[ There is already the dull glow of faint arousal beginning once more, but it's a slow heat to stoke, a subtle climb in his bloodstream. Dorian is content to take his time and bask in attention and having Bull's fingers come away clean save for damp saliva. With one hand still holding Bull's wrist, the other drops to splay fingers low along his belly, the subtle scratch of nails of slightly softer skin, fingertips contemplating the edges of his trousers, before reaching down further between them to palm him through his pants.
He tips his head to kiss away a stray streak at the edge of Bull's hand, swallowing as he leans in to kiss, putting a little pressure on that hand as he does. The taste if there, just a touch of it, beneath the usual sour edge of wine. ]
Edited (even more words than before) 2016-03-30 06:21 (UTC)
[ The scent of it is still in the air, but combined with that tart flavor he's come to associate with Dorian? It prompts a nip at his lower lip, a low growl and a squeeze against Dorian's ass with his free hand. ]
Looking for something there, big guy?
[ It's hard not to press up, to arch into the friction Dorian's hand provides, but it's good. So good, just the same. Those talented fingers know how to grip, he's watched the way he works that staff of his. The comparison has been noted before, usually to a disgruntled groan, and Bull smiles against the mage's lips. ]
[ The use of that nickname, while most times going uncommented on -- secretly liked, even, feeling the affection within it -- gets an eyeroll now, only just visible. His hand doesn't stop, feeling around for those sensitive points that Bull founds so easily on him, pressing through thick fabric, squeezing by way of answer. Yes, looking for something.
He lifts his head back, head tipped and considering while his hand doesn't stop. ]
I think I want my name, [ he asserts, primly. ] You do remember it, I hope.
[ What does he want, though? It's the kind of question the bears weight, that makes his heart twinge mysteriously, in a context that doesn't apply. 'Fuck me' is an easy enough thing to say, but it wants for specificity. The sort he's rarely had opportunity to indulge in before.
It's a struggle, to keep uncertainty out of his expression. It's not a quality meant to coincide with licking your own come off someone's fingers.
He settles a little further down Bull's lap, only somewhat incidentally pushing back into that grip on his ass, his own hands occupied now with tugging open Bull's belt. The coarse friction of a belt and the jangle of metal. His own trousers and underwear ride lower, caught around his kneeling legs. ]
A week, [ he says, after a moment. ] That's how long I had to conceal parts of my neck all the way West. They may have lasted longer, but I cheated, a little, magically -- reluctant though I was to do so. The heat just became intolerable the further we travelled. Now, those little ones you left on my hip I allowed to stay as long as they liked, but alas, they too faded away.
[ Opening Bull's trousers, he bends his wrist to slide his hand within, fingers curling around solid flesh, drawing it out into the cooler air of the room. ]
[ It's not uncertainty he sees in his eyes, but thoughtfulness. Consideration. He's really thinking about it instead of giving a throw-away answer, which means this isn't just a throw-away encounter. Not that they've given that impression before, but...
He knows Dorian has hang-ups about this sort of thing. And the answer, if anything, proves that maybe there's a chance at something real here. Provided he's ever comfortable with that idea.
He...isn't sure what to think of that himself, really. It's not an easy thing to keep his mind on with those elegant fingers working him over, first through his pants and then tugging him out into the open, warm and firm. There's a flare of heat behind his eye, a deep inhale, before hands shift downward to catch on the edge of his smalls.
These? Can go now. ]
Like it when I leave my mark on you? Leave you a little dirty?
[ His voice is a quiet rumble, still close enough to snare his mouth with another sharp-edged kiss. ]
[ The sound Dorian makes into the kiss is affirmation enough, pushing back with pressure and gentle bite, the grizzled friction at Bull's chin and the delicate tickle of his own mustache. And between them, his hand finding a firm grip, stroking, long and deliberate, with pauses only to sweep his thumb against that blunt, warm end.
But this state of half-dress can't go on.
Dorian evades the next kiss, finally shifting aside, the mattress creaking beneath the redistribution of weight, one leg still flung over Bull's thighs, nudging in indication as he lists back onto his elbows. ]
[ No sooner said than done. He'd already been headed in that direction, and it's like they're moving in synch, Bull shifting and tugging down with that grip on the waist of his smalls, peeling them down past his thighs and bunching the fabric against the low sling of his trousers. It's a matter of two tugs, total, to get them completely off.
