[ 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. ]
[ Simple, he'd say. Because he likes thing simple. But this has the potential to be so far from simple, so it might be better not to phrase it precisely that way, give Dorian ideas about making it simple.
He knows what that would entail, or at the very least? He can guess.
Instead he just smirks back at him, the broad stroke of that warm palm sliding up over his chest and down again, long enough to feel the still-quick patter of his heart. ]
[ It's the right word to stray away from, the concept of simplicity being a safe sort of rhythm to fall into, and innately limiting. His transactions are rarely complicated.
This feels complicated, even if Dorian is still content in their entanglement, hooded-eyed and getting stroked up the broadside of his chest in a manner he could get used to. Bull says that it can be easy, if it's something he wants, and Dorian knows they are discussing bruised thighs and torn clothing and perhaps that shopping list of implements Zevran had accidentally transmitted that one time.
He knows that, and still. It makes a mark, and his expression ripples. The things he wants are never easy.
But he curls the corner of his mouth in what he hopes is a convincing, cavalier kind of response, and starts to roll away, away from all that luxurious bodily warmth and gentle touches, pausing a little to ah at the feeling of-- well, the feeling, before sitting up on to his elbows. ]
I don't suppose a pail of water is out of the question?
[ There's a fond pat to his hip before Bull rolls off to the side of the bed, pulling himself to his feet with a grunt. Damn. He might need to stretch after this, but it had been worth it. Every inch of it.
There's usually a pitcher of water nearby, for drinking or for cleaning, and a towel with it. Both are retrieved as he checks on the length left on the candles before resettling on the side of the bed, handing Dorian the towel first. ]
[ By the time Bull settles back on the bed, Dorian's found a place to lean against the headboard, taking the towel to clean his hands off in the first instance. ]
Hold, thank you--
[ His fingertips dance against the side of the pitcher, a faint glimmer of orange light making spindly arcanish marks along the surface, warming under Bull's hand. In the next second, there's steam lazily rising from the mouth of the pitcher.
Humour and ease recovered enough that he tips a wink at the qunari, Dorian sets about cleaning himself, movements precise and neat, as if flagrant uses of magic in casual proximity happen all the time. ]
[ There's a part of him, still, that mistrusts magic. That's just knocked into their heads from day one, and it's hard to shake no matter how many decent or disciplined mages he meets. It's weird and unpredictable by nature.
Still. Dorian exudes it so naturally that it's hard to believe it could wrench loose of his grip. Even so there's a slight arch of his brow as the metal warms under his hand, and he peers into the steam water with a faint grunt. ]
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no subject
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.
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.
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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. ]
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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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[ Simple, he'd say. Because he likes thing simple. But this has the potential to be so far from simple, so it might be better not to phrase it precisely that way, give Dorian ideas about making it simple.
He knows what that would entail, or at the very least? He can guess.
Instead he just smirks back at him, the broad stroke of that warm palm sliding up over his chest and down again, long enough to feel the still-quick patter of his heart. ]
Sure is. If it's something you want.
no subject
This feels complicated, even if Dorian is still content in their entanglement, hooded-eyed and getting stroked up the broadside of his chest in a manner he could get used to. Bull says that it can be easy, if it's something he wants, and Dorian knows they are discussing bruised thighs and torn clothing and perhaps that shopping list of implements Zevran had accidentally transmitted that one time.
He knows that, and still. It makes a mark, and his expression ripples. The things he wants are never easy.
But he curls the corner of his mouth in what he hopes is a convincing, cavalier kind of response, and starts to roll away, away from all that luxurious bodily warmth and gentle touches, pausing a little to ah at the feeling of-- well, the feeling, before sitting up on to his elbows. ]
I don't suppose a pail of water is out of the question?
no subject
You ask so much of me.
[ There's a fond pat to his hip before Bull rolls off to the side of the bed, pulling himself to his feet with a grunt. Damn. He might need to stretch after this, but it had been worth it. Every inch of it.
There's usually a pitcher of water nearby, for drinking or for cleaning, and a towel with it. Both are retrieved as he checks on the length left on the candles before resettling on the side of the bed, handing Dorian the towel first. ]
Knock yourself out.
no subject
Hold, thank you--
[ His fingertips dance against the side of the pitcher, a faint glimmer of orange light making spindly arcanish marks along the surface, warming under Bull's hand. In the next second, there's steam lazily rising from the mouth of the pitcher.
Humour and ease recovered enough that he tips a wink at the qunari, Dorian sets about cleaning himself, movements precise and neat, as if flagrant uses of magic in casual proximity happen all the time. ]
You never know. I might yet surprise you.
[ Mr Heard It All. ]
no subject
Still. Dorian exudes it so naturally that it's hard to believe it could wrench loose of his grip. Even so there's a slight arch of his brow as the metal warms under his hand, and he peers into the steam water with a faint grunt. ]
Hn. Well, never say never.