"I sent the correct measurements, darling," Vivienne assures. "But I'm sure the reality of you is far more than mere numbers on a page could convey."
Privately, Dorian concurs. It's strange to sit on the sofa with Vivienne, drinking wine and attempting to be objective while they chat about Bull's prospective outfit. The seamstress takes the jacket away for adjustments, leaving the Bull with a shirt (with buttons) to wear beneath, and fabric swatches spread out on the table, which the two mages sort through, arguing nuances of texture and color.
When the seamstress returns with the mock-up jacket, the fit is much better. She's able to close it properly, and Dorian can't take his eyes off Bull, even to bicker with Vivienne. Who would have thought that adding clothing could make him so alluring? The way it shows his broad shoulders, the size of his arms, and falls to his waist, accentuated by a sash--he looks good. Very good.
"I take it our Lord Dorian approves," says Vivienne, and Dorian can hear the satisfied smirk in her voice.
"I--" he begins, but it's pointless to argue. He's been caught staring, and he knows it. "I think the fit is exactly right, yes." He makes an effort not to, but he catches Bull's eye anyway. He wants to reach out and touch where the crisp lines of the jacket highlight the body he knows so well. Like this, the Bull nearly looks respectable. Almost. But Dorian wouldn't find him nearly so attractive if he did.
Bull is patient and obedient through the whole thing. It isn't his first fitting, though it is for something like this. With Dorian and Vivienne watching, he has extra incentive to behave. He won't embarrass Vivienne in front of her seamstress.
When told, he turns so that the two mages can see the full look. He catches the way that Dorian looks at him and Bull allows himself a warm, almost tender smile when his eye meets Dorian's.
"I'm never going to hear the end of this," he complains mildly, though there's still a smile in his voice.
With the way Bull looks now, that smile is nearly enough to make his heart skip a beat. If he looks like this at Halamshiral, Dorian thinks, everyone will want him. Perhaps they won't admit it, but how could they not?
"The end of what? Being forced to look decent for the first time in your life?" He tries to inject some of his usual wry humor. "I dare say it's something that all of us would like to remember."
"Some more than others," Vivienne adds blithely, and Dorian proudly resists the temptation to turn and glare at her. "But you do look quite handsome, dear," the Court Enchanter assures. She rises with regal poise, several swatches in hand, and motions for the seamstress. They go together to a counter across the room, where they discuss plans for the final product and when it will be finished. This leaves Dorian in the rather awkward position of admiring Bull all on his own, seated on the otherwise empty sofa.
When Vivienne and the seamstress are gone, Bull offers Dorian a warm, private smile - something just for him.
"I have to spend an entire night in this? Boss better make it worth it."
It fits well, at least. Bull doesn't feel restricted or pinched anywhere. He isn't exactly a judge of fashion - he's wearing this because Josephine and Vivienne are both insisting that the Inquisition look like they're uniform and coordinated, and even if it seems ridiculous, Bull knows how powerful that image can be. The Inquisition as a force of its own. It's what they need right now if purses are to open and diplomats are to cooperate.
That smile is so difficult to resist. Every time Bull directs at him, it melts something in his heart that he's deliberately kept frozen for a long time. It opens him up to feeling things he shouldn't. But he adores it, and he never wants Bull to stop looking at him that way.
"Oh, you'll survive," Dorian makes a show of huffing, "so long as you can still flex your muscles at anyone who so much as glances your way."
"No flexing, darling," Vivienne calls from across the room. "The fabric doesn't stretch."
"Ah. So you'll have to come up with another way to flirt," Dorian corrects, pushing himself up off the couch to draw closer to Bull, making the excuse to himself that he wants a better look at the jacket. "I have every faith that it will be equally absurd."
Bull rolls his eye when he hears Vivienne. But his attention is on Dorian and Bull feels betrayed by the way his heart beats a little faster as Dorian approaches him. He wants to reach out and touch, wants to gather Dorian into a kiss just to feel him close.
For the most part, he keeps his hands to himself. He lets the backs of his fingers brush along Dorian's arm as Dorian takes a moment to look him over.
"If it doesn't stretch, I'm going to need a forgiving cut," he says with a quiet laugh, just for Dorian.
