Ilde is about ninety percent sure that she didn't do anything.
Probably.
One minute they're having a perfectly ordinary conversation (which absolutely did require she sit down on the edge of the desk so he couldn't avoid her and because the angle is so flattering), and then he - he doesn't look well, and he's not responding right, and it doesn't make any sense. Her hands hover uncertainly in the space near his shoulders, like there's probably something she should do, but she isn't sure what's wrong or how it became wrong, they were just - talking. She was just talking to him. She talks to lots of people, they don't start looking at her like that, or like they might be ill in a moment.
(She swivels her knees. He's not going to be ill on her shoes. She likes these shoes.)
He looks ill, he feels worse and he can't help but to look up at her because she'd called his name.
He can't control his body, but he can control his eyes and he glares up at her with pure murder. Ow ow. ow ow ow. OW. Also what did you do to me and if you ever do this again I will rip you to shreds with my bare hands.
Rather understandably, Ilde recoils from that expression - her hesitating hands pull back like she's a little afraid, but she doesn't have the presence of mind to just bolt, steeling herself to try and actually get a response out of him. The clutch of her power around him loosens with one brief spike of empathically shared confusion and fear; the impulse that had driven it in the first place dissipates, and with it, the grip of magic she still doesn't know she has.
If he didn't know her as well as he does, she'd be pressed up against a wall with his hand at her throat. But he does. And he can tell easily enough that her confusion was genuine. Which meant that either she was acting unconsciously or someone else was acting on him remotely in a way he couldn't sense until it was happening.
All the same, he takes the moment to suck in a breath.
"You don't get sick," she objects, immediately, despite the fact that moments ago she'd been sufficiently convinced he was about to be to move her favourite pair of shoes out of the firing line. (Every pair of shoes is her favourite when she's wearing them.) "I've never seen you get sick."
After a moment, she concedes, "Before," because there's only so much point-blank arguing with reality she can do in a day, and she wasn't expecting.
The look he gives her is more than a little heated.
"No, I don't," because he doesn't like it anymore than she does. Considerably less, honestly. "As a matter of fact, there's really only one thing that can MAKE me sick like that."
And the composure resumes as he settles and begins to sit back.
Sort of par for the course with people Ilde spends this much time with, actually. She sorts through a variety of ways she could respond to that, and ultimately settles on the most immediately practical one: "Do you think you're going to be sick again?" very reasonably. "Should I get you something?"
Or, more realistically, have someone else get something.
Bull steps inside the room they'd gotten for the night, deciding to enjoy the luxury rather than go back to the Barge. He walks to the spot in front of the bed and glances over his shoulder waiting for Clark to follow. He is wearing the new clothes and with them something had shifted ever so slightly between them and now he is curious how much further this would go.
He licks his lips and decides to go for broke. He is grateful for the rug when he drops to kneel on the floor, his back is staight, proud, but his head is bowed just enough to show submission. Then he waited, curious what Clark is going to do.
That is... more than a little surprising, honestly. But not unwelcome, if he's honest with himself. He and Bull have a perfectly open, perfectly pleasant physical relationship. But it is different from the one that he has with several others on board.
After all, he'd be lying if he said that the effort to frame that lovely body was just an aesthetic desire. Perhaps for everyone else, the clothing was about them, but when it came to Bull, it was about them. Another way for Clark to wrap his hand around the other man, leave his mark on him, as subtle as it was effective. Most of the barge folk had no desire to be confined to anything, but Bull wanted to be claimed and Clark was always happy to capitulate to such a request, as much for Bull as for his own selfishness.
But to see Bull pick up on the cue... to submit, willingly, without even asking. He couldn't make his touch harsh if he wanted to, he's so very pleased. His hand settles at the back of Bull's neck, sweeping down to run along that firm jaw.
"Before we do anything," Clark says quietly, "I need to know: is this a thank you... or a request?"
Bull turns his head to look up at him. And for a moment there is nothing submissive in those eyes. Just calm, quiet honestly. "A bit of both, honestly. But the thanking part is part of the play and the request is a request to play." He licks his lips.
"It depends on what you want, Clark. How far you want this to go. If all you want is playing, something that only exists here, then lets do that." He hesitates for a second. He's been submissive in bed before, mostly with women, and enjoyed it.
