[ There's a lot of avoidance going on lately. Not physical. Dorian's usually pretty forthcoming in that regard, as evidenced here. The tension remains, though. Something carried in the shoulders and the eyes and mouth, but without words. Discomfort doesn't suit him, and he likes it even less when it's someone else carrying it, refusing to see to it.
Sometimes on the field, it's necessary to keep moving. But right now it feels like a festering wound that can't really be ignored for too much longer.
There's a significant look given to Dorian out of his one good eye before he reaches for the coil of rope. It's silky-fine in his hands, his thumb running over the texture of it. Nearly snake-like. Little of that 'Vint still in him, after all. ]
Good craftsmanship. When'd you order it?
[ A seemingly throwaway question as he looks it over. ]
[ Dorian moves, mostly for the purpose of not wishing to idly stand like he's awaiting a verdict. Disappearing into Bull's blindspot, compensating with a hand out to touch the wide band of leather that circles the qunari's thick waist. The stippling scrape of blunt fingernails. ]
Not very long after the soiree, [ he answers, casual in the face of a seemingly throwaway question. ] And you said it was easy, if I had any ideas. I thought I might make it easier.
[ He means the provision of rope. He also means this transaction: gesture, code, implication. ]
[ The implication here being pretty damn clear. And one he's open to. If that's what Dorian wants, or what he needs, then it's something Bull can certainly provide.
But there's something off here. Nothing wrong, per se. Just an itch that seems to have settled over the Vint that has very little to do with how good Bull's gotten at scratching. There's no intent on his part to push for anything that Dorian doesn't want, in any regard, but he also doesn't much care for this strange tension that seems to be building between them.
Sexual tension, he gets. This is something else entirely. ]
Got to admit. Spent more than a little time thinking about how good you'd look in rope.
[ The corner of his lip tugs upwards, one hand reaching to play the edge of his fingers against the elegant curve of Dorian's cheekbone. ]
[ These little moments of tenderness, whether intended or not on the part of Bull (and never let it be said that Dorian's isn't capable of reading too deeply into things), are always disorienting. Only because they invite Dorian to return them, or lean into them, which generally feels diametrically opposite to the effect he wants to give about being tied up with rope.
And besides all that, he wants this too. Sex that's undeniably good. Spectacular, even. The tug of rope, the burn of muscle.
His returning smile is subtle, not without warmth, chin tipping up in response to that hand at his face, before a step pulls him just a little out of the way. Sexual tension, he gets too, more ready to stoke those fires rather than others. (He thinks a little bit about that. The gentleness, that comes after.) ]
I've been told I wear it well. Granted, it's been a while.
[ He loosens the fastenings of his robe, opening out of it, all fitted leather and bare arms beneath. ]
[ Bull chuckles, tosses the rope onto the bed for the moment before stepping in closer, fingers curling around one of the ties at his shoulder before tugging the lacings loose with a practiced little twist. ]
I bet.
[ When his eye flickers up, there's a heat burning there that's hard to ignore. Hard to hide, and no point in doing so in the moment. Dorian's likely doing this as much for him as he is for himself. For us, he'd said, the significance of the phrasing not lost.
There's some consideration given as he reaches for a buckle. Technical shit. Positioning, the precise sort of knotwork he wants, what will be comfortable for him for the longest time. Just the thought of Dorian all bound up, unable to do more than squirm and make his demands -- pleas, they tend to become -- is definitely having an effect on him already.
All two syllables of it, [ is bright, unyielding sass, as if to deny any stir of feeling at being reminded of that particular limitation.
Intrigue, in the first instance, although in practical terms, Dorian is beginning to understand how someone who looks like Bull does and is as perceptive as Bull is might, himself, value the implication of a watchword even more than the partner he's given it to. It serves a purpose. It just also happens to be a little thrilling.
Dorian undoes another buckle, opening leather up to the cooler air of the room. ]
And I remember what it's not, [ he goes on, hands wandering down to the fastenings at his waist. ] It isn't no, or stop, or get on with it.
