[ 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
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. ]