[ When Dorian leaves Iron Bull's bed, it isn't to leave the room; he steps over his garments and fallen boots to where neglected wine glasses are warming where they'd been hastily set down. The room is warm enough through their combined efforts that he doesn't shiver or cringe or, indeed, race back to the bed, wine in hand.
No, he lingers where he is, wine in hand, glancing over the faded, leathery covers of books left by Bull. ]
You shouldn't just leave these lying around. They'll do nothing for your reputation.
[ His fingertips pick the edge of a cover, turning it to title page, investigatory without actually being very curious. He's been a little distracted all night, if we're being honest, save for those privileged, white-hot moments where he can literally think of nothing else. But that moment is well over, fading, and he has the fingermarks still showing red on his flank to remember it by. ]
[ The moment's passed, but Bull's content to laze a while longer. They'd been at it for quite some time, now, perhaps making up for time missed, or just relishing being up and moving again in his case. Now he's propped up on an elbow, watching Dorian pad across the wooden floor.
While he could take the time to admire his handiwork, something else is going on. Hasn't escaped his notice that Dorian has seemed a little...detached. Not during, during was more or less the same as ever, but Dorian's acting like a dinner guest who's trying to find a way to graciously excuse themselves early. ]
Eh. Keep 'em guessing. Some of the stories start to get boring if you hear them often enough.
[ He cocks his head slightly, watching Dorian's fingers tracing the edge of parchment as the page turns. Alright. Something's up. Even if he doesn't exactly know what. ]
There's a newer publication of this floating about the library. A better translation. Remind me to collect it for you.
[ Dorian refills Bull's glass despite the other man having said something pointed about reputations instead of 'could you top me up', but it's something to do with his hands, and something that keeps his back to the other man. If he's not careful, he's liable to sink back into comfortable patterns. He knows better.
Hefting both glasses, he returns, then, something vaguely ritualistic in his offering out Bull's glass to the other man, lacking definition. He sits, rather than getting back into bed. ]
Have I? [ he muses. ] I'd imagine they don't know what to make of it.
[ It's scandal, and it was fun getting to raise all those eyebrows. He knows it must have been as satisfying in some senses for Dorian to metaphorically flip off his detractors, as much as it must have been terrifying. You don't walk that line for years and then not feel a sense of panic when you start to stray.
Even he knows that. And he's not as far from the line as he makes out, himself.
The wine is taken, and he takes a swig before setting it aside, clearly more interested in whatever Dorian is mentally steeling himself for here. The signs are all there, the way he's poised. It's not the usual content sleepy slump or the fastidious way he tidies himself up, makes himself presentable when leaving for the evening.
[ Does anyone ever tell the Iron Bull he's much too clever for his own good?
Because Dorian is tempted, narrowing kohl-smudged eyes over his glass of wine as he takes a measured, lingering sip, listing back on the heel of his palm against the mattress. ]
Reputation is one thing. You should know that if I cared so deeply about that, I'd have left this at one time. Well. [ He has to concede; ] Maybe two.
[ But he cares a little, in his own way, a strange push-pull of instinctive anxiety, panic, not exclusively for himself, warring with an inclination for rebellion. He swallows unnecessarily around the taste of wine, gaze dipping between them. ]
I know we've had our fun, [ he says, finally, quieter. ] And I wish I could leave it at that. I've been a port in a storm before, you know, and you're quite the storm.
[ Not to his face, no. But Dorian's not shy about that sort of thing. He would be surprised if he did.
There's a pleased curl at the corner of his mouth as the mage admits that maybe, this wouldn't have been as easy to let go of as all of that. But the smile fades as he continues to speak, a curious tilt to his brow.
This does not sound like it's going anywhere good anytime soon. Bull snorts quietly, lowering the glass of wine to his knee. ]
Says the 'Vint that can throw lightning.