[ There's a rumble in his throat as he says it, a slight darkening to the hue of his eye, before his fingers tangle in what passes for at least one of Dorian's belts and tugs him in closer, all before spinning him about.
Warmth radiates off of him as steadily as ever, bleeding through leather as he presses up against Dorian's back, another low growl proceeding him leaning forward to breathe in the scent of his hair, the perfumed oil at his neckline.
All while reaching down to unfasten another catch, and run his fingers along the length of him while he does so. ]
[ 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. ]
[ The illusion of lack of choice meant a lot of freedom. Restraint in exchange for lack of restraint, the ability to be without worrying about the consequences. They were his to bear, instead. And Dorian would be in good hands.
As if he wasn't already. Bull continues to dig his fingers into leather, to feel the shape of him slowly coming too, as his teeth find a particularly delicate point on Dorian's neck and sink bluntly inward.
But there's more left to do, and this will take time to do it right. So, eventually, his hand has to stray, to flick open another fastening and tug it loose, until more of those leathers sink away, loosening around his hips and allowing Bull to tug them further downward. A thoughtful hum follows before he nips the outer shell of Dorian's ear. ]
On your knees. Might want to take the bed. You're going to be there a while.
[ Those hands, that mouth, are beginning to stoke flame, but in this moment, Dorian holds on to restraint while it's still his to handle. A hitch of a breath, the gradual pressure and warmth of himself under leather and Bull's palm, but nothing else. His head tips away from that nip, haughty rebuke, and his eyes slide to the bed. The rope, coiled there, looks more snakish than ever.
He curls his toes against the unyielding floor. Decides he agrees. ]
And if you were going to have me on my knees on the floor, [ he says, stepping out of his leathers, and away from Bull ] you'd have to ask me with a little more courtesy.
[ But he gets onto the bed, all fours for a moment before righting himself in a kneel, keeping Bull in his periphery all the while. ]
[ There's an amused non-commital noise as Dorian perches himself on the bed, and it's worth taking a moment just to admire the pretty picture he makes. All that taut muscle and tone, the way the candlelight warms the copper of his skin, and the anticipation being held there. Just waiting for what comes next.
He's curious, he'd admit, about the time long past when Dorian had last let himself be tied. Who he might have trusted to that extent. Now's not the time to delve into it.
The floor creaks under his weight as he moves closer, gathering up the length of rope and considering just how much he has to work with here. Knots will shorten it considerably, but there's enough to circle his chest, to bind his arms to his side. Or at his back. He rests his palm against the curve of Dorian's spine, smoothing down testingly, as though to gauge just how long he can keep himself that tight.
Then the rope slips up, around his chest and over his shoulders, before his fingers carefully work the first knot into place with practiced ease. It slithers smooth against his skin, nothing to catch or itch or cause more discomfort than need be. When it comes time to encircle his wrists, he doesn't ask. Merely tugs them into position behind him.
[ 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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Sometimes on the field, it's necessary to keep moving. But right now it feels like a festering wound that can't really be ignored for too much longer.
There's a significant look given to Dorian out of his one good eye before he reaches for the coil of rope. It's silky-fine in his hands, his thumb running over the texture of it. Nearly snake-like. Little of that 'Vint still in him, after all. ]
Good craftsmanship. When'd you order it?
[ A seemingly throwaway question as he looks it over. ]
no subject
Not very long after the soiree, [ he answers, casual in the face of a seemingly throwaway question. ] And you said it was easy, if I had any ideas. I thought I might make it easier.
[ He means the provision of rope. He also means this transaction: gesture, code, implication. ]
no subject
But there's something off here. Nothing wrong, per se. Just an itch that seems to have settled over the Vint that has very little to do with how good Bull's gotten at scratching. There's no intent on his part to push for anything that Dorian doesn't want, in any regard, but he also doesn't much care for this strange tension that seems to be building between them.
Sexual tension, he gets. This is something else entirely. ]
Got to admit. Spent more than a little time thinking about how good you'd look in rope.
