[ There's another amused sound near the edge of Dorian's ear as he finally tugs that belt open. ]
Have a hard time imagining you quiet.
[ Though now that he's said that, it's going to be a point of pride to prove him wrong, isn't it? Chuckling, Bull finds a tender spot along the curve of his throat, kneading at it gently with tongue and teeth. Gently, because he doesn't need the marks anywhere he can't hide them later.
Might leave one somewhere a little less conspicuous though. Depending on how this goes.
Right now it's enough to feel him pressing up against him in one long, lean, hot line, tasting his skin and listening to the purr of Dorian's voice as he tries so very hard to keep that conversational tone going.
Get him a little out of breath here in a second, see how eloquent he stays. ]
[ There's the sound of another buckle tugged loose at his torso, and between that and his belt, the cling of winter clothes is looser, wrinkling abominably, and it's not very much helped by the press of Iron Bull's weight above him. Dorian doesn't help it much either, his hands skimming up onto the other man's back, setting blunt nails against silvery skin. ]
Something to do with your inability to conceptualise discretion, I'd wager.
[ Those are too many syllables to be capable of saying in this circumstance, and it's probably deliberate -- but Bull still gets his way as they come out on a shivery exhale, and then there's a quiet, far less articulate sound the next time he feels the blunt of the other man's teeth at the spot on his neck being worked. There's a lot of Bull pressing in closely, the heat of his breath and the friction of keratin and craggy flesh where Dorian's chin bumps into the jut of horn.
He's done his best with his own clothing, so his hands seek out what exists of Iron Bull's. Blunt fingernails audibly scrape along thick leather, searching blindly. ]
[ There's no annoyance there, despite his words. Only a small grunt as Dorian nudges against the edge of his horn, and when he feels that silky fabric under his hands start to give way he tugs, peeling his robes open down the center. Luckily for Dorian the buckle to Bull's belt is as big as everything else, easily found.
He's got it covered. And Bull's got purchase on a new expanse of bare skin, the scruff of his chin rasping against Dorian's collar bone as he nuzzles in. Inhales that scent. Sandalwood, maybe? Ridiculously complicated notes in that fragrance clinging to his skin, but the smokiness of it suits him. ]
[ But that one breezy quip delivered, and he's quiet while he works open Bull's belt, tugging at leather to loose it completely, slithering through fastenings and discarded in the dark. It's a little difficult not to simply bask in the attention and
well, he does, for a bit, a private crooked smile over the top of Bull's head and thinks the thoughtful, slightly wistful touch of cologne that morning wasn't a waste after all. He again smooths his palms over the generous slopes of Bull's shoulders, his back, touching what he's been accused of admiring since they met.
Dorian then levers himself up enough to shrug properly out of his robes. Beneath them, he's bare chested, trousers buckled closed, still. Endless fastenings, and at least several strapping him into his boots. ]
[ Still enough to go on, at least for the moment. Which does bring up the question of what comes later, but working in the moment seems to be doing the trick so far. Dorian hasn't spooked yet, as he thought he might. Maybe it's the wine or the cold that's taken some of the prickliness out.
Maybe it's just a relief to be on the same page. Knowing what they want, and what the other wants too. At least to some extent.
A page that includes reaching down, past Dorian's belt, and rubbing the heel of his palm up between his thighs. Bull draws back just enough to catch Dorian's face by the dim light filtering through the tent canvas. ]
[ It's dark enough that shadows sink deeply and obscure detail, although Dorian's eyes are adjusting, and perhaps so is Iron Bull's. He can see the shape of eyepatch, and the seam of his mouth that had been so much softer and articulate than he'd given it credit for when he'd pondered the logistics of kissing a qunari.
In turn, Bull can see a glint of ivory as Dorian's mouth parts, an exhale leaving him, his voice caught tight in his throat. Being quiet, as indicated. When he catches that look, his lips press back together, lounging in place up on his elbows, shoulders bare. He is rigid beneath Bull's hand and through his pants, and he pushes his hips up in a slow, deliberate roll.
He might spook, but it won't be until after they're done, and he has to think ahead, and get dressed in the dark, and leave, even if it's blizzarding. ]
[ Good. Not that he minds hearing the Vint's voice. On the contrary. But they're not as alone as all that, and considering Dorian's already affirmed need for discretion...
An easier way would just be making sure his mouth is otherwise occupied. And it takes nearly nothing to lean in over him, palming him through his pants and plying his mouth open again in another heated kiss. Dorian's got a talented tongue, after all.
