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“I want no blood from you--not until we're both sweaty and naked and you're screaming my name.” ― Nalini Singh
With a sound that rattles Dorian’s brain inside his skull, the hivernal screams her last. Her great body, banded black and white, shudders, and the Inquisitor calls for them to withdraw out of range.
“Taarsidath-an halsaam!” the Bull calls, and Dorian almost smiles, knowing full well what that means for him later.
“She’s going down!” Cassandra yells.
But kaffas, she’s headed for the edge of the ring, a massive snowbank leading down to who knows where. Dorian leans on his staff, catching he breath as he watches her gargantuan form slip over the edge, sliding out of sight, great waves of snow displaced by her bulk. The four of them follow to see the path the body’s taken, stepping carefully over ice and stone.
The dragon corpse has slid so far down the giant snowbank as to be unseen, covered with mist and kicked-up clouds of snow. At the very least, it’s going to make any dissection and recovery of the body a trial.
“Dorian!” the Inquisitor sounds, just as he hears the snarl of a young dragonling to his left, and then something connects around his middle on the right – too quick for him to bring his staff around, taking him clean off his feet and over the edge in the wake of the dragon.
He realises, as he’s tumbling ungracefully through the snow, that the Bull has tackled him – the great weight of him shielding him as they roll. He feels something connect, thankfully against his vambrace and not his head, as they pick up speed.
They come to a stop with a dull thud against the belly of the recently dead hivernal, her scales still warm. A strange thing, considering she wielded cold against them; he’ll have to ask Professor Frederic about it.
“Bull! Dorian!” Cassandra calls, from high above. Dorian makes no attempt to disentangle himself form the Bull as he takes a few deep breaths.
“We’re alright!” he calls back.
“Can you climb back up?”
“We’ll try!”
Truly, he doesn’t think they can climb the snowbank back up, too steep and unstable, he can only see the rim of the great colosseum's top if he squints through the powdery upset snow and new falling blanket descending.
“You okay?” The Bull asks, crowding him.
“Fine, Bull. Oh—”
The Bull presses himself against Dorian, and it makes him feel so small – caught between the great felled beast and the Iron Bull. Dipping his head, the Bull inhales, deep and feral, his lip curling away from his teeth.
Dorian, still getting his bearings from the tumble down the snowbank, lets him; exposing his neck to the Bull’s huffing nose, his curious teeth. Not an acquiescence, the touch welcomed even as he checks that neither of them has come to harm beyond that of the battle with the dragon.
They have fucked after a dragon fight before, of course. But not in the immediacy of it, not when the great beast’s body is lifeless but still warm; more distance from it, more time away from it. It is always good, the Bull a little needy and exposed for it, a little harder for him to maintain his usual control.
“Bull,” he says, testing.
The Bull only grunts, pressing his hard cock against Dorian’s thigh where he’s got him pinned to the dragon’s belly. The test not for himself, he would be perfectly happy to permit the Bull to bite into him, to rut against him, feral and gone from himself – the image is so perfectly erotic. But he tests for the Bull, to know that he remains himself.
“Something’s digging into my back.”
The Bull holds him firmly, brings him against his chest to see. With a wet sound, the Bull yanks something from the dragon’s belly – one of Cadash’s throwing knives lodged there. He considers it a moment, breathing heavily, and then hands it to Dorian.
“I can stop,” he says thickly. Dorian can feel his cock throbbing even through both of their sets of clothing and his light metal cuisse.
“Don’t,” Dorian says, though the gesture itself makes his heart ache. He palms the dagger into the empty leather of his glove, a space made for a concealed weapon anyhow. The Bull rocks against him, nipping and sucking at his jaw. “I want it.”
“You smell so good,”the Bull says, huffing at Dorian’s neck again.
He’s rather made the commitment now, and when will he get another opportunity? Dorian blindly feels for the spot the dagger was lodged, as he grips the Bull’s neck, encouraging his biting, searching mouth. When he finds it, he dips his hand against the dislodged scale, to the torn flesh underneath. The dragon’s blood is warm and sticky over his hand, then over his chin and mouth as he smears it there.
“How do I taste, dracona?”
There’s a glimmer in the Bull’s eye, a smirk on his mouth, and just a few seconds for each to get the measure; this is wanted, willing, even in terms un-dictated. He captures Dorian’s mouth, licking at the warm blood, licking into Dorian’s mouth to claim him. The salt-metal tang of dragon’s blood, he’s sure in any other moment might make him wretch, but here he shudders, feels his body pulsing with desire.
The Bull flips Dorian onto his front, belly to belly with the great dragon, the great shimmering scales hard under his hands, warm against his face as the Bull presses him there, flips the back of his robes up and presses the bulge of his cock against Dorian’s backside. He hears fabric tearing as the Bull wrenches his leggings open rather than dealing with his belt. Distantly, he knows he’ll be annoyed later, but in the moment he can’t bring himself to care.
The Bull’s grip on his hip is immense, and the weight of him pressing down along Dorian’s back, only bearable for the solid swell of the dragon’s corpse on the other side. He feels the Bull lay his hard length along the swell of Dorian ass, pressing against him, and then watches as the Bull finds the bleeding belly wound, gasps at the squelch as the Bull presses his fingers into it, coating his hand in dragon’s blood. He offers his hand to Dorian, who moans and presses back at the carnal thought of being fucked with blood to ease the way.
“Yes, dracona, yes.”
The Bull hand doesn’t move.
“Grease,” the Bull snaps, more desperation than command.
