[ Dorian rolls in with every confidence, as if to leave the aura of uncertainty behind him, for all that he winds up standing in the middle of the space rather than going so far as to make himself home anywhere. He lifts the brandy, a small rattle sloshing liquid up the glass sides as he turns back to face Bull, a customary half-smile already in place. ]
I'd loathe for it to go to waste while I'm gone, [ he says, holding it out. ] Thus, a gift, if you'll have my cast offs. If I die, you can drink it and remember me fondly.
[ Dorian's proclamations that he might die and how sorry everyone will be if he does can be attributed to: the amount of pollen in the air, the amount of snow on the ground, the presence of a high dragon, and how low the wine stocks are at any given time, and so can't all the time be taken too seriously. ]
[ Bull snorts, nostrils flaring, before taking hold of the bottle and shutting the door behind him. He doesn't even bother with a glass, taking a fresh swig out of the remnants before humming. Quality stuff. Definitely not from the tavern downstairs. ]
You're heading out again?
[ Not a surprise. They're always going to and fro, enough going on in the world at large to keep them all on their toes. But he's curious now, stepping in closer before pressing the bottle back against Dorian's chest. ]
[ Dorian accepts it without backing up, following cue to wet his throat with a small sip. But he didn't come here to finish it off, or even imbibe to the point of affect. ]
As ever, yes. A little business in need of attention at the Western Approach. To see what all the fuss is about.
[ He gestures, a roll of his wrists conveying a therefore sort of shrug. ]
Armed with the knowledge that we may never see one another again, I thought I should take the opportunity to do so. All of you. With decent lighting.
[ The Western Approach is no one's idea of a picnic. The place is as full of things that want to eat or kill them as any other, and not necessarily in that order. It isn't quite concern, but there's a faint crease in his brow just the same. ]
Well. Here I am.
[ The words come in a low rumble, his gaze fixing steady on Dorian as one hand lifts, thumb straying against the sharp edge of his jaw, now clean-shaven. ]
[ In truth, Dorian has never been, but the scout reports aren't encouraging. An escape from the cold in favour of an eternal wasteland of sand and more things that bite, Venatori for Red Templars, don't sound like a wonderful trade off. Still, he'd been doggedly determined to go, enough to square off with the leader of the exhibition, who hadn't even wanted him to.
It's for Felix, and the Inquisition, and a burning sense of duty that seems entirely absent in his manner right this moment.
Even slightly sharp levity seems to gentle by the time Bull has reached out to touch him, and his head tips in response. ] Unless you had prior engagement, [ is adequately sassily confident, if delivered quieter, given proximity. One hand continues to grip the brandy, and the other sets fingertips against Bull's raised arm, curling over his thick wrist. ]
[ 'Prior engagement'. He knows damn well he has his full attention right now. Under different circumstances he might well be everything he hates about the Imperium, but that sharp wit and clever tongue hide something a lot more damning than sinister motives.
Dorian's got heart, under it all. Passion, fire-bright in those silver eyes. Bull knows he's screwed, but some things you just don't fight. ]
Hm. Think I've got my plans for the evening right here.
[ It takes the space of a breath for him to lean down over Dorian, for fingers to curl and tip the mage's chin up, and take his mouth hungrily with his own. ]
[ Dorian's mouth opens easily beneath Bull's, although a warm and rich chuckle hums between them both, as if he's the one that had taken what he wanted. Blindly reaching back to settle the brandy on some flat surface he'd spied, his hands lay on the qunari's waist, pulling-- himself in.
He's thought about it, analysed the wander of his mind in Iron Bull's direction, inevitably decides the fault lies with himself. The same familiar flaw, the fault, the vice.
That's really very par for the course, and doesn't stop him now.
He breaks the kiss off first, but doesn't back up, teasing at proximity, teeth grazing, lips tracking the span of rough stubble along Bull's jaw. ]
Good, [ he says. ] Because I seem to recall promise of a conquering, at one point or another.
[ It's a fairly distant callback, if Bull didn't want to send Dorian off fantasising about what that might be like, he shouldn't have said it. ]
[ And there's a very sharp edge to his smile as he turns his head, lets Dorian nibble away, one hand drifting lower to cup at one of those ridiculous metal fastenings. It's not an unheard of fantasy, the Qunari savage taking his spoils where he might. Certain to take his mind off of whatever waits for him on this journey of his.