He must be smiling stupidly, he thinks, when Bull's fingers brush along his bare arm. He reaches for him in turn, unable to stop himself from following the lines of the jacket over Bull's broad chest. He glances quickly across the room at Vivienne and her tailor. They're engaged in conversation, leaning over something and paying the two of them no attention in the least. On those grounds, Dorian feels bold enough to stand on his tip-toes and leave a kiss on Bull's cheek.
"I rather like this cut," he says. "You almost look presentable. Like the sort of dashing and dangerous figure some comte's younger sister might dance with to court an acceptable amount of scandal."
“And what about a magister’s only son?” he murmurs after that kiss to his cheek.
He wouldn’t mind dancing with Dorian in front of all those people. But would Dorian? Bull suddenly wishes they were alone: he wants to kiss Dorian properly but he doesn’t want to embarrass him in front of Vivienne or the seamstress.
Surprise flits visibly across Dorian's face. He'd been mostly joking, of course, and the last thing he expected was to be offered a dance himself. He can almost picture it: Bull's big hand on his waist, an arm around him, looking down at him with that warm smile. They'd spin in wide, smooth circles across the floor, and everyone else would move out of their way, for fear of being stepped on. But there would be no need to worry; Bull would be remarkably graceful, and always contentious of the other dancers. Still, they'd see him like that anyway.
It would be Dorian's first time dancing with a man in public. And now that he's thought about it, he wants it so badly it hurts.
"I suppose, if you're so inclined." Is his cautious answer. He doesn't think Bull was joking, but best not to appear too eager, just in case. His fingers curl into the fabric covering Bull's arms as he steps in and nudges him into a half turn, putting Bull's body between himself and the women across the room as he tilts his chin up and offers his mouth.
Bull smiles, just for Dorian, as the mage positions them just so and leans up. He takes the cue and gathers Dorian close so he can kiss him. Kadan, his mind whispers, and at least this time he keeps himself from saying it out loud.
He lingers as long as he thinks he can, and as they part, Bull strokes his fingers along Dorian's cheek.
"I'm so inclined," he murmurs. Maybe Dorian won't believe him, but Bull absolutely intends to ask him to dance before their evening at the palace is over. He's determined now.
Reluctantly, he straightens out when he hears Vivienne's heels clicking closer.
For the moment that their lips meet, Dorian nearly forgets where they are. Anything beyond the circle of Bull's arms around him may as well be irrelevant. His grip tightens on Bull's jacket, surely creasing the fabric, as he returns the kiss with gentle insistence. It's still astounding to him that Bull wants to kiss him outside the bedroom at all, let alone after asking him for a dance at the Winter Palace.
He knows that he shouldn't read into it, but whether Bull knows what he's doing or not, everything about the way he's treated Dorian recently has been...romantic.
Apart from, of course, the part where they'd talked about being friends. That certainly puts a damper on things. Knowing how the Bull operates, he's probably happy just to give Dorian what he wants. And what Dorian wants, clearly, is to pretend at a relationship that doesn't exist.
That draws him away from Bull even more so than the sound of Vivienne's heels. No matter what passes between them, he mustn't allow his heart to get away from his head. He has to be realistic. He can be glad to share this bond with Bull, temporary as it might be, without losing himself in a fantasy.
He smiles tightly, stepping back slowly as Vivienne approaches.
"That should conclude things for today," she declares. "Go ahead and undress, Bull, and leave Mariana with your coat. She'll be finished with the final version well before the ball."
Quietly, Dorian retreats back to the couch, and empties the rest of the glass of wine he'd set aside. "What do you say," he says, helping himself to regain his good mood, "to a little shopping, Bull? There are a few things I was hoping to collect while we're here in the city. We could go together."
Bull carefully removes the jacket and returns it to Mariana. Once he’s back in his own things entirely, Bull rejoins Dorian and gestures toward the door. He pauses to quietly thank Vivienne for her time and effort in arranging all this. He is grateful.
As they leave, he finds himself staying close to Dorian. His mind wanders back to the potential of approaching Dorian in the Winter Palace. He pushes it out of his mind for now. Maybe Dorian will change his mind.
