[ 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. ]
[ It takes a not entirely insignificant measure of restraint to pull himself away, even for a moment. He's playing the brute here but the truth is just a mask or two away, and he doubts even Dorian realizes just how badly he wants him.
One of a thousand things kept carefully in check, even when he pretends not to.
So it's very deliberate, the way he loosens his grip in the wake of that strangled, throaty noise that goes straight to his cock, and hitches his hands at Dorian's thighs, pushing his legs up far enough to finish tugging his trousers free and sending them sailing to land on the bed's edge. That done, there has to be a moment taken to admire the picture he makes, because yes. It's everything Dorian thinks it is.
And there's that love bite, dark against the crook of his neck. Bull's fingers move to trace against it, before giving it a testing press. Like this, it's easy to slip his hand further back, to encircle his throat. Just to hold him in place while he squirms. Dorian likes the danger, after all, the tease of roughness, because he thinks he's not supposed to enjoy this. Lying with a Qunari. With a man.
Bull just likes that thrill Dorian gets that lights up his eyes. ]
Maybe I'll just keep you here. Find ways of keeping you...occupied.
[ The press to the damp bruise nestled at his neck gets a token protest, chin steering away, before his throat is captured in the twin sensations of careful and firm that he's beginning to associate with Bull. Not gentle, exactly, but considered, measured, so in control that if Dorian was in the habit of having insecurity about his worth in bed, it might give him a twinge.
It doesn't, and he knows better. Enough, anyway. He swallows under the dull pressure, eyes bright, his pulse easily detected and hiking up in pace, chin tilting higher to give himself room as his hands settle on Bull's arm. ]
Some--
[ Answering banter comes out more strained and fluttery than is dignified, blinking hard at himself before trying again. ] Some might notice. Eventually.
[ Hands and mouth and handling has ensured he's already hard, erection firm against his belly and heavy feeling. He has no idea how Bull is faring, and attempts to push his thigh between his legs as if to find out. ]
[ Bull's teeth flash in a grin, leaning in just low enough to linger above his lips, a tease of what he could have, when he feels Dorian shift and press up against the tent of his pants and yes. Bull is definitely hard, noticeably so with him pressed up against him like that.
Only response is in kind, shifting and pressing a thigh between Dorian's own, leaning forward until his hips trap Dorian's cock firmly against his stomach. Any movement at all results in tugging, rubbing, fresh friction as he cocks his head knowingly. ]
Looking for something?
[ And then his free hand find the jut of Dorian's hip, curls there firm, claiming, pulling him upwards off the sheets, and damn but he feels good against him. ]
[ Yes, very funny, Dorian's lips twitching into the beginning of an answering sneer before he manages to push his thigh up against the juncture of Bull's-- and then the answering pressure as Bull pushes back down, pulls him in.
He has to wrangle his own restraint to stop himself from simply rutting against the other man and into all that friction and pressure; but he's not still, forcing the squirm of his hips up against the qunari into something more deliberate, hooking his outer leg to wrap up around his waist, heel against the back of his thigh as leverage, as if attempting to push back on Bull's composure (considering the state of his own). To find those cracks he's not even aware of existing. ]
[ It does more than he knows, even with the low growl it earns, Bull's breath warm against his lips even as teeth nip at him in response. The game of it falls in and out of importance as they both grind together, savoring the contact, the texture and the urgency of it pressing ever closer. ]
Then let's see if we can't help you with that.
[ The grip on his throat eases, and Bull reaches instead for the battered little end-table that the wine now sits so precariously on, past the bottle for another, before prying the cork free with a tug of his teeth.
The oil smells much the same as it did in the tent, and his fingers get a generous amount spilled over them before pries Dorian's thighs apart, just far enough to get between them. He doesn't move far, however, keeps close enough to hover, to keep him pinned to the bed as that first coaxing touch trails over that tight ring of muscle. ]
[ Dorian's thighs open beneath the cursory shove of Bull's hands, unfolded, but strain still sets in his muscles in subtle twitches up along his thighs, low in his abdomen, pushing back against where he's kept pushed into the bed. Revelling in it, as he has been, drinking in the extra focus necessary to keep him in place.
