[ Bright little crackles under his skin, sparks that layer little by little until they're as molten as the heat pooling at the base of his spine. He thought he'd known what he was getting into, here. What he'd asked for. Expecting to be overwhelmed and finding himself on the edge of it before Bull's even touched him properly would be mortifying for Zevran if he didn't need it quite so badly.
He hasn't been told to be still. To be quiet. To watch or to close his eyes and those shreds of freedom he falls into gladly- curling one of his legs around the broad expanse of Bull to feel more of his skin. Try tugging him up, tugging him close, urge him to go about his business faster. Between one scrape and the next his breath twists into a low, drawn out whine.
It's good- it's just about where he needs it and the word slips out before he can think to stop himself- or think of what he's asking for. ]
[ Instead of moving on, making a new mark, perhaps even biting hard enough to draw blood, Bull instead teases the mark he's just made. The skin pinches between his teeth, pulled slow, watching it turn redder still. ]
You think you've earned that, yet? I don't think you have.
[ He's free to make noise, to try and buck up and get what Bull won't give him just yet, but that doesn't mean Bull is just going to let him. One solid grip on his ankle later, he's drawing back, enough to spin Zevran around onto his stomach instead.
He's been lying on his bound arms long enough. And besides, there's a whole expanse of pert, pretty ass there that needs marking too. ]
[ The moan Bull drags out with that is low, wounded, and obscene. Half the work is posture, he'd been trained, the rest is the voice. Burned into him are the lilts and sighs and sounds that are to be pleasing and enticing, what noblemen want to hear when they take a lover to their bed, when they ravish a demure elf. That training lingers still, but there is an honest edge to the way his breath hitches after, the way he twists to try and press his legs harder against Bull's mouth if he would not do it himself. ]
Please-
[ And flipped. Like he weighs nothing, he's flipped and lands not with a laugh, but with a whine, hips hitching and grinding against the sheets for some manner of friction. ]
[ But he doesn't get long to try. Fingers pluck at his bindings, pulling him away from the sheets and onto his knees once more. Bull hums, cocking his head thoughtfully. ]
Trying to get yourself off without me? I didn't say you could do that, did I?
[ His free hand drops to caress Zevran's thigh, up along the curve of his ass before squeezing, hard. A swift, sharp smack follows, loud enough to catch against the stone walls and echo, just slightly. ]
No but- [ He sucks in a breath as he's pulled back, turning to peer over his shoulder. ] You didn't say I could not.
[ Not argumentative, but not contrite. An assassin lives in the world of technicalities and semantics but every last argument he might have made for why what he did wasn't entirely wrong was shocked out of him by the quick crack of Bull's hand. He jumps, shoulders going tight and wrists straining against the bods. ]
[ Smack! His hand fell across Zevran's ass again. The first one had been sharp, but really only just enough to get his attention, more noise than strength. The second was definitely meant to leave a sting, and a warm pink mark in its wake. ]
To get yourself off? Rubbing against the bed like some desperate animal?
[ Bull's voice was still even, still low, hadn't raised an octave but had collected that firm edge once more. It was almost soothing, and he'd paused his abuse to palm over muscle and skin, kneading gently for a moment.
All before drawing back and giving that cheek another smack, and watching the way it quivered it response. ]
[ Zevran bites down on his bottom lip to muffle the sound, brain swinging wildly between endure and enjoy, nerves a skittering jangle. Don't cry out, don't flinch, don't think, be elsewhere and he's scrabbling to not go there- the place the Crows taught him of that is cold and hard edged and no comfort whatsoever. He does not wish to sink, he wishes to glide. The voice, the heat, the hand yank him back from all those bone deep instincts and he relaxes. Swallows the word that had been on his tongue.
Enjoy, not endure.
No one that had beat him before had been so steady, been so kind in their strikes. This is good. This is safe. He leans back into the next hit, breath hitching sharply. ]
[ He gives him more. Steady, as before. There's opportunity to pause between them, to rub against reddened skin already starting to glow with heat, until he feels those anxious knots begin to unravel. Then another sharp smack follows. ]
Good. Breathe.
[ There's a difference between beating and this, just as there's a difference between pain and hurting. Zevran can stop this, any time he wants, but if he stays? He'll bring him back from that edge, let him float just as long as he wants.
Finally, the blows stop. There's a heady rumble from behind Zevran as he's pulled back up off of that vulnerable, kneeling position, tugged instead to sit against Bull's thigh. He's still got those ridiculous stripped pants on, Orlesian silk, and he's willing to bet Zevran's going to be grateful for the smooth feeling against his skin right now. ]
That's right. I've got you.