By the time they emerge from the tailor's, the afternoon sun is high in the sky, and the city is teeming with activity. They're already near the part of the city Dorian wants to be in, and the shops and bazaar he has in mind are just a few streets away.
"I happen to know of a few merchants who specialize in northern imports," he smiles, walking close to Bull's side. "Doubtless you're already aware, given that you are more familiar with the city than I am," he continues, "but I thought we might stop by. I also have a few cosmetics I'd like to collect, as well as some ingredients." His lips quirk. "Including cloves for the horn balm you prefer."
Bull smiles almost to himself when Dorian mentions getting cloves for his horn balm.
"You're going to make Stitches feel inadequate," he teases. Truth be told, Bull prefers the balm Dorian makes: the mage is more familiar with the regular ingredients, and more of an alchemist than Stitches will ever be. The stuff the healer made for him always smelled medicinal.
"And you're right, by now I think I can find just about anything you'd want in this city."
"It only stands to reason," Dorian smirks, "that I could make a more fragrant salve than your company medic. The lot of you would smell better, otherwise."
And rubbing it into Bull's horns for him has become a ritual he enjoys very much. It pleases him to do that for Bull, and it fills him with satisfaction to catch the lingering scent of cloves on him for some time afterward.
Playfully, Dorian lets his shoulder lean into Bull's arm, glancing up at him side-long. "Oh? Anything you might recommend? I'm certain the Orlesians have any number of clandestine shops stocked with tasteless curiosities."
A smirk curves his scarred mouth and he lolls his head to look at Dorian.
"I know a place," he says, drawing it out slyly as he gives Dorian a wolfish grin. "Most Orlesians go in pairs or surreptitiously alone."
Bull remembers the place well, he's been there a handful of times, sometimes just to look but sometimes to actively browse. It's been a couple years, though, since he's been back.
Something about the way Bull smirks like that is deeply appealing. The knowing curve of his lips, the playful glint in his eye--something flips in the vague proximity of Dorian's stomach. Damn him.
"Well, we're a pair, aren't we?" Dorian challenges, knowing what Bull must be implying. There are such places in Minrathous too, of course. Orlesians hardly have a monopoly on decadent novelties. In fact, he'd venture to say that he's probably seen stranger ones in Tevinter, where the addition of magic makes everything that much more interesting.
He only realizes after he's said it, of course, exactly what he's so casually implied. He'd only meant that the two of them are together now, of course, and not necessarily that they are...paired in any other sense. But that isn't what it sounds like. He doesn't correct himself for fear of making things even more awkward by drawing attention to his faux pas.
"We are," he answers with a warm rumble. Bull finds himself liking that idea, that they're a pair. Bull steers them through familiar side-streets, operating on memory until they end up in a lively little back alley behind the full market. The only way to mark the shop is the red banners fluttering in the breeze and the throng of Orlesian nobility hiding behind fans despite their masks.
There isn't much to see facing the street, but the crowd parts for Bull and inside there are plenty of novelties to see. Cocks of all sizes and of all kinds of material and harnesses to wear them, silk ropes of all colors, gilded chains and fur-lined cuffs. Exotic aphrodisiacs, claiming to be from Tevinter and beyond. Bull lets a hand rest on Dorian's back just so he doesn't lose him.
And just like that, Dorian's worries are proven to be ridiculous. Bull agrees with him seemingly without a second thought. The swell of affection Dorian feels in response is probably incongruous with what Bull actually means, but he can't conceal his delight. He grins up at Bull, and gladly remains near him as they walk together.
The shop itself is inconspicuous, as expected, but Dorian gleans all he needs to know simply from those lingering nearby. He gives a surreptitious smirk as they part for Bull with soft murmurs. Inside the light is tastefully low, but the wares are displayed blatantly--obscenely, one might say. Dorian finds it more amusing than anything. He turns his nose up at the multitude of cocks and harnesses, quite confident that none could be more appealing than Bull's. With that big hand covering the small of his back, he's feels that he's in a good position to be discerning.
It's the ropes that first draw his attention and hold it. There are so many colors, and when he reaches out to curiously touch one, it's far softer than he expected. He's no stranger to rope, but these are both sturdier and lovelier than any he's used in the past.
Bull runs a rope through his fingers as he considers the offerings.