[ Not jumping the crossbow here, so to speak. Let him say his piece. ]
[ Dorian smiles at that -- more around the eyes than the mouth -- and leans forward to set his wine down somewhere sturdy. He projects there will be plenty more where that came from, soon enough. ]
Sometimes, I wish you weren't that. Funny. And kind, and brave, and ridiculous, and all the rest, but when it comes down to it, a clever turn of phrase--
[ He lets that thread go, and sighs. ]
I like you, is what I'm getting at. More than I ought to, more than is-- wise. And there are plenty of men in this world who're perfectly content to leave everything between the sheets and call it a night, and I've learned the hard way that I'm not one of them.
It's been an issue for months now, if they're honest. Those first few times? Sure. Those could be written off as 'I'm hot, you're hot, why not?' and left at that. But waking up to Dorian hovering quietly at his side to fuss after that deal in the Fade? That's just the latest in a long line of signs that this isn't where they're going with this.
Apparently, through no real fault of their own.
Bull's head tips upwards slightly, a faint smile crooking his mouth. ]
Wouldn't be too hard on yourself. I'm pretty damn likable.
And manages not to sigh, again, riding some line between too serious and not serious enough, a pause like he's wielding a hammer over his own heart and judging how much force it's going to take to break it.
Turns out, it's a matter of precision, which is something of a struggle. ]
There are worse reasons to end something. Certainly less flattering ones. I hope you understand.
[ No hope of that here. No veiled words or prettily coached remorse in vague terms. That's not how he does things.
And he's pretty sure that what Dorian's doing is not precisely what the mage wants to do, but what he thinks he needs to. Can't blame him for that. But he will ask him to be direct if nothing else. He thinks he's earned that much.
So Bull leans forward, jaw rolling thoughtfully. ]
[ There's a flash, just a hint, of absurd irritation in Dorian's eyes and the pause that follows. It's there as he considers Bull's lean forward, a sort of conversational applied pressure that has Dorian collecting up his wine glass again to sip from.
It's true that he doesn't want to do this. He can hardly say it. ]
In Tevinter, the best I can hope for with another man is momentary pleasure and a little discretion. I learned not to hope for more than that. But I have a terrible habit of doing so, you see.
[ He swallows around the dregs of his wine. ]
I can see where this leads. And I know what you like. Pleasure comes naturally for you, the no strings attached kind. If I try to entangle you, they'll wind up breaking.
So, you decided to offer a clean break. Before it gets too involved.
[ And bear the burden of that with all his usual grace and private melancholy, without question. He's gotten used to wearing his misery like a fine dressing gown, nursing his wine and perfecting the image.
It's a little irritating, to be honest. Especially when he can think of so many better looks for him. ]
[ It's not the same thing. Putting flesh and blood and bone on the line isn't the same thing. It's one thing to take a sword to the gut. It's another to watch someone you care about fall. Watch them hurt. Watch them walk away. There's a helplessness that suits neither of them.
And the time might yet come.
Bull surveys Dorian steadily for a moment, the hesitance in his posture, like he's forcing himself through familiar motions. He's either rehearsed this or given this speech one too many times before. ]
I told you before. You want this done, over with, you know the word. No questions asked.
[ Dorian's expression changes ever so. A reduction in opacity, revealing a flash of something softer. The curl upwards at the corner of his mouth doesn't lessen this effect as he considers that in silence, until; ]
I looked it up, you know. Some half-attempt of a translation that claimed it means glorious victory.
[ It's a very cut and dry system. It's important, when you're as big and strong and intimidating as he tends to be, that it be very clear where boundaries lie and that those boundaries are respected at all times.
It's also a confirmation that this is what Dorian thinks he ought to do, a half-hearted out, rather than what he wants. Bull cocks his head, one hand lifting to reach out, tracing the edge of those scarred fingers across his jaw. ]
[ He feels his heart twinge, like something crustacean retracting within its defences with a pulse of-- it does feel a bit like fear, that lurch. Maybe that explains a few things. Dorian is quite still for a few extended seconds before he relaxes, almost bodily, chin tucking down a little as his hand comes up.
Palm down, he smooths a touch up Bull's arm, to his thick wrist, then grasping his hand as if he might pull it away. He doesn't, of course, just presses his mouth against the swell of Bull's palm, the kiss only the slightest of impressions made.
[ He'd have taken it gracefully if Dorian used that out. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been a novelty, wouldn't exactly hurt his feelings. Not for that. But things had become entangled, twisted, a gnarled mess and extracting now was already going to be difficult.
