They could, they should, and if Zevran keeps talking to him like this they definitely will. With Zevran’s mumbling against his jaw Alistair tries turning his head, mouth open and searching, but in the end he isn’t willing to dislodge him for a kiss. Zev is good where he is. Jaw things. Antivan things. Okay.
He says come and let me see and Alistair—he’s good at doing what he’s told, when it matters, but he’s also a contrary brat—and happy, a little overwhelmed with it, laughing breathlessly as the tension swells—he’s a contrary brat, that’s the point, and he’s sliding the hand on Zevran’s ass away and up to make a clumsy attempt at curling around his head and covering his eyes instead.
He hasn’t succeeded, yet, when the tension breaks and the laugh turns into a ragged gasp and his legs bend at the knee with startled, twitchy haste. He holds onto the feeling for as long as he can, eyes shut and hands tense, and then he drawls, “So much for Warden stamina.”
It’s quiet and edgeless, paired with a smile that’s verging on drowsy. For a moment. One moment. The next moment he’s rolling upward to sit straight, herding Zevran up ahead of him, focus sharpening, slick hand moving and curling and stroking. He combs the other down through Zevran’s hair and onto his back.
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."
"That's true," Alistair says. His voice is low and quiet, and his mouth is stretched wide into a smile he doesn't quite allow to show his teeth. "Let's say that's it."
In his defense, it might be a different sort of stamina keeping his eyes sharp and bright and the rest of him upright, not boneless and sleepy, while he holds onto Zevran and looks over his face like he doesn't have it memorized. He'd never really realized that he did, but he does—there's nowhere he looks, not the lines at the corners of his eyes or the flecks of color in them, that's at all surprising instead of familiar and expected. If he'd ever felt like any particular place was home before, he'd be able to make a metaphor out of it.
No metaphors. And when he notices how much he's staring, he blushes, belatedly, and shuts his eyes and lets his hands crawl over Zevran's spine as carefully as if they were searching for an injury. That's something he doesn't know so well.
"I think this is the most selfish thing I've ever done," he says, which is not entirely a joke. He's not twenty years old anymore, primed to follow someone around like a besotted puppy and damn the consequences. He knows better. This is going to hurt. If he's lucky it will hurt him; if he's unlucky it will hurt Zevran or the entirety of Thedas and he'll have to live with it afterwards. But it is also a joke, delivered with a smile. "I like it."
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Date: 2016-08-22 06:20 am (UTC)He says come and let me see and Alistair—he’s good at doing what he’s told, when it matters, but he’s also a contrary brat—and happy, a little overwhelmed with it, laughing breathlessly as the tension swells—he’s a contrary brat, that’s the point, and he’s sliding the hand on Zevran’s ass away and up to make a clumsy attempt at curling around his head and covering his eyes instead.
He hasn’t succeeded, yet, when the tension breaks and the laugh turns into a ragged gasp and his legs bend at the knee with startled, twitchy haste. He holds onto the feeling for as long as he can, eyes shut and hands tense, and then he drawls, “So much for Warden stamina.”
It’s quiet and edgeless, paired with a smile that’s verging on drowsy. For a moment. One moment. The next moment he’s rolling upward to sit straight, herding Zevran up ahead of him, focus sharpening, slick hand moving and curling and stroking. He combs the other down through Zevran’s hair and onto his back.
“No match for Antivan… Antivanness.”
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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."
no subject
Date: 2016-10-21 09:58 pm (UTC)In his defense, it might be a different sort of stamina keeping his eyes sharp and bright and the rest of him upright, not boneless and sleepy, while he holds onto Zevran and looks over his face like he doesn't have it memorized. He'd never really realized that he did, but he does—there's nowhere he looks, not the lines at the corners of his eyes or the flecks of color in them, that's at all surprising instead of familiar and expected. If he'd ever felt like any particular place was home before, he'd be able to make a metaphor out of it.
No metaphors. And when he notices how much he's staring, he blushes, belatedly, and shuts his eyes and lets his hands crawl over Zevran's spine as carefully as if they were searching for an injury. That's something he doesn't know so well.
"I think this is the most selfish thing I've ever done," he says, which is not entirely a joke. He's not twenty years old anymore, primed to follow someone around like a besotted puppy and damn the consequences. He knows better. This is going to hurt. If he's lucky it will hurt him; if he's unlucky it will hurt Zevran or the entirety of Thedas and he'll have to live with it afterwards. But it is also a joke, delivered with a smile. "I like it."