“This is similar to what I use,” he muses. “Silk and silk blends won’t bite into skin quite as much. Less likely to cause friction burn as long as you’re using them right.”
He looks down at Dorian and offers a faint smirk.
“I’ve always preferred rope work.”
Why not? It’s the chance for Dorian to learn some new things.
"Oh?" Even as he asks, Dorian feels as though he'd already known that, somehow--that this was something Bull likes, that he's experienced with. Something to do with the ropes he occasionally ties to wear as armor. The idea is...appealing. Very much so. And there's that smirk again.
"I look good in rope," Dorian ventures, and reaches out to place his own hand over Bull's where he rubs the strand between this fingers. "If you had an interest in tying me up, you might have mentioned it sooner."
Bull tips his head as he considers Dorian, like he might be picturing it. "Hm. Violet for you," he muses absently. "And gold."
He can see the colors against Dorian's warm skin and the thought of just the act of tying him up sends a pleasant shiver down his back. He wants nothing more than to touch Dorian more just then: a stroke across his cheek, a gentle grip on his chin. A kiss.
Something about this feels significant. Perhaps it's the careful way that that Bull looks at him, both intently and with apparent affection.
"Why those colors?" Dorian certainly isn't denying that they would look good, but he's curious about why Bull thinks so, and as to whether there's any significance beyond the obvious. His hand remains on Bull's much larger one, thumb stroking across his scarred knuckles.
Bull seems to consider as he runs his fingers over silk instead of Dorian's skin. He enjoys the tender brush against his knuckles on the hand Dorian is still touching. "Because those are your colors," he says. "Asit tal-eb."
They are Dorian as much as Dorian embodies them, he thinks. Certainly there are other colors that would look good - green and gold, for example - but something about the rich purple sticks in his mind, the same way that Ben-Hassrath red does. It's simply Dorian, to him.
"I see." Dorian's smile is fond, and more than a little pleased as he recognizes the Qunlat. "I agree, actually. And I expect to be tied in them at your earliest convenience." Smiling, he leans close to let his lips press to Bull's chest, which is as near as he can get to his mouth without actually going up on his tip-toes and dragging him down by his horns.
Without any fuss, Dorian slips his hand into Bull's, interlacing their fingers. There's something about the idea of purchasing things like this together--to be used together, implying that they'll be together for some time to come--that makes him bold.
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Privately, Dorian concurs. It's strange to sit on the sofa with Vivienne, drinking wine and attempting to be objective while they chat about Bull's prospective outfit. The seamstress takes the jacket away for adjustments, leaving the Bull with a shirt (with buttons) to wear beneath, and fabric swatches spread out on the table, which the two mages sort through, arguing nuances of texture and color.
When the seamstress returns with the mock-up jacket, the fit is much better. She's able to close it properly, and Dorian can't take his eyes off Bull, even to bicker with Vivienne. Who would have thought that adding clothing could make him so alluring? The way it shows his broad shoulders, the size of his arms, and falls to his waist, accentuated by a sash--he looks good. Very good.
"I take it our Lord Dorian approves," says Vivienne, and Dorian can hear the satisfied smirk in her voice.
"I--" he begins, but it's pointless to argue. He's been caught staring, and he knows it. "I think the fit is exactly right, yes." He makes an effort not to, but he catches Bull's eye anyway. He wants to reach out and touch where the crisp lines of the jacket highlight the body he knows so well. Like this, the Bull nearly looks respectable. Almost. But Dorian wouldn't find him nearly so attractive if he did.
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When told, he turns so that the two mages can see the full look. He catches the way that Dorian looks at him and Bull allows himself a warm, almost tender smile when his eye meets Dorian's.
"I'm never going to hear the end of this," he complains mildly, though there's still a smile in his voice.
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"The end of what? Being forced to look decent for the first time in your life?" He tries to inject some of his usual wry humor. "I dare say it's something that all of us would like to remember."
"Some more than others," Vivienne adds blithely, and Dorian proudly resists the temptation to turn and glare at her. "But you do look quite handsome, dear," the Court Enchanter assures. She rises with regal poise, several swatches in hand, and motions for the seamstress. They go together to a counter across the room, where they discuss plans for the final product and when it will be finished. This leaves Dorian in the rather awkward position of admiring Bull all on his own, seated on the otherwise empty sofa.
