[ Dorian isn't of the weightlessly fey spectrum of pretty -- instead, muscle lines lean along bone, slabs over spans, and being pirouetted easily is another exoticism, another reminder, much like the dense qunari heat emanating into his back. His breath catches between that and the huff of Bull's growl low at the back of his neck.
He lists backwards, then, giving a little into negotiated temptations. Bull is a sturdy wall behind him, arms bracketing as hands tug at his clothing and feeling through it. He pushes his hips backwards, feeling mostly sturdiness wrapped in leather and coarse fabric than anything untoward. Beneath his own clothing, he is still slack, blood in the process of thickening flesh, stirred along as if summoned by Bull's hand, a chemical attraction.
It's wrong (it isn't wrong), and either way, Maker knows he can't help it. And cutting out the element of choice, the illusion thereof--
He runs fingers down the curve of Bull's arm, idly. His nails are painted a shiny beetle-shell black, a little scratched in places over the course of days. ]
no subject
He lists backwards, then, giving a little into negotiated temptations. Bull is a sturdy wall behind him, arms bracketing as hands tug at his clothing and feeling through it. He pushes his hips backwards, feeling mostly sturdiness wrapped in leather and coarse fabric than anything untoward. Beneath his own clothing, he is still slack, blood in the process of thickening flesh, stirred along as if summoned by Bull's hand, a chemical attraction.
It's wrong (it isn't wrong), and either way, Maker knows he can't help it. And cutting out the element of choice, the illusion thereof--
He runs fingers down the curve of Bull's arm, idly. His nails are painted a shiny beetle-shell black, a little scratched in places over the course of days. ]