Why do it for no reason? Needless hurt was the last thing they needed, when the future could hold any number of ways to tear them in opposing directions. This, right now? Was good, for a number of reasons. And they could all use all the good they could get.
At the kiss, Bull hums. Quietly that single eye slides shut as he leans down, noses against the crown of Dorian's head. Yeah. He's here.
[ If katoh is a glorious victory, then Dorian will accept defeat rather gladly, eyes closing as he feels Bull lean in as he does. Here they are, then, together.
(Dad would be sure to shit.)
It's also an immediate thing, the way greed rushes forth. If he is to have Bull, then he would have him, perhaps exclusively, perhaps right now. The latter seems more pressing than negotiating the terms around the former, and he's used up all his courage for one night. He turns his face up to meet Bull's, lips grazing the rough texture of the other man's jaw before he finds his mouth. His hands, resting on big shoulders, blunt nails felt. ]
Then I'll have you know, [ he manages ] I've no further plans for the evening.
[ Bull rumbles, edging forward, his weight shifting the balance of the mattress as he moves. ]
Gonna have to argue with you there, big guy.
[ He does take the time to set the wine aside -- not a complete savage, really Dorian -- before one massive hand slides against Dorian's face, thumb tracing his cheekbone.
Before slipping back to grip his hair, firm but not tugging. Not yet. There's always a threat of things pushing too far and someone getting hurt, but neither one of them have seen fit to back down.
Time will tell if that burns one of them or not. If they're lucky? It'll just be him. ]
[ It's a strange sort of calming effect, that grip, as Dorian's eyes grow warmer, hooded, and he breathes easier. Or perhaps that's just because the feeling of Bull's fingers in his hair does something to physically affirm what's gone spoken. How long has he been carrying this around, the knowledge of an impending ending to something he values?
Too long, anyway.
And maybe it will take longer to truly let go of, but at least for an evening-- ]
It's certainly taken a turn.
[ He'd resigned himself to drinking until he felt numb enough to sleep while Benevenuta judged him up close. This is better. He relaxes back against Bull's hand, chin tipped up, while his own hand wanders down the other man's broad chest, fingertips chancing over newer scars, and trailing just a faint tickle of static electricity. ]
[ He can paint the image for himself but it seems a poor waste of imagination to do so. He'd much rather focus on the now, for the time being. The molten silver of Dorian's eyes as his dark lashes lower, the muted gleam of candlelight on his bronzed skin and thinking of a far better use for some of that wine already.
When those sparks skate under his thick skin, a hum along his nerve endings, he rumbles low in approval, eyebrow cocking higher. ]
[ His voice has settled back into the low, husky register it gets when their interactions begin to warm and become physical. At Bull's rumble of approval, Dorian then strokes a single digit down Bull's chest, trailing that prickling feeling of static, and then a slightly stronger prod of electricity snaps between finger and flesh, sharp and numb at once.
His lazy smile widens, sharpens. ]
Only as much as you can handle, [ sounds innocent enough. ]
[ Normally, magic gives him pause. He's not afraid of it, necessarily, no more than you should be afraid of anything that can hurt you if you're not careful with it. But Dorian lives and breathes the stuff. That tingle of magic is damn near part of the scent in the air when he's near, and that little snap of ozone in the air, that thrum under his skin? Has him breathing out in a rough noise, eyelid lowering. ]
Uh huh. Tell you what, I'll give you free reign. You get creative as you want and see just how much I can take.
[ A switch, admittedly. Normally it's him holding the reins and guiding things, and he's still reaching down to guide Dorian up as he settles those broad shoulders back against the headboard. But there's an understood trust there by now, and he doesn't mind showing as much as he gets.
Besides. Dorian loves little better than an opportunity to show off. ]
And then? It's gonna be my turn.
[ Dorian can be absolutely certain he'll push him every bit as far, his eye full of dark promise. ]
[ The word creative has him raising an eyebrow, and he goes easily as Bull guides him, moving to straddle one large thigh, his knee slipping between Bull's legs as the other man settles backwards. It's a switch, but one that kindles interest in his eyes as he considers his options, and then a glance back up at that last part.
