[ A low chuckle, breathy and warm, rolls out of him at the guttering of the candles. Mages and their tricks- though it does beg the question as to what manner of tricks Dorian may have up his very fine silken sleeves. It is not the only thing that begs for Zevran's attention, the warm gilding of what light is left carving soft shadows along tanned skin that has been untouchable for the bulk of their trip.
No longer.
He meets Dorian halfway, hand gliding down to find those strange clasps and buckles, to ruffle and rumple Dorian's otherwise polished appearance; a small part of him viscerally pleased by any opportunity he has to ruin such things. It is less vicious here as he finds skin under silk and his lips part under Dorian's, a blatant invitation for him to press further, to take what he wished. ]
[ There's certainly no fight or attempt to control or redirect Zevran's roaming hands; the slight shift and squirm of Dorian beneath him more helps than hinders, shoulder slipping free of the luxurious drape of black silk. There's usually a point where physical excitement shifts to outweigh the more mental hooks that tug his enthusiasm backward, and here, it begins early, with the sound of leather slipping through metal, and the feel of curious fingers seeking and finding warm skin.
And then Zevran's mouth, parting under his own. He buries a hand in the elf's hair, finding a firm handling high at the top of his neck, kissing him deeper with a bolder raking of teeth and tongue.
His other hand clasps at the other man's hip, gripping. ]
[ Lovely shoulders, Dorian has. Always flirting with exposure, barely covered, teasing when he walks or lounges- getting a hand on it to feel out the warm curve, the wine languid muscle beneath bronze skin is quite satisfying. He should sketch him like this, he thinks, attempting to follow the drape of silk to bare more of Dorian's skin. Half dressed and writhing.
Zevran would regret not being able to see it if he weren't so enraptured in being the cause of Dorian's writhing.
Pressed close like this the slow grind of his hips is less like posting and more of an intention- taking his own claim even as he yields so sweetly to the harder press, sucking on Dorian's tongue. ]
[ For someone whose voice carries as it does, Dorian is about as vocal as someone familiar with him might expect, but quieter at the same time. His smothers his hum of approval into the kiss, and isn't rushed, going from one place to the next. But when he does move, it's sudden.
Although perhaps not unexpected. Zevran's hands can feel muscle coil and harden at his shoulders, a gathering of strength that manifests as arms locking around the elf's waist and pulling him over and into the couch, landing him where Dorian had been posed only moments ago.
Necessarily, the kiss is broken, giving them a pause. Some of Zevran's makeup has been redistributed, by now, but not quite as messily on Dorian as it is on Zevran. Judging by the crooked smile that Dorian gives him, it isn't a bad look.
Settled on him like Zevran is his prey, freshly caught, in need of guarding, he reeeaches to collect up his wine that had been set aside, checking how much is left. ]
[ There is that tell- familiar enough from partner to partner, dalliance to dalliance for Zevran to roll as much with the motion as he's moved. It gives him a moment to fall back and pose a little in the dim light, head tipped against the sofa, arms looped easily about Dorian's shoulders, one long, bare thigh hooked about his waist for leverage. The filmy fabric of his gown coils under and around his shoulders, draping less artful than Zevran might like but it has been some time since he's done this in a dress. A little disarray is permitted.
It lends the requisite honesty this deserves as it is, above all else, an honest attraction that has led them here.
Again he combs his fingers through Dorian's hair, eyes warm as he tugs more of the black silk loose. The corset he'll keep on- it's too much effort to lace himself back in afterward- but the dress and the robes? Need to go. Dorian will find a fair third of the glass left while Zevran finds the room to shrug out of the lingering gauze of his gown. ]
[ That's the sound of an aborted sip of wine, setting it down rather than draining it, at the feeling of Zevran managing to wriggle out of the rest of his gown. ]
Allow me, [ Dorian says, as if he's offering to hold open a door for a lady. Working the gown off the rest of the way while maintaining intimacy is not too much of a struggle to give up one for the other, and certainly made easier with help. Once the dress is gone and cast aside a little less carefully than the harness had been, Dorian lays his hand on the smooth plane of corset, where it fixes Zevran's shape.
