[ 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. ]
[ The ebb and flow of tension in his body plays out beautifully, watching his muscles tense and relax again as he thrusts his fingers deep, slow, twisting and coaxing, stretching him open further. Captivating enough for Bull to lean in, to use that grip in his hair to tip his head back further, enough that when he leans close to hover over him he can spare a nip or two to those delicately pointed ears. ]
Don't know if you're ready for more, yet. And you beg so pretty.
[ Now it's a tease, not a promise to be kept. Meant to rile him as he pushes in and crooks his fingers against, waiting for that one little tell to give away exactly what he's looking for. ]
Could listen to you make those noises for hours. Maybe make you come on my fingers a few times, first. Get you nice and loose for me.
[ His entire body ripples at the nips- tiny things, the barest graze of teeth but wound tight like this? Everything is too much and not yet enough and he'll not have enough until Bull deems it so- but there is no mark to reach. No task to fulfill, nothing he can do to earn it.
Voice drawn as tight as his body he whimpers out another refrain of begging in Antivan, winding and weaving in a desperate spiral until Bull crooks his fingers just so and he forgets to breathe entirely. ]
[ There it is. Bull lets out a pleased hum against his ear, breath warm against his skin, and thrusts those fingers deeply once more, angling in to strike against those nerves and feel his body seize up around them. Can't overwork him, can't hit too hard or fast, not yet. ]
Breathe.
[ And he won't move again until he does, until he hears those gasps for air for himself. And then it begins again. Patiently using that point of focus to overwhelm him, then let him sink, again and again, until he's ready for a third finger. Close as he can get to prepping him and seeing if he's really as game for it as he first thought.
No chance he knew what he was signing up for down in the tavern. Now he's bound to have an inkling, and if there are any second thoughts, they're bound to surface right about now. ]
[ He needs the reminder, gasping for air in a desperate rush as the sensation rolls through him; overwhelming his ability to think, let alone speak. All he can focus on is the low rumble of Bull's voice, pulling him through the bright, thick fog to the present before having him sink back into it.
All his years, all his partners, all his training- it has never been like this. He's never been this desperate, this mindless. Even when he floated with Taas he had some of his masks intact, could hide shreds of himself.
Not all is laid bare and the word lingers in the back of his mind if he needs it- but he has no need of it. He rolls as much as he can bound and held like this against the bed, attempting to fuck himself on Bull's fingers, voice arcing up in a fevered cry. ]
[ Seems almost cruel to take it away from him. But he does. He's gonna need that hand in a moment.
One last nip to his ear and Bull turns to murmur against it. ]
Good. Now stay right where you are. Keep breathing. Nice, big, deep breaths. I'm not going anywhere.
[ The hand in his hair eases him, lets him sink down to the sheets again, before he shifts with a grunt onto his knees, one hand going to the waist of his pants. That jar of slick lies somewhere nearby, and it's a damned relief to curl his own hand around his aching cock, just as neglected all this time.
With the lack of cries, the sound of slick stroking is all too audible, Bull's eyes fixed on the elf sprawled in front of him, stretched open, skin flushed scarlet still from his hand and that pretty hair a damn mess. The corner of his lip curls before he reaches for him again, curling an arm around his stomach and bringing him back and up onto his knees again. If he has to support the entirety of his weight, he can. ]
[ Maker, why? He's close, he's so close and now Bull withdraws? It takes a moment of graceless nodding, slumped and panting against the sheets for him to recall exactly what it was they'd been building to. There'd been a point, a fine point- something he'd been chasing.
Sprawled and silent other than the shuddered gasping of an elf drawn out, the slick, filthy sound of a hand on a cock is all too audible- and he groans. That. That's what they'd been building to. That is what he'd been hunting. His fingers curl and flex in their bonds, a vague attempt to roll out his shoulders and ready himself but he can't quite manage it gracefully. Can't remember how he's supposed to sit or act or where the light in this room would hit him best, how to hold his head to hide his expression. Enjoyment is well and good but no one should enjoy this too much, the masters said.