Which sounds, to him, like a promise. ]
Well, [ Dorian says, pressing his hand low on Bull's chest, smoothing over the thick slab of his midsection. The presence of electricity is tingly, unobtrusive, if unnatural, given the lack of it in day to day life. ] You know our word, if you wish me to stop without question. I might suggest an expansion to our vocabulary, if I may.
[ This fine tugging through the Fade for the most subtle of applications is a matter of control. Fire glyphs applied to glass to heat a good wine, or a touch of ice to numb a twisted ankle. Dorian takes a lot of pride in being a powerful mage, but you can't make that claim without possessing a high level of control. ]
If you wish for less, but without completely stopping, you may say sevesh. [ Leaning in, his mouth ghosts along where his hand had touched Bull's chest, soothing tickled skin with a brush of his mouth, teeth, tongue. ] And I believe the Tevene word for more is please, but don't quote me on that.
[ He palms Bull's cock, then, a gentle squeeze that brings with it that same prickling sensation that teases at his nerve endings without what could constitute as true pain. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action.
No, he lingers where he is, wine in hand, glancing over the faded, leathery covers of books left by Bull. ]
You shouldn't just leave these lying around. They'll do nothing for your reputation.
[ His fingertips pick the edge of a cover, turning it to title page, investigatory without actually being very curious. He's been a little distracted all night, if we're being honest, save for those privileged, white-hot moments where he can literally think of nothing else. But that moment is well over, fading, and he has the fingermarks still showing red on his flank to remember it by. ]
no subject
While he could take the time to admire his handiwork, something else is going on. Hasn't escaped his notice that Dorian has seemed a little...detached. Not during, during was more or less the same as ever, but Dorian's acting like a dinner guest who's trying to find a way to graciously excuse themselves early. ]
Eh. Keep 'em guessing. Some of the stories start to get boring if you hear them often enough.
[ He cocks his head slightly, watching Dorian's fingers tracing the edge of parchment as the page turns. Alright. Something's up. Even if he doesn't exactly know what. ]
You've heard the ones about us, I'm guessing.
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There's a newer publication of this floating about the library. A better translation. Remind me to collect it for you.
[ Dorian refills Bull's glass despite the other man having said something pointed about reputations instead of 'could you top me up', but it's something to do with his hands, and something that keeps his back to the other man. If he's not careful, he's liable to sink back into comfortable patterns. He knows better.
Hefting both glasses, he returns, then, something vaguely ritualistic in his offering out Bull's glass to the other man, lacking definition. He sits, rather than getting back into bed. ]
Have I? [ he muses. ] I'd imagine they don't know what to make of it.
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[ It's scandal, and it was fun getting to raise all those eyebrows. He knows it must have been as satisfying in some senses for Dorian to metaphorically flip off his detractors, as much as it must have been terrifying. You don't walk that line for years and then not feel a sense of panic when you start to stray.
Even he knows that. And he's not as far from the line as he makes out, himself.
The wine is taken, and he takes a swig before setting it aside, clearly more interested in whatever Dorian is mentally steeling himself for here. The signs are all there, the way he's poised. It's not the usual content sleepy slump or the fastidious way he tidies himself up, makes himself presentable when leaving for the evening.
So. Let's see that other shoe drop, already. ]
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Because Dorian is tempted, narrowing kohl-smudged eyes over his glass of wine as he takes a measured, lingering sip, listing back on the heel of his palm against the mattress. ]
Reputation is one thing. You should know that if I cared so deeply about that, I'd have left this at one time. Well. [ He has to concede; ] Maybe two.
[ But he cares a little, in his own way, a strange push-pull of instinctive anxiety, panic, not exclusively for himself, warring with an inclination for rebellion. He swallows unnecessarily around the taste of wine, gaze dipping between them. ]
I know we've had our fun, [ he says, finally, quieter. ] And I wish I could leave it at that. I've been a port in a storm before, you know, and you're quite the storm.
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There's a pleased curl at the corner of his mouth as the mage admits that maybe, this wouldn't have been as easy to let go of as all of that. But the smile fades as he continues to speak, a curious tilt to his brow.