[ One hand smooths against his hip, his thigh, the other pressed flat against his chest. Zevran can lean back into him or forward, and either way he's supported, able to relax for a few short breaths. ]
[ Good, it's good. He's good. It isn't what his instincts called it- this isn't anywhere he's ever been that ended with bruises and blood and cold words- this isn't like anyone he's ever been with before. The hands too large, too warm, the voice too deep, the precise force too careful. He melts into the hits- breathing as he's bid.
It aches but it does not cut into him. This- he's chosen this, choosing this, and he's dragged back from the ragged edge.
He floats a little more with every strike, mouth hanging open for half hitched breaths that smooth out into soft moans as he forgets not to keep quiet. As the instinct to keep still leaves him. Zevran lolls back against Bull, pliant, soft, and faintly adoring, head rolling to rest against his chest. The pressure is intense but the silk- cool and soothing against his reddened skin. ]
Thank you... [ He doesn't know if he's supposed to or if he's not but he's floating, and it's good, and Bull's hands are so warm. That frantic tension uncoils; leaving him boneless. ]
[ Good. He's exactly where he needs to be. He feels that heartbeat rabbiting up under his palm, and it slides, searching out a nipple to pinch, rolling between those calloused fingertips. Gentle, at first. ]
Still want those marks for afterwords?
[ The words ghost against the outer shell of his ear, a hint of a promise. There's a bruise on his hip from earlier and he lets his thumb press into the hollow, dragging against where teeth had marked him not too long ago. ]
Give you something to focus on while I get you good and ready for me.
[ His eyes slip closed, drifting on the slow pass of Bull's palm, pulse slow and steady. Even the pinch doesn't earn a flinch but an arch, pressing into it for more contact to either ground him or drag him higher. ]
Yes-
[ Breathless and on the edge of begging- but the promise of having something to remember him, something to touch afterward and remember this bone deep ache? Massively appeals. ]
[ There is still that single, thin dagger that wasn't discarded, lying in the sheets. This is delicate work, but his hands are steady when they close around the hilt, and a shift of his thigh brings Zevran's legs further apart, urging him to lean back further.
He should be able to watch, to know what's coming, to say if it's too much. Always that sliver of control, even as the tip of the blade starts to press against the inside of his thigh. The lowest bruise to start, just a scrape against mottled skin. Then a slow, steady drag upwards, just enough to leave a thin trail of scarlet beading up behind in its wake. ]
[ He'd forgotten about the knife. He'd forgotten about the knife and that- there's a hitch of anxiety that's shortlived as he leans back further into Bull's chest. He's safe here, Bull can focus on everything else. He doesn't need to think. He only needs to float and to feel. Shivering through the scrape it isn't pain. It isn't anything more a lick of white hot sensation so intense it makes his cock twitch and spurt against his abdomen.
When the command to breathe comes he realizes he's stopped, everything narrowed down to the fine point of his knife. He exhales in a rush and gasps, trying to steady himself. ]
[ He gets to focus on the little things, the praise in that low voice, the pinpoint of sharp, bright sensation and the burn that follows in the tickle of the cool air. ]
Two more.
[ They're small, they'll barely bleed, and they'll heal. But for a few days he'll have a vivid reminder of this to look back on. Meanwhile Bull will have the memory of him like this, bound and gasping for air, that hazy look in his eyes and the glisten of precome on his belly.
Seconds tick by before he sets the blade's tip to his skin again. Just as slow, another line scratches into his skin, thin and red and lined perfectly with the first, connecting those lurid red marks together. ]
Breathe.
[ He's lowered his head, nose resting at his temple, the stirrings of breath a faint tickle against soft, blond hair. He could almost envy him this, the singularity of it, free of need to do anything but focus and feel.
[ Higher and higher, drifting more outside of his skin than in it until that second line drags him back into his skin in a sharp, crackling of light and sensation, sucking the air from his lungs. He needs that reminder to breathe desperately, too wound up in focusing on the parting of his skin under the blade in so slim and subtle a manner.
THe order comes and he breathes, gasping through the self induced dizzy spell, cheek turning to press against Bull's skin in an effort to ground himself without. It doesn't last, there's nothing but the knife and the slow thrumming of Bull's pulse behind him. He matches his breathing to that and it helps keep him from floating so far that the next cut is a shock. Trying to keep track, to count how long until it comes is useless- all he need to do is breathe.