Bull's hand is back and he goes, easy and boneless not out of practice but out of exhaustion. Without his arms he cannot brace himself up on more than his shoulders, leaning back against the broad chest while he finds his feet, as it were. A little time without being tormented by pleasure or pain is enough for him to remember. Zevran nods- but does not speak it. Gives his hips a little experimental grind backwards to feel- oh, this is going to be good. ]
[ Bull chuckles at that, rocking forward, letting Zevran feel the slide of his cock against the curve of his ass. ]
That's right. You want it? You get to take it. As much as you want. And if I'm right...
[ There's a brief, warm nuzzle at his throat before he takes him by the hips, easing him back enough to brace backwards against him, the head of his cock nudging against that slick hole. ]
You're going to want it all. Aren't you?
[ That massive hand at his hip keeps him steady. All he has to do is let himself sink down. His thumb strokes idly at a mark he'd left behind earlier, eyes on the lack of tension in his body.
[ Zevran takes a slow, shuddering breath as he sinks down just a touch, head lolling back against Bull's shoulder. It's almost too much already and he hasn't even started.
Whining he lowers himself half an inch, whimpering at the thick press. Bull's right in that he wants all of it- he knows he can take that much- the question is how long to work himself up to it. Not as long as he should take, face going tight as he rolls down another inch. ]
[ If he wants that bite by going too fast, he can have it. Meanwhile Bull keeps him close, holds him steady as he eases down an inch at a time, rumbling his approval against the nape of Zevran's neck. Then those fingers press against that love bite, rolling against it, a smaller, distracting pain as he eases down.
Damn, but he's still tight. Takes an impressive amount of will not to just thrust up, to take. But he's being trusted to take care of him, and he can do that. Patience suits him just a little while longer, praises murmured warm against his skin. ]
[ His eyes fall closed, brow furrowed as he focuses on hat he's taking- on molding his body around Bull's cock instead of letting gravity do the work and hoping for the best. Scraps of his training that he actually reaches for through the haze without the whys and the hows of learning it, only the muscle memory. Going liquid, going lax, melting enough to take more as he hitches himself up on his thighs to better brace himself against the bed, a subtle shift in the angle of his hips to make it a little easier- and down.
Halfway, down, and there's the sting he'd wanted, the flash of heat lancing through him he ached for that has him going still with a cut off moan. He needs the press of Bull's hand, the low burr of his voice to remind him to be here. To breathe. ]
[ There's a note of admiration there, genuine at its core, and his hand cross over to splay against Zevran's belly. The heat of his palm is still a weight there, still a presence to keep him from spilling over onto the sheets, and his hips flex. Not even to drive further in, but to draw out, to feel the slick drag of tight muscle clutching at him before sinking in again.
Just to where they'd already managed, about halfway. Just enough to stir a little friction. And maybe just for the sight of Zevran spread around him like that, still eagerly moaning for more.
With a low noise, Bull found another tender mark and closed his teeth against it, nipping bluntly. ]
[ Arched tight and panting, full and shivering through the slow pace he's set so he'll get to feel all of Bull at least once before coming (and even that might be optimistic) it's the warmth in Bull's voice that has his shoulders going loose, his face tipping in his direction. Admiration- he's used to attraction, to lust. To being a desirable object. But admiration? Approval, affection- these are things denied and desperately craved when every other shred of him is scraped away.
His breathing goes slower, evens out just a little as he holds still for the flex. The bite. Doesn't move while he adjusts until there's that order he felt might be coming. ]
Si, Toro-
[ Cut off with a cry as he drops down further, a quarter more? An inch more? keeping track is impossible. ]
[ Deeper into that heat, the slick velvety feel of him wrapped tight and sinking lower...the lust is definitely there. But Zevran's pacing himself well for being as out of it as he is. And Bull does what he can to draw focus, fingers smoothing over the tight flex of his stomach. ]
You've got it. Nice and easy.