And then there he is, make-up just a touch smeared, lips red from kisses and bites, and laid out across his bed. Bull grins sharply. ]
Now that we got that out of the way...
[ One hand sees fit to curl around his wrist as he leans in over him, finding familiar ground along his throat where he hasn't marked him quite yet. But he remembers. He remembers exactly where he left every one of those marks, and if Dorian wants them back? He gets them. And then some. ]
[ There's a hint of smile by the time sighting it is out of periphery, and Bull's mouth finds its place at Dorian's neck. He gives a sigh that doesn't come out easily, a little jagged, at that immediately sharp balance between pain and pleasure, kisses hard enough to bruise. His hand, where he is caught at the wrist, flexes into a fist.
Picking between sliding atop of Bull or having Bull over him wouldn't be fair. Both have their merits, with his general qunari enormity felt in different ways. It's its own intoxication to have him bearing down on him, regardless, Dorian lifting his chin and turning it aside to accommodate, the sounds he makes felt against Bull's mouth, along with his climbing pulse.
In their tangle, Dorian feels Bull's erection between them, lifting a thigh to rub against it, squirming. ]
[ That friction is satisfying, no doubt, the slide of a warm, firm thigh against his cock coaxing a curl of heat from the pit of his stomach, and there's a deliberate drag of his hips to show for it. Pressing right up against the crease of Dorian's thigh, even as he teases those blood-dark blushes to Dorian's skin.
Because he's not just marking him. Those marks are gonna be toyed with, teased, until that sensitivity borders on too much. He means to feel that pulse hitch when he bites, and makes his way downwards only once he does.
There's the briefest of pauses to glance upwards, to catch Dorian's eyes and grin, before teeth pinch at the next little patch of flesh to carry his mark. ]
[ Dorian's body language opens up to accommodate. He could reach down and resume his stroking, and opts not to, not when he can coax Bull into shifting against him so nicely by treating him only to the general nearly accidental feeling of the pressure and rub between their bodies, the nudge of his thigh. His own cock, still thick feeling, twitches in the beginnings of renewed arousal.
Eye sight caught, snagged upon, the trace of an answering smile before Bull is lowering his head again, the coarse brush of his horns in blurry view.
Dorian closes his eyes as Bull's mouth finds that next, vaguely familiar spot, lower down. He isn't shy about the little sounds he will deny later, but does try not to give Bull too much satisfaction, remaining mostly still, a hand laying flat and warm at the base of a horn, fingernails toying with craggy grooves.
And then that sensation over sensitised flesh keeps going, making that line between pleasure and pain all the finer. This time, Dorian does shift where he lays, as if undecided about whether or not he wants to twist away. ]
[ He knows those points, the edge of pain that just shies away. There's a world of difference between pain and hurt, and what Dorian needs is warmer, a bone-deep ache and the occasional jolt, thrill, the reminder of danger without threat.
Another mark works its way above his collarbone. Then lower, along the line of his ribs. He remembers where the press of his fingers lay upon his hips but leaves them be for now, sinking lower instead, intent on laying a new mark close against the inside of his thigh instead. A huff of breath against damp skin marks Dorian's grip against his horns, the faint, itching tickle it sets under his skin that wants for something more.
It's teasing, is what it is. And taking it out on the stretch of unblemished skin he finds along the stretch of his thigh is good enough for him. ]
[ Heels digging into rumpled covers, Dorian minutely collapses back out of whatever sitting up he was contemplating doing, answering to that mouth working at his thigh with grips, scratches, tugs at Bull's horns. ]
You're improvising, [ he notes, good humoured, rough voiced, a growl rumbled out of him at the next hint of tooth against bruising skin. His thighs part a little wider, a hand sliding down further to scratch nails gently along the back of Bull's neck. It's both a part of the game itself as well as curiousity that has him carrying on, huskily; ] Do you like this? Laying these little reminders -- the Iron Bull was here.
[ Oh he does. Reminders for the both of them when things will inevitably pull them in opposite directions. It's nice to know he'll still be thought of after the fact...every time Dorian's leg brushes against something, for example.
Bull chuckles, nipping sharply at the freshly bruise welling to the surface. ]
That too. Mostly I like hearing you when I'm laying them on you. Like you can't decide if you want more, or if it's too much.