Then he turns and nuzzles into the hand. "But this, the touch, the clothes, the question, suggests you want more. I haven't been owned like that, not by a single person. If that is what this is, then this, me kneeling, being honest, it is a thank you. A thank you for claiming me and marking me as yours. Because that is what I want to be."
Clark is happy to accept the nuzzled affection, presses in to cup the line of Bull's jaw a little more firmly as the remaining hand settles along the other side. Both slowly slip back, thumbs tracing down the side of Bull's neck as a feather-soft kiss presses against the back, just below his hairline.
"I suggest nothing. Want... nothing. But if you choose to acknowledge my claim on you, understand exactly what it means..."
Clark runs the side of his nose against the side of Bull's neck, and there's warmth just above it, too warm even for his skin. Fire, the sun itself, behind his closed eyes, death itself just behind his ear if Clark so much as looks at him.
Not a threat, never a threat.
A reminder of exactly who, and what, he belongs to.
Bull shivers, goosebumps down his back at the touch, or was it the words, or maybe that heat. He licks his lips, willing his voice to work again. He hadn't entirely expected this to work, for Clark to be as into this as he is.
"Thank you sir." He shifts ever so slightly, reaching behind him to pull Clark a little closer. It is a gentle touch, more a nudge. But it is still there. If Clark thought he was getting some docile little lamb he is mistaken. Bull might be claimed, and he will take orders, but until those orders arrive, he does what he wants, and right now he wants Clark as close as he can.
Clark responds to the reaching hands, to the tug closer, and slips his hands down around Bull's sides to start undoing the buttons with care and finesse. After all, they'd just bought these clothes; best they don't get ripped off just yet. Now that he's closer, though, he puts his teeth to the line of Bull's ear, tugs in return, before running his mouth up and around to see whether or not the skin around those horns is sensitive or not. Right now, he needs more information, and he intends to get it.
"Are there things you want, Bull? Fantasies you've had that start like this? You'll have to tell me about them."
Bull shivers at the attention to his horns and ears. He was senstitive there, very much so and was always something he enjoyed both in a sexual sense and that it made him relax. He shifts, leaning back more, trusting that Clark would support him. His hands move to his front, helping Clark undress him and soon enough the Qunari's chest is exposed
The question has him licking his lips. "Most of them end up with me in chains or ropes. Worshiping you in whatever way you feel is the most appropriate. Some involve your hands around my throat or a flogger and you testing my limits. Us testing my limits together."
He licks his lips. "I like the feeling of pain, I like feeling the adrenaline, I like trusting the ropes and you. Sometimes I like just submitting, other times I like to see what happens if I disobey."
Clark listens to the answer, nodding along faintly, taking Bull's weight as easily as if he weighed nothing. In truth, as far as Clark's concerned, he doesn't.
One of his hands reaches down to skim along Bull's arm until he reaches Bull's wrist. His own hand is just large enough to wrap most of the way around it, a cuff as good as any. He smiles against Bull's jaw, teeth running against the shell of Bull's ear once more before he speaks.
"I don't need chains or ropes to hold you. Go on, Bull. Give that a try."
A chain or rope might actually move. Clark's hand won't, and it certainly won't let him go.
Bull tests, first tentative and then with everything he has. He sounds a little out of breath when he finally answers. "Damn.." He grins. "The only downside here is you might want to be able to touch as you like while holding me down. But damn. I haven't been with someone who could hold me down this easy since I was very young."
"Which I may employ," he says thoughtfully, letting Bull's wrist go for the moment, after pulling it to his lips to press a kiss to the pulse point. "Ropes. Perhaps scarves. Never chains."
He leans in to whisper the words into the sensitive spots he'd found, the breath fluttering against Bull's ear, the back of his jaw, and the edge of his horn roots.
"At least not the kind to bind you. I may consider," he runs his teeth along the shell again, "further aesthetic additions. But I find that generally."
He blows an ice cold line of air down the side of Bull's neck, a direct counter to the sunlight-warmth of his touch.
"Less is more, when it comes to restraint. You won't move... because I tell you not to move. You won't break the binding... because I want to see you in it."
His hands, which had been resting lightly along Bull's sides, begin to run up and down, slow and almost hypnotic.
