[ 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 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.