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"I have to spend an entire night in this? Boss better make it worth it."
It fits well, at least. Bull doesn't feel restricted or pinched anywhere. He isn't exactly a judge of fashion - he's wearing this because Josephine and Vivienne are both insisting that the Inquisition look like they're uniform and coordinated, and even if it seems ridiculous, Bull knows how powerful that image can be. The Inquisition as a force of its own. It's what they need right now if purses are to open and diplomats are to cooperate.
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"Oh, you'll survive," Dorian makes a show of huffing, "so long as you can still flex your muscles at anyone who so much as glances your way."
"No flexing, darling," Vivienne calls from across the room. "The fabric doesn't stretch."
"Ah. So you'll have to come up with another way to flirt," Dorian corrects, pushing himself up off the couch to draw closer to Bull, making the excuse to himself that he wants a better look at the jacket. "I have every faith that it will be equally absurd."
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For the most part, he keeps his hands to himself. He lets the backs of his fingers brush along Dorian's arm as Dorian takes a moment to look him over.
"If it doesn't stretch, I'm going to need a forgiving cut," he says with a quiet laugh, just for Dorian.
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"I rather like this cut," he says. "You almost look presentable. Like the sort of dashing and dangerous figure some comte's younger sister might dance with to court an acceptable amount of scandal."
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He wouldn’t mind dancing with Dorian in front of all those people. But would Dorian? Bull suddenly wishes they were alone: he wants to kiss Dorian properly but he doesn’t want to embarrass him in front of Vivienne or the seamstress.
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It would be Dorian's first time dancing with a man in public. And now that he's thought about it, he wants it so badly it hurts.
"I suppose, if you're so inclined." Is his cautious answer. He doesn't think Bull was joking, but best not to appear too eager, just in case. His fingers curl into the fabric covering Bull's arms as he steps in and nudges him into a half turn, putting Bull's body between himself and the women across the room as he tilts his chin up and offers his mouth.
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He lingers as long as he thinks he can, and as they part, Bull strokes his fingers along Dorian's cheek.
"I'm so inclined," he murmurs. Maybe Dorian won't believe him, but Bull absolutely intends to ask him to dance before their evening at the palace is over. He's determined now.
Reluctantly, he straightens out when he hears Vivienne's heels clicking closer.
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He knows that he shouldn't read into it, but whether Bull knows what he's doing or not, everything about the way he's treated Dorian recently has been...romantic.
Apart from, of course, the part where they'd talked about being friends. That certainly puts a damper on things. Knowing how the Bull operates, he's probably happy just to give Dorian what he wants. And what Dorian wants, clearly, is to pretend at a relationship that doesn't exist.
That draws him away from Bull even more so than the sound of Vivienne's heels. No matter what passes between them, he mustn't allow his heart to get away from his head. He has to be realistic. He can be glad to share this bond with Bull, temporary as it might be, without losing himself in a fantasy.
He smiles tightly, stepping back slowly as Vivienne approaches.
"That should conclude things for today," she declares. "Go ahead and undress, Bull, and leave Mariana with your coat. She'll be finished with the final version well before the ball."
Quietly, Dorian retreats back to the couch, and empties the rest of the glass of wine he'd set aside. "What do you say," he says, helping himself to regain his good mood, "to a little shopping, Bull? There are a few things I was hoping to collect while we're here in the city. We could go together."
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Bull carefully removes the jacket and returns it to Mariana. Once he’s back in his own things entirely, Bull rejoins Dorian and gestures toward the door. He pauses to quietly thank Vivienne for her time and effort in arranging all this. He is grateful.
As they leave, he finds himself staying close to Dorian. His mind wanders back to the potential of approaching Dorian in the Winter Palace. He pushes it out of his mind for now. Maybe Dorian will change his mind.
“What are you looking for?”
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"I happen to know of a few merchants who specialize in northern imports," he smiles, walking close to Bull's side. "Doubtless you're already aware, given that you are more familiar with the city than I am," he continues, "but I thought we might stop by. I also have a few cosmetics I'd like to collect, as well as some ingredients." His lips quirk. "Including cloves for the horn balm you prefer."
