[ 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. ]
[ There's discomfort in this, doing it until someone finally gives in, but Dorian has sometimes find -- as he finds now -- that there's a hedonistic enjoyment to be sapped from this. He is more distinctly aware of his own aching erection, trapped between his own body and the slightly too soft give of the chaise cushions, than he is as to the stretch and ache in his jaw beginning to develop.
The most he permits himself are little movements to soak up some friction, offer a little relief. Otherwise, his presence is here, between Zevran's legs, hands grasping and moaning around his cock. Saliva gathers thick at the corners of his mouth, and he can taste the sharp, bitter suggestion for pre-ejaculate, which is swallowed between slides.
His eyes remain shut, relaxed, but his fingers knead, more feeling Zevran's upward, hindered twitches upwards than trying to stop them. ]
[ It's a delicate line between making use of someone's skill and enjoying the act- and flat out using a person. The dynamics of the thing are more pointed in the other direction; like this Zevran has leave to get away with more, muss Dorian's hair, slip his fingers down to run along the stretched, shining lips and perhaps dishevel that damnably perfect curl to his mustache. Without the burning intensity of Dorian's eyes he can risk looking down to watch him work.
They are distracting and entrancing and neither of them truly needs to be entranced. Enjoyed? Certainly. Entranced? Not at all.
Zevran's low rambling, lilting Antivan picks up in pace and pitch as he gives the nape of Dorian's neck a warning squeeze, the comfortable plateau of heated sensation falling away for the rapid climb before the crackling, shattering fall. ]
[ Warning registered, Dorian's hands, settling at Zevran's neat waist, squeeze back, felt through the stiff fabric and rigid boning of the corset. He doesn't move his mouth so much as slow the more urgent movements that had worked the elf to this point, mouth remaining tight but pliant around his cock, hands looser to allow whatever may come of crackling, shattering fall.
Dorian prefers chaos and disorder over real mess, only inclined to lift his mouth away from the elf when he thinks he can do so tidily, for all that relatively speaking, it's a lost cause. ]
[ 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
Date: 2016-02-22 12:31 pm (UTC)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. ]
no subject
Date: 2016-02-24 05:39 am (UTC)[ 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.
no subject
Date: 2016-02-25 07:47 am (UTC)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. ]
no subject
Date: 2016-02-25 08:10 am (UTC)[ 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. ]
no subject
Date: 2016-02-25 08:20 am (UTC)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. ]
no subject
Date: 2016-02-26 05:56 am (UTC)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. ]
no subject
Date: 2016-02-26 01:00 pm (UTC)The most he permits himself are little movements to soak up some friction, offer a little relief. Otherwise, his presence is here, between Zevran's legs, hands grasping and moaning around his cock. Saliva gathers thick at the corners of his mouth, and he can taste the sharp, bitter suggestion for pre-ejaculate, which is swallowed between slides.
His eyes remain shut, relaxed, but his fingers knead, more feeling Zevran's upward, hindered twitches upwards than trying to stop them. ]
no subject
Date: 2016-02-28 08:10 am (UTC)They are distracting and entrancing and neither of them truly needs to be entranced. Enjoyed? Certainly. Entranced? Not at all.
Zevran's low rambling, lilting Antivan picks up in pace and pitch as he gives the nape of Dorian's neck a warning squeeze, the comfortable plateau of heated sensation falling away for the rapid climb before the crackling, shattering fall. ]
Pavone-
no subject
Date: 2016-02-28 09:06 am (UTC)Dorian prefers chaos and disorder over real mess, only inclined to lift his mouth away from the elf when he thinks he can do so tidily, for all that relatively speaking, it's a lost cause. ]
no subject
Date: 2016-02-28 09:23 am (UTC)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
Date: 2016-02-28 11:39 am (UTC)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
Date: 2016-02-28 12:10 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2016-02-28 12:45 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2016-03-01 03:30 am (UTC)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
Date: 2016-03-10 11:58 am (UTC)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
Date: 2016-03-13 10:56 pm (UTC)[ 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. ]