Well. If he promised, it wouldn't be fair to hold out on him, would it? ]
[ It's certainly something of a cheap fantasy, but that's the sort of critical thinking Dorian might attribute to the topic with a smile. His hands slide up the impressive plane of Bull's chest, privately recalling again the warm texture of his skin, the firmness of muscle beneath flesh, savouring.
At those words, in their customary low thrum, Dorian lets his fingernails be felt. His next chuckle is airy, quiet, more felt than heard. ]
What, [ he responds, his tone affected and casual ] these old things?
[ All the confirmation he needs before bending in again, teeth catching against Dorian's lower lip. But then his arm sinks low, dragging up under the back of his thighs and hoisting him up, off of his feet, off of the floor itself as though he weighed no more than a child's plaything.
It's a better vantage point to set claim to his mouth full and proper, nothing gentle at all in the way lips and tongue and teeth meld hot against his, without barely a respite for breath. ]
[ Teasing nails become a suddenly full-handed clasp at Bull's shoulders, breath catching in his chest in immediate thrill at what is a distinctly new experience. The smile he cuts is bright and then smothered away into a hungry kiss, eyes sinking shut. His knees press tight on either side of Bull's waist.
Maker.
He moves one hand, going from clasping one big shoulder to the base of Bull's left horn, as if he's caught between the desire to struggle as much as he wants to encourage. Stop, but don't, really. ]
[ Which is a point they'll get to, in a moment. For now it's all too clear that Dorian's enjoying himself, by the way he scrabbles to dig those delicate finger in for purchase, opening to him under that kiss. Stubble scratches as Bull tips his head, laps at the warmth inside his mouth and scrapes against his tongue...
And then Dorian is being pressed back into the already rumpled sheets of Bull's bed, easily pinning him into place. Only then he does he draw back enough for breath, still smirking. ]
That what you want?
[ There's a pause, a heavy moment of considering before bending to scrape teeth against his earlobe. ]
Katoh. That's what you say if you want me to stop. For any reason. Not 'no', or 'stop'. You say katoh. Think you can remember that?
[ The world tips, and he's here again, with Bull over him, the bite and restriction of robes and the burn of kisses and brandy warm on his mouth. He's already a little breathless by time the kiss ends, straining reflexively against weight and muscle holding him down, even as he tips his head to allow access to his ear, his neck.
And pauses as Bull speaks, eyes opening, sliding to look at the other man's face. This, too, is new -- he knows what a watchword is, obviously, but it's unexpected. Intriguing, like being presented with a new game.
He almost says it, just to commit to memory. Later, once alone again, he might, the shape of qunlat in his mouth as distinct as Bull's forceful kisses pushing past his lips. For now, a mild smile curls his mouth, eyes half-hooded despite the sharp regard he's giving the other man, before he nods. ]
Yes, [ he affords. He braces a knee against Bull's hip, as if an attempt to lever him away, hands abruptly hard against the other man's shoulders -- but the pretence of struggle ends there, challenge bright and knifish. ]
[ It gets him only the tiniest bit of leverage, as Bull's weight shifts to his knees, but it's more to keep his weight off of him than to give him the room he feigns wanting. Just enough wiggle room to...well. Wriggle.
Because he's not going anywhere. Bull's fingers grip the collar of his robe with a low chuckle, thumb flicking over the silver clasp. ]
Good.
[ And then there's the sound of fabric shredding sharply, and the long, graceful expanse of Dorian's throat that so desperately needs a good love bite laid into it. Oh, low enough that even his less layered robes will be able to cover it.
[ He's going to have to lay down some wardrobe groundrules, he thinks, but in this instance, he already has, and his startle at the sound of fabric giving beneath Bull's hands is a different response to a flinch. On either side of Bull, Dorian's legs lock, revelling in the security of solid, unmoving presence as he pushes against him, a hand splayed against ribcage he can't quite feel through slabs of muscle.
Fingernails rake, coarsely. He assumes Bull can make his own katoh known as needed.
But then the semi-familiar feeling of Bull's mouth back on him, the rough scratch of stubble and the graze of either, but the pressure of shallow bruises rising is a new one. The noise Dorian makes is a guttural sound, not even close to articulate enough to convey a feigned no. ]
Fingers dig against his hip, snaring at his belt and hitching his hips higher, the rough tangle of fabric and leather enough friction to take the edge off, for a time. But he doesn't plan on stopping there. There's a soft growl as Dorian's fingers dig a little harder -- good, that's it -- and Bull gives the crook of his throat one last pointed bite before drawing back, admiring the livid mark against Dorian's dark skin. ]
Heh. Looks good on you.