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"You're going to make Stitches feel inadequate," he teases. Truth be told, Bull prefers the balm Dorian makes: the mage is more familiar with the regular ingredients, and more of an alchemist than Stitches will ever be. The stuff the healer made for him always smelled medicinal.
"And you're right, by now I think I can find just about anything you'd want in this city."
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And rubbing it into Bull's horns for him has become a ritual he enjoys very much. It pleases him to do that for Bull, and it fills him with satisfaction to catch the lingering scent of cloves on him for some time afterward.
Playfully, Dorian lets his shoulder lean into Bull's arm, glancing up at him side-long. "Oh? Anything you might recommend? I'm certain the Orlesians have any number of clandestine shops stocked with tasteless curiosities."
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"I know a place," he says, drawing it out slyly as he gives Dorian a wolfish grin. "Most Orlesians go in pairs or surreptitiously alone."
Bull remembers the place well, he's been there a handful of times, sometimes just to look but sometimes to actively browse. It's been a couple years, though, since he's been back.
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"Well, we're a pair, aren't we?" Dorian challenges, knowing what Bull must be implying. There are such places in Minrathous too, of course. Orlesians hardly have a monopoly on decadent novelties. In fact, he'd venture to say that he's probably seen stranger ones in Tevinter, where the addition of magic makes everything that much more interesting.
He only realizes after he's said it, of course, exactly what he's so casually implied. He'd only meant that the two of them are together now, of course, and not necessarily that they are...paired in any other sense. But that isn't what it sounds like. He doesn't correct himself for fear of making things even more awkward by drawing attention to his faux pas.
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There isn't much to see facing the street, but the crowd parts for Bull and inside there are plenty of novelties to see. Cocks of all sizes and of all kinds of material and harnesses to wear them, silk ropes of all colors, gilded chains and fur-lined cuffs. Exotic aphrodisiacs, claiming to be from Tevinter and beyond. Bull lets a hand rest on Dorian's back just so he doesn't lose him.
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The shop itself is inconspicuous, as expected, but Dorian gleans all he needs to know simply from those lingering nearby. He gives a surreptitious smirk as they part for Bull with soft murmurs. Inside the light is tastefully low, but the wares are displayed blatantly--obscenely, one might say. Dorian finds it more amusing than anything. He turns his nose up at the multitude of cocks and harnesses, quite confident that none could be more appealing than Bull's. With that big hand covering the small of his back, he's feels that he's in a good position to be discerning.
It's the ropes that first draw his attention and hold it. There are so many colors, and when he reaches out to curiously touch one, it's far softer than he expected. He's no stranger to rope, but these are both sturdier and lovelier than any he's used in the past.
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Bull runs a rope through his fingers as he considers the offerings.
“This is similar to what I use,” he muses. “Silk and silk blends won’t bite into skin quite as much. Less likely to cause friction burn as long as you’re using them right.”
He looks down at Dorian and offers a faint smirk.
“I’ve always preferred rope work.”
Why not? It’s the chance for Dorian to learn some new things.
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"I look good in rope," Dorian ventures, and reaches out to place his own hand over Bull's where he rubs the strand between this fingers. "If you had an interest in tying me up, you might have mentioned it sooner."
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He can see the colors against Dorian's warm skin and the thought of just the act of tying him up sends a pleasant shiver down his back. He wants nothing more than to touch Dorian more just then: a stroke across his cheek, a gentle grip on his chin. A kiss.
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"Why those colors?" Dorian certainly isn't denying that they would look good, but he's curious about why Bull thinks so, and as to whether there's any significance beyond the obvious. His hand remains on Bull's much larger one, thumb stroking across his scarred knuckles.
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They are Dorian as much as Dorian embodies them, he thinks. Certainly there are other colors that would look good - green and gold, for example - but something about the rich purple sticks in his mind, the same way that Ben-Hassrath red does. It's simply Dorian, to him.
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Without any fuss, Dorian slips his hand into Bull's, interlacing their fingers. There's something about the idea of purchasing things like this together--to be used together, implying that they'll be together for some time to come--that makes him bold.
"Let's keep looking, shall we?"
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