[ And, as if to prove his point, he sets the blunt edge of his nails against tender skin, drawing down, down, until the scratch slides right over that new love bite. ]
Course, there's a part of you that likes the rough handling, isn't there?
[ That sharp nip gets an instinctive nudge of his leg away, just a twitch, but there's no squirming out of the long, blunt-nailed rake of Bull's fingers. The next exhale shivers out of him, roughing out another near-growl as recent bruises are teased even more awake, unable to do anything but prove the other man's point. Dorian's hand wanders up, feeling fingertips -- gentler -- over marks low on his neck, looking down the length of his body at Bull.
Raising an eyebrow, the easy yes caught trapped between his teeth. It's a question that brushes up against complicated underlying truths, grinding together like faulty gears. About the things he likes. The things he should like, and should not.
Instead, wry, running his ankle against Bull's hip; ] And the other parts of me aren't what I'd call delicate, rest assured.
[ Those hang-ups are still there, little hitches that might smooth over time. Might not. He's willing to find out, given time. ]
Nah. You're put together pretty, sure, but you're strong. Like silverite wrapped in silk.
[ His voice rumbles against Dorian's skin as he nuzzles upwards, inhaling the scent of musk and oil and sweat, before his tongue darts out for a taste. One of these days he'd lay him out flat on the sheets, get his tongue into him and really watch him keen and squirm. ]
[ That gets a laugh from Dorian; understated, dry, quiet, a little wavery thanks to that most tempting intimacy nuzzled against him. The feeling of that deep bass voice against his skin. The word choice of strong settles in him like a weight, not unpleasantly. ]
Speaking of silver and silk, did anyone ever wax just as poetic about your tongue?
[ Half-hard from the attentions now mapped in red bruises on skin that's retained a little of its brownness from the desert sun, Dorian teases his nails down the ridges he found in the base of Bull's horns, that had made him growl ever so. ]
What of you, and handling roughly. Whether in doing the handling [ his fingers curl, an indicative tug ] or being handled?
[ He gets what's he's after. It's a low, throaty noise against the crook of his thigh, Bull turning his head into the grip as his fingers curl inward. Oh, yeah. That's the spot.
The eye that lifts to catch his face is dark with intent, fingers still curled tight at his thighs. ]
Why? Thinking of biting back?
[ It almost sounds like a challenge. There's not a lot anyone can do to really shove him around, never really been something that's come up. Dorian's more than welcome to try. ]
[ That hand grips, suring up around jagged bone, tugging. Dorian is not under the illusion he could actually manhandle Bull if Bull had no desire to be manhandled -- an intriguing aspect all of on its own -- but he can urge, he can boss. And maybe those battle-worn horns are more sensitive than they seem.
Which would figure, wouldn't it. Either way, he urges Bull up to meet him, wondering as to the marks he could leave on that thick, silvery hide. These lunatics who don't even wear armor. ]
Or in wont of anything better to do with my mouth, certainly.
[ It's true, there's little Dorian could make him do. But so far, he hasn't need to demand. Bull finds it hard to deny him anything he wants, even now climbing back up to hover over him, one hand against the headboard of the bed, close enough to brush lips over his in a tease. ]
[ It's a different sort of thrill, something like satisfaction, to summon Bull with a gesture of his hand, married with the usual dull pulse of interest evoked from having him loom over, close and intimate and huge, the slight shiver of bedframe as that hand grips to it. Dorian's hand eases down to lay against Bull's jaw, thumb firm against chin, lifting his head to meet kiss hungrily.
His other hand slides between then, teases the heavy weight of the other man's erection with the blunt tickle of his fingernails. ]
[ Now that sparks some interest, a definite twitch and a low, hungry noise that nearly turns into a snarl. That threat of an edge that isn't, not really, scrapes white against his nerves in a brief, brilliant flash that ends as soon as it came.
There's no move to discourage it from happening again, however. Quite the opposite. One hand lands against his hip, gripping tight against an increasingly familiar hold, like those little grooves are meant for his fingers alone.
They started slow. Dorian might want to be careful where he leads them, if he wants to walk tomorrow. ]
[ Almost-snarl gets a low, velvety chuckle out of Dorian, more felt than heard, as his mouth tracks down the angular slope of Bull's jaw, head lifting to follow that line of his neck. That grip on his hip is electric, arching slightly in response. His body has a way of saying yes, easier done than said.
