[ He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes falling closed to better focus on the slow drag of Bull's fingers, hips hitching down for more. Keeping up with the pace is difficult when it keeps changing- keeps him off balance enough that every stroke crackles something bright and hot in the pit of his stomach.
Two has him still and tense for a moment, distracting himself with the stubble on Bull's jaw- with brushing his lips back and forth across it to taste skin until too much becomes just enough. ]
[ It's slowed considerably now, the pace with which he crooks his fingers and pushes deep into Zevran, but the rhythm becomes predictable. Rise and fall, ebb and flow. Breathe.
Let him adjust. He won't shy back unless he uses the word, turning his head to catch the corner of his mouth with a soft nip. ]
If I told you the word for 'more', for example. Bet you'd pick that up quick.
[ Of course Bull could. Of course Bull did, every shivery hitch of his hips against the slow press lulling him into utter bonelessness- the tightening spiral in his gut less a wild, crackling inferno and more a slow wash like the tide.
Like a worn down shore, ready to be reshaped- he aches for more. ]
[ Bull rumbles, nips against the smooth edge of Zevran's jaw. ]
Isaam.
[ The word has a guttural weight to it, even the 's' a harder sound than in Common, less slippery than the natural flow of Antivan. But Zevran has time to practice. And if he gets it right?
[ Like rock grinding against metal, low and rumbling and inevitable. Reasons he never learned much Ander- the glottal and guttural twist to the tongue was difficult after the lilt and glide of Antivan.
But he tries. ]
Isaam?
[ Still too slick, too light, too breathy on the 'aah'. Zevran swallows, tries again. Less slick, less light, but not quite hard enough. ]
[ And as his fingers start to move again, his lips catch against Zevran's mouth, stealing a short but heady kiss from him before murmuring against his mouth. ]
Again.
[ More meaning depth, pace, meaning more than just fingers, once he's been made ready. But he'll happily keep him like this, working him open until he's boneless against him and begging, working to remember that foreign tongue. ]
[ Impossible to catch his breath, to focus on anything more than the slow, steady press of Bull's fingers and the shape of that word when he's claimed thusly-
He had half a mind to ask what 'please' might be but the thought of wrapping his head around two words of Qunlat?
Just the one. Over and over, sliding to either side of sibilant or too guttural as he over-corrects while melting against Bull. ]
[ He's given this, his space to melt, cupping a hand to the back of his head and threading those scarred fingers through his hair. There's nothing else he has to do now except enjoy this, roll the feel of that word on his tongue until he's satisfied, while Bull feels him part around the steady thrust of those digits. Slick and unrelenting.
Three fingers now, and if he spreads them it's enough to encounter that resistance anew, that line that marks too much closer again than before. But it's all at the same slow, steady pace as before.
Bull takes a breath, smelling oil and sweat and arousal on the air and on Zevran's skin, and leans close enough to press his knotted, scarred forehead to the elf's. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes falling closed to better focus on the slow drag of Bull's fingers, hips hitching down for more. Keeping up with the pace is difficult when it keeps changing- keeps him off balance enough that every stroke crackles something bright and hot in the pit of his stomach.
Two has him still and tense for a moment, distracting himself with the stubble on Bull's jaw- with brushing his lips back and forth across it to taste skin until too much becomes just enough. ]
no subject
[ It's slowed considerably now, the pace with which he crooks his fingers and pushes deep into Zevran, but the rhythm becomes predictable. Rise and fall, ebb and flow. Breathe.
Let him adjust. He won't shy back unless he uses the word, turning his head to catch the corner of his mouth with a soft nip. ]
If I told you the word for 'more', for example. Bet you'd pick that up quick.
no subject
[ Of course Bull could. Of course Bull did, every shivery hitch of his hips against the slow press lulling him into utter bonelessness- the tightening spiral in his gut less a wild, crackling inferno and more a slow wash like the tide.
Like a worn down shore, ready to be reshaped- he aches for more. ]
What is Qunlat for more? Please.
no subject
Isaam.
[ The word has a guttural weight to it, even the 's' a harder sound than in Common, less slippery than the natural flow of Antivan. But Zevran has time to practice. And if he gets it right?
Well. He'll get what he asks for. ]
no subject
But he tries. ]
Isaam?
[ Still too slick, too light, too breathy on the 'aah'. Zevran swallows, tries again. Less slick, less light, but not quite hard enough. ]
Isaam-
no subject
[ As he speaks, he's sinking in, two knuckles deep, slow but angled. ]
When I've got my fingers pressing up into you just right, and you feel that punch in your lungs. Isaam.
[ But there's no withdrawal, not yet, just that steady pressure, waiting for the word. ]
Again.
no subject
Isaam.
[ Stuttered, stalled. He sucks in a breath and focuses on the pressure that keeps him from breathing too deep. ]
no subject
[ And as his fingers start to move again, his lips catch against Zevran's mouth, stealing a short but heady kiss from him before murmuring against his mouth. ]
Again.
[ More meaning depth, pace, meaning more than just fingers, once he's been made ready. But he'll happily keep him like this, working him open until he's boneless against him and begging, working to remember that foreign tongue. ]
no subject
[ Impossible to catch his breath, to focus on anything more than the slow, steady press of Bull's fingers and the shape of that word when he's claimed thusly-
He had half a mind to ask what 'please' might be but the thought of wrapping his head around two words of Qunlat?
Just the one. Over and over, sliding to either side of sibilant or too guttural as he over-corrects while melting against Bull. ]
no subject
Three fingers now, and if he spreads them it's enough to encounter that resistance anew, that line that marks too much closer again than before. But it's all at the same slow, steady pace as before.
Bull takes a breath, smelling oil and sweat and arousal on the air and on Zevran's skin, and leans close enough to press his knotted, scarred forehead to the elf's. ]
That's it. You're getting it.