[ There's a small huff, an amused glint to his eye. The next latch down doesn't stand any better than the first, and once again the silky fabric shreds free in a matter of moments. ]
[ Of all the things he could find attractive about Bull, his voice seems like it ought to be low on the scale. But it's as physical as everything else about him, that growl against his neck as textured as hands and mouth and teeth, and his squirming beneath and against Bull angles a little more into the tug at his hips, already seeking that relief.
By the time Bull has risen up again, he's-- getting breathing under control. It wouldn't do to be panting yet. ]
Inveterate brute.
[ His fingertips run over that small patch of skin made tender (and he will most certainly admire it in the mirror later), and huffs as his robes are torn further, opening low to his navel, trousers done up somewhat less complicatedly than the last time with lacing. Abdominal muscles twitch and tense beneath smooth skin as he shifts against the bed, as if to get out from under him. Giving reason for the handling he's gotten so far. ]
[ He gets a few inches before Bull hooks his fingers into his belt, dragging him back down under in a fraction of a second. Not quite restraint yet, but certainly the idea of being inescapable.
Interesting how that all ties in, the Ben-Hassrath part of his brain thinks, Dorian and his need to run. To untangle himself before he gets hurt. But he doesn't want to run from this, and if he can't? So much the easier. ]
You like it.
[ The gap in his robes is yanked open further, and this is definitely a sight made better by decent lighting. One hand spans the warm musculature of his stomach, lean and taut, before turning his nails inward and pulling upwards in a slow, blunt scrape. ]
[ Dorian makes a sound at the back of his throat as he's dragged back in those few inches, mirth more in the flash in his eyes than anywhere else. He isn't quite still by the time the wide span of Bull's palm lays on his belly, but movements aren't geared towards struggle by the time blunt nails drag temporary lines on his skin. More of an arch, chin tipping up.
He does like it.
And he likes that the attraction of gravity that causes his thoughts to wander Bull's way is turned into something physical, something he can't get away from in the form of big hands, and even the mattress sloping down where Bull has settled his weight.
This last part gets a chuckle, a little breathless. ] Is that what you like?
[ His hands travel downwards, this time participating, undoing the ties that lace up the front of his trousers. A little slower and a lot more prim than the treatment of his robes, which will be tossed at a seamstress along with a generous tip and zero explanation. ]
[ There's a hum that might be agreement as he watches Dorian's fingers tug at his lacings. Elegant hands that should be noble, never see a day of work in their lifetime, calloused only by the grip he keeps on his staff in battle.
Noble, but willing to fight tooth and nail. ]
I like a lot of things.
[ Bull's lips curve, as he reaches to unbuckle the leather harness at his shoulder. The straps slither free of their fastenings, falling heavily the floor beside the bed before leans low, nuzzling a line up along one of those brief indentions of pink against his belly. ]
Keeping my promises among them.
[ Which is all the warning he gets before his tongue darts out against Dorian's nipple, teeth soon to follow in a slow drag against his skin. ]
[ Laces come loose in his fingers by the time teeth are scraping along sensitive skin, and Dorian lets out a reflexive hiss. ]
I'm getting that about you.
[ The less clothing he has and the more his nerves spark under touch and the more blood drains groinwards, the more his own inhibitions (the ones he might claim he doesn't have, just manners) crumble. He grips a horn roughly, above where it curves, the dull feeling of a distant squeeze and the slight pressure of indirect wrangling. ]
And I have every intention of leaving [ he says, tone velvety, huskier ] with vivid recollection. I want to feel this tomorrow.
[ Bull chuckles darkly, hiding whatever noise he might have made at the tug to his horn. ]
Day after that, too.
[ With those laces loosened, it's still a task to wedge his fingers beneath the waist of his pants. Must have used blood magic to wriggle into them, he thinks dryly, before tugging them down over his hips, as far as they'll go without him having to move just yet.
There's time yet. Meanwhile he gives him another sharp nip, teasing him between teeth before releasing him, eye lifting. ]
Maybe the day after that. You'll have to let me know. Gives me something to work towards.
If I survive the ordeals to come, [ he says, by way of casual reminder of the stakes, Iron Bull, the stakes.
He's heard something about desert fleas.