[ Dorian's mouth opens easy to Iron Bull's, smothering a muffled hum between them at the dull pressure of the qunari's hand, coaxing along dull ache with false relief. His hand plants along the slope of Bull's jaw, said talented tongue warm and rough.
By now, he's only somewhat forgotten that they've made a makeshift bedding out of his things, the more sensuous wind of his body losing a little of its rhythm, squirming as the heels of his boots dig in amongst his cloak.
He breaks the kiss off, lying back with a breathless pant. When he speaks, his hiked his voice down, quiet. ]
Plenty warm, now. Too warm. I think we've overdone it, don't you agree?
[ That doesn't mean stop, if the purr in his voice is any indication. Reaching down, his fingertips have slid down until the waistline of Bull's trousers, fingernails finding softer flesh. ]
[ Lips crooking at the corners, Bull gives a little growl of approval and cants his hips forward, letting Dorian slip those nimble fingers down past his waistband. 'Soft' only applies so far, there. Half-hard and quickly growing harder at the mage's touch, he huffs out a breath of his own and adjusts the grip of his fingers, shifting higher to pluck at the ridiculous fastenings holding Dorian's pants in place. ]
Mm. Find what you were looking for?
[ Amusement is colored a shade darker by something heavier in his tone, a little rougher at the edges. ]
[ The chuckle that gets from Dorian is husky, quiet, pressed between his teeth as he puts his claws away in favour of a smooth slide of his hand down between them to gather the thickening length of Bull's cock in hand. His other works his trousers down a little lower while he allows Bull to take care of his own situation.
The amusement is hard to read, even when he echoes it back, but Dorian can hear, too, the shadow in Bull's voice, spurring him on. He's watching Bull's face in turn as he curls his fingers around blood-warm flesh, stroking up once from root to tip. ]
A vulnerability, [ he says, in call back to their newly found habit of sparring. ] At last.
[ There's a playful edge to that growl that ought to be familiar enough. Generally when Dorian is about to take a tumble, and Bull's seconds away from execution. But they're not there yet, and Bull's still working fabric and leather down around those slender hips.
Won't help the heat, unfortunately, not at this proximity. Where skin rubs against skin the heat just bleeds through, nearly thick enough for sweat. ]
[ His other hand disentangles itself to help with the state of his own clothing, hips shifting to slide them down further. He isn't shy, not with this sort of thing, and certainly not in the dark, teeth catching at his bottom lip at the flush of cooler air followed only by the soak of heat off of Iron Bull.
If he's going to start growling like that in here, it might well ruin sparring time. Or improve it. The daunting future is mentally shoved back in its place by the time he's freed himself enough of the way of his smallclothes, his hand drifting to his own cock, already hard, has been getting there since he was dropped amongst his furs.
Which isn't to say he's forgotten Bull. His hand squeezes. ]
But you don't strike me as the type who begs for it.
[ And with that almost-chuckle in his throat, Bull reaches for Dorian's wrists. Tugging them away, pinning them above his head in the furs before he can get too satisfied with himself. In the darkness one eyebrow still cocks higher. ]
I'm not.
[ As his hips roll forward, his cock drags upwards against Dorian's, and that earns another low noise, quiet in the dark. Heat, and friction, and skin against skin, and it's damn good. Not quite all he's aiming for tonight, but Dorian doesn't need to know that just yet. ]
[ Dorian's mouth opens like he has something to say, but by the time the press of Iron Bull's hands pins his wrists down above him, he's either forgotten or opted against it. It's not quite dark enough to disguise the flash of surprise on his face, eyes quick to close at the welcome, obscene feeling of Bull's hardening length sliding up against his over-warm skin.
By the time he opens his eyes, the acknowledgement that Bull's caught him off-guard is in eye contact, the wry twinge at the corner of his mouth, which is damp from kissing, the articulate curl of hair along his lip less precise than usual.
Beneath Bull's palms, Dorian twists his captured wrists, an attempt at escape that doesn't actually merit being verbalised. Nor pausing from shifting his hips up into Bull's angling. ]
[ And wouldn't that be a sound to hear? Demands, first, biting the same way he curses in the midst of battle. Then pleas. The thought's enough to have his cock twitch faintly with interest, and for a moment it seems a consideration. Bull leans close enough to catch Dorian's lower lip with his teeth before humming thoughtfully. ]
Not tonight.
[ Let him think on it, while he wriggles there, trying unconvincingly to pry his hands free.
