[Orym opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out, replaced instead by a soft moan. He's forgotten that he's laid out on an altar, that they're being used as some sort of ritual by a weird voyeuristic cult. None of that matters. Let them watch. Let them see. Dorian Storm is his, and Orym wants the world to know it.
Eventually he finds his voice]
Yes... gods...
[He reaches up towards him, urging him closer, until Dorian is bearing over him.]
no subject
Eventually he finds his voice]
Yes... gods...
[He reaches up towards him, urging him closer, until Dorian is bearing over him.]
Fuck me, love. Please.