[ 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.
[ There's an urge there to see that focus unwind further, that soft daze in his eyes when he presses just so. Yeah. He can take more.
The hand at his hip leaves briefly enough to find where the oil's gotten to, and it means prying Dorian's fingers off his cock long enough to press the bottle into his grasp. ]
Go on. Get me good and slick for you. Unless you feel like waiting a little longer. Bet I can make you come on my fingers a second time.
I hardly see how that's of benefit to you, [ is delivered a lot airier and lighter than he feels. Bull's gaze on him is an added weight, as tangible as a hand at his throat, and he blindly, carefully, empties some oil onto his hand.
Not too much. Running out would be a tragedy.
Because Maker, Dorian wants to stay right here, as if Bull were to make good on those taunts about not letting him leave. He isn't wrong, about greed, but perhaps doesn't know exactly how right he is. (Or so Dorian can only assume.)
His hand wraps back around Bull, and delivers a smooth stroke, firmer and more rewarding than the tease of nails or static squeezing. A cursory grope further down between Bull's legs leaves behind that same slick sensation that coats him from root to tip. There's enough of him down there that what feels like a generous amount of oil works out to be exactly enough. ]
[ Oh, the effort it takes to remain still, the tension that coils tight through his shoulders, down his back. It aches, holding back, but it's worth it. Every slick stroke of those fingers. Every breath that lets him focus on the smell of Dorian's skin, the faint scent of whatever he'd thrown on himself for the party, and the oil, sharp in the background. ]
You've never seen yourself, then. Maybe we should change that. Think you'd appreciate the view.
[ One blunt nail scratches across the deep red bruise on Dorian's throat, where his hand still remains, before the weight on the bed shifts. It means drawing away from his hands, the sweet friction and pressure of those skilled fingers, but all can be forgiven once he hitches one thigh high against his hip, one eyebrow arching in silent question. ]
[ The sass is ready on his lips, curling them. Something about how he does have an inkling as to what he looks, but pre- and post-primping, different to this, smeary eyed and perspiring and the evidence of his own emission drying on his thighs. (And he imagines Bull behind him in reflection, grey skin silvery where Dorian's marked him with his mouth, his hands broad and that one eye giving so little away, but maybe in a mirror, he'd catch something.)
But one blunt nail scratches, and he tips his chin aside as if shearing off his own response, the glint of teeth showing, and his hands no longer have a job to do as his thigh is manipulated upwards. Oil-slick hands fall on the thick arms, smoothing along that gathered tension, as if admiring of what he's created in Bull.
Dorian opens up his other thigh, knee lifting, a twitch of eyelashes as a yes to Bull's querying eyebrow. ]
It's steady, certain, the grip that holds him in place and the wet slide inward that pushes past what resistance remains. He can take it, this time, body already lax from release. And Bull's eye doesn't so much as blink as he trains his gaze steadily on Dorian's face, flushed and disheveled. He's done that. He's taken the polish off, stripped him down in every sense, and what's left? Is fucking beautiful to behold.
If Dorian's looking for something, it's there, in the darkening of his eyes, the tensing of his jaw as the heat of Dorian's body grips tight. Deeper, fuller, until he's damn near taken all of him in. ]
[ The sound Dorian makes is purely sexual, no similarity to spellcasting, no attempt to smother it in growls or sighs, no purpose like affirmation or denial, just something raw and uninhibited. Bull is a lot to take, and inner muscles clench reflexively, that thin line between pain and pleasure sharp and aching as he goes from empty to full in a matter of that one smooth thrust.
His nails bite Bull's arms, and his legs feel ungainly around him, but he otherwise relaxes, inasmuch as is possible. His brow smooths and his eyes hood, studying Bull's face above him, scars and all. Those little tics of tension. He'd touch them if he wasn't reflexively holding on to Bull as if for dear life.
Breathes, before he can be told not to forget to. ]
[ That little hitch of breath can be felt under the heavy weight of his palm, which doesn't move. He has every intention of keeping it there, fingers stroking against those darkened bruises at Dorian's throat like the delicate strings of a lute.
The resulting noise is much more to his liking.
A deep exhale leaves his shoulders lax, even as Dorian's fingers dig in for purchase. Hardly a deterrent when he lets his weight fall back, rocking onto his knees before rolling forward in a sharp thrust, not at all slow or testing or teasing. There are no questions for Dorian now, nothing to think on or focus on but this.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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[ There's an urge there to see that focus unwind further, that soft daze in his eyes when he presses just so. Yeah. He can take more.
The hand at his hip leaves briefly enough to find where the oil's gotten to, and it means prying Dorian's fingers off his cock long enough to press the bottle into his grasp. ]
Go on. Get me good and slick for you. Unless you feel like waiting a little longer. Bet I can make you come on my fingers a second time.
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Not too much. Running out would be a tragedy.
Because Maker, Dorian wants to stay right here, as if Bull were to make good on those taunts about not letting him leave. He isn't wrong, about greed, but perhaps doesn't know exactly how right he is. (Or so Dorian can only assume.)
His hand wraps back around Bull, and delivers a smooth stroke, firmer and more rewarding than the tease of nails or static squeezing. A cursory grope further down between Bull's legs leaves behind that same slick sensation that coats him from root to tip. There's enough of him down there that what feels like a generous amount of oil works out to be exactly enough. ]
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[ Oh, the effort it takes to remain still, the tension that coils tight through his shoulders, down his back. It aches, holding back, but it's worth it. Every slick stroke of those fingers. Every breath that lets him focus on the smell of Dorian's skin, the faint scent of whatever he'd thrown on himself for the party, and the oil, sharp in the background. ]
You've never seen yourself, then. Maybe we should change that. Think you'd appreciate the view.
[ One blunt nail scratches across the deep red bruise on Dorian's throat, where his hand still remains, before the weight on the bed shifts. It means drawing away from his hands, the sweet friction and pressure of those skilled fingers, but all can be forgiven once he hitches one thigh high against his hip, one eyebrow arching in silent question. ]
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But one blunt nail scratches, and he tips his chin aside as if shearing off his own response, the glint of teeth showing, and his hands no longer have a job to do as his thigh is manipulated upwards. Oil-slick hands fall on the thick arms, smoothing along that gathered tension, as if admiring of what he's created in Bull.
Dorian opens up his other thigh, knee lifting, a twitch of eyelashes as a yes to Bull's querying eyebrow. ]
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It's steady, certain, the grip that holds him in place and the wet slide inward that pushes past what resistance remains. He can take it, this time, body already lax from release. And Bull's eye doesn't so much as blink as he trains his gaze steadily on Dorian's face, flushed and disheveled. He's done that. He's taken the polish off, stripped him down in every sense, and what's left? Is fucking beautiful to behold.
If Dorian's looking for something, it's there, in the darkening of his eyes, the tensing of his jaw as the heat of Dorian's body grips tight. Deeper, fuller, until he's damn near taken all of him in. ]
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His nails bite Bull's arms, and his legs feel ungainly around him, but he otherwise relaxes, inasmuch as is possible. His brow smooths and his eyes hood, studying Bull's face above him, scars and all. Those little tics of tension. He'd touch them if he wasn't reflexively holding on to Bull as if for dear life.
Breathes, before he can be told not to forget to. ]
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The resulting noise is much more to his liking.
A deep exhale leaves his shoulders lax, even as Dorian's fingers dig in for purchase. Hardly a deterrent when he lets his weight fall back, rocking onto his knees before rolling forward in a sharp thrust, not at all slow or testing or teasing. There are no questions for Dorian now, nothing to think on or focus on but this.
He deserves to unwind, after all. ]
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