Meanwhile another cant of his hips has them rubbing together all over again, and the heat just mounts by the second. ]
[ It's not a kiss, but Dorian nudges against that brief bite, chasing it a little. It's a good thing they're naked enough in the way it counts and grinding against one another and Dorian can dismiss the spike in temperature to physicality alone, instead of at least partially attributed to the things Bull is saying. Dorian raises an eyebrow up the the other man. Has he begged for anything in his life?
It remains to be seen. He manages; ] I might take that bet, [ without all the way registering that repartee is in itself an assumption as The Future, voice husky and thick in his throat.
The struggles of his wrists -- testing weight, strength, limits -- cease as his focus is dragged right back down and low between them, pushing his knee up in an attempt at leverage. He feels more worked up than he ought to be, which he can chalk up to dry spells, but he has to swallow another sound, turning his head into the crook of his arm. ]
[ As soon as the tugging ceases, Bull presses the mage's wrists together, locked above his head in the grip of one hand alone. That leaves the other free to reach down, to curl fingers firm against Dorian's hip and hitch him upwards.
There'll be a next time. He's willing to bet on it. He'll wait for Dorian to decide that for himself, of course, but it seems inevitable. That pull in his gut says as much.
Another thrust, another long drag against Dorian's cock with his own, and Bull smirks into the darkness. Yeah, that's good. The ripples of it run right up his spine and melt down again in a warm flush, and sitting here and just rutting sounds good. But it could be better. ]
Fasta vass, [ is delivered quietly, anyway, and stands in place of yes, I remember. It's good and equally not enough and almost good because it's not enough, which does nothing to stem frustration. Dorian hooks a leg up high against Iron Bull, trying to slot them together, trying to spur Iron Bull into doing
something
anything else that is more. Trapped hands splay fingers as if to work out his own tension. He is used to instigating, to controlling pace and tempo, but he is not so used to it that he wants to tip this particular balance too far. In the gloom, as he looks back up at Iron Bull, his eyes are bright.
Quietly, then, tone velvety; ]
Do you want to fuck me, Iron Bull? [ He presses his hips back up again, meeting movement. ] How quiet do you think you could stay?
[ Oh, he wants to. The heat in that gaze alone is enough to outstrip any other he could feel. If Dorian knew what he wanted.
But it's not about that. Not just yet. His lips curl as Dorian arches, that sweet drag of friction, and his grip on his wrists loosens. ]
Thought about that. That's why I had something else in mind, this time.
[ There's barely enough room to shift down, and it aches to drag himself away from the feel of him, but tugging his hips a little higher and he doesn't need to go far. Just dip his head down low enough to run his tongue along the underside of Dorian's cock.
Number of ways to make sure he stays quiet. Dorian might not have the same advantage. ]
[ He is, in fact, at a disadvantage. The noise he makes is sharper than his former little huffs and whispered curses and murmured banter; it shudders out of him at the first touch of hot tongue against his skin, but white-knuckled restraint beneath the sound of sleet and wind might yet smother it over.
Unexpected. Dorian's hands fly down to press palms into the fur under him, and his laugh is quiet, breathy.
Without Bull all over him, he can feel winter a little more, but by now, the air in the tent is warmed from moving bodies that it is almost a relief. Nearly tentative, Dorian's hand wanders down, touching the outside curve of one of Bull's horns. They make for tempting handles, but he just follows craggy lines lightly with fingernails, a little curious in a way as to how that feels, if it feels at all.
Curious, but it's a question for another time, when the rest of him is utterly preoccupied with the feeling of Bull's mouth just over his erection, his arousal a dull throb in time with his heart beat. And the ghost sensation still around his wrists, from when Bull had gripped them. ]
I'm certainly-- [ he swallows around a mouth that's gone dry, internally cursing ] --open to suggestion.
[ Yeah, he can feel his usual cleverness pooling into his groin like so much blood. Whatever. So long as Bull puts his mouth around him again. ]
[ The light touch tickles, if anything, a faint distraction that has his nostrils flaring as he glances upwards. Right. That's closer to what he wanted, that surprised but pleased look, and a grin stretches over his lips as he shifts the back of Dorian's knee to rest against his shoulder. ]
I'll bet. They're not gonna break, you know.
[ And with a chuckle he's back to it, more slow, deliberate laps against the length of him, drawing it out, working until he can feel him tense before finally wrapping his lips around him. Let him sink into that heat and forget the chill in the air. Push away everything outside this tent, if only for a time.
