The vampire's mention of much of the décor of the room having come from the era in which he was born momentarily sees the faintest of frowns trace the eternally youthful fae's features. He had missed rather a few centuries locked away in his castle, or so it would seem, Dorian utterly unable to place the décor or the mans age to any given century save for some knowledge that the vampire was....sufficiently aged. After all, at least some of the objects of the room were familiar to Dorian himself, even if the fae was more than twice the age of his companion and far closer to six hundred then the five hundred he had quoted earlier. Age however- ceased to matter at a certain point, Dorian merely content in the knowledge that the room, on some level, afforded him his own sense of familiarity. Something the man had near desperately missed these past few weeks. The furnishings however, no matter how grand, had ceased to captivate the man's attention entirely. His stormy grey gaze finding its way back towards his companion.

The languorous manner in which the vampire seeks to go about removing his shirt is hardly wasted on the fae- Dorian eyeing each and every smooth, toned, plain of the others man's chest. The sight sufficiently pleasing enough to tease an almost appreciative simper to the man's lips, one that seems entirely enough to coax the vampire into following him as he makes himself comfortable atop the bed. He had never truly believed he would miss a mattress, not until he had spent the better part of a week sleeping upon either the floor or Samantha's folded out couch. A truly horrific invention and one in which Dorian was assured was invented entirely to prevent couples achieving any level of intimacy- such is its level of discomfort. It also prevented sleep on most evenings. The vampire's bed however, was every bit as comfortable as the Prince is used too. Indeed, it was improved only by the addition of the vampire himself, Dorian finding his need for the other man almost...insatiable in that moment. He is oblivious, still, to the other man's power as it runs wildly throughout the room, Dorian having been readily effected by even the smallest of touches let alone the veritable wave that washes over him now and teases to life every more basal need. He has been apart from other supernaturals for years- his immunity to any of their talents decidedly lacking and yet truly within this moment Dorian found he hardly cared to consider why he seemed to desire the vampire so very much.

Sebastian. The name is easily committed to memory, the man briefly considering how unusual a name it seemed before cool fingers pressing softly against the back of his neck in an unspoken request readily sees the Fae yield to the man lying beside him. It is the first true touch Dorian has allowed Sebastian so far without pulling away, a murmur of satisfaction rising within his throat at the feel of lips on his skin and the nape of his neck- an area far too often ignored in Dorian's opinion and one he enjoys decidedly. Even this subtle touch seeming to coax a shudder of pleasure from within him.

"Hmm? Oh, Dorian."

His voice is lazy, laced with a ready contentment enticed so freely by Sebastian's lips as he offers his own name. There was little need, here and now, to afford the man his full titles- they were far to laborious to say, far to unnecessary. His own form leans momentarily, albeit reluctantly, away from the other man now, pushing himself upward and into a kneeling position only long enough to catch the hem of his own shirt- lifting it up and over his head- casting it off the side. He desires to feel skin on skin, to better explore the pleasing physique offered to him, one hand running easily through his own brunette locks, pushing them from his eyes before he leans forward again. He captures Sebastian's lips easily, one arm either side of the vampire as he leans over him, this kiss holding far more than his previous efforts upon the street. He truly did possess an exquisite taste, Dorian relishing within it. It had been....some months, after all, since his last encounter with either man or woman and yet there is precious little about Dorian that is either rushed or hurried. Five hundred years of practice have not been wasted. His lips withdraw smoothly from the man's own, head tilted slightly, lips brushing now against Sebastian's jaw, working effortlessly along this sensitive line. His teeth, lips and tongue move in an easy, intricate pattern, teasing gently as he does, working his way upward until he reaches the ear lobe of the man- affording it the barest of nips in an almost playful manner that sees him smile against Sebastian's skin before he begins to work his way down the man's neck and towards his collar bone in that same torturous fashion.

Dorian is hardly impatient or unpractised, the man well past those fumbling teenage years of inexperience. Indeed, for a King, he is rather generous when he should choose to be- even despite the aching need for Sebastian's touch coursing so hotly within him and the anticipation of what was to come.