So Dorian does it again, reaching lower, raking that teasing, borderline rough edge of his fingers from the weight of Bull's sack, prickling over where skin is more delicate, soft, than the battle-scarred hide that makes up the rest of him. Up, along the length of his cock, the sweep of his palm followed by the dancing of dull-sharp nails.
Between that thick neck and shoulder, Dorian's mouth warms a spot where he lays a biting kiss, that would bruise on, well, him. ]
[ It takes more to get through his skin, to see him bruise or bleed, but Dorian's welcome to try. There's something hot about that, the way he feels around for the edges he can try to peel upwards and get beneath, but he'll get what he gives. He's left himself open to letting Bull answer with teeth and tongue, just beneath his ear, sucking harder when Dorian's nails scratch against his cock. ]
Gonna mark me up, big guy?
[ It's carefully chosen, that endearment, egging him on, encouraging that edge of his outward. It's a new side of him, of course he wants to see where it goes.
Before he shows him what it means to tease the Bull. ]
Want me carrying something of yours around to show everyone? Or you just looking to leave an impression?
[ The growl that gets is strangled in Dorian's throat and muffled into Bull's shoulder, eyes closing under the feeling of tooth and sucking pressure, somewhere new. Words do as they are designed, pushing past the instinctual worry of causing true pain, before Dorian rests his head back against the pillow, chin tipped up as if he expects to look at Bull down the length of his nose, a suggestion of a smile still on his lips.
The hand not preoccupied between them comes up to stroke a finger over his attempt, more of a damp spot than a bruise, but perhaps there might be something, broken capillaries inking darker beneath the surface, iron in silver. ]
I always leave an impression, [ he defends. ] It's just a matter of finding your soft spots.
[ Bull huffs, nostrils flaring, another sharp flare hitting the back of his eyes as he draws himself in, storing that tension as it coils, waiting to snap. ]
Think you've found one now? 'Cause I think...
[ There's nothing soft about the way he arches into his touch, letting the warm scratch of his palm and the bite of his nails sink bone deep. Nor in the way his hand slips down from the headboard to press his thumb against that newest bruise, palm flat against his throat. ]
[ Dorian's hand goes pliant beneath that thrust forward, nearly clumsy, before he curls his fingers back around that length. He squeezes.
Even as he flinches and flushes as Bull pushes his thumb against new bruising, Dorian breathing inwards sharply, a slight haze unfocusing in his eyes before he closes them against it. Beneath Bull's palm, he can feel that spiking up of heartbeat, the swallowing around a mouth gone dry. There are definitely, he imagines, things wrong with him, but he can't care, when he's here. ]
Is it any wonder? [ he says, his voice taut. ] What with how greedy you know me to be.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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He tips his head to kiss away a stray streak at the edge of Bull's hand, swallowing as he leans in to kiss, putting a little pressure on that hand as he does. The taste if there, just a touch of it, beneath the usual sour edge of wine. ]
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Looking for something there, big guy?
[ It's hard not to press up, to arch into the friction Dorian's hand provides, but it's good. So good, just the same. Those talented fingers know how to grip, he's watched the way he works that staff of his. The comparison has been noted before, usually to a disgruntled groan, and Bull smiles against the mage's lips. ]
Your turn. Tell me what you want.
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He lifts his head back, head tipped and considering while his hand doesn't stop. ]
I think I want my name, [ he asserts, primly. ] You do remember it, I hope.
[ What does he want, though? It's the kind of question the bears weight, that makes his heart twinge mysteriously, in a context that doesn't apply. 'Fuck me' is an easy enough thing to say, but it wants for specificity. The sort he's rarely had opportunity to indulge in before.
It's a struggle, to keep uncertainty out of his expression. It's not a quality meant to coincide with licking your own come off someone's fingers.
He settles a little further down Bull's lap, only somewhat incidentally pushing back into that grip on his ass, his own hands occupied now with tugging open Bull's belt. The coarse friction of a belt and the jangle of metal. His own trousers and underwear ride lower, caught around his kneeling legs. ]
A week, [ he says, after a moment. ] That's how long I had to conceal parts of my neck all the way West. They may have lasted longer, but I cheated, a little, magically -- reluctant though I was to do so. The heat just became intolerable the further we travelled. Now, those little ones you left on my hip I allowed to stay as long as they liked, but alas, they too faded away.
