It isn’t as if the world has narrowed.
The Bull tightens his grip on Dorian’s hair, pulling him up so that even arching his back Dorian can barely keep his weight on his hands as he braces himself against the mattress. It’s rougher than the Bull would generally go, but he trusts Dorian by now. He’s trusted Dorian for a long time. And it’s different, the trust that comes with time rather than the trust taken on for so long as the sex lasts. He trusts Dorian at his back, on his back, asleep and awake, near or miles away. He trusts Dorian here and now, whimpering (though he’d never admit it) with the pain, to say when it’s too much. Dorian hasn’t broken that trust since the beginning. Not since he knew he had it.
“Bull,” says Dorian, both pleading and demanding, and the Bull bends to kiss his shoulder. Not yet, not yet. They move together as if joined, pressed too close to fall out of rhythm now. But the Bull feels the room around them, the warmth from Dorian’s fire, the light overtone of his cosmetics from where they stand in curved lines on the vanity. He knows it. And around them Skyhold, and beyond Skyhold the Frostbacks, and all of that contained by Thedas and whatever the fuck lies beyond the borders of any map. The world is vast, and Dorian is its center.
Dorian has said as much, and laughed with Varric and the Inquisitor, or the Chargers, or anyone who’ll listen. But not the way that Bull thinks in this moment.
The hand not in Dorian’s hair the Bull strokes down Dorian’s chest and to his belly and the curled dark hair that trails below. Ah, ah, Dorian gasps, stomach rippling in and then back when the Bull presses firmer against him. He’d come apart so easy, at a touch, at just the right angle of the Bull’s cock.
But the Bull wants Dorian here, desperate and craving his touch, safe in his arms…
And that has little to do with comfort, or trust. Or maybe, everything to do with those things.
They had a plan for this evening, finally together after weeks apart, Dorian off tracking Venatori in the Western Approach, the Bull reminding the Chargers he exists by escorting them along operations for Cullen. You’ll find me rather open to suggestion today, Dorian had said, fresh from the baths. Perhaps you’d like to prepare your offer in advance.
But now even as his cock rubs against Dorian’s ass, he wants just this, rubbing together as they move, Dorian tightening around him just as surely as when the Bull is inside him. The plug Dorian wears moves deep within him, and there are so many other ways the Bull could fuck him.
The Bull reaches down for Dorian’s plug, but he only tugs it back to push it in again, though Dorian cries out all the same. “Will you,” he says, “Bull, will you just—”
Without thinking, the Bull’s tongue nearly trips on that clipped ‘k’ before he catches himself, and oh, why should he think that here, rubbing his cock against the heat of Dorian’s ass, hands on Dorian’s hips so close to relief.
“Leave it in.”
It’s not something Dorian needs, specifically. Dorian needs this, being overwhelmed and taken care of and trusted, able to trust. He doesn’t need to be stuffed full, although he enjoys it. Neither does the Bull need specifically to fuck Dorian, though something here is sating him, something he can’t describe. Something here he’s yearning for, another feeling the Qun never prepared him for.
Dorian whines, and the Bull reaches one hand out and forward, over Dorian’s shoulder to brush forth and back on his lips. “Give me your thighs,” the Bull says, not a question but not an order either. It passes through his lips rough as the breath Dorian takes in. But Dorian brings his legs closer together, just far enough for the Bull to slot his cock in, freshly oiled. When Dorian closes his legs again it’s with a squeeze hard enough to punch the air out of the Bull’s lungs in something like a shout, in as much pleasure as pain.
Then they move together as before, the Bull thrusting down and Dorian undulating beneath him, swearing when the Bull haul him up by the hips for better range of motion. He swears again when the Bull wraps a hand around his cock. A kiss to the shoulder, then, and a bite to the neck, to soothe before setting him off again.
In this new angle, the Bull hits the back of Dorian’s balls each thrust in, to Dorian’s hitched breath and low moans, punctuated in demands—“Move, Bull, kaffas, can’t you—” pleading—“oh, please, I need—” and praise—“you feel so good, I want this, I want you, I want you, I want—”
“I’m right here,” says the Bull, and “fuck,” and then he pulls his tongue down from the roof of his mouth and groans wordlessly, burying his teeth in Dorian’s skin before he can say anything else.
Dorian leans his weight on one arm and brings the other between his legs to loosely take hold of the Bull’s cock, tracing circles over the head with his thumb. The next bead of precome Dorian swipes clean and then takes his hand away to taste with a breathy moan—as if he craves the taste independently of the act of sucking the Bull off, as if it’s getting him off as sure as being touched.
And then he swears vehemently when the Bull lets go of his cock. “What are you—" he begins, but then Bull reaches between them, never breaking the rhythm of their fucking, to jostle the base of Dorian’s plug, and his sharp words cut off into a ragged gasp.
“C’mon,” the Bull says, now rubbing the plug up and down, thrusting further between Dorian’s legs so that their cocks slide together. Dorian swears again, breathless now, and the Bull groans without having planned to. “Dorian, I got you, just let it happen, just come for me, gorgeous, Dorian…”
“Your fingers,” Dorian barely grits out, “in me, oh, please,” and how can the Bull refuse? How could he refuse Dorian anything? Even that word lurking in the back of his throat won’t stay unsaid too much longer at this rate.
He’d meant get Dorian off solely by fucking him, but Dorian begs so sparingly and so prettily, and makes such helplessly small sounds as the Bull pulls the plug from his ass with ever more shallow pushes back in. A low cry, when the plug comes free, but Dorian chokes on it when the Bull finishes slicking his hand and presses two fingers in deep.
Thrusting his hand counterpoint to his cock, it doesn’t take long before the Bull has Dorian shuddering and gasping. The Bull can’t slow his thrusts now, the blood in his cock pounding and his balls tightening in anticipation, but with one more stroke against his prostate Dorian jerks forward and comes hard on his belly and chest and the blankets beneath him. No time for the Bull to set a pounding pace, though. When Dorian tightens around him, he groans and follows Dorian over the edge.
They collapse there on the bed, the Bull almost completely on top of Dorian, warm skin to warm skin. He’s muttering Qunlat phrases he didn’t know he could form, and that two-syllable word muffled by the back of Dorian’s neck. When he moves to pull away, Dorian twists back to grab his wrist. “Stay,” Dorian says in a voice gone hoarse, “if you are so inclined. That is—I’d like you to stay.”
“Shit, kadan,” the Bull says, and how easily it rolls off his tongue. “I’m not going anywhere.”