[ With the Corset so tight and the weight of Dorian holding him, if not still, but solidly enough that the instinctual thrusts are mere half hitches of his hips- Zevran tumbles over that peak with a drawn out moan of Dorian's name, nails scraping at the nape of his neck, head tipped back against the sofa.
Soft and easy, Dorian's mouth, with little more than halfhearted twitching thereafter before Zevran tugs on his jaw, gentle but demanding. Up where he can see, where he can taste. ]
[ He opens his eyes by the time he responds to gentle urging, tongue darting between his lips to pull in excess moisture, his eyes heavy hooded. It's not the same lazy bliss as having been pleasured so much as his own fog of arousal, but attention sharpens again by the time he finds eye contact, and the corner of his mouth twists into a small, self-satisfied smile.
With a distinct prowl, all ruffled curls and swollen mouth, he crawls back up the length of Zevran on the couch. The fabric of his trousers are tailored enough to show the distinct line of his own arousal pressing against inseam, and then more flush against Zevran as he presses bodily into him.
The kiss that comes next isn't sweet; dirty and bitey, the bitter taste of himself detectable on Dorian's tongue. ]
[ He will sketch those eyes, the plush ruin of his lips, the mess of curls- later. Much, much later. For now he has Dorian on him, over him, pressed tight and biting at his lips that he parts easily for that bitter tang, that thrusting tongue. Zevran can't ask for anything better than this, a lean body over him as he yields sweetly, languid in his satiation.
Not so much to ignore the pressing matter at hand (ha), he reaches down to palm Dorian's cock, fingertips fluttering light and delicate around the thick shape of him. ]
Now whatever shall we do with this, mm?
[ Options are many and he has several vague ideas- for the moment he's far more interested in watching the play of light over Dorian's face as he flips from idle squeezing to intent, finessed stroking. ]
[ Dorian nudges his hips up just a little to allow room for Zevran's hand, even as his head bows, breath warm against Zevran's sweet smelling neck. His mouth roams against where his pulse can be felt beneath his tongue, a little indistinct in his nuzzling, and the breathy laugh smothered there will tickle.
He lifts his head in time for that grip to firm up, tilting his hips into it. ]
You're a clever man, [ he echoes, in call back. Balanced on elbows on either side of Zevran, his hand reaches inwards to curl a finger around an errant strand of mousy-dyed hair, pulling it back from where it sticks against the elf's cheek. And then reaches again, knuckles gently smearing back the makeup that covers tattoos showing faintly through. ] I'm certain you'll think of something.
[ Too well sated to have more than the faintest twitch in response to the nuzzling, Zevran moves to make more room all the same. Even if his nerves are yet sparking with the lingering intensity of his orgasm he can enjoy the soft waft of breath and odd brush of Dorian's lips. Though the tickling prompts a faint snort- one of the few places where the reaction hadn't been burned from him.
He smirks up at Dorian, as he rolls his fingers along the head, thumb pressing in against the fabric to find the slit to grind against. This, now, he hasn't done in a fair while. ]
I think I already have. [ Coaxing Dorian into coming in his trousers would be viscerally satisfying on so many levels. All the more reason to tip his hand into the smearing press of Dorian's fingers, the curving black marks branding him dangerous revealed with every swipe. ]
[ The manipulations of Zevran's hand are easily rewarded; the insistent tip of Dorian's hips, a slightly lazy, purring hum low in his throat, certainly no relent in the heavy sprawl settling atop the elf. The specific friction of fabric against the most sensitive spots send sparks through his nerves, so much more attentive than the impassive plane of cushion he'd been trying to seek the same from moments ago.
Still. Dorian is not so without his faculties not to arch an eyebrow and look down his nose at the elf. ]
Is that so?
[ The subtle spine-long squirm seems to agree, and the affect is lost. He doesn't feel patient enough to coax Zevran into more, certainly not enough to go through the trouble of preparing the elf for further conquering; his own erection aches at the thought, or maybe just Zevran's hand, articulate and artful through his trousers.
Fuck it, as they say.
