[ 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. ]
[ Even in this, there's some of that lazy grace in him, elegance that belies the marks on his skin and the smear of his makeup, and the rough, dark look around his eyes. Bull hums his approval before moving his arm, catching the crook of Dorian's knee and hiking his leg a little higher, holding him in place. Pinned.
Perfect. ]
Just like that.
[ And then the pace quickens, as Bull lowers his head and his hips slam against the back of Dorian's thighs again, and again, like some great beast taken to rutting. Too quick even for breath, too quick to match even the fastest of heartbeats. Just the steady smacksmacksmack in his ears as he leans close enough to bite at Dorian's lower lip. ]
[ And more he gets, when he wasn't entirely convinced it was possible or whether Bull would even give it. There is nothing he can do in this position but take what he demanded, a hand crumpling bedsheets, the other still clinging fast to Bull's arm. Bull presses in close and Dorian is incredibly aware of his own quickened erection trapped between them, pressing obscenely into his own belly.
The bite to his mouth gets (what he might deny later to be) a whimper. ]
Bull--
[ The name slips easily between his teeth, but no further coherent words follow. Almost every thrust in drives a groan out of him, sharp and rough. The urge to muffle himself is great and irrational, all old instinct warring with new tendencies, but he's done this to himself, pinned in place and thus unable to curl up and smother noise into the other man's neck, or twist around into his pillows, even as let me hear you is warm in his blood.
It won't matter. He makes noise, ragged and full of feeling that Dorian might struggle to put into actual words, breathing shallow and quick. His orgasm is not something he slams into quickly, but is dragged out of him. His whole body tenses without his permission, almost aware of what he's doing after it's begun as moisture speckles warm low on his chest in stops and starts.
Eyes closed, Dorian turns his face away and to the side, as if in one last second pitch to hold on to control. ]
[ But he can't go far, not with his fingers still around the mage's throat. Pinned is the world, held fast as Bull watches him drag towards that edge and then come apart, that tension snapping visibly in the pull of muscle, the slack of his mouth and flutter of his eyelids.
Nothing hidden. Not from him.
There's a low grunt from Bull as his eye narrows, jaw set. The muscles in his neck and shoulders grow tense as he leans into that tightening clutch of Dorian's body around him, riding through that climax in search -- at last -- of his own. It's not a difficult place to reach for, as long as he's been holding himself back all this time.
But his hand does leave his throat, shifting back instead to cup the side of his face, thumb tracing that smear of kohl beneath his eye. His gaze is fixed firmly on him when that last shudder finally hits, nearly knocking the breath out of him with a groan. Then it's all heat, white noise, a blur around the edges of his vision as he lowers his head to rest against Dorian's.
There. His nostrils flare with deep breaths as his shoulders sag, but oh, that rush. ]
[ Being held in place while coming apart is beginning to become a thing. A ruinous thing, as in, he's not sure doing the latter without the former is going to satisfy him as much in the future, really. Attempts to hide fail, and nothing bad happens.
When that grip at his throat loosens and a hand, warm and big and gentle, finds his cheek, Dorian instead pushes his face into it, cattish and a little clumsy. He doesn't relax when he's done and he feels Bull begin, riding out that feeling of tension coiling out of rhythm, and then the inevitable sag, heaviness weighing down, the rough texture of Bull's brow against his.
His arm curls around the big brute's neck.
Later, he might make a joke about bringing along score cards for the Iron Bull's benefit, but for now he says; ] Good, he says. You are somewhat spectacular.
And crushing me to death, [ which he doesn't sound displeased about. ]
[ There's a non-committal noise that might be amusement before he draws back, just enough to shift to one side and sag into the mattress with his full weight. His knee's starting to complain in short, static shots up his leg, but that'll go away. It's definitely not enough to draw away from the fresh wash of afterglow, and he's not quite ready yet to pull away from Dorian's arms. ]
I do what I can.
[ Chuckling, he steals a kiss from the edge of Dorian's mouth, swiping a stray smear of makeup from the corner of his eye before attempting to smooth some of his hair back into place. It's not really all that effective, as these things go, and more of an opportunity to touch when he's not quite finished with him yet. ]
[ Dorian slowly sinks into a lazier sprawl, rolling along with Bull. It takes a second to realise the purpose of the touches to his face, to his hair, and eyes crinkle in amusement. Lets him try, although he is more or less resigned to the fact he now looks a mess, but not so much as to pull away. ]
And look, I did manage to mark you.
[ He touches Bull's shoulder, drawing his hand back to display the smudge of kohl on his fingertips. His fingers wiggle, before deadening that hand on Bull's chest, a leg still lazily hooked up high on the bigger man's thigh.
There's a concert of twinges and aches that will settle in interestingly in the morning. ]
[ Dorian lifts his head to look, a subtle shift beneath Bull's hand as marks twinge under testing touch. ]
I'd prefer to think I'm just that irresistible, [ he corrects, a little imperiously, although the effect is ruined with his voice as rough as it is, and the fact he hasn't quite gotten his breath back. He thinks about feeling them later, especially the one on the inside of his thigh, twinging against his leathers and forcing him to remember its placement, and the way Bull's mouth travelled upwards, seeking out his scent.
There are things wrong with him. This thought is more a source of amusement than anything else, mouth twisting into a half-smile. ]
Not the strangest request a partner's pitched to you, I take it.
[ But he doesn't elaborate. What's between previous partners is between them and him, the same as it is with Dorian now. This is theirs, and he's not thinking about anyone else right now. ]
So you ever get any ideas, don't feel shy. I've heard it all by now.