Melt back against him, precome dribbling steadily down his cock, and breathe.
Zevran tips his head back and angles his face in the direction of Bull's, aching for a kiss and uncertain how to ask for it.. ]
[ Then comes the third cut, another thin ribbon of red opening under the pinch of the blade. His gaze is as steady as his stand, staying on point until the line is completely even, and he feels Zevran nuzzling back against him.
Then he catches the full meaning behind the look in those honey-colored eyes. Oh. Oho. Well someone got affectionate while they were floating, didn't they?
Bull's lips creased in a smirk as the blade was laid aside, hand lifting to run against Zevran's tattooed cheek, thumb tracing against the ink. ]
Good. You did real good for me.
[ And a kiss seems fitting enough a reward. But it's no gentle thing. Like everything else, it serves a purpose. It communicates heat, and hunger. It's as much a command as anything else he does, a deep and searching thing that scratches the scruff of his jaw against the elf's skin, and all the effort to breathe is soon to be for naught. ]
[ The cut twists out one last gasp, a faint twitch into the blade before he can stop himself. For a little more of that sharpness, that sweetness and he aches.
He wants more than a knife, more than a hand, he isn't all that certain what it is he wants aside from more.
Stop is the farthest thing from his mind.
Shivering and sweet he tips his head into Bull's hand, leaning into the touch, the praise, glowing under it. Good- he did well. Bull is pleased. As hard as the kiss is he yields; without guile, without a shred of his tricks, he merely takes what he is given and gives all that Bull asks of him; the lack of breath becomes dizzying and he clings. Presses for more, for affection, for approval. ]
[ He takes, and he gives. He tastes the warmth of Zevran's mouth in full and coaxes him up until he's ready to fall again, and when Bull draws back his eye is dark and full of promise. His voice is husky when he speaks again, a rumble against those lips. ]
Gonna be good for me again?
[ The oil is close. Zevran is close, all without having even touched his cock yet. He deserves to have a little time spent exploring that need, plying him open properly. There's patience needed for that, and care, because hurting is different from pain, and he knows the difference. ]
[ Words are difficult when Bull asks- strung high and floating and gasping for breath he knows the answer; offers it in every shiver, in how he presses against Bull's chest for more of whatever he is willing to give. Shamelessly desperate while his brain clicks and winds until the words he wants comes to him- ]
Sì- sarò buono per te, lo prometto-
[ Common is beyond him right at the moment- when or if he'll regain it? He can't begin to imagine. He can't think past the dark promise in Bull's eyes, the rasp of his beard. ]
[ He knows enough to know that's a 'yes', without question. His approval comes in a low growl as he lowers his head, nuzzles against Zevran's throat and finds a spot just beneath his ear to mark, teeth scraping slow against his skin. ]
Good.
[ Easing the elf off his lap and back onto his knees, he lets him bonelessly drape across the sheets. Blood trickles slow in thin rivulets down his thigh, but he can always get more sheets. The warm flat of his palm finds the small of Zevran's back, pressing firm. A reassurance. ]
Stay right. There.
[ He has to lean across to the other side of the bed to retrieve the jar he knows is there, the oil some of that ridiculously fragrant stuff from Orlais. No flowers here, though. It's musky and dark, with a spicy tinge beneath that almost reminds him of gaatlok.
It's that oil that gets smeared across his fingers, and he pauses just long enough to admire the picture Zevran makes, sprawled across his bed on his belly, bruised and reddened ass bare and inviting. Then those thighs are nudged further apart, and one finger strokes between the cleft of his ass. ]
[ Responsive without reservation, Zevran tilts his head to give Bull more room, pressing into the scrape of his teeth as best he's able. The crackling graze and roughness of his stubble wrings out another low, breathy moan. Between the cuts and the kiss and how high he is floating, every sensation seems intensified tenfold.
But it is the word, rumble of approval in Bull's voice that has him honey sweet and sighing. All he needs to do is be good, and he's managing that.
There's a moment when he tries to stay pressed back against Bull, not wanting to lose that support and warmth but having his hand and not needing to hold himself up soothes him easily enough. He can stay still. Do as he's told. Cheek pressed to the mattress, eyes half lidded he turns to watch as best he can- wanting to at least see Bull if he cannot feel him. The sudden spice and familiar glisten of oil has him shivering in boneless anticipation and- much like with the knife- he needs the reminder to breathe. Zevran sucks in air and attempts to roll his hips back- not to grind against the sheets but for more of that too slick touch. ]
[ It's a careful line to draw. He doesn't need gentle, just careful. Bull lets him have that initial bite with the stretching when that finger presses in, feeling the way his body clutches tight around the intrusion. More of those rich, melodic words tumble off his tongue, and Bull obliges him.