[ Always harder for elves. Hard enough for a human, but those slender hips? He had his work cut out for him from the start. But there's a streak of something stubborn there, even with all his masks tossed aside.
How about that? A glimpse at the man under the knife-sharp smile. ]
[ If he does good enough- he'll be praised for it. A carrot dangled before them when they were young and weened off of needing earlier than most of them were prepared for. It made them desperate for approval, to do well, to get that feeling back.
Most masters didn't bother after branding it into their bones. Most Crows hide it.
Like this? Zevran cannot. He can only shiver and work down harder to take all that he can, to earn more of those soft words and steadying touches- a crackling mutter of Antivan coiled around a sigh as he finally drops down that lastbit to take in all of Bull.
Maker, it's too much- it's just enough- he shudders against Bull, panting through the instinctive clench of his overworked body. ]
[ The command comes again, a reminder, though it's edged with something headier this time. With a low breath Bull moves again, just enough to shift inside of him, let him feel just how deep he's gotten himself.
Literally. ]
You did good. And you've done enough.
[ His splayed palm strays upwards, pressing warm against Zevran's chest, easing him back. He's not moving much himself, not just yet. Just reveling in the feel of him and shifting, letting him adjust as best he can hope to. ]
You just remember to breathe and let me take it from here. I've got you.
[ He's half certain he's come from the sudden blinding graze of sensation that subtle shift brings. He feels like he should have by now and- doesn't know why he hasn't. Holding out for permission? He wasn't told to not-
He can't even think hard enough to worry about it. About anything. Zevran whimpers, face pressed to Bull's chest as he's praised and that- that's what he's needed. Good. He's done good. He doesn't need to work anymore. When he's not floating and later if he remembers this, the faint spill of relieved tears might mortify him. As it is he takes the support he's given and melts back against Bull easily, eagerly. ]
[ He's almost too tight, just riding that edge of too much, but it's an edge he visits often. A line that thin just needs a little more care than the average tumble.
His hips roll again, the bed creaking beneath his weight as it shifts, and Zevran rises and falls with the movement. He can feel the grip of him flexing around him, hot and slick, and after a moment he pushes him forward.
Just far enough to grab the thick bindings on his arms. Weight's distributed well enough that he can dangle, just like that, suspended in his grip while Bull strokes his thigh. Then he draws back, almost halfway, and thrusts. ]
[ Breathe- he needs to remember to breathe. Having the air forced out of him in a startled cry at that thrust is reason enough to gasp in more- hanging above the bed instead of against it- floating physically while his thighs are spread and hooked back against Bull's-
It's disorienting in the best way. The only real point of contact from his hips up the press of the ropes and the hard throb of Bull's cock.
Breathe.
He's beyond focusing on how he sounds, how he looks, hanging loose and easy against the ropes as his voice cracks out broken, Mindless Antivan. ]
[ He really doesn't need to worry about how he looks. Sure, there's a lot of training for how to arch your back, let your hair fall down prettily, how to shape your mouth in a moan. But this is better.
This is raw, honest. Skin sweat-slick and glistening in the candlelight, hair a rumpled mess, entirely wrapped up in the moment, the movement, the feeling of it. That's where he needs to be.
And it means Bull can really start to put his weight into it, breath escaping in low huffs and grunts as his cock pounds into the elf where he hangs, helpless, babbling in that sweet tongue of his.
You didn't need the language course to determine most of what he was saying, anyway. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
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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...
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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. ]
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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. ]
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[ 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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Don't know if you're ready for more, yet. And you beg so pretty.
[ Now it's a tease, not a promise to be kept. Meant to rile him as he pushes in and crooks his fingers against, waiting for that one little tell to give away exactly what he's looking for. ]
Could listen to you make those noises for hours. Maybe make you come on my fingers a few times, first. Get you nice and loose for me.
