They’re running around in the arse-end of nowhere when it happens. Dorian starts it, of course; once again he says something prickly and unkind to the Iron Bull, something intentionally incendiary, though in retrospect he realizes he may perhaps have used language a touch more florid than intended -- descriptions of flexing muscles and huffing breath weren't really necessary to make his point, after all -- but the response he gets from the Bull nearly strikes him mute. Which is, truly, a feat unto itself.
At first, Dorian is only shocked by the reply. The Bull laughs it off as a simple miscommunication, and while they’re stuck out here on these blighted, unending plains and beset on all sides by foul beasts and fouler people, Dorian is content to let it slide. The Bull’s words, however, circle around the periphery of his consciousness for the rest of the day, a gnawing itch that he does his best to ignore. When night falls and they’re settled in their tents, that’s when the words crash back down upon him, like a lightning bolt to the groin -- and it’s ridiculous, really, because he can hear the Bull snoring loudly from the next tent, and that’s a noise that should cool any libido -- but they hit him all the same.
It’s too cold in the desert at night to sneak off for privacy, and Dorian can’t do anything about his situation with the Inquisitor innocently sleeping next to him, so he concentrates on the the Bull’s obnoxious, utterly unarousing snoring and thinks about the fact that the Bull would likely rather fight him than fuck him -- not that he’d want the Iron Bull to want to fuck him, what a ridiculous thought -- and eventually his condition cools and allows him to fall asleep.
As the days pass, though, those words continue to hound him. At least Bull seems to have taken him at his word that filthy pillow talk had not, in fact, been Dorian’s intention when he’d brought up rippling muscles and conquest; however, the suggestive quips haven’t abated in the slightest. If Dorian hears one more euphemistic remark about his staff, he might actually have to dignify it with a response, if only to inform the Bull directly how tiresome the comparison has become. His put-upon groans and sighs of exasperation haven’t yet proved effective; in fact, they seem only to spur the man on to greater heights of absurdity.
Then Bull casually offers an opportunity for Dorian to “explore” his supposed urge to “do the forbidden,” and he finds himself flustered, something he hasn't felt since his awkward youth. He’s lost for words in the face of what seems on the surface to be simple flirtation. But he still doesn't know if he can trust this fragile camaraderie that’s built up around the Inquisitor. He may no longer sleep with one eye open, but he still wonders if -- or more likely when -- the knife will find its way into his back. Especially the Iron Bull’s knife, and that’s no euphemism. So he splutters, frustrated, and Bull teases him about that, too, and Dorian distantly wonders what’s gotten into him that he’d allow such simple, unsubtle overtures to rile him up so much.
There’s drinking the night they return to the rest of the Inquisition -- but then, there’s always drinking at Skyhold -- and Dorian is already deep in his cups when the Chargers start up with their rowdy singing and the Bull’s raucous laughter can be heard booming across the tavern, its deep rumble sending those words he’d said out in the field skittering once again through Dorian’s mind.
Tear those robes off…
Pin you down…
I. Will. Conquer you.
Dorian is thankful for the effects of deep inebriation on a man’s constitution: he couldn't maintain an erection now without magic if he wanted to, no matter how much of his blood is thudding its way directly to his dick. He orders another drink to forget the embarrassment of such an adolescent response, and then another after it, and when he wakes up the next morning he’s in his chair in the library with no recollection of how he got there. Fully clothed, thank Andraste, and none the worse for wear aside from the pounding headache and gut rot. Not that he expected… well, he’s made foolish drunken mistakes before.
Helisma tells him he got himself to the library with a little bit of assistance from one of the Chargers, but Helisma isn't sure which one. That would have been orchestrated by the Bull, of course, because of course the Qunari ex-spy would see to the safety of a Tevinter mage -- the son of a Magister, no less -- in his moment of weakness, of course he would. In the Inquisition, nothing really makes sense.
It’s been nearly a week since that day out in the field, but the Bull’s words haven’t left him alone for more than a few moments at a time since then. If anything, they’ve grown more insistent, and they’re multiplying, spinning off new snippets of phrases; things the Bull has never said to Dorian or even said around him, but they knock around in his head in that deep, gruff voice nonetheless. I’ll fuck you raw… make you beg. It’s those new ones that scare him, and not because they’re unwelcome. On the contrary, he’s brought himself off to them more than twice.
