[It's a luxurious and sensual appreciating of his form, with attention paid to those places he's sensitive, but that ordinarily don't have time to be addressed when they've leapt into sex at other occasions. It's not his way to choose something like this, usually. This feels soft and tender, not the kind of thing that typically penetrates the surface of his consciousness or digs deep to touch him anywhere real. But it's different at the hands and lips of someone he's allowed, and wanted, to know him. That he's allowed through the door of knowing his secrets and the reality of his life.
It's vulnerable. Slow enough that there's space and time for his thoughts and emotions to seep in, space he prefers not to allow, still laden with the last dregs of sleep that they are. It's an opening up and a gentle perusing, rather than a throwing of all of himself into a distracting and riotously violent oblivion. It's satisfying, but part of him still itches at allowing himself a full indulgence in that satisfaction.
That manner of the lowering of his walls is how he's allowed himself to be cut deeply, and then been left carrying the burden in his endlessly recording memories when friends and lovers died, again and again.
There's no resistance, though, to allowing Larus to taste his skin above one of the most vulnerable arteries in his body. It's a particularly sensitive spot, one not often touched, and Dorian moans softly, the fingers in the other man's hair unconsciously curling that smallest bit tighter at the pleasure of it. He closes his eyes, partly to indulge, partly to put the smallest shred of distance between himself and what's happening.
This slow taking apart of him through his senses is something he can allow, however much of a riskier drawing of this man more deeply into his life and soul it might represent. It's been earned. It's what he decided upon, for better and worse.]
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It's vulnerable. Slow enough that there's space and time for his thoughts and emotions to seep in, space he prefers not to allow, still laden with the last dregs of sleep that they are. It's an opening up and a gentle perusing, rather than a throwing of all of himself into a distracting and riotously violent oblivion. It's satisfying, but part of him still itches at allowing himself a full indulgence in that satisfaction.
That manner of the lowering of his walls is how he's allowed himself to be cut deeply, and then been left carrying the burden in his endlessly recording memories when friends and lovers died, again and again.
There's no resistance, though, to allowing Larus to taste his skin above one of the most vulnerable arteries in his body. It's a particularly sensitive spot, one not often touched, and Dorian moans softly, the fingers in the other man's hair unconsciously curling that smallest bit tighter at the pleasure of it. He closes his eyes, partly to indulge, partly to put the smallest shred of distance between himself and what's happening.
This slow taking apart of him through his senses is something he can allow, however much of a riskier drawing of this man more deeply into his life and soul it might represent. It's been earned. It's what he decided upon, for better and worse.]