That calloused finger crooks, strokes, feels him out and slicks him up while trying to get him to relax a little more. He'd be willing to bet Zevran's not afraid of the issue of size -- and if he was a betting man, he'd say he's not even the first Qunari he's bedded -- but bodies are delicate things. More so than people liked to believe. He knows what it feels like when those threads unspool, when the tension bleeds out and they're ready.
It's generally not when they say they are. And if Zevran get denied a little longer, it's only going to make finally getting what he wants all the sweeter. ]
[ He always feels ready too soon when he's floating- an impatience that he's never truly been able to shake himself of brought to the fore when he has no masks nor mind to hide it. To get the kill over with, to finish the mission, to get to the next thing. Here and now he's drifting and whimpering, mouth hanging open against Bull's slow, calculated assault.
No matter how he seems to hitch or roll his hips he can't get more than Bull intends. It's as much a relief to hang on this glittering bight edge for a little longer as it is infuriating.
He aches. He begs, breath curling in heated Antivan against the sheets. He arches as much as he is allowed, muscles straining against the bindings of his wrists. ]
[ That impatience won't be to his detriment, this time. He has no choice but to wait, to take what he's given when it's given to him. All with the understanding that he'll be taken care, that he'll get what he needs in the end.
It's safe for him here. Has to understand that even when that second finger slides in against the first, distraction coming in the form of fingers in his pale hair, pulling it back from his face and curling tight enough to lift his head from the pillows. ]
Again. Louder.
[ And then Bull's fingers crook just so, as the command rumbles from his throat. ]
[ His voice cracks on the second syllable, rough around a sob. It's good- just enough tension in his hair to keep him aware but nowhere near enough to remind him of other hands that have done this to hurt and meant it. Here he's safe- as though he can forget with the deep rumble of Bull's voice thinking for him, worrying for him.
All he must do is exist and obey.
For someone that's fought so hard to be free, it's oddly liberating.
Zevran jerks at the crook of those fingers, body clenching tight for a moment against the slick burn before it eases into something good. ]
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He hasn't been told to be still. To be quiet. To watch or to close his eyes and those shreds of freedom he falls into gladly- curling one of his legs around the broad expanse of Bull to feel more of his skin. Try tugging him up, tugging him close, urge him to go about his business faster. Between one scrape and the next his breath twists into a low, drawn out whine.
It's good- it's just about where he needs it and the word slips out before he can think to stop himself- or think of what he's asking for. ]
Harder, please-
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[ Instead of moving on, making a new mark, perhaps even biting hard enough to draw blood, Bull instead teases the mark he's just made. The skin pinches between his teeth, pulled slow, watching it turn redder still. ]
You think you've earned that, yet? I don't think you have.
[ He's free to make noise, to try and buck up and get what Bull won't give him just yet, but that doesn't mean Bull is just going to let him. One solid grip on his ankle later, he's drawing back, enough to spin Zevran around onto his stomach instead.
He's been lying on his bound arms long enough. And besides, there's a whole expanse of pert, pretty ass there that needs marking too. ]
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Please-
[ And flipped. Like he weighs nothing, he's flipped and lands not with a laugh, but with a whine, hips hitching and grinding against the sheets for some manner of friction. ]
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Trying to get yourself off without me? I didn't say you could do that, did I?
[ His free hand drops to caress Zevran's thigh, up along the curve of his ass before squeezing, hard. A swift, sharp smack follows, loud enough to catch against the stone walls and echo, just slightly. ]
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[ Not argumentative, but not contrite. An assassin lives in the world of technicalities and semantics but every last argument he might have made for why what he did wasn't entirely wrong was shocked out of him by the quick crack of Bull's hand. He jumps, shoulders going tight and wrists straining against the bods. ]
Brasca-
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[ Smack! His hand fell across Zevran's ass again. The first one had been sharp, but really only just enough to get his attention, more noise than strength. The second was definitely meant to leave a sting, and a warm pink mark in its wake. ]
To get yourself off? Rubbing against the bed like some desperate animal?
[ Bull's voice was still even, still low, hadn't raised an octave but had collected that firm edge once more. It was almost soothing, and he'd paused his abuse to palm over muscle and skin, kneading gently for a moment.
All before drawing back and giving that cheek another smack, and watching the way it quivered it response. ]
Or do you want more?
