[ 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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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.