This does not sound like it's going anywhere good anytime soon. Bull snorts quietly, lowering the glass of wine to his knee. ]
Says the 'Vint that can throw lightning.
[ Not jumping the crossbow here, so to speak. Let him say his piece. ]
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Sometimes, I wish you weren't that. Funny. And kind, and brave, and ridiculous, and all the rest, but when it comes down to it, a clever turn of phrase--
[ He lets that thread go, and sighs. ]
I like you, is what I'm getting at. More than I ought to, more than is-- wise. And there are plenty of men in this world who're perfectly content to leave everything between the sheets and call it a night, and I've learned the hard way that I'm not one of them.
no subject
It's been an issue for months now, if they're honest. Those first few times? Sure. Those could be written off as 'I'm hot, you're hot, why not?' and left at that. But waking up to Dorian hovering quietly at his side to fuss after that deal in the Fade? That's just the latest in a long line of signs that this isn't where they're going with this.
Apparently, through no real fault of their own.
Bull's head tips upwards slightly, a faint smile crooking his mouth. ]
Wouldn't be too hard on yourself. I'm pretty damn likable.
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[ He Said, Affectionately.
And manages not to sigh, again, riding some line between too serious and not serious enough, a pause like he's wielding a hammer over his own heart and judging how much force it's going to take to break it.
Turns out, it's a matter of precision, which is something of a struggle. ]
There are worse reasons to end something. Certainly less flattering ones. I hope you understand.
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[ No hope of that here. No veiled words or prettily coached remorse in vague terms. That's not how he does things.
And he's pretty sure that what Dorian's doing is not precisely what the mage wants to do, but what he thinks he needs to. Can't blame him for that. But he will ask him to be direct if nothing else. He thinks he's earned that much.
So Bull leans forward, jaw rolling thoughtfully. ]
Yeah, I'm...not thinking I do, actually.
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It's true that he doesn't want to do this. He can hardly say it. ]
In Tevinter, the best I can hope for with another man is momentary pleasure and a little discretion. I learned not to hope for more than that. But I have a terrible habit of doing so, you see.
[ He swallows around the dregs of his wine. ]
I can see where this leads. And I know what you like. Pleasure comes naturally for you, the no strings attached kind. If I try to entangle you, they'll wind up breaking.
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So, you decided to offer a clean break. Before it gets too involved.
[ And bear the burden of that with all his usual grace and private melancholy, without question. He's gotten used to wearing his misery like a fine dressing gown, nursing his wine and perfecting the image.
It's a little irritating, to be honest. Especially when he can think of so many better looks for him. ]
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[ he manages a playful sparkle in his eye ]
everyone says you're slow on the uptake [ they do not ] but you're much cleverer than you look.
[ It doesn't last. It's also something of a farce to talk about this like he isn't already involved, but this is what he gets for accidentally-- ]
Better clean than messy. Better now than later. Later might be dangerous.
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[ It's not the same thing. Putting flesh and blood and bone on the line isn't the same thing. It's one thing to take a sword to the gut. It's another to watch someone you care about fall. Watch them hurt. Watch them walk away. There's a helplessness that suits neither of them.
And the time might yet come.
Bull surveys Dorian steadily for a moment, the hesitance in his posture, like he's forcing himself through familiar motions. He's either rehearsed this or given this speech one too many times before. ]
I told you before. You want this done, over with, you know the word. No questions asked.
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I looked it up, you know. Some half-attempt of a translation that claimed it means glorious victory.
[ He does know the word. Instead of saying it; ]
And what happens if I don't say it?
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It's also a confirmation that this is what Dorian thinks he ought to do, a half-hearted out, rather than what he wants. Bull cocks his head, one hand lifting to reach out, tracing the edge of those scarred fingers across his jaw. ]
Only one way to find out.
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Palm down, he smooths a touch up Bull's arm, to his thick wrist, then grasping his hand as if he might pull it away. He doesn't, of course, just presses his mouth against the swell of Bull's palm, the kiss only the slightest of impressions made.
