on.

He doesn't. He's just getting the hang of the hand thing, and thinking thighs makes his vision unfocus almost as much as shifting his hips to push against said thighs. He swallows and tips his head up to root out Zevran's mouth.

"Fifteen sixteenths."

"A sixth." He'll give easily, especially when it earns him those slow, too careful breaths that speak of growing certainty. The banter at this point is idle and automatic- not the usual pillow talk for Alistair is not the usual lover. No praise, no scorn, no empty words. Teasing in a way that might be mean. Tangled this close and easy he can hear the moment when Alistair overwhelms himself with possibilities- and takes no little pleasure in grinding his hips back to be even more distracting.

Does he want?

"That much should be obvious." Crackling and breathless. "I want. Quite a bit, in fact."

Many options available to them, smirking against Alistair's lips and he shifts his legs apart enough to hitch here, reaches down to adjust there- no oil to smooth the way but his thighs can offer Alistair something to rut against just as he strokes him. "This. I want this."

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