[ And Dorian does sink, relaxing back properly with a luxurious sigh as he gets what he wants. Relief, warmth, attention, even if it all comes in a form he didn't quite anticipate when he climbed into Bull's tent. And drank his wine, which he still feels thrumming in his bloodstream, making his joints loose where he sprawls. One hand keeps a fisted grip in the furs beneath him, and the other slides down, finding a place to rest at the bend of Bull's horn.
He doesn't pull so much as firm up his grip as he levers his hips up in a subtle twitch, responsive and needful. His heel planted against Bull's muscular back digs in ever so, little coils of bodily tension that give and release. ]
[ Shame that candle had to be put out. That's a sight he could stand setting to memory. Dorian somehow finds a way to retain that feline elegance of his even when sprawled and at his mercy, hips flexing and hair almost certainly a mess where he lies in that pile of fur and silk. Figures.
Another dip of his head and Bull takes him in further, tightening the pull of his mouth as he draws back and flicks his tongue against the head of his cock before swallowing him down again. A little further each time, this time with a low hum, this time with a swipe at his slit. Dorian's needy little shifts unconsciously set a rhythm that he follows, his eye still open, still resting on the mage where he lies.
He was right. Disheveled was a good look for him. ]
[ His hands communicate whatever it is he can't fully verbalise, keeping quiet save for the rough edge of heavier breathing, but even that's kept moderated. The squeeze and gentle tug of Dorian's hand mirrors the thrill of tension winding tighter, playing at pulling Bull closer when the other man lowers his head.
Dorian's other hand kneads at furs until he remembers that it's his clothing, and finds instead to rest first on his own belly, then downwards, knuckles brushing along the rough texture of Bull's jaw line, resting at the bend of shoulder and neck.
Fingernails bite, and he makes a sound. Getting close, and there's no part of him that desires to delay the inevitable. ]
[ His answer is Bull sinking low, rolling his tongue up purposefully against the underside of his cock. A single, wordless growl works out of his throat, resonating against skin, urging him on. He felt that telltale tension before Dorian's even gasped out a single word.
But oh. The way his name sounds on his lips. Yeah. He could get used to that, faster than he might admit to. ]
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Have a hard time imagining you quiet.
[ Though now that he's said that, it's going to be a point of pride to prove him wrong, isn't it? Chuckling, Bull finds a tender spot along the curve of his throat, kneading at it gently with tongue and teeth. Gently, because he doesn't need the marks anywhere he can't hide them later.
Might leave one somewhere a little less conspicuous though. Depending on how this goes.
Right now it's enough to feel him pressing up against him in one long, lean, hot line, tasting his skin and listening to the purr of Dorian's voice as he tries so very hard to keep that conversational tone going.
Get him a little out of breath here in a second, see how eloquent he stays. ]
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Something to do with your inability to conceptualise discretion, I'd wager.
[ Those are too many syllables to be capable of saying in this circumstance, and it's probably deliberate -- but Bull still gets his way as they come out on a shivery exhale, and then there's a quiet, far less articulate sound the next time he feels the blunt of the other man's teeth at the spot on his neck being worked. There's a lot of Bull pressing in closely, the heat of his breath and the friction of keratin and craggy flesh where Dorian's chin bumps into the jut of horn.
He's done his best with his own clothing, so his hands seek out what exists of Iron Bull's. Blunt fingernails audibly scrape along thick leather, searching blindly. ]
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[ There's no annoyance there, despite his words. Only a small grunt as Dorian nudges against the edge of his horn, and when he feels that silky fabric under his hands start to give way he tugs, peeling his robes open down the center. Luckily for Dorian the buckle to Bull's belt is as big as everything else, easily found.
He's got it covered. And Bull's got purchase on a new expanse of bare skin, the scruff of his chin rasping against Dorian's collar bone as he nuzzles in. Inhales that scent. Sandalwood, maybe? Ridiculously complicated notes in that fragrance clinging to his skin, but the smokiness of it suits him. ]
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[ But that one breezy quip delivered, and he's quiet while he works open Bull's belt, tugging at leather to loose it completely, slithering through fastenings and discarded in the dark. It's a little difficult not to simply bask in the attention and
well, he does, for a bit, a private crooked smile over the top of Bull's head and thinks the thoughtful, slightly wistful touch of cologne that morning wasn't a waste after all. He again smooths his palms over the generous slopes of Bull's shoulders, his back, touching what he's been accused of admiring since they met.