And it's been a little while, actually, since he's done this, and naturally it's the sort of thought that intrudes right as it's happening and otherwise unremarked on the rest of the time save to, now and then, make light of all the sex he's not been having. No nerves, save for the ones that generate feelings of anticipation.
He makes a soft, unbidden sound at that initial touch, the comparatively cool, slick suggestion of oil. His jaw firms, like he's biting back any urge to spur Bull along, that soft ah all he's getting. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
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?
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
One of a thousand things kept carefully in check, even when he pretends not to.
So it's very deliberate, the way he loosens his grip in the wake of that strangled, throaty noise that goes straight to his cock, and hitches his hands at Dorian's thighs, pushing his legs up far enough to finish tugging his trousers free and sending them sailing to land on the bed's edge. That done, there has to be a moment taken to admire the picture he makes, because yes. It's everything Dorian thinks it is.
And there's that love bite, dark against the crook of his neck. Bull's fingers move to trace against it, before giving it a testing press. Like this, it's easy to slip his hand further back, to encircle his throat. Just to hold him in place while he squirms. Dorian likes the danger, after all, the tease of roughness, because he thinks he's not supposed to enjoy this. Lying with a Qunari. With a man.
Bull just likes that thrill Dorian gets that lights up his eyes. ]
Maybe I'll just keep you here. Find ways of keeping you...occupied.
no subject
It doesn't, and he knows better. Enough, anyway. He swallows under the dull pressure, eyes bright, his pulse easily detected and hiking up in pace, chin tilting higher to give himself room as his hands settle on Bull's arm. ]
Some--
[ Answering banter comes out more strained and fluttery than is dignified, blinking hard at himself before trying again. ] Some might notice. Eventually.
[ Hands and mouth and handling has ensured he's already hard, erection firm against his belly and heavy feeling. He has no idea how Bull is faring, and attempts to push his thigh between his legs as if to find out. ]
no subject
[ Bull's teeth flash in a grin, leaning in just low enough to linger above his lips, a tease of what he could have, when he feels Dorian shift and press up against the tent of his pants and yes. Bull is definitely hard, noticeably so with him pressed up against him like that.
Only response is in kind, shifting and pressing a thigh between Dorian's own, leaning forward until his hips trap Dorian's cock firmly against his stomach. Any movement at all results in tugging, rubbing, fresh friction as he cocks his head knowingly. ]
Looking for something?
[ And then his free hand find the jut of Dorian's hip, curls there firm, claiming, pulling him upwards off the sheets, and damn but he feels good against him. ]
no subject
He has to wrangle his own restraint to stop himself from simply rutting against the other man and into all that friction and pressure; but he's not still, forcing the squirm of his hips up against the qunari into something more deliberate, hooking his outer leg to wrap up around his waist, heel against the back of his thigh as leverage, as if attempting to push back on Bull's composure (considering the state of his own). To find those cracks he's not even aware of existing. ]
I am, [ he confirms, at a husky purr. ]
no subject
Then let's see if we can't help you with that.
[ The grip on his throat eases, and Bull reaches instead for the battered little end-table that the wine now sits so precariously on, past the bottle for another, before prying the cork free with a tug of his teeth.
The oil smells much the same as it did in the tent, and his fingers get a generous amount spilled over them before pries Dorian's thighs apart, just far enough to get between them. He doesn't move far, however, keeps close enough to hover, to keep him pinned to the bed as that first coaxing touch trails over that tight ring of muscle. ]
no subject
And it's been a little while, actually, since he's done this, and naturally it's the sort of thought that intrudes right as it's happening and otherwise unremarked on the rest of the time save to, now and then, make light of all the sex he's not been having. No nerves, save for the ones that generate feelings of anticipation.
He makes a soft, unbidden sound at that initial touch, the comparatively cool, slick suggestion of oil. His jaw firms, like he's biting back any urge to spur Bull along, that soft ah all he's getting. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)