Fingers scrunch into the front of a perfectly primped outfit, yanking the smaller man bodily off the wall and spinning him around to face it. If Gortash is quick enough, he might get his hands up before he's being pressed forward, his dark hair gripped by the fistful and tugged back. Prior to his hips even connecting with the wall, a large hand reaches around, fingers grabbing his crotch and squeezing as he is finally pinned to the wall. The hardness at the ass of his outfit is excruciatingly clear, the only thing separating a fully blown experience is a few layers of fabric.

"You think I came here for hapless, grovelling lords and trifling, pitiful ladies, Enver?"

The question is hot in his ear, and it isn't fury or anger that's taken up residence in his tone. There's an edge of disbelief to it, another question - 'why would I do that?' - just beneath the first

What really darts forward is something altogether more inadvisable, mixed in among the press of his hips just a little harder against Gortash. It sounds like he intends to stake his claim, an impossibility given who they are. An encroachment not only into ill-advised territory, but the territory of a god.

"I have not sequestered myself from an evening away from this for them ."