What frightens him is the way he looks at the Bull, now; how he notices the muscles in the Bull’s back and shoulders flexing during battle, how the Bull’s scent -- leather and sweat and metal, a warrior’s smell -- no longer repulses him. There isn't a night at the tavern that he isn't keenly aware of Bull’s every guffaw and shout, not a night where Dorian doesn't find himself staring across the tavern, hoping the Bull will look back at him and then averting his gaze when he does. Various drinking companions have commented on Dorian’s preoccupation; luckily, they’re not aware of what (or whom) he’s so distracted by, but he’s hardly able to hold a conversation anymore. Blaming it on drink only works for so long.
Tonight Dorian decides to join the Chargers in their nightly revelry. He’s done so before (before the last mission, before Bull said those things to him out on the plains) and it’s usually a good time, provided one can abide their breaking into song at any given moment and the many and varied inside jokes. He’s always a bit surprised by the ease with which he’s welcomed into the fold -- not just with the Chargers, either, but with the Inquisition as a whole. Oh, there have been a few gaffes, a few sideways glances here and there, even some whispers behind his back, but considering the way he’s glanced at and whispered about by the rest of the populace here in the South, it’s a vast improvement.
The Chargers welcome Dorian each in their own way: a few raised tankards, a few guarded looks, a nod here and a smile there, and Bull’s lieutenant has taken to sassing him in Tevene about his lineage by way of greeting. In the Imperium, a Soporati insulting an Altus thus was a dangerous game, but here in the Inquisition and among Bull’s company, Dorian understands it for what it is: a rite of passage. Dorian retorts in their mother tongue that Krem is the son of a vulture, and the rest of the Chargers fall silent, lowering the din in the tavern significantly. People at other tables take notice; the Chargers are never silent.
A few of Bull’s company -- Dalish, Stitches and… Skinner, Dorian thinks -- glance between the two of them with interest, seemingly waiting to see how Krem reacts to the insult they can’t understand. For a long moment there’s no change in the man’s stiff expression, but eventually the facade cracks and he laughs, so everyone else goes back to their carousing. Dorian orders a round and when it comes, they all toast, and within moments they’re singing. Equilibrium recovered.
Dorian meets Bull’s gaze then -- Bull looks happy, even proud, and that should really irritate him more than it does. It should feel patronizing. Look at you, making friends with my boys! They like you! Good on you! Dorian’s had enough patronizing for one lifetime. Several lifetimes, in fact. It irritates him that it doesn't irritate him, so he takes a large gulp of his ale and tries to put it out of his mind.
They joke and laugh and sing late into the night, the lot of them -- well, Dorian jokes and laughs along when he understands what they’re on about, but leaves the singing to the others -- and as usual the Chargers are among the last in the tavern when the barman announces closing time. Dorian is rather drunk and there’s a pleasant warmth in his belly that tells him he’s about to make a decision he’ll likely regret tomorrow, but right now he can’t find it in him to care. As the chatter winds down and goodbyes are being said, Dorian rises and bids them all good night. He claps Bull firmly on the shoulder as he passes, then makes his way as gracefully as he can toward the exit. Considering his state of inebriation, he is proud to be able to remain standing at all, let alone capable of his usual gait. Maybe there’s a bit of sashay in it tonight. Entirely unintentional, of course.
Hoots and whistles follow. The Chargers have doubtlessly noticed the glances exchanged between him and their captain over the hours: the Bull’s direct, unwavering gaze had felt almost physically heavy whenever he noticed it on him. Dorian is no shrinking violet, and he’d met that gaze with a brow delicately arched and his most beguiling smile every time. What the Chargers didn't know was the little magic-infused squeeze he’d given Bull’s shoulder on his way past: a burst of tingling warmth, just on this side of uncomfortable. He’s not sure whether his invitation has been understood as such, but the way the muscle tensed under his touch, he knows the Bull felt it.
One part of him, fueled by alcohol and loneliness, wants Bull to make good on his words, wants him to answer for all the distraction and the furtive glances. Another part of him knows himself well enough by now to anticipate the hollow feeling he’ll be left with in the aftermath. This dance has played out before. The physical release may be exactly what he wants, but they still have to work together afterward.