He’s had no cause to use the spell in that utility for a long time; the Bull much enjoys all manner of manual preparation. But he does remember it, and lifts his own hand, extends a finger into it’s touching the Bull’s bloody palm, and mutters the incantation. He watches as a small pool of magical oil mixes with the blood.
He hears when the Bull slicks himself with blood and oil, widens his stance when he feels the Bull press the blunt head to his hole. The stretch is immense, leaves him gasping as the Bull takes him ungently, pushing his great, slicked girth into him. Nearly too much, but he knows even as his brain surrenders to the sex-soaked pleasure, that if he called katoh, it would lance through the Bull and stop him dead. Trusts his lover, his amatus, his dracona to heed him. Wants anything but, as he presses back on the firm intrusion.
Any other time it might have been too much, but this is now, some kind of feral heat upon them both, and the brutality of the way he’s stretched around the Bull is perfect, aching, overwhelming. The Bull, usually so wordy, grunts and growls as Dorian mutters encouragement, almost babbling.
“Yes, Yes, oh, take me, dracona, meum decus, yes...”
Where his armour has loosened in their tussle, the Bull knocks aside his pauldron and bites at his exposed shoulder, teeth sinking in harder than he’s ever marked him before. Dorian whimpers as he feels the skin break, the Bull’s sharp canines slipping through his flesh, the heat of his tongue pressed against his skin.
The Bull fucks him fiercely, the stench of death and sex clinging to them even through the biting cold of the Emprise. They’re sweating, even for the snowbank almost to their knees, the great corpse serving as a bulwark shielding them from the wind and the encroaching snow. The Bull in turn kisses the back of his neck, then returns to lick and suck at the bleeding bite on his shoulder, growling and huffing his appreciation.
The stretch suddenly becomes almost too much, as if the Bull could possibly fill him more; Dorian realises with a belly-deep groan that the Bull’s knot has presented itself, pressing insistently at his hole. A thing long academic, something latent and secret, protected like the deepest secrets of the Qun, theorised upon in small, frantic hours, a not uncommon topic of the most sordid dirty-talk, the Bull registering Dorian’s interest and running with the most florid, filthy descriptions.
“Eva,” he says. He knows little Qunlat, but he knows it to be the opposite of katoh; beginning, start, a permission. “I’m yours.”
“Taarala kadan,” the Bull says, and Dorian doesn’t truly understand the new context for a familiar word he knows is a title of honour, but it feels possessive. With a sharp thrust, the Bull forces his knot into Dorian. He wails with it, the pleasure and pain searing through him, his cock jumping painfully where it’s trapped by the remains of his leggings and the great belly of the hivernal.
It’s only a few shallow thrusts after that, the Bull’s pulse inside him and the hint of his teeth against his shoulder, a growling, crooning noise that rumbles through him against Dorian’s back and it’s enough – Dorian comes, sharp and sweet and aching around the stretch of the Bull’s knot, bloody hands scrabbling for purchase against the dragon’s belly scales.
The Bull shouts, practically a roar, as he presses Dorian down and snaps his hips brutally against him, flooding him, taking him, claiming him as bid. It feels like so much, nearly too much, pressure and heat and keen, aching satisfaction.
Not a chance that Cadash and Cassandra haven’t heard the whole thing; Dorian laughs breathlessly at how little he minds being known in this moment. Let them know he is the Bull’s lover, it it be know that he has laid under a great dragon.
In the aftermath, Dorian tracks the heartbeats – his own, the Bull’s against his back, a third – for a bright, terrifying second he thinks the dragon still lives under their sweating, thundering bodies – but it’s only the mingled rhythm of them both where they’re joined, the Bull’s knot still pumping weakly.
The Bull nuzzles at his neck, more a dragon-like a trill than a cat-like a purr, sweet and feral both, dragon blood spread across both their faces. Dorian tips his head back, pressing his lips to the Bull’s jaw in kind, basking in the last shiverings of banked arousal.
“Shit, we’re tied,” the Bull murmurs. “I should have stopped.”
“Maker, no.” Dorian says, laughs breathlessly for it. “It’s good, Bull.” He finds the Bull’s bloody hand where it’s braces on the dragon’s belly, drags in down to his own, presses it there under his loosened robes. “So good I might be a little disappointed it can’t take.”
“Shit, kadan. You’re glorious.” He kisses along Dorian’s neck, his shoulder, until he reaches the bite mark, still bleeding sluggishly when Dorian peers at it. “Gonna scar.”
“Hmm, I should hope so.”
“You like it? Being claimed?”
“Claimed? Hardly, amatus. I’ve been yours for much longer than I care to admit.”
“My heart,” the Bull sighs, kissing back up his shoulder again to press his lips to where his pulse still dances in his neck. “It wasn’t too much?”
“Bull, If it wasn’t clear, I liked all of the filthy, disgusting affair.” He licks his lips, tastes the drying blood – less erotic as the heat of the thing passes, but still makes his body throb distantly. “Don’t let my inevitable complaining about the mess and such dissuade you from the success of your conquering.”
“Bit of time before you need to start grousing,” the Bull says, rocking his hips gently. “Might be here a while.”
Dorian only hums contentedly, surprisingly comfortable against the belly of the downed hivernal dragon. Sure, the aches will come, but what good memories to have along with them. He makes a note to ask Professor Frederic for any notes he has on the more exotic applications of dragon’s blood, and to request a tooth from the spoils.
“I do not care what comes after; I have seen the dragons on the wind of morning.” ― Ursula K. Le Guin