Stiff fabric and hard angles, only giving the sightly illusion of femininity. Up close and under his hands is a different matter. Dorian's inclination to leave it alone is far less practical than Zevran's, the casual, heated rake of his grey-eyed gaze indicating that he's not really thinking of the prospective future of attempting to lace the elf back into it.
By now, his robes have fallen open enough to reveal his scar-less bare chest, and he rids himself of them the rest of the way, leaving behind trousers cinched with a buckle but closed with a sash. He leaves it alone, for the moment, roaming a touch along Zevran's inner thigh. ]
[ He murmurs in low, lilting Antivan- working the rest of the gown and robes aside in casually practiced gestures as fluid as they are efficient. Like Dorian- he's done this before. Quite a bit. The luxury of being able to take his time with this, now...there lies the appeal. Dress gone there is but Zevran, the corset, and silken smalls he wears to help sell the illusion.
The look in Dorian's eyes- now that is familiar enough. The spark of an interest piqued, a new curiosity. One he's happy to coax along b curling a hand on top of Dorian's and tugging it to the narrowest point of his waist, the canvas and boning warm and straining against his body's natural shape. Here Dorian can feel how it leaves his breath shallow, can consider how easy it might be to leave him breathless. That, too, has great appeal.
Especially with so much of Dorian bare that might steal his breath. He toys with the end of Dorian's sash, lips curled in a lazy smile, thigh tipping out to invite further exploration. ]
[ It's more appealing than a simple falling into bed, actions mechanical and routine and selfish like so many -- not all, but many -- encounters he has had, being just one of two men simply taking from one another whatever they could steal. Here, Dorian settles his hand where directed and feeling what he can see. His gaze dips down further, where he can see the shape of Zevran concealed in silk, and the next curl of arousal he feels is sharper, a hook that sinks in deeply. ]
Visa aureum, [ --sounds like confirmation, anyway. Tevene isn't a common kind of utterance, even in Tevinter, but practice on Dorian's part has the words come easily.
His fingertips dance along exposed skin at Zevran's thigh. No magic, here, just nerves livened beneath a teasing touch, before he lays his palm gently at the intersection between thighs, feeling through silk, fingers curling. Watching, still, enjoying the slight novelty that is not only being the instigator of action, but a dominating presence, appreciating what's beneath his hands--
--while certainly, he feels, being appreciated even from below. There is a trace of a vaguely wicked smile before he settles back down, lower, close enough for his breath to be felt at the top of the elf's thigh. ]
[ The powder and paint he'd used to cover his tattoos along his face, shoulders, and arms tapered out to nothing in the window between the ridge of his sternum and the bend of his knees. Sinuous lines that should continue and are part of a greater work spiral into being in arcing talons, fine tipped feathers, or abstract swirls that follow the dip and delve of Zevran's musculature. The toned expanse of his thigh is not spared the treatment- a wide band of black curling round to dip under the hem of his smalls.
Pale as the silk is- shades of similar ink are vaguely visible on his hardening cock under Dorian's hand. Part of the dance, the game- Zevran rolls his hips into the touch, silk doing just as much to enhance the sensation rather than diminish it. He has a moment to try to guess where Dorian might take this next; making a mess of him in the silk is likely, tearing them off to have him bent over the sofa also likely-
He is not often surprised in bed, and here he sits, surprised by Dorian's wandering south. Perhaps they do things different in the North- or the rarity of finding someone willing and wanting and discreet scrapes some of the taboo of doing this for an elf aside. Zevran props himself on his elbows to watch, hands resting light against the nape of Dorian's neck- there's barely any pressure. This is for the sake of contact, not to command. ]
[ Up close, Dorian takes note of the details of ink, a temporary derailment that is nonetheless underscored by the rub and grip of his hand, reflexively squeezing thickening flesh through the silk as his eyes wander along markings he finds on skin. Visibly intrigued, a little aside from the sex.
