[ The growl that gets is strangled in Dorian's throat and muffled into Bull's shoulder, eyes closing under the feeling of tooth and sucking pressure, somewhere new. Words do as they are designed, pushing past the instinctual worry of causing true pain, before Dorian rests his head back against the pillow, chin tipped up as if he expects to look at Bull down the length of his nose, a suggestion of a smile still on his lips.
The hand not preoccupied between them comes up to stroke a finger over his attempt, more of a damp spot than a bruise, but perhaps there might be something, broken capillaries inking darker beneath the surface, iron in silver. ]
I always leave an impression, [ he defends. ] It's just a matter of finding your soft spots.
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The hand not preoccupied between them comes up to stroke a finger over his attempt, more of a damp spot than a bruise, but perhaps there might be something, broken capillaries inking darker beneath the surface, iron in silver. ]
I always leave an impression, [ he defends. ] It's just a matter of finding your soft spots.
[ The bite of his nails add some emphasis. ]