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.
"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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Date: 2016-03-20 07:07 am (UTC)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.
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Date: 2016-03-20 07:25 am (UTC)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."
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Date: 2016-05-01 05:23 am (UTC)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."
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Date: 2016-05-01 06:20 am (UTC)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."