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Voice drawn as tight as his body he whimpers out another refrain of begging in Antivan, winding and weaving in a desperate spiral until Bull crooks his fingers just so and he forgets to breathe entirely. ]
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Breathe.
[ And he won't move again until he does, until he hears those gasps for air for himself. And then it begins again. Patiently using that point of focus to overwhelm him, then let him sink, again and again, until he's ready for a third finger. Close as he can get to prepping him and seeing if he's really as game for it as he first thought.
No chance he knew what he was signing up for down in the tavern. Now he's bound to have an inkling, and if there are any second thoughts, they're bound to surface right about now. ]
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All his years, all his partners, all his training- it has never been like this. He's never been this desperate, this mindless. Even when he floated with Taas he had some of his masks intact, could hide shreds of himself.
Not all is laid bare and the word lingers in the back of his mind if he needs it- but he has no need of it. He rolls as much as he can bound and held like this against the bed, attempting to fuck himself on Bull's fingers, voice arcing up in a fevered cry. ]
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One last nip to his ear and Bull turns to murmur against it. ]
Good. Now stay right where you are. Keep breathing. Nice, big, deep breaths. I'm not going anywhere.
[ The hand in his hair eases him, lets him sink down to the sheets again, before he shifts with a grunt onto his knees, one hand going to the waist of his pants. That jar of slick lies somewhere nearby, and it's a damned relief to curl his own hand around his aching cock, just as neglected all this time.
With the lack of cries, the sound of slick stroking is all too audible, Bull's eyes fixed on the elf sprawled in front of him, stretched open, skin flushed scarlet still from his hand and that pretty hair a damn mess. The corner of his lip curls before he reaches for him again, curling an arm around his stomach and bringing him back and up onto his knees again. If he has to support the entirety of his weight, he can. ]
Remember the word. Nod if you do.
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Sprawled and silent other than the shuddered gasping of an elf drawn out, the slick, filthy sound of a hand on a cock is all too audible- and he groans. That. That's what they'd been building to. That is what he'd been hunting. His fingers curl and flex in their bonds, a vague attempt to roll out his shoulders and ready himself but he can't quite manage it gracefully. Can't remember how he's supposed to sit or act or where the light in this room would hit him best, how to hold his head to hide his expression. Enjoyment is well and good but no one should enjoy this too much, the masters said.
Bull's hand is back and he goes, easy and boneless not out of practice but out of exhaustion. Without his arms he cannot brace himself up on more than his shoulders, leaning back against the broad chest while he finds his feet, as it were. A little time without being tormented by pleasure or pain is enough for him to remember. Zevran nods- but does not speak it. Gives his hips a little experimental grind backwards to feel- oh, this is going to be good. ]
no subject
That's right. You want it? You get to take it. As much as you want. And if I'm right...
[ There's a brief, warm nuzzle at his throat before he takes him by the hips, easing him back enough to brace backwards against him, the head of his cock nudging against that slick hole. ]
You're going to want it all. Aren't you?
[ That massive hand at his hip keeps him steady. All he has to do is let himself sink down. His thumb strokes idly at a mark he'd left behind earlier, eyes on the lack of tension in his body.
Not for much longer. ]
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Whining he lowers himself half an inch, whimpering at the thick press. Bull's right in that he wants all of it- he knows he can take that much- the question is how long to work himself up to it. Not as long as he should take, face going tight as he rolls down another inch. ]
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[ If he wants that bite by going too fast, he can have it. Meanwhile Bull keeps him close, holds him steady as he eases down an inch at a time, rumbling his approval against the nape of Zevran's neck. Then those fingers press against that love bite, rolling against it, a smaller, distracting pain as he eases down.
Damn, but he's still tight. Takes an impressive amount of will not to just thrust up, to take. But he's being trusted to take care of him, and he can do that. Patience suits him just a little while longer, praises murmured warm against his skin. ]
Good. Breathe.