Dorian’s on his way back toward his room when he hears heavy footfalls on the stone walkway behind him. He resists the urge to turn around but slows his gait, hears the sound draw closer, only slightly louder than the nervous thumping of his heart. A gust of hot breath on his neck warns him of Bull’s proximity; Bull crowds up behind him in the empty courtyard, presses bodily against him and whispers low and gravelly in his ear. “If that meant what I think it meant--” A deep inhale against his neck, smelling him. Dorian’s legs feel weak, his head is swimming with alcohol and arousal, and as he feels himself melt against Bull’s muscular chest, he distantly acknowledges that he’s committed to this, now. Bull chuckles as Dorian goes nearly limp, but the deep husky thrum of his voice says he’s more aroused than amused. “We should take this inside. My room’s closer.”
“That’s probably wise,” Dorian answers, his voice strangely light, reedy. With concerted effort he pulls himself away, gets his feet firmly under him. “I’m not sure I could handle stairs in my current state.” He marches off toward Bull’s room, those heavy footfalls following him through the courtyard. He stops when he reaches the door, stands to the side while Bull opens it -- it’s not even locked, Dorian notes -- and leaves it open behind him for Dorian to follow. Dorian draws the door closed behind him as he clears the threshold and then Bull is in his space again, crowding him back against the wood, a veritable mountain of Qunari pressing him against the cool, hard surface.
Bull is head and horns taller than Dorian, and has to lean down to kiss him, which ends the full-body contact, but Bull shoves his leg between Dorian’s so that the hard muscle of his thigh is pressed firmly against Dorian’s cock through his leather trousers.
Dorian gasps at the contact, grinds against Bull’s thigh, bites Bull’s lower lip and pulls on it with his teeth. Bull growls into his mouth before sliding his hands around Dorian’s back to grab and knead his arse, and then lifts him -- picks him up! -- and grabs Dorian under the thighs, pulls on him until he wraps his legs around Bull’s waist. Dorian is not a small man, and the way he’s being manhandled is not something he ever expected he’d like, but it’s exhilarating.
Dorian bites Bull’s lip again, draws blood. The sound Bull makes is primal, it sends heat down his spine in waves. Bull grinds against him so hard it’s almost painful. Even between the layers of leather and the giant metallic buckle at Bull’s waist, Dorian can feel how hard he is. Not just his cock, though the way Bull’s rutting against him he’s sure that’s hard too, but him. He’s all rugged muscle, gristle and scar tissue; rough hands gripping Dorian’s hips, sandpaper stubble against Dorian’s cheek, his neck, leaving burning sensitivity in its wake as Bull kisses and sucks at his skin.
Bull’s grip tightens on the backs of Dorian’s thighs, he centers his weight, and suddenly Dorian’s back is no longer being supported by the door. Bull turns and takes a few unsteady steps into the room, and Dorian hears his own voice, shrill with momentary panic, saying “What do you think you’re--” before he’s suddenly dropped, deposited into the spill of blankets on Bull’s bed. “Doing,” he finishes, but Bull’s already following him down, climbing in over top of him and reclaiming his lips.
Bull settles much of his weight on top of Dorian, parting Dorian’s legs with his knees and propping himself up slightly on one elbow, his other hand sliding up under Dorian’s tunic, hot palm against his skin. Dorian uses what little leeway he’s got, pinned underneath Bull as he is, to worm out of his shirt -- a ridiculous thing of straps and buckles which looks devilishly handsome but only serves to frustrate him now when it catches around his rib cage and leaves him half bound. He makes a frustrated noise and Bull stops kissing him long enough to help him out of the blighted thing, tosses it aside, then looks down at Dorian with unrestrained want. Even so, he’s obviously holding himself back.
“See something you like?” Dorian crosses his arms above his head, posing unselfconsciously. He watches Bull’s eye track across his collarbones, over his pecs, down to his abs, then back up to his face. Dorian licks his lips, intentionally provocative, lets his eyes go hooded. “You can touch, you know.”
“There’s something we've got to talk about first,” Bull says, suddenly serious. He sits back on his knees between Dorian’s thighs, but Dorian sits up to follow, his deft hands moving to Bull’s belt and halfway unfastening it before he finds his hands immobilized, held in a firm grip.