But only a little. His hand is not distracted, intent to build friction and warmth before he leans in to feel, open mouthed, Zevran's cock through the silky fabric, an immediate intensity of warm and damp. He's beyond the point where he might feel badly about this, doing this for an elf, doing this for a man.
It may come later, before drinking or during, but for now, his mouth and his hand work in tandem, cupping the swell of tightening flesh low between Zevran's legs as his lips shape around the still trapped tip, tongue flicking, the presence of teeth gentled by barrier of saliva warm silk. ]
[ They are meant to draw the eye- to catch attention and hold it as much as any colorful songbird or lady in her dyed silks. To hide scars old and new under lines of pricked ink. To be pretty, to be intriguing, to be enthralling. Not that Zevran truly needs them at the moment; Dorian's as caught as the assassin in their mutual well of 'sweet maker I would ruin that given half the chance'.
And here they have a whole chance.
Nape to jaw Zevran's hand skitters, stroking the fine angle of it as he wills his hips still, too busy watching Dorian's exploration to wish to impede his wanderings with something so crass as an involuntary thrust for more. He shudders, sucking in a sharp breath at that first brush of Dorian's mouth, the heat and damp making him all the more grateful he opted for silk. ]
[ For all that he's dismissed Antiva and her Antivans plenty of times in the past with his brand of playful prejudice, he can't deny the music of their language, a step away from the ancient Tevene he likes to pretty his own dialogue with. More full-bodied, more literal. He isn't exactly sure what Zevran is saying, but a throaty hum of agreement reverberates through his smalls, mouthed into blood-warm skin.
From the moment of laying his hand against the oppressive cinch of the corset, Dorian's wanted to make Zevran feel it, putting his own desire aside to simmer away -- discomfort for pay off, as idly mentioned. But he doesn't give the elf the satisfaction of the full heat of his mouth against naked skin, using the friction of silk to work for him.
Dorian tips his head to allow access for Zevran's wandering hand, after a moment lifting his mouth so he can better see, replacing it again with his hand. His eyes are bright, made brighter for the deep application of kohl that hasn't yet begun to smudge. ]
[ This is usually his trick- mouthing a man through fabric. Of course it is not always often so fine a fabric and so fine a man with which he'd be pulling the trick- but he can certainly appreciate being on this side of the equation. Like this he can see why so many of them have their knees give out. Especially if he looks half as good doing it as Dorian, all dark hair and bright eyes, sinful lips and teasing touches.
He is teasing.
It is terribly rude- but not so much Zevran wishes to call him on it. Not while it's still fun.
Zevran sucks in a slow breath- finds that he cannot get the depth he would wish because- corset. Tries again for something slower and more even, somewhere between the loss of Dorians' mouth allowing a chill to grind into his skin along with the pleasing rasp of his hand and the heat in his eyes, Zevran finds he cannot. Shallow, almost gasping things come from parted lips- eyes burnished bronze in the candlelight a match for Dorian's. Now he does roll his hips- or attempt to do so. The restraint of the corset only makes it half as fluid as it could be- but the end result is the same. A firmer pressure for a moment, a shivering graze of Zevran's teeth over his own bottom lip- the slightest tug of his fingers hooked around the nape of Dorian's neck downward. ]
[ He shows his teeth at the gentle application of Zevran's hand, and rewards it -- a little. Enough. His mouth again, the sound of his short breaths and the feeling of slightly hindered movement all resonating with him in ways most pleasing. The blunt feel of teeth interspersed with the damp pressure of his mouth, sucking through silk becoming steadily ruined.
Once again, he swaps out hand for mouth, but his palm make firmer strokes through the fabric, silk rippling under his palm. Impatience for his own game finally beginning to show as he conspicuously shifts in place from his sprawl at the end of the chaise, settled cattish between Zevran's legs. ]
What a lovely mess I've made, [ he says, his voice huskier than it had been previously. His tone is that of pondering outloud, but his gaze is direct. ] How ever will I clean it up?
