[ Dorian closes his eyes at that first touch to his back, the sweep of Bull's hand, concentrating on staying still, and breathing at some sort normal pace. Then the rope, and he does watch, there, only flexing just a little beneath it once he can feel the tug of the knot securing itself.
And then his wrists are caught, guided into place.
His fingers fan out, lax, and curl back in at a musical kind of fold. Bull isn't asking him -- and he doesn't need to ask -- but it's signal enough were he to look for it. A slight release of tension, which he anticipates will be swift to build itself back up.
Bull handles him gently and easily, and Dorian is inclined to allow it rather than act out -- only testing knots once they've fixed in place, in the name of practicality as well as desire to feel them. ]
[ He'll find them firm, without much in the way of give. Room to move and jerk just increases the chances of unintentional injury, something he'd rather they just leave for...well, not tonight, at any rate.
One row of knots after another, descending down Dorian's arms in dark, thick stripes, the sleek rope glimmering in the candlelight. Elbow to wrist, those intricate ties secure, before slipping forward to wrap around his chest once again. Not strictly necessary this time, but aesthetically pleasing, framing the curve of his muscle and slope of his shoulders.
The last knot secures itself near the nape of Dorian's neck, and Bull wraps his fingers around the length of rope that runs the span of his shoulder. One way to test it, make sure it doesn't catch anywhere unpleasant. ]
Lean forward. Put your weight into it. Don't worry, I've got you.
[ Knots hold fast, rope is firm, and the ties and loops that Bull weaves with his fingers seem to hold Dorian rather than bite in, which already makes this experience a little more noteworthy than others. It's the lack of give, the confidence.
He glances back over a shoulder at that instruction, a soft exhalation that might have been some form of dry, ironic laugh ('don't worry,' says the Ben-Hassrath [the joke being, he's not worried]) had he any room to laugh.
But Dorian does as bid, leaning. Through the rope, Bull can get a sense of body language too -- coiled and ready, a controlled strength from bent knee to hip so as to put the weight properly on where Bull holds him, muscles as tightly binding as the rope that secures his arms behind him. Less within Dorian's control: the steady flow of blood, half-hard and weighted between his legs. His breathing is becoming more deliberate. ]
I could burn my way out of it, [ he muses, teasing. ]
[ There's a soft chuckle that isn't quite agreement. Rope like this would take a long time to burn through, and as tightly bound as he is it'd probably singe him in the process.
No. He's not going anywhere. ]
You could. But you won't.
[ The hand not holding him suspended finds its way into Dorian's hair, fingers carding through the soft, dark strands, not quite tugging hard enough to tip Dorian's head back. But he's admiring the angle afforded him just the same. The way his muscles go tense, the arch of his spine, the contrast of black rope against copper skin.
Humming in consideration, Bull finally tugs upwards on the rope, tugging Dorian back up fully onto his knees. Ever the pretty picture. And one hand stays free to drop down, spanning the warm, bared extent of his chest with a calloused palm. ]
You wanted to be here, trussed up all pretty. Just for me.
[ It's all talk. Even Dorian knows it's all talk. When Bull joins in on that talk, it's an added relief, and his eyes fall closed at that feeling of Bull's fingers already interrupted the preened curls of his hair. There's no forceful tug, and there doesn't really have to be to snag his attention -- the ropes dig where he leans against them, each knot a tension point of support. Architecture. He can feel it tight at his arms, across his chest, when he breathes in.
He kneels up as tugged, all coiled muscle and athletic line. Dorian tips up his chin as Bull sweeps that broad hand down his front, his own wrists twisting ever so slightly where they're caught. A small curl of warmth, low, releasing at the low rumble of these latest words. ]
I'm never where I don't wish to be, [ he agrees. ] But I know what I want. I'm curious as to what you want.
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And then his wrists are caught, guided into place.
His fingers fan out, lax, and curl back in at a musical kind of fold. Bull isn't asking him -- and he doesn't need to ask -- but it's signal enough were he to look for it. A slight release of tension, which he anticipates will be swift to build itself back up.
Bull handles him gently and easily, and Dorian is inclined to allow it rather than act out -- only testing knots once they've fixed in place, in the name of practicality as well as desire to feel them. ]
no subject
One row of knots after another, descending down Dorian's arms in dark, thick stripes, the sleek rope glimmering in the candlelight. Elbow to wrist, those intricate ties secure, before slipping forward to wrap around his chest once again. Not strictly necessary this time, but aesthetically pleasing, framing the curve of his muscle and slope of his shoulders.
The last knot secures itself near the nape of Dorian's neck, and Bull wraps his fingers around the length of rope that runs the span of his shoulder. One way to test it, make sure it doesn't catch anywhere unpleasant. ]
Lean forward. Put your weight into it. Don't worry, I've got you.
no subject
He glances back over a shoulder at that instruction, a soft exhalation that might have been some form of dry, ironic laugh ('don't worry,' says the Ben-Hassrath [the joke being, he's not worried]) had he any room to laugh.
But Dorian does as bid, leaning. Through the rope, Bull can get a sense of body language too -- coiled and ready, a controlled strength from bent knee to hip so as to put the weight properly on where Bull holds him, muscles as tightly binding as the rope that secures his arms behind him. Less within Dorian's control: the steady flow of blood, half-hard and weighted between his legs. His breathing is becoming more deliberate. ]
I could burn my way out of it, [ he muses, teasing. ]
no subject
No. He's not going anywhere. ]
You could. But you won't.
[ The hand not holding him suspended finds its way into Dorian's hair, fingers carding through the soft, dark strands, not quite tugging hard enough to tip Dorian's head back. But he's admiring the angle afforded him just the same. The way his muscles go tense, the arch of his spine, the contrast of black rope against copper skin.
Humming in consideration, Bull finally tugs upwards on the rope, tugging Dorian back up fully onto his knees. Ever the pretty picture. And one hand stays free to drop down, spanning the warm, bared extent of his chest with a calloused palm. ]
You wanted to be here, trussed up all pretty. Just for me.
no subject
He kneels up as tugged, all coiled muscle and athletic line. Dorian tips up his chin as Bull sweeps that broad hand down his front, his own wrists twisting ever so slightly where they're caught. A small curl of warmth, low, releasing at the low rumble of these latest words. ]
I'm never where I don't wish to be, [ he agrees. ] But I know what I want. I'm curious as to what you want.