“Hold on, just a minute,” Bull says, squeezing his good eye closed tightly and then opening it again. It seems to take him a while to focus -- his eye is red-rimmed, but strangely clear. “If there’s anything you don’t like--”
Dorian rolls his eyes, strains upward for another kiss to shut him up, but Bull holds firm and keeps his distance. Bull’s expression is uncharacteristically serious; it’s almost comical while they’re both so drunk -- almost, but not quite, because Dorian’s never seen that look on him in all the time they've spent together. Serious like he’s about to call the whole thing off if whatever it is he’s about to say doesn't go over well.
“Oh, all right,” Dorian sighs, settles back against the sheets. Bull releases his hands, so he folds them under his head and affects his best air of nonchalant boredom. Despite being drunk, he’s still very good at it. “Tell me whatever it is that’s so important you’d risk letting me reconsider, but do it quickly or--”
Bull cracks a bit of a smile as he interrupts Dorian’s grouching. “In case you reconsider,” he says, and then that serious look is back, so Dorian ignores the interruption and falls silent; “or if there’s anything you don’t like, we need a watchword.”
Dorian can feel his face flushing as his mind fills with all the various activities one might need a watchword for. By the sly grin on Bull’s face, it seems he’s picked up on Dorian’s wandering thoughts. “All right then, give me a word. I can’t be bothered to think one up myself.”
“Katoh,” says Bull, decisive. “You say that and I stop, no questions asked. All right?”
Dorian almost asks what it means, but he’s too impatient for that, and the expectant silence between them is growing heavier with each heartbeat, each breath, so he only repeats it to get the feel of it in his mouth. “Katoh. Point made. Can we get back to it now, or have I not sufficiently met my quota of waiting?”
At that, Bull laughs, and that intoxicatingly dangerous rumble is back. He leans forward, wrapping his arms under and around Dorian’s upper thighs and yanks him until Dorian’s bottom is firmly in his lap. He finishes the work Dorian had begun on his belt and then leans forward to hover over Dorian, draws a rough palm slowly down Dorian’s naked torso and begin the process of unfastening all the finicky buckles on his leather trousers.
“No more waiting,” Bull promises. His expression is hungry, and Dorian squirms under the intensity of it, the effect of which is far more pleasurable than it ought to be. With the belt buckle out of the way Dorian can feel the proof of Bull’s arousal, nestled into the cleft of his arse and rubbing ever so slightly against the base of his own erection.
“Just one thing,” Dorian says once Bull has peeled the leather from his legs, leaving him in nothing but his dreadfully expensive black silk small-clothes. He turns himself over, ostensibly to reach down to the floor where his trousers landed, but he stretches himself out needlessly and arches his back just so, ensuring a gentle curve of his spine that accentuates a round, pert bottom. He knows how the silk clings, and when he glances over his shoulder he can see that the maneuver worked: Bull is staring, transfixed, at his rear, and palming a rather impressive erection. Dorian places his prize on the bed next to him and waits until Bull’s attention finally falls on it: a small vial he’d slipped into a pocket before leaving for the tavern, full of a deep amber-coloured fluid. “Best Orlesian oil money can buy,” he says, and Bull grins his acknowledgement.
A calloused hand blazes a trail along Dorian’s flank, fingertips gripping his flesh and dragging the silk down to reveal his buttocks and thighs to the cool air. “So smooth,” Bull rumbles, leaning closer to press his lips to the swell of Dorian’s arse, stubble rasping lightly before he takes the flesh between his teeth and bites just hard enough to make Dorian tense. He releases his grip, gives the spot he bit a playful smack, then grabs and kneads it.
“Bathing regularly helps,” Dorian quips, pressing back into the rough caress, but the husky, breathy quality of his voice means the implied insult is toothless. Bull noses into the crease between cheek and thigh and inhales deeply, eliciting a noise of protest from Dorian, but Bull holds him in place so he can’t squirm away.
“You smell fantastic,” Bull growls, licking along that crease and inward, hands gripping both buttocks and parting them. “I’m going to eat your tight little asshole.”
“Filthy creature,” Dorian splutters, turning as far as he can to glare at Bull more fully. “That’s barbaric.”
“You bathed just before you came to the tavern, I can smell it. Lavender,” Bull says with a deep inhale, his nose nudging the underside of Dorian’s balls. “Be a shame to waste all that effort.” He nips at the flesh of Dorian’s cheek again, enticingly close to his hole.