Dorian then levers himself up enough to shrug properly out of his robes. Beneath them, he's bare chested, trousers buckled closed, still. Endless fastenings, and at least several strapping him into his boots. ]
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Maybe it's just a relief to be on the same page. Knowing what they want, and what the other wants too. At least to some extent.
A page that includes reaching down, past Dorian's belt, and rubbing the heel of his palm up between his thighs. Bull draws back just enough to catch Dorian's face by the dim light filtering through the tent canvas. ]
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In turn, Bull can see a glint of ivory as Dorian's mouth parts, an exhale leaving him, his voice caught tight in his throat. Being quiet, as indicated. When he catches that look, his lips press back together, lounging in place up on his elbows, shoulders bare. He is rigid beneath Bull's hand and through his pants, and he pushes his hips up in a slow, deliberate roll.
He might spook, but it won't be until after they're done, and he has to think ahead, and get dressed in the dark, and leave, even if it's blizzarding. ]
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An easier way would just be making sure his mouth is otherwise occupied. And it takes nearly nothing to lean in over him, palming him through his pants and plying his mouth open again in another heated kiss. Dorian's got a talented tongue, after all.
Shame for him to do nothing but hold it. ]
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By now, he's only somewhat forgotten that they've made a makeshift bedding out of his things, the more sensuous wind of his body losing a little of its rhythm, squirming as the heels of his boots dig in amongst his cloak.
He breaks the kiss off, lying back with a breathless pant. When he speaks, his hiked his voice down, quiet. ]
Plenty warm, now. Too warm. I think we've overdone it, don't you agree?
[ That doesn't mean stop, if the purr in his voice is any indication. Reaching down, his fingertips have slid down until the waistline of Bull's trousers, fingernails finding softer flesh. ]
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[ Lips crooking at the corners, Bull gives a little growl of approval and cants his hips forward, letting Dorian slip those nimble fingers down past his waistband. 'Soft' only applies so far, there. Half-hard and quickly growing harder at the mage's touch, he huffs out a breath of his own and adjusts the grip of his fingers, shifting higher to pluck at the ridiculous fastenings holding Dorian's pants in place. ]
Mm. Find what you were looking for?
[ Amusement is colored a shade darker by something heavier in his tone, a little rougher at the edges. ]
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The amusement is hard to read, even when he echoes it back, but Dorian can hear, too, the shadow in Bull's voice, spurring him on. He's watching Bull's face in turn as he curls his fingers around blood-warm flesh, stroking up once from root to tip. ]
A vulnerability, [ he says, in call back to their newly found habit of sparring. ] At last.
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[ There's a playful edge to that growl that ought to be familiar enough. Generally when Dorian is about to take a tumble, and Bull's seconds away from execution. But they're not there yet, and Bull's still working fabric and leather down around those slender hips.
Won't help the heat, unfortunately, not at this proximity. Where skin rubs against skin the heat just bleeds through, nearly thick enough for sweat. ]
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[ His other hand disentangles itself to help with the state of his own clothing, hips shifting to slide them down further. He isn't shy, not with this sort of thing, and certainly not in the dark, teeth catching at his bottom lip at the flush of cooler air followed only by the soak of heat off of Iron Bull.
If he's going to start growling like that in here, it might well ruin sparring time. Or improve it. The daunting future is mentally shoved back in its place by the time he's freed himself enough of the way of his smallclothes, his hand drifting to his own cock, already hard, has been getting there since he was dropped amongst his furs.
Which isn't to say he's forgotten Bull. His hand squeezes. ]
But you don't strike me as the type who begs for it.
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[ And with that almost-chuckle in his throat, Bull reaches for Dorian's wrists. Tugging them away, pinning them above his head in the furs before he can get too satisfied with himself. In the darkness one eyebrow still cocks higher. ]
I'm not.
[ As his hips roll forward, his cock drags upwards against Dorian's, and that earns another low noise, quiet in the dark. Heat, and friction, and skin against skin, and it's damn good. Not quite all he's aiming for tonight, but Dorian doesn't need to know that just yet. ]
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By the time he opens his eyes, the acknowledgement that Bull's caught him off-guard is in eye contact, the wry twinge at the corner of his mouth, which is damp from kissing, the articulate curl of hair along his lip less precise than usual.
Beneath Bull's palms, Dorian twists his captured wrists, an attempt at escape that doesn't actually merit being verbalised. Nor pausing from shifting his hips up into Bull's angling. ]
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[ And wouldn't that be a sound to hear? Demands, first, biting the same way he curses in the midst of battle. Then pleas. The thought's enough to have his cock twitch faintly with interest, and for a moment it seems a consideration. Bull leans close enough to catch Dorian's lower lip with his teeth before humming thoughtfully. ]
Not tonight.