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[ Zevran bites down on his bottom lip to muffle the sound, brain swinging wildly between endure and enjoy, nerves a skittering jangle. Don't cry out, don't flinch, don't think, be elsewhere and he's scrabbling to not go there- the place the Crows taught him of that is cold and hard edged and no comfort whatsoever. He does not wish to sink, he wishes to glide. The voice, the heat, the hand yank him back from all those bone deep instincts and he relaxes. Swallows the word that had been on his tongue.
Enjoy, not endure.
No one that had beat him before had been so steady, been so kind in their strikes. This is good. This is safe. He leans back into the next hit, breath hitching sharply. ]
More- please.
no subject
Good. Breathe.
[ There's a difference between beating and this, just as there's a difference between pain and hurting. Zevran can stop this, any time he wants, but if he stays? He'll bring him back from that edge, let him float just as long as he wants.
Finally, the blows stop. There's a heady rumble from behind Zevran as he's pulled back up off of that vulnerable, kneeling position, tugged instead to sit against Bull's thigh. He's still got those ridiculous stripped pants on, Orlesian silk, and he's willing to bet Zevran's going to be grateful for the smooth feeling against his skin right now. ]
That's right. I've got you.
[ One hand smooths against his hip, his thigh, the other pressed flat against his chest. Zevran can lean back into him or forward, and either way he's supported, able to relax for a few short breaths. ]
That's it.
no subject
It aches but it does not cut into him. This- he's chosen this, choosing this, and he's dragged back from the ragged edge.
He floats a little more with every strike, mouth hanging open for half hitched breaths that smooth out into soft moans as he forgets not to keep quiet. As the instinct to keep still leaves him. Zevran lolls back against Bull, pliant, soft, and faintly adoring, head rolling to rest against his chest. The pressure is intense but the silk- cool and soothing against his reddened skin. ]
Thank you... [ He doesn't know if he's supposed to or if he's not but he's floating, and it's good, and Bull's hands are so warm. That frantic tension uncoils; leaving him boneless. ]
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Still want those marks for afterwords?
[ The words ghost against the outer shell of his ear, a hint of a promise. There's a bruise on his hip from earlier and he lets his thumb press into the hollow, dragging against where teeth had marked him not too long ago. ]
Give you something to focus on while I get you good and ready for me.
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Yes-
[ Breathless and on the edge of begging- but the promise of having something to remember him, something to touch afterward and remember this bone deep ache? Massively appeals. ]
Yes please.
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He should be able to watch, to know what's coming, to say if it's too much. Always that sliver of control, even as the tip of the blade starts to press against the inside of his thigh. The lowest bruise to start, just a scrape against mottled skin. Then a slow, steady drag upwards, just enough to leave a thin trail of scarlet beading up behind in its wake. ]
Breathe.
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When the command to breathe comes he realizes he's stopped, everything narrowed down to the fine point of his knife. He exhales in a rush and gasps, trying to steady himself. ]
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[ He gets to focus on the little things, the praise in that low voice, the pinpoint of sharp, bright sensation and the burn that follows in the tickle of the cool air. ]
Two more.
[ They're small, they'll barely bleed, and they'll heal. But for a few days he'll have a vivid reminder of this to look back on. Meanwhile Bull will have the memory of him like this, bound and gasping for air, that hazy look in his eyes and the glisten of precome on his belly.
Seconds tick by before he sets the blade's tip to his skin again. Just as slow, another line scratches into his skin, thin and red and lined perfectly with the first, connecting those lurid red marks together. ]
Breathe.
[ He's lowered his head, nose resting at his temple, the stirrings of breath a faint tickle against soft, blond hair. He could almost envy him this, the singularity of it, free of need to do anything but focus and feel.
Not all of his scars came from battle. ]
no subject
THe order comes and he breathes, gasping through the self induced dizzy spell, cheek turning to press against Bull's skin in an effort to ground himself without. It doesn't last, there's nothing but the knife and the slow thrumming of Bull's pulse behind him. He matches his breathing to that and it helps keep him from floating so far that the next cut is a shock. Trying to keep track, to count how long until it comes is useless- all he need to do is breathe.
Melt back against him, precome dribbling steadily down his cock, and breathe.
Zevran tips his head back and angles his face in the direction of Bull's, aching for a kiss and uncertain how to ask for it.. ]
no subject
Then he catches the full meaning behind the look in those honey-colored eyes. Oh. Oho. Well someone got affectionate while they were floating, didn't they?