[ Opening Bull's trousers, he bends his wrist to slide his hand within, fingers curling around solid flesh, drawing it out into the cooler air of the room. ]
I want them all back.
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He knows Dorian has hang-ups about this sort of thing. And the answer, if anything, proves that maybe there's a chance at something real here. Provided he's ever comfortable with that idea.
He...isn't sure what to think of that himself, really. It's not an easy thing to keep his mind on with those elegant fingers working him over, first through his pants and then tugging him out into the open, warm and firm. There's a flare of heat behind his eye, a deep inhale, before hands shift downward to catch on the edge of his smalls.
These? Can go now. ]
Like it when I leave my mark on you? Leave you a little dirty?
[ His voice is a quiet rumble, still close enough to snare his mouth with another sharp-edged kiss. ]
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But this state of half-dress can't go on.
Dorian evades the next kiss, finally shifting aside, the mattress creaking beneath the redistribution of weight, one leg still flung over Bull's thighs, nudging in indication as he lists back onto his elbows. ]
But you can start by helping me with these.
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And then there he is, make-up just a touch smeared, lips red from kisses and bites, and laid out across his bed. Bull grins sharply. ]
Now that we got that out of the way...
[ One hand sees fit to curl around his wrist as he leans in over him, finding familiar ground along his throat where he hasn't marked him quite yet. But he remembers. He remembers exactly where he left every one of those marks, and if Dorian wants them back? He gets them. And then some. ]
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Picking between sliding atop of Bull or having Bull over him wouldn't be fair. Both have their merits, with his general qunari enormity felt in different ways. It's its own intoxication to have him bearing down on him, regardless, Dorian lifting his chin and turning it aside to accommodate, the sounds he makes felt against Bull's mouth, along with his climbing pulse.
In their tangle, Dorian feels Bull's erection between them, lifting a thigh to rub against it, squirming. ]
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Because he's not just marking him. Those marks are gonna be toyed with, teased, until that sensitivity borders on too much. He means to feel that pulse hitch when he bites, and makes his way downwards only once he does.
There's the briefest of pauses to glance upwards, to catch Dorian's eyes and grin, before teeth pinch at the next little patch of flesh to carry his mark. ]
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Eye sight caught, snagged upon, the trace of an answering smile before Bull is lowering his head again, the coarse brush of his horns in blurry view.
Dorian closes his eyes as Bull's mouth finds that next, vaguely familiar spot, lower down. He isn't shy about the little sounds he will deny later, but does try not to give Bull too much satisfaction, remaining mostly still, a hand laying flat and warm at the base of a horn, fingernails toying with craggy grooves.
And then that sensation over sensitised flesh keeps going, making that line between pleasure and pain all the finer. This time, Dorian does shift where he lays, as if undecided about whether or not he wants to twist away. ]
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Another mark works its way above his collarbone. Then lower, along the line of his ribs. He remembers where the press of his fingers lay upon his hips but leaves them be for now, sinking lower instead, intent on laying a new mark close against the inside of his thigh instead. A huff of breath against damp skin marks Dorian's grip against his horns, the faint, itching tickle it sets under his skin that wants for something more.
It's teasing, is what it is. And taking it out on the stretch of unblemished skin he finds along the stretch of his thigh is good enough for him. ]
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[ Heels digging into rumpled covers, Dorian minutely collapses back out of whatever sitting up he was contemplating doing, answering to that mouth working at his thigh with grips, scratches, tugs at Bull's horns. ]
You're improvising, [ he notes, good humoured, rough voiced, a growl rumbled out of him at the next hint of tooth against bruising skin. His thighs part a little wider, a hand sliding down further to scratch nails gently along the back of Bull's neck. It's both a part of the game itself as well as curiousity that has him carrying on, huskily; ] Do you like this? Laying these little reminders -- the Iron Bull was here.
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Bull chuckles, nipping sharply at the freshly bruise welling to the surface. ]
That too. Mostly I like hearing you when I'm laying them on you. Like you can't decide if you want more, or if it's too much.
[ And, as if to prove his point, he sets the blunt edge of his nails against tender skin, drawing down, down, until the scratch slides right over that new love bite. ]
Course, there's a part of you that likes the rough handling, isn't there?