[ Let him think on it, while he wriggles there, trying unconvincingly to pry his hands free.
Meanwhile another cant of his hips has them rubbing together all over again, and the heat just mounts by the second. ]
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It remains to be seen. He manages; ] I might take that bet, [ without all the way registering that repartee is in itself an assumption as The Future, voice husky and thick in his throat.
The struggles of his wrists -- testing weight, strength, limits -- cease as his focus is dragged right back down and low between them, pushing his knee up in an attempt at leverage. He feels more worked up than he ought to be, which he can chalk up to dry spells, but he has to swallow another sound, turning his head into the crook of his arm. ]
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There'll be a next time. He's willing to bet on it. He'll wait for Dorian to decide that for himself, of course, but it seems inevitable. That pull in his gut says as much.
Another thrust, another long drag against Dorian's cock with his own, and Bull smirks into the darkness. Yeah, that's good. The ripples of it run right up his spine and melt down again in a warm flush, and sitting here and just rutting sounds good. But it could be better. ]
Later. Got to stay quiet, remember?
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something
anything else that is more. Trapped hands splay fingers as if to work out his own tension. He is used to instigating, to controlling pace and tempo, but he is not so used to it that he wants to tip this particular balance too far. In the gloom, as he looks back up at Iron Bull, his eyes are bright.
Quietly, then, tone velvety; ]
Do you want to fuck me, Iron Bull? [ He presses his hips back up again, meeting movement. ] How quiet do you think you could stay?
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But it's not about that. Not just yet. His lips curl as Dorian arches, that sweet drag of friction, and his grip on his wrists loosens. ]
Thought about that. That's why I had something else in mind, this time.
[ There's barely enough room to shift down, and it aches to drag himself away from the feel of him, but tugging his hips a little higher and he doesn't need to go far. Just dip his head down low enough to run his tongue along the underside of Dorian's cock.
Number of ways to make sure he stays quiet. Dorian might not have the same advantage. ]
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Unexpected. Dorian's hands fly down to press palms into the fur under him, and his laugh is quiet, breathy.
Without Bull all over him, he can feel winter a little more, but by now, the air in the tent is warmed from moving bodies that it is almost a relief. Nearly tentative, Dorian's hand wanders down, touching the outside curve of one of Bull's horns. They make for tempting handles, but he just follows craggy lines lightly with fingernails, a little curious in a way as to how that feels, if it feels at all.
Curious, but it's a question for another time, when the rest of him is utterly preoccupied with the feeling of Bull's mouth just over his erection, his arousal a dull throb in time with his heart beat. And the ghost sensation still around his wrists, from when Bull had gripped them. ]
I'm certainly-- [ he swallows around a mouth that's gone dry, internally cursing ] --open to suggestion.
[ Yeah, he can feel his usual cleverness pooling into his groin like so much blood. Whatever. So long as Bull puts his mouth around him again. ]
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I'll bet. They're not gonna break, you know.
[ And with a chuckle he's back to it, more slow, deliberate laps against the length of him, drawing it out, working until he can feel him tense before finally wrapping his lips around him. Let him sink into that heat and forget the chill in the air. Push away everything outside this tent, if only for a time.
This is for him. ]
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He doesn't pull so much as firm up his grip as he levers his hips up in a subtle twitch, responsive and needful. His heel planted against Bull's muscular back digs in ever so, little coils of bodily tension that give and release. ]
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Another dip of his head and Bull takes him in further, tightening the pull of his mouth as he draws back and flicks his tongue against the head of his cock before swallowing him down again. A little further each time, this time with a low hum, this time with a swipe at his slit. Dorian's needy little shifts unconsciously set a rhythm that he follows, his eye still open, still resting on the mage where he lies.
He was right. Disheveled was a good look for him. ]
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Dorian's other hand kneads at furs until he remembers that it's his clothing, and finds instead to rest first on his own belly, then downwards, knuckles brushing along the rough texture of Bull's jaw line, resting at the bend of shoulder and neck.
Fingernails bite, and he makes a sound. Getting close, and there's no part of him that desires to delay the inevitable. ]
Bull--
[ Fair warning, really. ]
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But oh. The way his name sounds on his lips. Yeah. He could get used to that, faster than he might admit to. ]
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