[ Let us tease the altus, Zevran, it will be fun, Zevran. He is glad to have listened to his own impulses in this, shuddering through the drag of teeth and sinful draw of Dorian's mouth- Zevran's hips tipping up in aborted half hitches that are less restrained for any sense of control and more that he simply cannot finish the motion.
Right. Corsets. Restraint. Self induced bondage that only make him all the more frustrated, make him shudder and whine for something better than teasing- and whine all the more when he's finally given a firm hand. His head drops back against the sofa as he bows in as tight an arc that he can manage before his hand, again, stops. ]
Brasca- [ Breathless and bothered, Zevran attempts to glower down at Dorian but-
When he speaks like that, how can he possibly be anything but enraptured? Zevran swallows around his initial thoughts, hand slipping to cradle Dorian's jaw- thumb smoothing across his bottom lip. His voice isn't half as steady as he'd like- but that lends to it it's own appeal. ] Clever man like yourself- I am certain you will think of something.
[ His expression has sharp edges, but his mouth is soft -- made softer for the kissing, the friction from silk, worrying his lips. The touch to his mouth is a mirror of the one he'd given Zevran, which doesn't bother him as it should (or shouldn't, but by some standards--), his fingers then hooking firmly into the edges of the silky smallclothes and tugging them down and out of the way.
The sight of tattoo, once again, drags out the moment a little longer, but only by a fraction, just a moment to imagine needle point on such delicate skin. Then, Dorian's fingers curl around Zevran's length, a massaging squeeze as steadying preamble to his mouth closing around the damp tip.
This isn't his first time, not even with an elf, and there's no thinking anymore, no hitches in his heart or fears for the future -- they both know what they're about. Shallow, a dull, hot ring of pressure, but edging deeper. A sound of contentment settles in his throat, felt through the flat of his tongue. ]
[ Zevran can, perhaps, be forgiven for not quite sorting out Dorian's tastes and habits at first glance as he might normally given how very distracting the man is to observe and by his own assumptions clouding his judgement. Humans were a certain way, human men all the more so- noble human men? So much more. It is a rare man that wishes to be guided about and uses the guise of leading to find that done. But somewhere between Dorian tugging the soaked smalls out of the way and getting his mouth on Zevran, it clicks.
Ah.
Direction. He changes tack accordingly- framing Dorian's jaw with his hand to hold steady, allowing him free reign for the moment, casually draping one long leg over Dorian's shoulder to nudge him closer with a heel along his back. This he knows, this he can do, can be-
As soon as he's not quite so distracted by that mouth. He'll need a moment.
He'll need several, moaning wanton, filthy Antivan through smudged lips, scattered scraps of Common offered as encouragement. ]
[ The settling of Zevran's thigh against his shoulder has him curl his arm up around it, hand planted, nails digging shallow crescents into his skin. Too preoccupied in his own task to be cognizant to any mental shift going on in Zevran's mind, Dorian luxuriates in the sounds Zevran is making, the sensory points of contact of the elf's hand on his jaw and cock filling his mouth, the smell of perfumes, and the earthier, organic scents of exposed, warm skin.
The muscles in his back shift in releases and coils of tension as he settles in, skin bare and bronze in all the low light, gathering a sheen. He is hard in the expensive fabric of his trousers, relieving his own tension with only a subtle shift of his hips against the lounge.
Eyes generally kept shut, Dorian flashes a glance upwards at the decadent sight laid out before him, smeared makeup and dishevelled hair. ]
[ Not the best angle, nor the easiest with the corset holding so much of his hips and ribs straight- but Zevran holds himself up enough with one elbow to stare down at Dorian with dark, kohl lined eyes glimmering in the candle light. Curls in tangled dispensary about his face- it is a sight to see. Zevran has quite a view himself, Dorian's mouth stretched about him, slick and shining, a delightful image of true Northern hedonism at it's best.
It's only years of long practice and a determination to see the man undone entirely that prevents Zevran from shooting off before he's ready. ]
I knew your mouth was good for more than witty quips and sensuous smirking- [ Voice thick- he is practiced not unaffected, Zevran coaxes him in closer- to take more. ]
[ Which is convenient, because Dorian isn't quite able to deliver much in the way of witty quips right now -- but his eyes seem to convey sensuous smirking all the same, before they close again. Fingernails dimple the skin at Zevran's thigh, blunt and sharp all at once.