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Raising an eyebrow, the easy yes caught trapped between his teeth. It's a question that brushes up against complicated underlying truths, grinding together like faulty gears. About the things he likes. The things he should like, and should not.
Instead, wry, running his ankle against Bull's hip; ] And the other parts of me aren't what I'd call delicate, rest assured.
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Nah. You're put together pretty, sure, but you're strong. Like silverite wrapped in silk.
[ His voice rumbles against Dorian's skin as he nuzzles upwards, inhaling the scent of musk and oil and sweat, before his tongue darts out for a taste. One of these days he'd lay him out flat on the sheets, get his tongue into him and really watch him keen and squirm. ]
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Speaking of silver and silk, did anyone ever wax just as poetic about your tongue?
[ Half-hard from the attentions now mapped in red bruises on skin that's retained a little of its brownness from the desert sun, Dorian teases his nails down the ridges he found in the base of Bull's horns, that had made him growl ever so. ]
What of you, and handling roughly. Whether in doing the handling [ his fingers curl, an indicative tug ] or being handled?
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The eye that lifts to catch his face is dark with intent, fingers still curled tight at his thighs. ]
Why? Thinking of biting back?
[ It almost sounds like a challenge. There's not a lot anyone can do to really shove him around, never really been something that's come up. Dorian's more than welcome to try. ]
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[ That hand grips, suring up around jagged bone, tugging. Dorian is not under the illusion he could actually manhandle Bull if Bull had no desire to be manhandled -- an intriguing aspect all of on its own -- but he can urge, he can boss. And maybe those battle-worn horns are more sensitive than they seem.
Which would figure, wouldn't it. Either way, he urges Bull up to meet him, wondering as to the marks he could leave on that thick, silvery hide. These lunatics who don't even wear armor. ]
Or in wont of anything better to do with my mouth, certainly.
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I can definitely think of better uses.
[ Of which they're both well aware. ]
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His other hand slides between then, teases the heavy weight of the other man's erection with the blunt tickle of his fingernails. ]
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There's no move to discourage it from happening again, however. Quite the opposite. One hand lands against his hip, gripping tight against an increasingly familiar hold, like those little grooves are meant for his fingers alone.
They started slow. Dorian might want to be careful where he leads them, if he wants to walk tomorrow. ]
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So Dorian does it again, reaching lower, raking that teasing, borderline rough edge of his fingers from the weight of Bull's sack, prickling over where skin is more delicate, soft, than the battle-scarred hide that makes up the rest of him. Up, along the length of his cock, the sweep of his palm followed by the dancing of dull-sharp nails.
Between that thick neck and shoulder, Dorian's mouth warms a spot where he lays a biting kiss, that would bruise on, well, him. ]
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Gonna mark me up, big guy?
[ It's carefully chosen, that endearment, egging him on, encouraging that edge of his outward. It's a new side of him, of course he wants to see where it goes.
Before he shows him what it means to tease the Bull. ]
Want me carrying something of yours around to show everyone? Or you just looking to leave an impression?
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The hand not preoccupied between them comes up to stroke a finger over his attempt, more of a damp spot than a bruise, but perhaps there might be something, broken capillaries inking darker beneath the surface, iron in silver. ]
I always leave an impression, [ he defends. ] It's just a matter of finding your soft spots.
[ The bite of his nails add some emphasis. ]
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[ Bull huffs, nostrils flaring, another sharp flare hitting the back of his eyes as he draws himself in, storing that tension as it coils, waiting to snap. ]
Think you've found one now? 'Cause I think...
[ There's nothing soft about the way he arches into his touch, letting the warm scratch of his palm and the bite of his nails sink bone deep. Nor in the way his hand slips down from the headboard to press his thumb against that newest bruise, palm flat against his throat. ]
You might be biting off more than you can chew.
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Even as he flinches and flushes as Bull pushes his thumb against new bruising, Dorian breathing inwards sharply, a slight haze unfocusing in his eyes before he closes them against it. Beneath Bull's palm, he can feel that spiking up of heartbeat, the swallowing around a mouth gone dry. There are definitely, he imagines, things wrong with him, but he can't care, when he's here. ]
Is it any wonder? [ he says, his voice taut. ] What with how greedy you know me to be.
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