[ 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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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.
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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.