With coaxing, Dorian obliges. With a slide of lips and tongue and the barest hint of teeth, he sinks Zevran deeper into that heat, one hand snaking closer so as best to close around the base of the elf's cock. Not to handle so much as mirror that same pressure, from base to tip.
The next sound he makes is more than content. A moan, genuine and low, and along with the touch of fingernails, is his own kind of coaxing. ]
[ He curls his nails against Dorian's scalp, dragging them in a long scrape- mussing the curls that stay in place through product or magic. Which doesn't matter, the pull and glide of Dorian's lips, the rumble of his voice, the press of his nails? That is what matters. The tight heat pulling him through as he breathes slow and even to keep himself from straining against the corset, the subtle shift of Dorian's hips against the sofa.
That won't do. He's not in much room to do anything just yet, though. ]
[ Dorian tips his head ever so into that hand, encouraging the blunt scrape of nails tingling over his scalp, whether ignorant to the mess its making of his hair or, more likely, not minding it at all. Context is everything. His tongue curls along tight, swollen flesh, and he spears Zevran with another look at that urging.
He lifts his head, that tight, wet heat replaced swiftly by the long strokes of his hand, no desire to break build and moment just to free his mouth, which is damp and swollen, devoid of sharp smirks, even though he finds something like them in his voice. ]
Whyever not? We have all night.
[ But it proves to be a benign threat, stung with sarcasm, for he takes Zevran back into his mouth and takes him deeply. His hands grip onto Zevran's hips, fingers setting firmly into the rounder muscle and flesh of his backside. ]
[ He tightens his grip on Dorian's hair- testing the boundaries here, testing the edges of what Dorian might enjoy. Some revel in a firm hand and voice even if it comes from an elf. Some take a perverse joy all the more when it comes from him and he makes use of it for their mutual pleasure.
Not that he means to be anything less than selfish as long as Dorian has that mouth on him, plush and red and on this side of ruined. The depth and pitch coil in a sharp counterpoint to the earlier languid heat, all tight lips and the firm press of tongue, the appreciative set of Dorian's hands lancing through him like heated needles. He sets the pace with that firm hand, head lolling back to groan low, obscene compliments in Antivan. ]
[ The jury is out, how much perversity Dorian revels in when it comes to this dynamic, but in the moment, it seems whittled down to its fundamentals -- the pinprick points of subtle, sublime discomfort as his hair is gripped, the feeling of blood-warm flesh full in his mouth, the sound of Zevran's breathing and his voice.
His hands squeeze roughly, tugging him fractionally downwards along the chaise lounge, closer, even as Zevran's hand steals some control. This is familiar too, and Dorian relaxes, riding along with the invasive presence pushing past his lips, along his tongue, hedging closer to the back of his throat. He isn't passive, in any case, mouth working, soft moans more felt than heard. ]
[ Zevran crackles out a laugh as he's dragged- no leverage to resist the pull and no true desire to do so- the angle here is better, helps Dorian take in more, bob faster, moan sweeter. No reason to do more than crape his nails in firm lines from his nape to the mass at the top where the curls are thickest. Pull him up enough to give himself room to rock his hips up into that slick, glorious heat.
Without the corset it'd be easy enough to fuck Dorian's face. The best Zevran can do, the best he does is shallow little snaps of his hips up while pulling down, voice growing ragged. ]
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No longer.
He meets Dorian halfway, hand gliding down to find those strange clasps and buckles, to ruffle and rumple Dorian's otherwise polished appearance; a small part of him viscerally pleased by any opportunity he has to ruin such things. It is less vicious here as he finds skin under silk and his lips part under Dorian's, a blatant invitation for him to press further, to take what he wished. ]
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And then Zevran's mouth, parting under his own. He buries a hand in the elf's hair, finding a firm handling high at the top of his neck, kissing him deeper with a bolder raking of teeth and tongue.
