[ Dorian throws his head back at the feeling of Bull's rough palm working against his swollen cock, the span of his hand big and warm and blunt but then immediately attentive and specific and knowing. There's no point at playing at further resistance, save for one token scrabble for purchase as ivory teeth bite on his own bottom lip and hands make fists--
He's already feels like he's been falling, or sliding down a slope he can only occasionally entertain purchase, and what is termed as letting go feels more like a crash landing. In a satisfying, pounding sort of way. He spills warm between them, the sound he makes without reserve, louder than he's been before, dimly reminiscent of when he conjures some spell to particular excess (which should recontextualise battles in interesting ways).
It's not quick. Several seconds of shudder and gasp, before his hands relax, and he blinks open his eyes, breathing hard.
His legs don't stop clinging, heels digging in to the backs of Bull's thighs. There's a second, shuddering groan as his internal muscles twitch and cling and resist the push and pull back of Bull's cock, making for friction, tension, tightness. ]
[ Of course he is. Of course he still digs in his heels and gives, pushes back. That's so very him that Bull almost laughs, a breathless noise against his lips before he takes them in a kiss, warm and searching.
Dorian would find his hands suddenly free, too, as Bull's drop to his hips, steadying him as he continued to thrust into that tight, flexing hole, feeling that tension string tighter and tighter still and content to let it snap at its own pace. He wants to savor it, savor him, every second he can. When that moment does comes -- when he comes -- it's with a low groan half-buried against Dorian's mouth, with fingers digging their claim into the narrow jet of the mage's hips.
If he's lucky, there might be bruises there later, something to remember the encounter by. Dorian seems the type, quietly holding onto things he doesn't need to ask permission to keep. Simple exchanges.
Another hum of contentment and he pulls free of that kiss, forehead pressing against Dorian's, basking in the lazy, warm haze that falls in the renewed silence of the room. ]
[ Dorian kisses back, after at first mostly being warm and open and passive. No dirty biting or plunder, just a sinking into heated affection. His arms now free, they sink onto Bull's shoulders, hands laying along the back of his neck, up at the base of his horns. His nails dig in ever so in mirror of the blunter press of Bull's fingers into his hips.
And just like that, it's over. Dorian's legs relax, the soles of his feet finding the bed, knees still bent. Other sensations are registering, now; his hips aren't going to thank him tomorrow when he's riding across Orlais. He feels wet all over, sweat and saliva and oil and semen all variously clinging to his skin. The kiss-bruises at his neck tingle.
It's good, all of it good, and he remains just here, in the midst of it, before cold opinions to the contrary can yet creep in.
The sound he makes is content, along with a flutter of a laugh, eyes shut as he becomes more concious of where Bull's brow maps against his own, and something in his chest area feels as though it flips over. Not an entirely unfamiliar twinge, just a rare one, an unlikely one, easily ignored. The qunari cock he begged for is still inside of him, the issue of their rutting dirty on his--
--oh, please. All of that can wait. He tips his nose up to nudge against Bull, his hands remembering where they are and running along the shaven skin at the back of the other man's skull, fingers toying around where skin roughs out into bone. ]
If you fall asleep like this, there'll truly be no escape.
[ His response, almost without hesitation, is a mock-snore that flares his nostils, momentarily going lax against him.
That's before pulling upright at least somewhat, grinning unrepentantly. ]
Guess you're not going anywhere after all, then.
[ Right about now is when he pulls away, reaches for a towel to start mopping up, putting one another to rights before he disappears. But there's something comfortable in the moment that he doesn't want to pull away from just yet. All he does instead is ease out of him, shift to one side and resettle himself, one arm curling around Dorian in the process.
Sweaty and dirty they might be, but he doesn't mind. Not one bit, in fact. ]
[ That gets a huff of complaint, Dorian's fingers splaying, but by the time Bull lifts his head, showing his teeth, the last of his own smile is being ushered away, still evident as a trace in his eyes. ]
Certainly not until I remember how walking works, no.
[ And Dorian, ultimately, doesn't mind the mess either, in the same way he didn't mind his clothing getting torn, but Maker help Bull if the murder of an enemy beneath his axe gets blood splatter on Dorian's robes the next time they're fighting together.