"How do you see yourself worshiping me, Bull?" So soft. Smooth. Languid, like a predator relaxing, sure of his place at the apex of the food chain. "I'll tell you what I'm thinking of. But only after you share your own thoughts. After all, is it really an offering if it's requested?"
[The words make little shivers down Bull's spine. Both the threat of decorations and the other man talking so easily about him obeying. He knows he'll obey. And the fact that Clark knows makes it hot as hell too. He shifts under the hands, turning to face Clark and with a hand against his chest gently asking him to lay down.
He kisses him softly, taking his time before he pulls back to answer.]
Waking you up in bed with a nice slow blowjob, learning every trick in the book and everything you like and giving you just that. Moaning your name in prayer as you fuck me. Proudly showing the marks you leave on me. Being here, being by your side, knowing what you need and giving you that.
UGH so sorry for the wait. Can't tag this one at work.
[ He doesn't sound bothered, just intrigued. Curious. There's even an edge of delight there as he acqueses to the request. Laying down, laying out, he tips his head back a little with a smile. It shows his throat, but his throat is no more vulnerable than the rest of him. It is, instead, an unspoken command: touch him. ]
And what kind of marks would you like to bear? Something on the meat of you, decorative, distinctively mine. Or something just for you, sliced into just the right places to give you the burn of sensation, of my touch, in every movement?
"Yes, I am sure there are some that I don't know." He grins at Clark and takes what is offered, leaning in close to let his tongue run over the exposed skin of the others neck. He enjoys the taste, the way he can feel the heat under the others skin and he can't help but nip a little.
"Both maybe. Depending on the time. I'd like to show of your mark on me when we are somewhere you think people need to be reminded of who I belong to. And the others when I am the one who needs that reminder."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
in media res.
Probably.
One minute they're having a perfectly ordinary conversation (which absolutely did require she sit down on the edge of the desk so he couldn't avoid her and because the angle is so flattering), and then he - he doesn't look well, and he's not responding right, and it doesn't make any sense. Her hands hover uncertainly in the space near his shoulders, like there's probably something she should do, but she isn't sure what's wrong or how it became wrong, they were just - talking. She was just talking to him. She talks to lots of people, they don't start looking at her like that, or like they might be ill in a moment.
(She swivels her knees. He's not going to be ill on her shoes. She likes these shoes.)
"--Clark?"
no subject
He can't control his body, but he can control his eyes and he glares up at her with pure murder. Ow ow. ow ow ow. OW. Also what did you do to me and if you ever do this again I will rip you to shreds with my bare hands.
no subject
"What is it?" she tries, uneasy. "Are you -"
'Okay' seems like a stupid question. She revises.
"Do you need anything?"
no subject
All the same, he takes the moment to suck in a breath.
"Something just made me... very ill."
no subject
After a moment, she concedes, "Before," because there's only so much point-blank arguing with reality she can do in a day, and she wasn't expecting.
no subject
"No, I don't," because he doesn't like it anymore than she does. Considerably less, honestly. "As a matter of fact, there's really only one thing that can MAKE me sick like that."
And the composure resumes as he settles and begins to sit back.
no subject
Sort of par for the course with people Ilde spends this much time with, actually. She sorts through a variety of ways she could respond to that, and ultimately settles on the most immediately practical one: "Do you think you're going to be sick again?" very reasonably. "Should I get you something?"
Or, more realistically, have someone else get something.
Stockholm
He licks his lips and decides to go for broke. He is grateful for the rug when he drops to kneel on the floor, his back is staight, proud, but his head is bowed just enough to show submission. Then he waited, curious what Clark is going to do.
no subject
After all, he'd be lying if he said that the effort to frame that lovely body was just an aesthetic desire. Perhaps for everyone else, the clothing was about them, but when it came to Bull, it was about them. Another way for Clark to wrap his hand around the other man, leave his mark on him, as subtle as it was effective. Most of the barge folk had no desire to be confined to anything, but Bull wanted to be claimed and Clark was always happy to capitulate to such a request, as much for Bull as for his own selfishness.
But to see Bull pick up on the cue... to submit, willingly, without even asking. He couldn't make his touch harsh if he wanted to, he's so very pleased. His hand settles at the back of Bull's neck, sweeping down to run along that firm jaw.