But he isn't thinking about desert fleas or even his imminent potential death, not in great detail, by the time his trousers are being pulled passed his hips, exposing hotter skin to cooler air, the rough press of Iron's belt, the sturdy, rough fabric of his own pants. A slight wriggle helps the process along until there's nothing much else to do for it until Bull opts to move.
Dorian can't bring himself to urge him away. Not when he's doing wonderful things with his mouth, teeth against skin, oversensitising to the point of near discomfort, unable to get away from it and unsure if he wants to.
With Bull's harness gone, it gives Dorian unimpeded access, hands dragging away from horns to skim palms over the back of Bull's thick neck -- who knew that such an area could have so many dips and valleys, with his own neckline being a fairly fine swoop -- and down his back, fingernails setting in hard. ]
[ Stakes, indeed. Bull's answer comes in the form of scraping that trail right back down his stomach, barely pausing before his fingers wrap around Dorian's cock instead, giving the mage a firm squeeze. ]
You're not going anywhere right now.
[ Death's a present enough threat for any of them, doing what they do. Not the thing to worry about here, not now, and he's got more than one idea of how to draw Dorian's attention away from the prospect.
But first, he fully intends on making sure the job's not halfway finished. He leaves that sensitized nub puffy and reddened before turning his attention to the other. ]
[ Bull's palm and fingers bring an end(?) to sarcasm, because the sound Dorian makes is certainly sincere. His heels find leverage against the mattress to push his hips up into it, before his attention is paired between that and Bull's mouth straying back to his chest.
Another inward hiss at the first touch of teeth, head falling back against the sheets as he shifts beneath Bull in the mess that's been made of his robes, trousers caught up around his thighs. Certainly vain enough to be taken by the image he certainly must make (to Bull, and to anonymous disapproving onlookers that always seem to take an audience in the back of his mind), he still drinks in what he can of silvery skin, weathered horns, the impressive horizon of a warrior's shoulder span adapted to heavy armor and heavy weapons, the friction of stubble where it scrapes at his torso.
He pushes back, picking up the challenge he hears poised in Bull's words, still getting used to the security of the knowledge that Bull means what he says. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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I'd loathe for it to go to waste while I'm gone, [ he says, holding it out. ] Thus, a gift, if you'll have my cast offs. If I die, you can drink it and remember me fondly.
[ Dorian's proclamations that he might die and how sorry everyone will be if he does can be attributed to: the amount of pollen in the air, the amount of snow on the ground, the presence of a high dragon, and how low the wine stocks are at any given time, and so can't all the time be taken too seriously. ]
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[ Bull snorts, nostrils flaring, before taking hold of the bottle and shutting the door behind him. He doesn't even bother with a glass, taking a fresh swig out of the remnants before humming. Quality stuff. Definitely not from the tavern downstairs. ]
You're heading out again?
[ Not a surprise. They're always going to and fro, enough going on in the world at large to keep them all on their toes. But he's curious now, stepping in closer before pressing the bottle back against Dorian's chest. ]
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As ever, yes. A little business in need of attention at the Western Approach. To see what all the fuss is about.
[ He gestures, a roll of his wrists conveying a therefore sort of shrug. ]
Armed with the knowledge that we may never see one another again, I thought I should take the opportunity to do so. All of you. With decent lighting.
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[ The Western Approach is no one's idea of a picnic. The place is as full of things that want to eat or kill them as any other, and not necessarily in that order. It isn't quite concern, but there's a faint crease in his brow just the same. ]
Well. Here I am.
[ The words come in a low rumble, his gaze fixing steady on Dorian as one hand lifts, thumb straying against the sharp edge of his jaw, now clean-shaven. ]
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It's for Felix, and the Inquisition, and a burning sense of duty that seems entirely absent in his manner right this moment.
Even slightly sharp levity seems to gentle by the time Bull has reached out to touch him, and his head tips in response. ] Unless you had prior engagement, [ is adequately sassily confident, if delivered quieter, given proximity. One hand continues to grip the brandy, and the other sets fingertips against Bull's raised arm, curling over his thick wrist. ]
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Dorian's got heart, under it all. Passion, fire-bright in those silver eyes. Bull knows he's screwed, but some things you just don't fight. ]
Hm. Think I've got my plans for the evening right here.
[ It takes the space of a breath for him to lean down over Dorian, for fingers to curl and tip the mage's chin up, and take his mouth hungrily with his own. ]
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He's thought about it, analysed the wander of his mind in Iron Bull's direction, inevitably decides the fault lies with himself. The same familiar flaw, the fault, the vice.