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Halfway, down, and there's the sting he'd wanted, the flash of heat lancing through him he ached for that has him going still with a cut off moan. He needs the press of Bull's hand, the low burr of his voice to remind him to be here. To breathe. ]
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[ There's a note of admiration there, genuine at its core, and his hand cross over to splay against Zevran's belly. The heat of his palm is still a weight there, still a presence to keep him from spilling over onto the sheets, and his hips flex. Not even to drive further in, but to draw out, to feel the slick drag of tight muscle clutching at him before sinking in again.
Just to where they'd already managed, about halfway. Just enough to stir a little friction. And maybe just for the sight of Zevran spread around him like that, still eagerly moaning for more.
With a low noise, Bull found another tender mark and closed his teeth against it, nipping bluntly. ]
Come on.
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His breathing goes slower, evens out just a little as he holds still for the flex. The bite. Doesn't move while he adjusts until there's that order he felt might be coming. ]
Si, Toro-
[ Cut off with a cry as he drops down further, a quarter more? An inch more? keeping track is impossible. ]
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You've got it. Nice and easy.
[ Always harder for elves. Hard enough for a human, but those slender hips? He had his work cut out for him from the start. But there's a streak of something stubborn there, even with all his masks tossed aside.
How about that? A glimpse at the man under the knife-sharp smile. ]
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Most masters didn't bother after branding it into their bones. Most Crows hide it.
Like this? Zevran cannot. He can only shiver and work down harder to take all that he can, to earn more of those soft words and steadying touches- a crackling mutter of Antivan coiled around a sigh as he finally drops down that lastbit to take in all of Bull.
Maker, it's too much- it's just enough- he shudders against Bull, panting through the instinctive clench of his overworked body. ]
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[ The command comes again, a reminder, though it's edged with something headier this time. With a low breath Bull moves again, just enough to shift inside of him, let him feel just how deep he's gotten himself.
Literally. ]
You did good. And you've done enough.
[ His splayed palm strays upwards, pressing warm against Zevran's chest, easing him back. He's not moving much himself, not just yet. Just reveling in the feel of him and shifting, letting him adjust as best he can hope to. ]
You just remember to breathe and let me take it from here. I've got you.
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[ He's half certain he's come from the sudden blinding graze of sensation that subtle shift brings. He feels like he should have by now and- doesn't know why he hasn't. Holding out for permission? He wasn't told to not-
He can't even think hard enough to worry about it. About anything. Zevran whimpers, face pressed to Bull's chest as he's praised and that- that's what he's needed. Good. He's done good. He doesn't need to work anymore. When he's not floating and later if he remembers this, the faint spill of relieved tears might mortify him. As it is he takes the support he's given and melts back against Bull easily, eagerly. ]
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His hips roll again, the bed creaking beneath his weight as it shifts, and Zevran rises and falls with the movement. He can feel the grip of him flexing around him, hot and slick, and after a moment he pushes him forward.
Just far enough to grab the thick bindings on his arms. Weight's distributed well enough that he can dangle, just like that, suspended in his grip while Bull strokes his thigh. Then he draws back, almost halfway, and thrusts. ]
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It's disorienting in the best way. The only real point of contact from his hips up the press of the ropes and the hard throb of Bull's cock.
Breathe.
He's beyond focusing on how he sounds, how he looks, hanging loose and easy against the ropes as his voice cracks out broken, Mindless Antivan. ]
no subject
This is raw, honest. Skin sweat-slick and glistening in the candlelight, hair a rumpled mess, entirely wrapped up in the moment, the movement, the feeling of it. That's where he needs to be.
And it means Bull can really start to put his weight into it, breath escaping in low huffs and grunts as his cock pounds into the elf where he hangs, helpless, babbling in that sweet tongue of his.
You didn't need the language course to determine most of what he was saying, anyway. ]
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