He makes a soft sound as Bull withdraws, and as if by magnetism, settles in as Bull settles, a hand resting splayed on the wide span of his chest. There's a complaining crinkle at his brow as his body sorts out what aches in new ways, but nothing about his body language speaks to recoil or aggravation, muscles lax and long. ]
Don't fall in love with anyone while I'm away, [ he says, lazy and quiet. It sounds like a line, something he might have said before. ] I might yet have use for you.
[ He lets it play right off, as Dorian no doubt hopes. It's safer that way, to give the words no weight at all. But that flippancy is somewhat belied by the tender way his fingers sweep up and along Dorian's spine, or the way he nuzzles down into his now thoroughly mussed hair.
They're so screwed. He knows it. Knows this is going to lead to hard choices later on. It's not that he's having sex with Dorian that's the problem, oh no.
This, what's happening right now, heavy in his ribs, is a conscious choice, not a play for his cover or an excuse to endear himself. He wants this.
[ Game reply doesn't skip a beat, eyes shutting beneath the feeling of Bull's face pressing into loose curls. The gesture in itself gains, once again, another twinge, but it's too nice, too comfortable, that Dorian can convince himself to take advantage of affection as its given, just as he took bruises, pinches, kisses.
He taps Bull's chest, not going so far as to mimic his tone as he echoes; ] You like it.
[ Without the immediacy and urgency of sex tugging at them, these gestures turn blunt. More softness and affection than need. It's different in a way that puzzles him, which bothers him, because most puzzles are solved easily enough.
There are no simple answers for why the tap of Dorian's fingers should catch under his ribs and thrum there in answering echo, or why the smell of his hair is an important detail to save for later.
So he tugs back at the familiar, lowering his head to nip bluntly at the edge of Dorian's ear. ]
That little noise you make when I bite down on your neck, for example.
[ Dorian makes a similar noise, probably, even as he says right on the back of it; ] I don't make little noises.
[ He turns his face up as if to nudge Bull away, bridge of his nose bumping into the grizzled grain of Bull's cheek, and the impulse to kiss him tugs at him sharply. Ridiculous, really. Kisses as parting gifts is as sweet as he prefers to veer, or kisses to rekindle, to tease. He's not sure he could actually make good on rekindling.
So there is no kiss, just a returning, blunt-nosed nuzzle that serves to push back as well as respond. Dorian twists a little, settling higher with his elbow against the pillow, palm balancing his head. ]
I might be making some noises in the morning. Something something look what that barbarian's done to my neck, and Western Approach is hardly scarf weather.
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no subject
He's already feels like he's been falling, or sliding down a slope he can only occasionally entertain purchase, and what is termed as letting go feels more like a crash landing. In a satisfying, pounding sort of way. He spills warm between them, the sound he makes without reserve, louder than he's been before, dimly reminiscent of when he conjures some spell to particular excess (which should recontextualise battles in interesting ways).
It's not quick. Several seconds of shudder and gasp, before his hands relax, and he blinks open his eyes, breathing hard.
His legs don't stop clinging, heels digging in to the backs of Bull's thighs. There's a second, shuddering groan as his internal muscles twitch and cling and resist the push and pull back of Bull's cock, making for friction, tension, tightness. ]
no subject
Dorian would find his hands suddenly free, too, as Bull's drop to his hips, steadying him as he continued to thrust into that tight, flexing hole, feeling that tension string tighter and tighter still and content to let it snap at its own pace. He wants to savor it, savor him, every second he can. When that moment does comes -- when he comes -- it's with a low groan half-buried against Dorian's mouth, with fingers digging their claim into the narrow jet of the mage's hips.
If he's lucky, there might be bruises there later, something to remember the encounter by. Dorian seems the type, quietly holding onto things he doesn't need to ask permission to keep. Simple exchanges.
Another hum of contentment and he pulls free of that kiss, forehead pressing against Dorian's, basking in the lazy, warm haze that falls in the renewed silence of the room. ]
no subject
And just like that, it's over. Dorian's legs relax, the soles of his feet finding the bed, knees still bent. Other sensations are registering, now; his hips aren't going to thank him tomorrow when he's riding across Orlais. He feels wet all over, sweat and saliva and oil and semen all variously clinging to his skin. The kiss-bruises at his neck tingle.
