[ 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
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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
[ 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.