Dorian can feel the flush creeping up his neck, darkening his cheeks, so he turns back and presses his flushed face into the sheets. “Do what you want, you beast,” he says, voice muffled by the fabric, and he’s sure Bull can see right through him, see how intrigued he is by the idea despite his (admittedly weak) protests.
Bull laughs, digs his thumbs into the crease between Dorian’s cheeks and spreads him open. “You know what to say if you want me to stop?”
After a long moment, Dorian nods, just enough to be visible. Bull wastes no time, licks a warm, wet path from the underside of Dorian’s balls, along his perineum and over his hole, which flutters slightly at the touch. Dorian lets out a shuddered exhale with an embarrassing little whine at the end, and Bull responds with a guttural, animalistic growl, spreads him wider and spears Dorian with the hard tip of his tongue. Dorian rubs his face against the cool sheets and moans, head swimming with the forbidden pleasure of it, rocks his hips down just enough to rub his erection into the mattress to seek some relief for the pressure building in his groin.
As good as it feels, it’s not just the physical pleasure that’s got him so wound up: it’s the insolence of it, the way Bull nips and sucks at him, the wet writhing of Bull’s tongue inside him, the sounds it makes. It’s vulgar and bestial and it’s got him winding his fists in the sheets, spreading his thighs, seeking more. Bull’s thumbs push inside him, open him even wider while that tongue swirls wetly around the sensitive rim and then fucks into him again. “Filthy, filthy,” Dorian moans, and then Bull pulls back a bit, replaces his tongue with a thick fingertip, pressing lightly on his hole, just barely inside him.
“I knew you had a thing for the forbidden.” Bull traces little circles over Dorian’s hole, the pad of his finger dipping into him and then receding until Dorian groans in frustration. Then he pushes his finger in past the second knuckle and Dorian feels himself squeeze shut against the sudden intrusion after so much teasing, so he takes a breath, hears the quiet thup of the stopper being pulled from its vial. He glances over his shoulder again to see Bull let the oil drip down -- he can’t see where it lands, but he soon smells the fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle as it fills the air. Bull twists his finger one way, then the other, the viscous oil smoothing his way while he massages the tight muscle into relaxing.
Just one finger is inside him but it’s been so long since Dorian has let anyone touch him like this that it feels immense, and not just physically. There had been a few trysts, a few rolls in the sheets, a quick rutting with some other Magister’s son in the dark, but always with the knowledge that an orgasm was all it could ever be. He’d bottomed, and he’d topped, whatever felt good at the time, but he’d rarely let himself be so vulnerable.
Now he’s spread, bare, offering himself up to a man he’d once have thought would gladly rend him limb from limb at the earliest convenience. After all the horrid, atrocious flirting, he finds he’s fairly certain now what Bull’s motives are, and he thoroughly approves, so he backs into the pressure of Bull’s finger to take more in.
“Good boy,” Bull huffs, breath hot on Dorian’s lower back, and Dorian’s mind wars with his body about what he thinks of the endearment. His body wins out when Bull pulses his finger a few times and curls it down to rub Dorian’s insides in a way that sends a jolt of pleasure through him and drags a harsh gasp from his throat. “That’s the spot, huh?” Bull chuckles, repeats the motion, and Dorian moans loudly this time. He’s only ever managed to do that on his own, before, and only through awkward contortions that made it impossible to find release at the same time.
“Fasta vass, oh…” Dorian writhes, seeking more of that stimulation, but stills when Bull’s hand presses down on his lower back and holds him there. Bull rubs his finger in slow circles over that spot inside him, gently at first but then pressing harder, and Dorian can’t hold back the huffs and moans that escape him.
“That’s right, let me hear you,” Bull says, his middle finger joining to tease the rim, eventually easing in to join the other. The added girth burns a bit at first, but Dorian’s so wracked with pleasure that the slight discomfort is a welcome distraction, keeping him grounded in his body.
Bull ups the pressure a little, then again, each time just to the edge of discomfort, and each time Dorian’s body adjusts and craves more. Soon Dorian is rutting into the sheets as much as he can with Bull holding him down, and he can feel his release building -- or something like it, at least; it’s never felt this big before -- so he clamps down around Bull’s fingers and tenses his body to keep himself still.