It's good, all of it good, and he remains just here, in the midst of it, before cold opinions to the contrary can yet creep in.
The sound he makes is content, along with a flutter of a laugh, eyes shut as he becomes more concious of where Bull's brow maps against his own, and something in his chest area feels as though it flips over. Not an entirely unfamiliar twinge, just a rare one, an unlikely one, easily ignored. The qunari cock he begged for is still inside of him, the issue of their rutting dirty on his--
--oh, please. All of that can wait. He tips his nose up to nudge against Bull, his hands remembering where they are and running along the shaven skin at the back of the other man's skull, fingers toying around where skin roughs out into bone. ]
If you fall asleep like this, there'll truly be no escape.
no subject
That's before pulling upright at least somewhat, grinning unrepentantly. ]
Guess you're not going anywhere after all, then.
[ Right about now is when he pulls away, reaches for a towel to start mopping up, putting one another to rights before he disappears. But there's something comfortable in the moment that he doesn't want to pull away from just yet. All he does instead is ease out of him, shift to one side and resettle himself, one arm curling around Dorian in the process.
Sweaty and dirty they might be, but he doesn't mind. Not one bit, in fact. ]
no subject
Certainly not until I remember how walking works, no.
[ And Dorian, ultimately, doesn't mind the mess either, in the same way he didn't mind his clothing getting torn, but Maker help Bull if the murder of an enemy beneath his axe gets blood splatter on Dorian's robes the next time they're fighting together.
He makes a soft sound as Bull withdraws, and as if by magnetism, settles in as Bull settles, a hand resting splayed on the wide span of his chest. There's a complaining crinkle at his brow as his body sorts out what aches in new ways, but nothing about his body language speaks to recoil or aggravation, muscles lax and long. ]
Don't fall in love with anyone while I'm away, [ he says, lazy and quiet. It sounds like a line, something he might have said before. ] I might yet have use for you.
no subject
[ He lets it play right off, as Dorian no doubt hopes. It's safer that way, to give the words no weight at all. But that flippancy is somewhat belied by the tender way his fingers sweep up and along Dorian's spine, or the way he nuzzles down into his now thoroughly mussed hair.
They're so screwed. He knows it. Knows this is going to lead to hard choices later on. It's not that he's having sex with Dorian that's the problem, oh no.
This, what's happening right now, heavy in his ribs, is a conscious choice, not a play for his cover or an excuse to endear himself. He wants this.
Might be easier, otherwise. ]
no subject
[ Game reply doesn't skip a beat, eyes shutting beneath the feeling of Bull's face pressing into loose curls. The gesture in itself gains, once again, another twinge, but it's too nice, too comfortable, that Dorian can convince himself to take advantage of affection as its given, just as he took bruises, pinches, kisses.
He taps Bull's chest, not going so far as to mimic his tone as he echoes; ] You like it.
no subject
[ Without the immediacy and urgency of sex tugging at them, these gestures turn blunt. More softness and affection than need. It's different in a way that puzzles him, which bothers him, because most puzzles are solved easily enough.
There are no simple answers for why the tap of Dorian's fingers should catch under his ribs and thrum there in answering echo, or why the smell of his hair is an important detail to save for later.
So he tugs back at the familiar, lowering his head to nip bluntly at the edge of Dorian's ear. ]
That little noise you make when I bite down on your neck, for example.
no subject
[ He turns his face up as if to nudge Bull away, bridge of his nose bumping into the grizzled grain of Bull's cheek, and the impulse to kiss him tugs at him sharply. Ridiculous, really. Kisses as parting gifts is as sweet as he prefers to veer, or kisses to rekindle, to tease. He's not sure he could actually make good on rekindling.
So there is no kiss, just a returning, blunt-nosed nuzzle that serves to push back as well as respond. Dorian twists a little, settling higher with his elbow against the pillow, palm balancing his head. ]
I might be making some noises in the morning. Something something look what that barbarian's done to my neck, and Western Approach is hardly scarf weather.