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“Intimacy is the capacity to be rather weird with someone - and finding that that's okay with them.” - Alain de Botton
They collide, fuck frantic on the kitchen table of their villa, Dorian still half-dressed in his travelling clothes, covered in dust from the road. They haven't seen each other in three months.
They have three days.
After the first night, and having accounted for each other – limbs intact as they were when they met last, the new scars minor or at least well on their way to healing – it becomes easier to savour it, to slow down.
On the bed, the sheets kicked away, lying on their sides. The Bull resting on an elbow, cheek on his fist, the great shape of him curved around Dorian. His cock, half-hard and oil-slicked, sliding lazily between the cheeks of Dorian's backside, between his thighs. He could easily push it inside him, the way eased by oil and release, but he seems rather more interested in teasing. The urgency is gone; Dorian can wait.
The Bull nuzzles at the short hair where Dorian's head is shaved, under the messy bun. He runs his hand lazily over Dorian's stomach, teasing at the trail of hair under his navel, scratching lightly with his blunt nails. Dorian pushes his stomach out into the Bull's palm, and the Bull chuckles, pressing back. Not to be outdone, Dorian laughs and puffs out his stomach further, distending it into the Bull's hand. The Bull presses back harder, until Dorian is forced to relax.
“Are you trying to make me fart on you?”
“Hey, maybe you'll pee first, if I press on your bladder.”
Dorian cackles and does it again, pushes his belly outwards, ridiculously amused at the way the Bull's hand covers the expanse of his stomach.
“You look pregnant.”
There's a quip that dies on Dorian's tongue as he relaxes his stomach, an urge to cuff the Bull around the head for the comment that never comes to anything. Instead, something warm and wanting. The Bull draws a line down from Dorian's navel with one smooth nail, and Dorian shudders.
“I can't get pregnant.”
The Bull hums, thoughtful, and his voice is gentle when he speaks. “And you're not a desire demon seducing an escaped saarebas, but that didn't stop us playing that game.”
It's not permission, really. There has never been anything that Dorian has wanted that the Bull has allowed him; he has only given. This is an acknowledgement, encouragement. Their lines are long-drawn and well tested, and this would seem to fall far short of any limitations they have.
Still, the thought is no more than a phantom, fragments of skittering, pleasure-soaked thoughts, coalescing now on Bull's encouragement. Dorian has no trouble asking when he knows what it is he wants, but this hasn't the shape of anything yet.
“A game, then,” he says.
The Bull makes another thoughtful noise, hand holding Dorian by the hip, drags his cock with slow intent between Dorian's thighs.
“Alright, big guy. I hope you're ready. I'm going to fuck you so good, fill you up, this time it'll take.”
He parts Dorian's cheeks, slip the broad head of his cock against Dorian's hole. Dorian closes his eyes, rocking back into the contact, tries to coax the Bull into action.
“You want this?” the Bull asks him, leaning down to kiss his neck. “You want me to take you, fill you up, make you pregnant?”
He can't want this, shouldn't want it. Of all the ridiculous things he's ever entertained in bed with this man, this is by far the most indulgent. Impossible, silly. Wrong, maybe.
“Oh,” Dorian whispers, “yes. Yes, amatus...”
The Bull slides his cock into Dorian, slow and steady. It's good, so good, but it's not until the Bull puts his hand back across Dorian's stomach, holding him there, that Dorian whines. The Bull stretches him wide, fills him. Dorian was not born for this, but made himself; trained, practised, wanted it so deep, deeply. Relaxes when his body wants to resist, lets the Bull slide all the way into him.
“That's it, kadan. Gotta put it deep in you.”
He pulls back slowly, only a little way, and then pushes back in. Steady thrusts, deep.
“When your belly starts to grow, I’ll take such good care of you,” the Bull coos, kisses Dorian's neck, jaw, his temple. “I'll hold you and fuck you so gentle, while you're growing my seed in you.”
How does the Bull know? How could he have possibly guessed that Dorian's body would sing to this, that he would shudder with the words, that his body would clench and throb and thrum at the thought of this impossible thing?
“Kaffas!” he gasps. To the void if it matters how. “Fill me. Make me, make me—”
The Bull fucks him harder, pulling back further and pushing in sharply, the hand on Dorian's stomach guiding him onto the Bull's cock. Dorian's toes curl every time he gets as deep as he can, the Bull's heavy balls pressed up against him.
“You're gonna look so good, so big and round,” the Bull growls, panting open-mouthed against Dorian's neck now. “You'll get so huge and heavy with it, and I'll hold you just like this, fuck you while I hold your big belly.”
Dorian groans, hand fumbling to join the Bull's against his flat stomach, pressing urgently over it. He can picture it, imagine the feel of it, belly swollen with new life, with the Bull's gift, their child, and it is an impossible thing, but oh, how he's always wanted impossible things.
“Bull, please,” he pants. “I want you to breed me.”
“Shit,” the Bull moans, and fucks Dorian urgently. The grunts, the growls, the noises that Dorian knows means the Bull is almost as gone with this as he, are exquisite.
“Come inside me, Bull. Make me pregnant. Kaffas, please, make me pregnant!”
The Bull grinds his hips against him, shouting with his release. Dorian can feel it inside him where his body squeezes so tightly, the Bull's cock pressed so deep, so huge inside him, can feel the sudden slickness of the Bull's release inside him. It's enough to make him come, cock spurting across the bed untouched as the Bull holds him close by the stomach, thrusts minutely against him.
His body spasms around the Bull's cock, his chest heaving, his stomach moving against the Bull's bracing hand, and he could almost imagine that this were real, that what the Bull had given to him is inside him now, ready to become a life born of their love.
Later, when such thoughts have become ridiculous as orgasm has subsided, and their hearts and breathing have slowed, the Bull's cock is still inside him, and he still holds Dorian's belly. The gesture has such a tenderness to it, that Dorian can't let the silence linger.
“It is only a game,” he says softly.
“I know.”
“Even if it weren't an impossible thing, I don't think I'd want it. Perhaps in another life. A very different life to this one. One with you, still.”
“You could have it in this life, if you wanted,” the Bull says, smooths Dorian's damp hair away from his temple and kisses him there.
“I know. I know that you'd give me a child, if I wanted it.” Dorian takes a breath, before the very thought threatens to overwhelm him. “But I don't. Sometimes I do think on it, as one has any idle thought, but there's no real intent to it. But this game...”
“Don't overthink it, kadan. You liked it, didn't you?”
“Rather surprisingly, yes.”
“Then it can end here. Doesn't have to be a big thing.”
“I think—” Dorian says, then turns his face into the pillows as his cheeks burn.
“You think?” the Bull prompts, as if he doesn't already know.
“I think I'd like to play this game again. Or at least, not strike it from our repertoire of things to revisit.”
Dorian knows there already exists something made by their love; this life, crafted and kept by them, for each other. On Dorian's stomach, the Bull's hand strokes a gentle circle.
“You got it, kadan.”
“ The moon makes love to the ocean, and in this holy conception it gives birth to a little tide.” - A.P. Sweet