“Stop, kaffas, if you don’t stop now, I’ll--” but Bull doesn't stop, just keeps rubbing, firm and rhythmic, and far too soon the levee breaks. Dorian shouts as he spasms, feels the pleasure crash through him, an unfamiliar full-body pulsing that starts in his groin and spreads outward. “Fuck. Fuck.” His arse twitches and contracts around Bull’s fingers, which have stopped moving but remain inside him, pressing down until the last waves of his orgasm pass.
“Fucking gorgeous,” Bull says once Dorian has stilled, panting but not yet spent. He hasn't come, he realizes, even sliding a hand underneath himself to check. He’s still rock hard, and although there’s a pool of moisture around the tip of his cock, he knows he hasn't ejaculated.
“What,” Dorian pants against his own outstretched arm, unable to summon the energy to move just yet. “Was that?”
“Taught you something, did I?” Bull laughs, easing a third finger in next to the first two. Dorian is pliant now, every muscle relaxed, so the extra digit slips in easily. Bull has no problem fitting all three fingers inside him. Thick fingers. Dorian shivers from the sensation, as well as the memory of what he just felt. And the anticipation of what’s to come. Bull’s not directly rubbing him like he was anymore but Dorian can feel a brief echo of that pleasure each time his fingers slide past. Without noticing it, his hips are moving counter to Bull’s hand, pushing against the thrusts of Bull’s fingers until his knuckles prevent him from sinking any further.
“I really want to fuck you,” Bull says as he removes his fingers, leaving Dorian feeling open, bereft. The vial's stopper is audibly removed again, and Dorian’s seen Bull’s cock, knows he won’t feel empty for long.
“Yes, I had rather hoped you would.” Dorian lifts his hips a bit, reaches one arm back to spread himself, and watches over his shoulder as Bull smooths oil over his cock, watching him right back, that hunger there in his expression again. “Are you waiting for a formal invitation?”
Bull moves to kneel behind him, cock in hand, and he’s rubbing the slick head up and down over Dorian’s hole, dipping in a little on the way down, a little further on the way back up. “Just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.” He pushes slowly in, in, then draws out a fraction. Then in again, and despite all the preparation, despite three of Bull’s fingers in him up to his fist just moments before, it’s still a tight fit. Bull’s being surprisingly gentle, though; he continues to push in slow, measured strokes, adds more oil to ease the way. Dorian bears down to let him in, and Bull makes an approving sort of groan, pets a hand down Dorian’s sweat-damp back.
“Yes, just like that… let me in. Good.” Bull says, low and breathy, and such simple words shouldn't be melting Dorian like they are. Bull eases into him little by little, stopping every few seconds to let Dorian adjust, till finally he’s buried to the hilt and Dorian can feel the front of Bull’s thighs against the the back of his own.
Dorian feels full to bursting but it’s not pain, just that thick, insistent hardness inside him. Bull leans forward over him, one hand on the bed next to Dorian’s head, the other on Dorian’s hip guiding him in a slow motion, pulling out just enough for Dorian to feel the slick slide and then pushing deep again, murmuring soft praise in his ear. “So fucking good.”
Dorian’s voice comes unbidden with each slow push, each hard grind, a breathless mantra of “Ah, ah, ah!” The thick weight of Bull’s cock drags over that sensitized spot inside him with each stroke, warm tendrils of pleasure winding in his gut, down his thighs. Bull gradually ups the tempo, drawing back further and thrusting home with more force, little by little, until he’s jarring Dorian forward with each thrust. Dorian reaches back behind him, his hand on Bull’s thigh just to feel him, feel the muscle tensing under his fingers. His other hand is fisted in the sheets, his elbow dug into the mattress to avoid being nudged further up the bed, but it’s not working. Bull must notice because he pauses just long enough to help Dorian up onto his knees, lifting him by the shoulder and waist so that he’s straddling Bull’s lap with his back against Bull’s chest and that thick cock still buried inside him.
The change in position impales him further and he practically whimpers as he settles, lets his head roll back against Bull’s shoulder, his hair sticking to his forehead and to Bull’s skin. With his legs spread so wide Dorian has no real leverage to fuck himself on Bull’s cock like he wants to, so instead he rocks his hips forward and back, writhes just for the pure haptic pleasure of it.