Bull's lips creased in a smirk as the blade was laid aside, hand lifting to run against Zevran's tattooed cheek, thumb tracing against the ink. ]
Good. You did real good for me.
[ And a kiss seems fitting enough a reward. But it's no gentle thing. Like everything else, it serves a purpose. It communicates heat, and hunger. It's as much a command as anything else he does, a deep and searching thing that scratches the scruff of his jaw against the elf's skin, and all the effort to breathe is soon to be for naught. ]
no subject
He wants more than a knife, more than a hand, he isn't all that certain what it is he wants aside from more.
Stop is the farthest thing from his mind.
Shivering and sweet he tips his head into Bull's hand, leaning into the touch, the praise, glowing under it. Good- he did well. Bull is pleased. As hard as the kiss is he yields; without guile, without a shred of his tricks, he merely takes what he is given and gives all that Bull asks of him; the lack of breath becomes dizzying and he clings. Presses for more, for affection, for approval. ]
no subject
Gonna be good for me again?
[ The oil is close. Zevran is close, all without having even touched his cock yet. He deserves to have a little time spent exploring that need, plying him open properly. There's patience needed for that, and care, because hurting is different from pain, and he knows the difference. ]
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Sì- sarò buono per te, lo prometto-
[ Common is beyond him right at the moment- when or if he'll regain it? He can't begin to imagine. He can't think past the dark promise in Bull's eyes, the rasp of his beard. ]
no subject
Good.
[ Easing the elf off his lap and back onto his knees, he lets him bonelessly drape across the sheets. Blood trickles slow in thin rivulets down his thigh, but he can always get more sheets. The warm flat of his palm finds the small of Zevran's back, pressing firm. A reassurance. ]
Stay right. There.
[ He has to lean across to the other side of the bed to retrieve the jar he knows is there, the oil some of that ridiculously fragrant stuff from Orlais. No flowers here, though. It's musky and dark, with a spicy tinge beneath that almost reminds him of gaatlok.
It's that oil that gets smeared across his fingers, and he pauses just long enough to admire the picture Zevran makes, sprawled across his bed on his belly, bruised and reddened ass bare and inviting. Then those thighs are nudged further apart, and one finger strokes between the cleft of his ass. ]
Breathe.
no subject
But it is the word, rumble of approval in Bull's voice that has him honey sweet and sighing. All he needs to do is be good, and he's managing that.
There's a moment when he tries to stay pressed back against Bull, not wanting to lose that support and warmth but having his hand and not needing to hold himself up soothes him easily enough. He can stay still. Do as he's told. Cheek pressed to the mattress, eyes half lidded he turns to watch as best he can- wanting to at least see Bull if he cannot feel him. The sudden spice and familiar glisten of oil has him shivering in boneless anticipation and- much like with the knife- he needs the reminder to breathe. Zevran sucks in air and attempts to roll his hips back- not to grind against the sheets but for more of that too slick touch. ]
Per favore...
no subject
That calloused finger crooks, strokes, feels him out and slicks him up while trying to get him to relax a little more. He'd be willing to bet Zevran's not afraid of the issue of size -- and if he was a betting man, he'd say he's not even the first Qunari he's bedded -- but bodies are delicate things. More so than people liked to believe. He knows what it feels like when those threads unspool, when the tension bleeds out and they're ready.
It's generally not when they say they are. And if Zevran get denied a little longer, it's only going to make finally getting what he wants all the sweeter. ]
no subject
No matter how he seems to hitch or roll his hips he can't get more than Bull intends. It's as much a relief to hang on this glittering bight edge for a little longer as it is infuriating.
He aches. He begs, breath curling in heated Antivan against the sheets. He arches as much as he is allowed, muscles straining against the bindings of his wrists. ]
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It's safe for him here. Has to understand that even when that second finger slides in against the first, distraction coming in the form of fingers in his pale hair, pulling it back from his face and curling tight enough to lift his head from the pillows. ]
Again. Louder.
[ And then Bull's fingers crook just so, as the command rumbles from his throat. ]
no subject
[ His voice cracks on the second syllable, rough around a sob. It's good- just enough tension in his hair to keep him aware but nowhere near enough to remind him of other hands that have done this to hurt and meant it. Here he's safe- as though he can forget with the deep rumble of Bull's voice thinking for him, worrying for him.
All he must do is exist and obey.
For someone that's fought so hard to be free, it's oddly liberating.
Zevran jerks at the crook of those fingers, body clenching tight for a moment against the slick burn before it eases into something good. ]
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