The shirt yields along one of those rough mends, exposing a teasing view of defined muscle, decades of scarring and a light furring of black hair across his chest.
The witcher allows his head to be pulled with the movement of Bull's fingers. He might playfully resist him here and there in the course of this tryst but at the moment he's just sinking down into it, allowing Bull to pull him as he likes.
He's not a submissive man, as such. He likes rough play: pushing shoving, biting and blunt-nails catching on scarred skin. And he likes pleasing his partners, when they give him the chance. He finds it distracts from the face, not that he thinks Bull of all people cares about that. He's not at all troubled by the prospect of a hard, uncomplicated fuck. Just two hungry bodies sprawled on the ground and tangled up in each other.
His body is meant to be resistant to most intruders and impairments: poisons, diseases, etc. But there's something in the air now that settling over him in a familiar way that he finds at once intoxicating and slightly embarrassing as the sense-associations with succubus scent that have been quietly building below the surface all this time start to make themselves far more abundantly known. His breathing catches, his abnormally slow heart races, his cat-like pupils growl to wells of dark arousal. His trousers start to feel somewhat stifling.
"Sure, but remember you invited me to do it." He laughs, right before he moves to try and rip open the fabric across Bull's chest. He wants to see what he's working with, after all.
No, he's not just going to lie there like a passive toy, an idle source for Bull to take what he needs. It's an option, of course, but he trusts that Bull will tell him if he wants it like that.
no subject
The witcher allows his head to be pulled with the movement of Bull's fingers. He might playfully resist him here and there in the course of this tryst but at the moment he's just sinking down into it, allowing Bull to pull him as he likes.
He's not a submissive man, as such. He likes rough play: pushing shoving, biting and blunt-nails catching on scarred skin. And he likes pleasing his partners, when they give him the chance. He finds it distracts from the face, not that he thinks Bull of all people cares about that. He's not at all troubled by the prospect of a hard, uncomplicated fuck. Just two hungry bodies sprawled on the ground and tangled up in each other.
His body is meant to be resistant to most intruders and impairments: poisons, diseases, etc. But there's something in the air now that settling over him in a familiar way that he finds at once intoxicating and slightly embarrassing as the sense-associations with succubus scent that have been quietly building below the surface all this time start to make themselves far more abundantly known. His breathing catches, his abnormally slow heart races, his cat-like pupils growl to wells of dark arousal. His trousers start to feel somewhat stifling.
"Sure, but remember you invited me to do it." He laughs, right before he moves to try and rip open the fabric across Bull's chest. He wants to see what he's working with, after all.
No, he's not just going to lie there like a passive toy, an idle source for Bull to take what he needs. It's an option, of course, but he trusts that Bull will tell him if he wants it like that.