"Before we do anything," Clark says quietly, "I need to know: is this a thank you... or a request?"
no subject
"It depends on what you want, Clark. How far you want this to go. If all you want is playing, something that only exists here, then lets do that." He hesitates for a second. He's been submissive in bed before, mostly with women, and enjoyed it.
Then he turns and nuzzles into the hand. "But this, the touch, the clothes, the question, suggests you want more. I haven't been owned like that, not by a single person. If that is what this is, then this, me kneeling, being honest, it is a thank you. A thank you for claiming me and marking me as yours. Because that is what I want to be."
no subject
"I suggest nothing. Want... nothing. But if you choose to acknowledge my claim on you, understand exactly what it means..."
Clark runs the side of his nose against the side of Bull's neck, and there's warmth just above it, too warm even for his skin. Fire, the sun itself, behind his closed eyes, death itself just behind his ear if Clark so much as looks at him.
Not a threat, never a threat.
A reminder of exactly who, and what, he belongs to.
"You're more than welcome."
no subject
"Thank you sir." He shifts ever so slightly, reaching behind him to pull Clark a little closer. It is a gentle touch, more a nudge. But it is still there. If Clark thought he was getting some docile little lamb he is mistaken. Bull might be claimed, and he will take orders, but until those orders arrive, he does what he wants, and right now he wants Clark as close as he can.
no subject
"Are there things you want, Bull? Fantasies you've had that start like this? You'll have to tell me about them."
no subject
The question has him licking his lips. "Most of them end up with me in chains or ropes. Worshiping you in whatever way you feel is the most appropriate. Some involve your hands around my throat or a flogger and you testing my limits. Us testing my limits together."
He licks his lips. "I like the feeling of pain, I like feeling the adrenaline, I like trusting the ropes and you. Sometimes I like just submitting, other times I like to see what happens if I disobey."
no subject
One of his hands reaches down to skim along Bull's arm until he reaches Bull's wrist. His own hand is just large enough to wrap most of the way around it, a cuff as good as any. He smiles against Bull's jaw, teeth running against the shell of Bull's ear once more before he speaks.
"I don't need chains or ropes to hold you. Go on, Bull. Give that a try."
A chain or rope might actually move. Clark's hand won't, and it certainly won't let him go.
no subject
no subject
He leans in to whisper the words into the sensitive spots he'd found, the breath fluttering against Bull's ear, the back of his jaw, and the edge of his horn roots.
"At least not the kind to bind you. I may consider," he runs his teeth along the shell again, "further aesthetic additions. But I find that generally."
He blows an ice cold line of air down the side of Bull's neck, a direct counter to the sunlight-warmth of his touch.
"Less is more, when it comes to restraint. You won't move... because I tell you not to move. You won't break the binding... because I want to see you in it."
His hands, which had been resting lightly along Bull's sides, begin to run up and down, slow and almost hypnotic.
"How do you see yourself worshiping me, Bull?" So soft. Smooth. Languid, like a predator relaxing, sure of his place at the apex of the food chain. "I'll tell you what I'm thinking of. But only after you share your own thoughts. After all, is it really an offering if it's requested?"
no subject
He kisses him softly, taking his time before he pulls back to answer.]
Waking you up in bed with a nice slow blowjob, learning every trick in the book and everything you like and giving you just that. Moaning your name in prayer as you fuck me. Proudly showing the marks you leave on me. Being here, being by your side, knowing what you need and giving you that.
UGH so sorry for the wait. Can't tag this one at work.
[ He doesn't sound bothered, just intrigued. Curious. There's even an edge of delight there as he acqueses to the request. Laying down, laying out, he tips his head back a little with a smile. It shows his throat, but his throat is no more vulnerable than the rest of him. It is, instead, an unspoken command: touch him. ]
And what kind of marks would you like to bear? Something on the meat of you, decorative, distinctively mine. Or something just for you, sliced into just the right places to give you the burn of sensation, of my touch, in every movement?
I have been slacking. i am so sorry
"Both maybe. Depending on the time. I'd like to show of your mark on me when we are somewhere you think people need to be reminded of who I belong to. And the others when I am the one who needs that reminder."