Bull slides one hand up Dorian’s chest until it rests between his collarbones, thumb against his carotid and fingers covering most of his neck; not choking him in the slightest, just restricting his movement while he fucks him with small, teasing strokes, and keeping Dorian’s head tilted back, the long line of neck and shoulder exposed so Bull can nibble and suck lightly at the delicate skin. “I want to mark you,” he says, voice husky, kissing a trail along Dorian’s neck and then giving one spot a testing nip. Dorian doesn’t respond except to shudder, hiss at the slight sting, roll his head to the side a bit to give Bull more room.
“Yes,” Bull murmurs his approval against Dorian’s skin, bites down hard as he thrusts up into him, and Dorian cries out from the mingled pain and pleasure. Then Bull’s laving the spot with his tongue, dragging his teeth over the tender skin, closing his lips around it and sucking more blood to the surface to darken the bruise, all while continuing the maddeningly, tortuously slow rocking of his hips.
Bull’s hand on Dorian’s hip shifts, then, moving toward his groin but bypassing his aching cock, snaking down instead between his legs to feel the rim of his hole, stretched as it is around Bull’s girth. Dorian’s moan is pleading, frustrated; he reaches for his own cock to jack himself off, but Bull answers with a low warning growl and grabs hold of Dorian’s arms, pulling them behind his back and holding his wrists together with one huge hand. It sends a fresh new wave of arousal spiking through Dorian, his cock twitching with it. “Oh, you like that,” Bull observes, uses his free hand to cup Dorian’s balls, the heel of his palm against the root of Dorian’s cock; just pressure, but no movement.
“Fuck, Bull,” Dorian cries, close to begging, and it seems like that’s something Bull particularly likes, because he starts to fuck him harder, using his grip on Dorian’s wrists to pull him down into it. In a far-off way, Dorian is mortified by the sounds he’s making -- keening, high-pitched whines, broken-off sobs as Bull slams up into him -- but right now, restrained and taken, he doesn't care how desperate he sounds. He is desperate: sweat-soaked and trembling, his cries falling near-constantly from his parted lips. Bull’s not being quiet either; little grunts and huffs of breath punctuate his thrusts, skin slaps against skin.
“Please, fuck. Please,” Dorian says, and Bull groans deep and finally, finally wraps his hand around Dorian’s blood-hot erection.
The relief is immediate, if not the release. Bull lets go of Dorian’s arms so he can steady him and Dorian reaches up and back, grabs onto one of Bull’s horns and holds tight, using the leverage the position gives him to thrust into Bull’s hand.
“Oh, fuck yes,” Bull groans, watching Dorian fuck himself between Bull’s cock and his fist, then taking over and matching his thrusts with quick jerks of his hand. “Come on,” he growls in Dorian’s ear. “Come for me.” Dorian feels it building again, as if his body is obeying Bull’s commands.
Sucking in deep breaths, Dorian’s voice leaves him on a whispered “Yes,” as his orgasm builds, his back tensing and thighs flexing rhythmically. “Maker, yes!” His whole body is winding tight, his mouth is dry from his labored breathing, his head rolls against Bull’s shoulder and then he’s coming, shouting and spasming, clamping down on Bull’s cock in waves while his come spurts out of him, the first of it hitting his chin, the rest landing warm and wet on his chest.
“Fuck, Dorian, yes. Perfect,” Bull groans, holding him through it until he’s shuddering and spent. He eases Dorian forward onto the mattress and starts to pull out, but Dorian reaches back to grab his wrist, turns just enough to glare at Bull with one eye.
Bull hasn't come yet, and considering the two fucking amazing orgasms Bull’s given him tonight, Dorian’s not about to let that stand. He has his pride. “You now. Inside me.” All he can manage are sentence fragments; he hopes the meaning is clear enough.
Evidently, it is. Bull wastes no time; he places one hand flat in the middle of Dorian’s back, braces himself with the other and fucks him wildly, not measured and purposeful like before but just a few shallow, desperate thrusts before he buries himself deep with a long, loud groan of completion. Dorian can feel Bull’s cock throbbing, spilling inside him, the ticking pulse of it giving him a brief muscle-memory of his own orgasm. He moans weakly.
They’re both panting, spent; Bull gently pulls out after a few long moments, then collapses next to Dorian, still humming with aftershocks of pleasure. Dorian doesn't so much as twitch in movement, face turned to the side against the pillow, limbs slightly askew, and he's only vaguely aware of the blanket settling over him. He's entirely unaware of falling asleep.