That's really very par for the course, and doesn't stop him now.
He breaks the kiss off first, but doesn't back up, teasing at proximity, teeth grazing, lips tracking the span of rough stubble along Bull's jaw. ]
Good, [ he says. ] Because I seem to recall promise of a conquering, at one point or another.
[ It's a fairly distant callback, if Bull didn't want to send Dorian off fantasising about what that might be like, he shouldn't have said it. ]
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[ And there's a very sharp edge to his smile as he turns his head, lets Dorian nibble away, one hand drifting lower to cup at one of those ridiculous metal fastenings. It's not an unheard of fantasy, the Qunari savage taking his spoils where he might. Certain to take his mind off of whatever waits for him on this journey of his.
Well. If he promised, it wouldn't be fair to hold out on him, would it? ]
So. How much you do like those robes?
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At those words, in their customary low thrum, Dorian lets his fingernails be felt. His next chuckle is airy, quiet, more felt than heard. ]
What, [ he responds, his tone affected and casual ] these old things?
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[ All the confirmation he needs before bending in again, teeth catching against Dorian's lower lip. But then his arm sinks low, dragging up under the back of his thighs and hoisting him up, off of his feet, off of the floor itself as though he weighed no more than a child's plaything.
It's a better vantage point to set claim to his mouth full and proper, nothing gentle at all in the way lips and tongue and teeth meld hot against his, without barely a respite for breath. ]
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Maker.
He moves one hand, going from clasping one big shoulder to the base of Bull's left horn, as if he's caught between the desire to struggle as much as he wants to encourage. Stop, but don't, really. ]
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And then Dorian is being pressed back into the already rumpled sheets of Bull's bed, easily pinning him into place. Only then he does he draw back enough for breath, still smirking. ]
That what you want?
[ There's a pause, a heavy moment of considering before bending to scrape teeth against his earlobe. ]
Katoh. That's what you say if you want me to stop. For any reason. Not 'no', or 'stop'. You say katoh. Think you can remember that?
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And pauses as Bull speaks, eyes opening, sliding to look at the other man's face. This, too, is new -- he knows what a watchword is, obviously, but it's unexpected. Intriguing, like being presented with a new game.
He almost says it, just to commit to memory. Later, once alone again, he might, the shape of qunlat in his mouth as distinct as Bull's forceful kisses pushing past his lips. For now, a mild smile curls his mouth, eyes half-hooded despite the sharp regard he's giving the other man, before he nods. ]
Yes, [ he affords. He braces a knee against Bull's hip, as if an attempt to lever him away, hands abruptly hard against the other man's shoulders -- but the pretence of struggle ends there, challenge bright and knifish. ]
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Because he's not going anywhere. Bull's fingers grip the collar of his robe with a low chuckle, thumb flicking over the silver clasp. ]
Good.
[ And then there's the sound of fabric shredding sharply, and the long, graceful expanse of Dorian's throat that so desperately needs a good love bite laid into it. Oh, low enough that even his less layered robes will be able to cover it.
He's considerate like that. ]
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Fingernails rake, coarsely. He assumes Bull can make his own katoh known as needed.
But then the semi-familiar feeling of Bull's mouth back on him, the rough scratch of stubble and the graze of either, but the pressure of shallow bruises rising is a new one. The noise Dorian makes is a guttural sound, not even close to articulate enough to convey a feigned no. ]
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Fingers dig against his hip, snaring at his belt and hitching his hips higher, the rough tangle of fabric and leather enough friction to take the edge off, for a time. But he doesn't plan on stopping there. There's a soft growl as Dorian's fingers dig a little harder -- good, that's it -- and Bull gives the crook of his throat one last pointed bite before drawing back, admiring the livid mark against Dorian's dark skin. ]
Heh. Looks good on you.
[ There's a small huff, an amused glint to his eye. The next latch down doesn't stand any better than the first, and once again the silky fabric shreds free in a matter of moments. ]
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By the time Bull has risen up again, he's-- getting breathing under control. It wouldn't do to be panting yet. ]
Inveterate brute.
[ His fingertips run over that small patch of skin made tender (and he will most certainly admire it in the mirror later), and huffs as his robes are torn further, opening low to his navel, trousers done up somewhat less complicatedly than the last time with lacing. Abdominal muscles twitch and tense beneath smooth skin as he shifts against the bed, as if to get out from under him. Giving reason for the handling he's gotten so far. ]
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[ He gets a few inches before Bull hooks his fingers into his belt, dragging him back down under in a fraction of a second. Not quite restraint yet, but certainly the idea of being inescapable.
