[ Dorian closes his eyes at the second thrust, a sort of sinking back into the feeling, and the moment. When they'd danced, it had the dual affect of being so aware of those watching him, catching on him like spiderwebs, something in need of brushing away with a laugh, or simple and easy enjoyment of dancing in Bull's generous shadow, in the bracket of his arms. Sometimes, here, on his back, or in Bull's lap, he can imagine those stares, as if the world waited beyond the door, one of ridicule.
But then there are times like these when he isn't thinking about any of that at all. Usually, it takes a little longer, but perhaps the fact he's already gone once helps urge him into that state of pure distraction. Loose in his muscles, his joints bending easy, the ache and burn deep inside of him.
The way his tips his chin back seems only to better feel that possessive resting of Bull's hand on his neck. A hand strong enough to crush his windpipe, or break his neck. These thoughts are not in themselves sexy, but appeal never gets that far anyway; there is just something innately glorious about those battle-rough fingers where his pulse is, stimulating bruises, applying a less-than-subtle pressure when he breathes.
Bull is going hard enough, swift enough, that Dorian could lie there if he wished. Still, his legs lock, and hips angle upwards to meet him, to take him, squeezing around him both on purpose and not.
He slides a hand down the line of Bull's arm, coming to rest at the thick wrist of the hand at his throat. The sounds he makes begin to gain articulacy, Bull and yes and Maker and-- ] More, [ he says, arching, never mind the physical impossibility of such a request. ] More.
no subject
But then there are times like these when he isn't thinking about any of that at all. Usually, it takes a little longer, but perhaps the fact he's already gone once helps urge him into that state of pure distraction. Loose in his muscles, his joints bending easy, the ache and burn deep inside of him.
The way his tips his chin back seems only to better feel that possessive resting of Bull's hand on his neck. A hand strong enough to crush his windpipe, or break his neck. These thoughts are not in themselves sexy, but appeal never gets that far anyway; there is just something innately glorious about those battle-rough fingers where his pulse is, stimulating bruises, applying a less-than-subtle pressure when he breathes.
Bull is going hard enough, swift enough, that Dorian could lie there if he wished. Still, his legs lock, and hips angle upwards to meet him, to take him, squeezing around him both on purpose and not.
He slides a hand down the line of Bull's arm, coming to rest at the thick wrist of the hand at his throat. The sounds he makes begin to gain articulacy, Bull and yes and Maker and-- ] More, [ he says, arching, never mind the physical impossibility of such a request. ] More.