His lips, his nose, his cheek all nuzzle and caress, both creating sensation as well as removing makeup in smudges. His thighs sink on either side of Zevran's hips, getting comfortable as well as sliding into the situation, the picture they make. ]
[ That is the last of the common he has to spare for the moment, more interested in spinning out low, lilting, filthy Antivan into Dorian's ear while his hand works between them. Again, familiar ground, again, appreciative of the marvel of good breeding writhing against him in an almost lazy cant of his hips and pace of his breath- something Zevran means to see made more frantic in short order.
Let us tease the Altus, Zevran. It will be fun, Zevran.
Indeed he is and it is.
Through fabric there is only so much finesse one can manage but it does dull the scrape of nails enough to make it viable for those more interested in friction and pressure than that particular shade of pain on the skin. Zevran makes use of hits as he tugs Dorian down against him, lips catching on the lobe of his ear between one fluid twist and the next. ]
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no subject
Soft and easy, Dorian's mouth, with little more than halfhearted twitching thereafter before Zevran tugs on his jaw, gentle but demanding. Up where he can see, where he can taste. ]
no subject
With a distinct prowl, all ruffled curls and swollen mouth, he crawls back up the length of Zevran on the couch. The fabric of his trousers are tailored enough to show the distinct line of his own arousal pressing against inseam, and then more flush against Zevran as he presses bodily into him.
The kiss that comes next isn't sweet; dirty and bitey, the bitter taste of himself detectable on Dorian's tongue. ]
no subject
Not so much to ignore the pressing matter at hand (ha), he reaches down to palm Dorian's cock, fingertips fluttering light and delicate around the thick shape of him. ]
Now whatever shall we do with this, mm?
[ Options are many and he has several vague ideas- for the moment he's far more interested in watching the play of light over Dorian's face as he flips from idle squeezing to intent, finessed stroking. ]
no subject
He lifts his head in time for that grip to firm up, tilting his hips into it. ]
You're a clever man, [ he echoes, in call back. Balanced on elbows on either side of Zevran, his hand reaches inwards to curl a finger around an errant strand of mousy-dyed hair, pulling it back from where it sticks against the elf's cheek. And then reaches again, knuckles gently smearing back the makeup that covers tattoos showing faintly through. ] I'm certain you'll think of something.
no subject
He smirks up at Dorian, as he rolls his fingers along the head, thumb pressing in against the fabric to find the slit to grind against. This, now, he hasn't done in a fair while. ]
I think I already have. [ Coaxing Dorian into coming in his trousers would be viscerally satisfying on so many levels. All the more reason to tip his hand into the smearing press of Dorian's fingers, the curving black marks branding him dangerous revealed with every swipe. ]
no subject
Still. Dorian is not so without his faculties not to arch an eyebrow and look down his nose at the elf. ]
Is that so?
[ The subtle spine-long squirm seems to agree, and the affect is lost. He doesn't feel patient enough to coax Zevran into more, certainly not enough to go through the trouble of preparing the elf for further conquering; his own erection aches at the thought, or maybe just Zevran's hand, articulate and artful through his trousers.
Fuck it, as they say.
His lips, his nose, his cheek all nuzzle and caress, both creating sensation as well as removing makeup in smudges. His thighs sink on either side of Zevran's hips, getting comfortable as well as sliding into the situation, the picture they make. ]
no subject
[ That is the last of the common he has to spare for the moment, more interested in spinning out low, lilting, filthy Antivan into Dorian's ear while his hand works between them. Again, familiar ground, again, appreciative of the marvel of good breeding writhing against him in an almost lazy cant of his hips and pace of his breath- something Zevran means to see made more frantic in short order.
Let us tease the Altus, Zevran. It will be fun, Zevran.
Indeed he is and it is.
Through fabric there is only so much finesse one can manage but it does dull the scrape of nails enough to make it viable for those more interested in friction and pressure than that particular shade of pain on the skin. Zevran makes use of hits as he tugs Dorian down against him, lips catching on the lobe of his ear between one fluid twist and the next. ]