Interesting how that all ties in, the Ben-Hassrath part of his brain thinks, Dorian and his need to run. To untangle himself before he gets hurt. But he doesn't want to run from this, and if he can't? So much the easier. ]
You like it.
[ The gap in his robes is yanked open further, and this is definitely a sight made better by decent lighting. One hand spans the warm musculature of his stomach, lean and taut, before turning his nails inward and pulling upwards in a slow, blunt scrape. ]
Not really so delicate as all that.
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He does like it.
And he likes that the attraction of gravity that causes his thoughts to wander Bull's way is turned into something physical, something he can't get away from in the form of big hands, and even the mattress sloping down where Bull has settled his weight.
This last part gets a chuckle, a little breathless. ] Is that what you like?
[ His hands travel downwards, this time participating, undoing the ties that lace up the front of his trousers. A little slower and a lot more prim than the treatment of his robes, which will be tossed at a seamstress along with a generous tip and zero explanation. ]
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Noble, but willing to fight tooth and nail. ]
I like a lot of things.
[ Bull's lips curve, as he reaches to unbuckle the leather harness at his shoulder. The straps slither free of their fastenings, falling heavily the floor beside the bed before leans low, nuzzling a line up along one of those brief indentions of pink against his belly. ]
Keeping my promises among them.
[ Which is all the warning he gets before his tongue darts out against Dorian's nipple, teeth soon to follow in a slow drag against his skin. ]
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I'm getting that about you.
[ The less clothing he has and the more his nerves spark under touch and the more blood drains groinwards, the more his own inhibitions (the ones he might claim he doesn't have, just manners) crumble. He grips a horn roughly, above where it curves, the dull feeling of a distant squeeze and the slight pressure of indirect wrangling. ]
And I have every intention of leaving [ he says, tone velvety, huskier ] with vivid recollection. I want to feel this tomorrow.
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Day after that, too.
[ With those laces loosened, it's still a task to wedge his fingers beneath the waist of his pants. Must have used blood magic to wriggle into them, he thinks dryly, before tugging them down over his hips, as far as they'll go without him having to move just yet.
There's time yet. Meanwhile he gives him another sharp nip, teasing him between teeth before releasing him, eye lifting. ]
Maybe the day after that. You'll have to let me know. Gives me something to work towards.
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He's heard something about desert fleas.
But he isn't thinking about desert fleas or even his imminent potential death, not in great detail, by the time his trousers are being pulled passed his hips, exposing hotter skin to cooler air, the rough press of Iron's belt, the sturdy, rough fabric of his own pants. A slight wriggle helps the process along until there's nothing much else to do for it until Bull opts to move.
Dorian can't bring himself to urge him away. Not when he's doing wonderful things with his mouth, teeth against skin, oversensitising to the point of near discomfort, unable to get away from it and unsure if he wants to.
With Bull's harness gone, it gives Dorian unimpeded access, hands dragging away from horns to skim palms over the back of Bull's thick neck -- who knew that such an area could have so many dips and valleys, with his own neckline being a fairly fine swoop -- and down his back, fingernails setting in hard. ]
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[ Stakes, indeed. Bull's answer comes in the form of scraping that trail right back down his stomach, barely pausing before his fingers wrap around Dorian's cock instead, giving the mage a firm squeeze. ]
You're not going anywhere right now.
[ Death's a present enough threat for any of them, doing what they do. Not the thing to worry about here, not now, and he's got more than one idea of how to draw Dorian's attention away from the prospect.
But first, he fully intends on making sure the job's not halfway finished. He leaves that sensitized nub puffy and reddened before turning his attention to the other. ]
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Another inward hiss at the first touch of teeth, head falling back against the sheets as he shifts beneath Bull in the mess that's been made of his robes, trousers caught up around his thighs. Certainly vain enough to be taken by the image he certainly must make (to Bull, and to anonymous disapproving onlookers that always seem to take an audience in the back of his mind), he still drinks in what he can of silvery skin, weathered horns, the impressive horizon of a warrior's shoulder span adapted to heavy armor and heavy weapons, the friction of stubble where it scrapes at his torso.
He pushes back, picking up the challenge he hears poised in Bull's words, still getting used to the security of the knowledge that Bull means what he says. ]
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