[ The corner of his lip tugs upwards, one hand reaching to play the edge of his fingers against the elegant curve of Dorian's cheekbone. ]
no subject
And besides all that, he wants this too. Sex that's undeniably good. Spectacular, even. The tug of rope, the burn of muscle.
His returning smile is subtle, not without warmth, chin tipping up in response to that hand at his face, before a step pulls him just a little out of the way. Sexual tension, he gets too, more ready to stoke those fires rather than others. (He thinks a little bit about that. The gentleness, that comes after.) ]
I've been told I wear it well. Granted, it's been a while.
[ He loosens the fastenings of his robe, opening out of it, all fitted leather and bare arms beneath. ]
no subject
I bet.
[ When his eye flickers up, there's a heat burning there that's hard to ignore. Hard to hide, and no point in doing so in the moment. Dorian's likely doing this as much for him as he is for himself. For us, he'd said, the significance of the phrasing not lost.
There's some consideration given as he reaches for a buckle. Technical shit. Positioning, the precise sort of knotwork he wants, what will be comfortable for him for the longest time. Just the thought of Dorian all bound up, unable to do more than squirm and make his demands -- pleas, they tend to become -- is definitely having an effect on him already.
Better to work it out in his head beforehand. ]
You remember the word?
no subject
Intrigue, in the first instance, although in practical terms, Dorian is beginning to understand how someone who looks like Bull does and is as perceptive as Bull is might, himself, value the implication of a watchword even more than the partner he's given it to. It serves a purpose. It just also happens to be a little thrilling.
Dorian undoes another buckle, opening leather up to the cooler air of the room. ]
And I remember what it's not, [ he goes on, hands wandering down to the fastenings at his waist. ] It isn't no, or stop, or get on with it.
no subject
[ There's a rumble in his throat as he says it, a slight darkening to the hue of his eye, before his fingers tangle in what passes for at least one of Dorian's belts and tugs him in closer, all before spinning him about.
Warmth radiates off of him as steadily as ever, bleeding through leather as he presses up against Dorian's back, another low growl proceeding him leaning forward to breathe in the scent of his hair, the perfumed oil at his neckline.
All while reaching down to unfasten another catch, and run his fingers along the length of him while he does so. ]
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. ]
no subject
As if he wasn't already. Bull continues to dig his fingers into leather, to feel the shape of him slowly coming too, as his teeth find a particularly delicate point on Dorian's neck and sink bluntly inward.
But there's more left to do, and this will take time to do it right. So, eventually, his hand has to stray, to flick open another fastening and tug it loose, until more of those leathers sink away, loosening around his hips and allowing Bull to tug them further downward. A thoughtful hum follows before he nips the outer shell of Dorian's ear. ]
On your knees. Might want to take the bed. You're going to be there a while.
no subject
He curls his toes against the unyielding floor. Decides he agrees. ]
And if you were going to have me on my knees on the floor, [ he says, stepping out of his leathers, and away from Bull ] you'd have to ask me with a little more courtesy.
[ But he gets onto the bed, all fours for a moment before righting himself in a kneel, keeping Bull in his periphery all the while. ]
no subject
He's curious, he'd admit, about the time long past when Dorian had last let himself be tied. Who he might have trusted to that extent. Now's not the time to delve into it.
The floor creaks under his weight as he moves closer, gathering up the length of rope and considering just how much he has to work with here. Knots will shorten it considerably, but there's enough to circle his chest, to bind his arms to his side. Or at his back. He rests his palm against the curve of Dorian's spine, smoothing down testingly, as though to gauge just how long he can keep himself that tight.
Then the rope slips up, around his chest and over his shoulders, before his fingers carefully work the first knot into place with practiced ease. It slithers smooth against his skin, nothing to catch or itch or cause more discomfort than need be. When it comes time to encircle his wrists, he doesn't ask. Merely tugs them into position behind him.
He wanted to relinquish control, after all. ]
no subject
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.