Something to keep. ]
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Why do it for no reason? Needless hurt was the last thing they needed, when the future could hold any number of ways to tear them in opposing directions. This, right now? Was good, for a number of reasons. And they could all use all the good they could get.
At the kiss, Bull hums. Quietly that single eye slides shut as he leans down, noses against the crown of Dorian's head. Yeah. He's here.
Here to keep, for the time being. ]
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(Dad would be sure to shit.)
It's also an immediate thing, the way greed rushes forth. If he is to have Bull, then he would have him, perhaps exclusively, perhaps right now. The latter seems more pressing than negotiating the terms around the former, and he's used up all his courage for one night. He turns his face up to meet Bull's, lips grazing the rough texture of the other man's jaw before he finds his mouth. His hands, resting on big shoulders, blunt nails felt. ]
Then I'll have you know, [ he manages ] I've no further plans for the evening.
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Gonna have to argue with you there, big guy.
[ He does take the time to set the wine aside -- not a complete savage, really Dorian -- before one massive hand slides against Dorian's face, thumb tracing his cheekbone.
Before slipping back to grip his hair, firm but not tugging. Not yet. There's always a threat of things pushing too far and someone getting hurt, but neither one of them have seen fit to back down.
Time will tell if that burns one of them or not. If they're lucky? It'll just be him. ]
I'd say your evening's damn well booked.
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Too long, anyway.
And maybe it will take longer to truly let go of, but at least for an evening-- ]
It's certainly taken a turn.
[ He'd resigned himself to drinking until he felt numb enough to sleep while Benevenuta judged him up close. This is better. He relaxes back against Bull's hand, chin tipped up, while his own hand wanders down the other man's broad chest, fingertips chancing over newer scars, and trailing just a faint tickle of static electricity. ]
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[ He can paint the image for himself but it seems a poor waste of imagination to do so. He'd much rather focus on the now, for the time being. The molten silver of Dorian's eyes as his dark lashes lower, the muted gleam of candlelight on his bronzed skin and thinking of a far better use for some of that wine already.
When those sparks skate under his thick skin, a hum along his nerve endings, he rumbles low in approval, eyebrow cocking higher. ]
Oooh. That how it's gonna be?
[ That's not disapproval, no. ]
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[ His voice has settled back into the low, husky register it gets when their interactions begin to warm and become physical. At Bull's rumble of approval, Dorian then strokes a single digit down Bull's chest, trailing that prickling feeling of static, and then a slightly stronger prod of electricity snaps between finger and flesh, sharp and numb at once.
His lazy smile widens, sharpens. ]
Only as much as you can handle, [ sounds innocent enough. ]
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Uh huh. Tell you what, I'll give you free reign. You get creative as you want and see just how much I can take.
[ A switch, admittedly. Normally it's him holding the reins and guiding things, and he's still reaching down to guide Dorian up as he settles those broad shoulders back against the headboard. But there's an understood trust there by now, and he doesn't mind showing as much as he gets.
Besides. Dorian loves little better than an opportunity to show off. ]
And then? It's gonna be my turn.
[ Dorian can be absolutely certain he'll push him every bit as far, his eye full of dark promise. ]
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Which sounds, to him, like a promise. ]
Well, [ Dorian says, pressing his hand low on Bull's chest, smoothing over the thick slab of his midsection. The presence of electricity is tingly, unobtrusive, if unnatural, given the lack of it in day to day life. ] You know our word, if you wish me to stop without question. I might suggest an expansion to our vocabulary, if I may.
[ This fine tugging through the Fade for the most subtle of applications is a matter of control. Fire glyphs applied to glass to heat a good wine, or a touch of ice to numb a twisted ankle. Dorian takes a lot of pride in being a powerful mage, but you can't make that claim without possessing a high level of control. ]
If you wish for less, but without completely stopping, you may say sevesh. [ Leaning in, his mouth ghosts along where his hand had touched Bull's chest, soothing tickled skin with a brush of his mouth, teeth, tongue. ] And I believe the Tevene word for more is please, but don't quote me on that.
[ He palms Bull's cock, then, a gentle squeeze that brings with it that same prickling sensation that teases at his nerve endings without what could constitute as true pain. ]
(no subject)