[ 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.
[ Dorian closes his eyes at the second thrust, a sort of sinking back into the feeling, and the moment. When they'd danced, it had the dual affect of being so aware of those watching him, catching on him like spiderwebs, something in need of brushing away with a laugh, or simple and easy enjoyment of dancing in Bull's generous shadow, in the bracket of his arms. Sometimes, here, on his back, or in Bull's lap, he can imagine those stares, as if the world waited beyond the door, one of ridicule.
But then there are times like these when he isn't thinking about any of that at all. Usually, it takes a little longer, but perhaps the fact he's already gone once helps urge him into that state of pure distraction. Loose in his muscles, his joints bending easy, the ache and burn deep inside of him.
The way his tips his chin back seems only to better feel that possessive resting of Bull's hand on his neck. A hand strong enough to crush his windpipe, or break his neck. These thoughts are not in themselves sexy, but appeal never gets that far anyway; there is just something innately glorious about those battle-rough fingers where his pulse is, stimulating bruises, applying a less-than-subtle pressure when he breathes.
Bull is going hard enough, swift enough, that Dorian could lie there if he wished. Still, his legs lock, and hips angle upwards to meet him, to take him, squeezing around him both on purpose and not.
He slides a hand down the line of Bull's arm, coming to rest at the thick wrist of the hand at his throat. The sounds he makes begin to gain articulacy, Bull and yes and Maker and-- ] More, [ he says, arching, never mind the physical impossibility of such a request. ] More.
[ The words come in a rush, slightly out of breath, but it's clear Bull's still got this in hand. In more ways than one. Those fingers squeeze, just for a moment, enough for Dorian to feel the strain for breath before releasing again.
The thrust that follows is meant to drive that breathe right back out of him again. ]
You want more? I want to see you work for it, big guy.
[ There's a deep rumble in his voice, eye raking over the sight of Dorian drawn taut beneath him, the way his cock is responding all over again, growing full and flush. It'd be easy just to take him, to fuck him to completion without regard.
But he plans on running him completely and utterly ragged tonight. Fuck the concern for those noble assholes right out of his head. ]
[ Bull's hand squeezes, and Dorian feels the easy strength of those large fingers, and his own pulse, hammering away. Release doesn't come with relief as Bull thrusts into him, leaving Dorian gasping, and then panting.
The deep bass of Bull's voice seems to vibrate through him on a molecular level, settling those words in his bones. Making him ache just as much as the continued pressure angling inside of him. His eyes squeeze close, nails biting Bull's wrist, signs of some attempt at restraint as opposed to pain, or refusal.
Show me, says Bull.
Dorian opens his eyes again, mouth dry, not quite trusting his voice nor his breathing, and instinctively reluctant to dissolve into begging, especially when Bull is already there, thick and full inside of him. No, he will give as he gets. Dorian lifts a knee, thigh bending in closer, until he can neatly hook his leg up against the outer of Bull's arm, higher than before, near folded in half. Muscles shiver in protest, and he will feel the strain of this tomorrow (and likely with a dim satisfaction). His other leg settles around Bull's waist, pressing heel against Bull's arse, all demand. ]
Like that? [ he says, managing to infuse a note of challenge in his voice, even though it trembles just a little in his throat, the way taut things do. ]
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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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But then there are times like these when he isn't thinking about any of that at all. Usually, it takes a little longer, but perhaps the fact he's already gone once helps urge him into that state of pure distraction. Loose in his muscles, his joints bending easy, the ache and burn deep inside of him.
The way his tips his chin back seems only to better feel that possessive resting of Bull's hand on his neck. A hand strong enough to crush his windpipe, or break his neck. These thoughts are not in themselves sexy, but appeal never gets that far anyway; there is just something innately glorious about those battle-rough fingers where his pulse is, stimulating bruises, applying a less-than-subtle pressure when he breathes.
Bull is going hard enough, swift enough, that Dorian could lie there if he wished. Still, his legs lock, and hips angle upwards to meet him, to take him, squeezing around him both on purpose and not.
He slides a hand down the line of Bull's arm, coming to rest at the thick wrist of the hand at his throat. The sounds he makes begin to gain articulacy, Bull and yes and Maker and-- ] More, [ he says, arching, never mind the physical impossibility of such a request. ] More.
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[ The words come in a rush, slightly out of breath, but it's clear Bull's still got this in hand. In more ways than one. Those fingers squeeze, just for a moment, enough for Dorian to feel the strain for breath before releasing again.
The thrust that follows is meant to drive that breathe right back out of him again. ]
You want more? I want to see you work for it, big guy.
[ There's a deep rumble in his voice, eye raking over the sight of Dorian drawn taut beneath him, the way his cock is responding all over again, growing full and flush. It'd be easy just to take him, to fuck him to completion without regard.
But he plans on running him completely and utterly ragged tonight. Fuck the concern for those noble assholes right out of his head. ]
Come on. Show me how bad you want my cock.
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The deep bass of Bull's voice seems to vibrate through him on a molecular level, settling those words in his bones. Making him ache just as much as the continued pressure angling inside of him. His eyes squeeze close, nails biting Bull's wrist, signs of some attempt at restraint as opposed to pain, or refusal.
Show me, says Bull.
Dorian opens his eyes again, mouth dry, not quite trusting his voice nor his breathing, and instinctively reluctant to dissolve into begging, especially when Bull is already there, thick and full inside of him. No, he will give as he gets. Dorian lifts a knee, thigh bending in closer, until he can neatly hook his leg up against the outer of Bull's arm, higher than before, near folded in half. Muscles shiver in protest, and he will feel the strain of this tomorrow (and likely with a dim satisfaction). His other leg settles around Bull's waist, pressing heel against Bull's arse, all demand. ]
Like that? [ he says, managing to infuse a note of challenge in his voice, even though it trembles just a little in his throat, the way taut things do. ]
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