His other hand clasps at the other man's hip, gripping. ]
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Zevran would regret not being able to see it if he weren't so enraptured in being the cause of Dorian's writhing.
Pressed close like this the slow grind of his hips is less like posting and more of an intention- taking his own claim even as he yields so sweetly to the harder press, sucking on Dorian's tongue. ]
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Although perhaps not unexpected. Zevran's hands can feel muscle coil and harden at his shoulders, a gathering of strength that manifests as arms locking around the elf's waist and pulling him over and into the couch, landing him where Dorian had been posed only moments ago.
Necessarily, the kiss is broken, giving them a pause. Some of Zevran's makeup has been redistributed, by now, but not quite as messily on Dorian as it is on Zevran. Judging by the crooked smile that Dorian gives him, it isn't a bad look.
Settled on him like Zevran is his prey, freshly caught, in need of guarding, he reeeaches to collect up his wine that had been set aside, checking how much is left. ]
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It lends the requisite honesty this deserves as it is, above all else, an honest attraction that has led them here.
Again he combs his fingers through Dorian's hair, eyes warm as he tugs more of the black silk loose. The corset he'll keep on- it's too much effort to lace himself back in afterward- but the dress and the robes? Need to go. Dorian will find a fair third of the glass left while Zevran finds the room to shrug out of the lingering gauze of his gown. ]
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[ That's the sound of an aborted sip of wine, setting it down rather than draining it, at the feeling of Zevran managing to wriggle out of the rest of his gown. ]
Allow me, [ Dorian says, as if he's offering to hold open a door for a lady. Working the gown off the rest of the way while maintaining intimacy is not too much of a struggle to give up one for the other, and certainly made easier with help. Once the dress is gone and cast aside a little less carefully than the harness had been, Dorian lays his hand on the smooth plane of corset, where it fixes Zevran's shape.
Stiff fabric and hard angles, only giving the sightly illusion of femininity. Up close and under his hands is a different matter. Dorian's inclination to leave it alone is far less practical than Zevran's, the casual, heated rake of his grey-eyed gaze indicating that he's not really thinking of the prospective future of attempting to lace the elf back into it.
By now, his robes have fallen open enough to reveal his scar-less bare chest, and he rids himself of them the rest of the way, leaving behind trousers cinched with a buckle but closed with a sash. He leaves it alone, for the moment, roaming a touch along Zevran's inner thigh. ]
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[ He murmurs in low, lilting Antivan- working the rest of the gown and robes aside in casually practiced gestures as fluid as they are efficient. Like Dorian- he's done this before. Quite a bit. The luxury of being able to take his time with this, now...there lies the appeal. Dress gone there is but Zevran, the corset, and silken smalls he wears to help sell the illusion.
The look in Dorian's eyes- now that is familiar enough. The spark of an interest piqued, a new curiosity. One he's happy to coax along b curling a hand on top of Dorian's and tugging it to the narrowest point of his waist, the canvas and boning warm and straining against his body's natural shape. Here Dorian can feel how it leaves his breath shallow, can consider how easy it might be to leave him breathless. That, too, has great appeal.
Especially with so much of Dorian bare that might steal his breath. He toys with the end of Dorian's sash, lips curled in a lazy smile, thigh tipping out to invite further exploration. ]
Enjoying the view?
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Visa aureum, [ --sounds like confirmation, anyway. Tevene isn't a common kind of utterance, even in Tevinter, but practice on Dorian's part has the words come easily.