[ His touch slides upwards, over the stickiness left behind on his stomach. He'll probably want a way to clean up, after all that, but moving right now just seems like a terrible, no-good, very bad idea. ]
[ For now, filthiness can stay where it is, still a little caught up in the moment of not minding, especially under that questing touch. Pleasant for the sake of being pleasant.
There's a quirk of an eyebrow upwards at the word shy, just briefly, but thoughtfulness settles after that. Dorian is thinking of someone else, and not his someone else -- but where he may not have as firm a grasp on Bull's sense of boundaries, it does seem awfully gauche to bring up in their current configuration, in the same way he's not ready to move away. ]
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no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
Perfect. ]
Just like that.
[ And then the pace quickens, as Bull lowers his head and his hips slam against the back of Dorian's thighs again, and again, like some great beast taken to rutting. Too quick even for breath, too quick to match even the fastest of heartbeats. Just the steady smacksmacksmack in his ears as he leans close enough to bite at Dorian's lower lip. ]
Now let me hear you.
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The bite to his mouth gets (what he might deny later to be) a whimper. ]
Bull--
[ The name slips easily between his teeth, but no further coherent words follow. Almost every thrust in drives a groan out of him, sharp and rough. The urge to muffle himself is great and irrational, all old instinct warring with new tendencies, but he's done this to himself, pinned in place and thus unable to curl up and smother noise into the other man's neck, or twist around into his pillows, even as let me hear you is warm in his blood.
It won't matter. He makes noise, ragged and full of feeling that Dorian might struggle to put into actual words, breathing shallow and quick. His orgasm is not something he slams into quickly, but is dragged out of him. His whole body tenses without his permission, almost aware of what he's doing after it's begun as moisture speckles warm low on his chest in stops and starts.
Eyes closed, Dorian turns his face away and to the side, as if in one last second pitch to hold on to control. ]
no subject
Nothing hidden. Not from him.
There's a low grunt from Bull as his eye narrows, jaw set. The muscles in his neck and shoulders grow tense as he leans into that tightening clutch of Dorian's body around him, riding through that climax in search -- at last -- of his own. It's not a difficult place to reach for, as long as he's been holding himself back all this time.
But his hand does leave his throat, shifting back instead to cup the side of his face, thumb tracing that smear of kohl beneath his eye. His gaze is fixed firmly on him when that last shudder finally hits, nearly knocking the breath out of him with a groan. Then it's all heat, white noise, a blur around the edges of his vision as he lowers his head to rest against Dorian's.
There. His nostrils flare with deep breaths as his shoulders sag, but oh, that rush. ]
Mmm. That. Was good.
no subject
When that grip at his throat loosens and a hand, warm and big and gentle, finds his cheek, Dorian instead pushes his face into it, cattish and a little clumsy. He doesn't relax when he's done and he feels Bull begin, riding out that feeling of tension coiling out of rhythm, and then the inevitable sag, heaviness weighing down, the rough texture of Bull's brow against his.
His arm curls around the big brute's neck.
Later, he might make a joke about bringing along score cards for the Iron Bull's benefit, but for now he says; ] Good, he says. You are somewhat spectacular.
And crushing me to death, [ which he doesn't sound displeased about. ]
no subject
I do what I can.
[ Chuckling, he steals a kiss from the edge of Dorian's mouth, swiping a stray smear of makeup from the corner of his eye before attempting to smooth some of his hair back into place. It's not really all that effective, as these things go, and more of an opportunity to touch when he's not quite finished with him yet. ]
no subject
And look, I did manage to mark you.
[ He touches Bull's shoulder, drawing his hand back to display the smudge of kohl on his fingertips. His fingers wiggle, before deadening that hand on Bull's chest, a leg still lazily hooked up high on the bigger man's thigh.
There's a concert of twinges and aches that will settle in interestingly in the morning. ]
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[ More than he knows. Partners have marked him before but there is something else that lingers, deeper than skin.
Dangerous.
His hand falls to run the length of his thigh where it rests against him, testing one of those deep red marks on his hip with a satisfied hum. ]
Think I left a few more than last time. Figured I take some...artistic liberties.
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I'd prefer to think I'm just that irresistible, [ he corrects, a little imperiously, although the effect is ruined with his voice as rough as it is, and the fact he hasn't quite gotten his breath back. He thinks about feeling them later, especially the one on the inside of his thigh, twinging against his leathers and forcing him to remember its placement, and the way Bull's mouth travelled upwards, seeking out his scent.
There are things wrong with him. This thought is more a source of amusement than anything else, mouth twisting into a half-smile. ]
Not the strangest request a partner's pitched to you, I take it.
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[ But he doesn't elaborate. What's between previous partners is between them and him, the same as it is with Dorian now. This is theirs, and he's not thinking about anyone else right now. ]
So you ever get any ideas, don't feel shy. I've heard it all by now.
[ His touch slides upwards, over the stickiness left behind on his stomach. He'll probably want a way to clean up, after all that, but moving right now just seems like a terrible, no-good, very bad idea. ]
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There's a quirk of an eyebrow upwards at the word shy, just briefly, but thoughtfulness settles after that. Dorian is thinking of someone else, and not his someone else -- but where he may not have as firm a grasp on Bull's sense of boundaries, it does seem awfully gauche to bring up in their current configuration, in the same way he's not ready to move away. ]
That easy, is it?
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