"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.
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.
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."
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?"
"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."
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.
"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.
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.
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 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.
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."
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.
"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.
"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."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2016-01-20 03:34 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
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.
no subject
Date: 2016-01-21 09:29 am (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2016-01-21 07:00 pm (UTC)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?"
no subject
Date: 2016-01-21 07:17 pm (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2016-01-26 04:20 am (UTC)"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.
no subject
Date: 2016-01-26 04:38 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2016-02-03 07:26 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2016-02-03 07:41 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2016-02-09 01:43 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2016-02-09 03:00 am (UTC)"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."
no subject
Date: 2016-02-19 04:45 pm (UTC)"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."
no subject
Date: 2016-02-19 05:20 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2016-02-25 09:02 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2016-02-26 12:38 am (UTC)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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."