His fingertips dance along exposed skin at Zevran's thigh. No magic, here, just nerves livened beneath a teasing touch, before he lays his palm gently at the intersection between thighs, feeling through silk, fingers curling. Watching, still, enjoying the slight novelty that is not only being the instigator of action, but a dominating presence, appreciating what's beneath his hands--
--while certainly, he feels, being appreciated even from below. There is a trace of a vaguely wicked smile before he settles back down, lower, close enough for his breath to be felt at the top of the elf's thigh. ]
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Pale as the silk is- shades of similar ink are vaguely visible on his hardening cock under Dorian's hand. Part of the dance, the game- Zevran rolls his hips into the touch, silk doing just as much to enhance the sensation rather than diminish it. He has a moment to try to guess where Dorian might take this next; making a mess of him in the silk is likely, tearing them off to have him bent over the sofa also likely-
He is not often surprised in bed, and here he sits, surprised by Dorian's wandering south. Perhaps they do things different in the North- or the rarity of finding someone willing and wanting and discreet scrapes some of the taboo of doing this for an elf aside. Zevran props himself on his elbows to watch, hands resting light against the nape of Dorian's neck- there's barely any pressure. This is for the sake of contact, not to command. ]
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But only a little. His hand is not distracted, intent to build friction and warmth before he leans in to feel, open mouthed, Zevran's cock through the silky fabric, an immediate intensity of warm and damp. He's beyond the point where he might feel badly about this, doing this for an elf, doing this for a man.
It may come later, before drinking or during, but for now, his mouth and his hand work in tandem, cupping the swell of tightening flesh low between Zevran's legs as his lips shape around the still trapped tip, tongue flicking, the presence of teeth gentled by barrier of saliva warm silk. ]
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And here they have a whole chance.
Nape to jaw Zevran's hand skitters, stroking the fine angle of it as he wills his hips still, too busy watching Dorian's exploration to wish to impede his wanderings with something so crass as an involuntary thrust for more. He shudders, sucking in a sharp breath at that first brush of Dorian's mouth, the heat and damp making him all the more grateful he opted for silk. ]
Le cose che voglio fare con te...
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From the moment of laying his hand against the oppressive cinch of the corset, Dorian's wanted to make Zevran feel it, putting his own desire aside to simmer away -- discomfort for pay off, as idly mentioned. But he doesn't give the elf the satisfaction of the full heat of his mouth against naked skin, using the friction of silk to work for him.
Dorian tips his head to allow access for Zevran's wandering hand, after a moment lifting his mouth so he can better see, replacing it again with his hand. His eyes are bright, made brighter for the deep application of kohl that hasn't yet begun to smudge. ]
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He is teasing.
It is terribly rude- but not so much Zevran wishes to call him on it. Not while it's still fun.
Zevran sucks in a slow breath- finds that he cannot get the depth he would wish because- corset. Tries again for something slower and more even, somewhere between the loss of Dorians' mouth allowing a chill to grind into his skin along with the pleasing rasp of his hand and the heat in his eyes, Zevran finds he cannot. Shallow, almost gasping things come from parted lips- eyes burnished bronze in the candlelight a match for Dorian's. Now he does roll his hips- or attempt to do so. The restraint of the corset only makes it half as fluid as it could be- but the end result is the same. A firmer pressure for a moment, a shivering graze of Zevran's teeth over his own bottom lip- the slightest tug of his fingers hooked around the nape of Dorian's neck downward. ]
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Once again, he swaps out hand for mouth, but his palm make firmer strokes through the fabric, silk rippling under his palm. Impatience for his own game finally beginning to show as he conspicuously shifts in place from his sprawl at the end of the chaise, settled cattish between Zevran's legs. ]
What a lovely mess I've made, [ he says, his voice huskier than it had been previously. His tone is that of pondering outloud, but his gaze is direct. ] How ever will I clean it up?
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Right. Corsets. Restraint. Self induced bondage that only make him all the more frustrated, make him shudder and whine for something better than teasing- and whine all the more when he's finally given a firm hand. His head drops back against the sofa as he bows in as tight an arc that he can manage before his hand, again, stops. ]
Brasca- [ Breathless and bothered, Zevran attempts to glower down at Dorian but-
When he speaks like that, how can he possibly be anything but enraptured? Zevran swallows around his initial thoughts, hand slipping to cradle Dorian's jaw- thumb smoothing across his bottom lip. His voice isn't half as steady as he'd like- but that lends to it it's own appeal. ] Clever man like yourself- I am certain you will think of something.
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The sight of tattoo, once again, drags out the moment a little longer, but only by a fraction, just a moment to imagine needle point on such delicate skin. Then, Dorian's fingers curl around Zevran's length, a massaging squeeze as steadying preamble to his mouth closing around the damp tip.
This isn't his first time, not even with an elf, and there's no thinking anymore, no hitches in his heart or fears for the future -- they both know what they're about. Shallow, a dull, hot ring of pressure, but edging deeper. A sound of contentment settles in his throat, felt through the flat of his tongue. ]
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Ah.
Direction. He changes tack accordingly- framing Dorian's jaw with his hand to hold steady, allowing him free reign for the moment, casually draping one long leg over Dorian's shoulder to nudge him closer with a heel along his back. This he knows, this he can do, can be-
As soon as he's not quite so distracted by that mouth. He'll need a moment.
He'll need several, moaning wanton, filthy Antivan through smudged lips, scattered scraps of Common offered as encouragement. ]
Marvelous-
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The muscles in his back shift in releases and coils of tension as he settles in, skin bare and bronze in all the low light, gathering a sheen. He is hard in the expensive fabric of his trousers, relieving his own tension with only a subtle shift of his hips against the lounge.
Eyes generally kept shut, Dorian flashes a glance upwards at the decadent sight laid out before him, smeared makeup and dishevelled hair. ]
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It's only years of long practice and a determination to see the man undone entirely that prevents Zevran from shooting off before he's ready. ]
I knew your mouth was good for more than witty quips and sensuous smirking- [ Voice thick- he is practiced not unaffected, Zevran coaxes him in closer- to take more. ]
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With coaxing, Dorian obliges. With a slide of lips and tongue and the barest hint of teeth, he sinks Zevran deeper into that heat, one hand snaking closer so as best to close around the base of the elf's cock. Not to handle so much as mirror that same pressure, from base to tip.
The next sound he makes is more than content. A moan, genuine and low, and along with the touch of fingernails, is his own kind of coaxing. ]
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[ He curls his nails against Dorian's scalp, dragging them in a long scrape- mussing the curls that stay in place through product or magic. Which doesn't matter, the pull and glide of Dorian's lips, the rumble of his voice, the press of his nails? That is what matters. The tight heat pulling him through as he breathes slow and even to keep himself from straining against the corset, the subtle shift of Dorian's hips against the sofa.
That won't do. He's not in much room to do anything just yet, though. ]
No need to take your time, Pavone.
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He lifts his head, that tight, wet heat replaced swiftly by the long strokes of his hand, no desire to break build and moment just to free his mouth, which is damp and swollen, devoid of sharp smirks, even though he finds something like them in his voice. ]
Whyever not? We have all night.
[ But it proves to be a benign threat, stung with sarcasm, for he takes Zevran back into his mouth and takes him deeply. His hands grip onto Zevran's hips, fingers setting firmly into the rounder muscle and flesh of his backside. ]
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[ He tightens his grip on Dorian's hair- testing the boundaries here, testing the edges of what Dorian might enjoy. Some revel in a firm hand and voice even if it comes from an elf. Some take a perverse joy all the more when it comes from him and he makes use of it for their mutual pleasure.
Not that he means to be anything less than selfish as long as Dorian has that mouth on him, plush and red and on this side of ruined. The depth and pitch coil in a sharp counterpoint to the earlier languid heat, all tight lips and the firm press of tongue, the appreciative set of Dorian's hands lancing through him like heated needles. He sets the pace with that firm hand, head lolling back to groan low, obscene compliments in Antivan. ]
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His hands squeeze roughly, tugging him fractionally downwards along the chaise lounge, closer, even as Zevran's hand steals some control. This is familiar too, and Dorian relaxes, riding along with the invasive presence pushing past his lips, along his tongue, hedging closer to the back of his throat. He isn't passive, in any case, mouth working, soft moans more felt than heard. ]
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Without the corset it'd be easy enough to fuck Dorian's face. The best Zevran can do, the best he does is shallow little snaps of his hips up while pulling down, voice growing ragged. ]
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