[ The moan Bull drags out with that is low, wounded, and obscene. Half the work is posture, he'd been trained, the rest is the voice. Burned into him are the lilts and sighs and sounds that are to be pleasing and enticing, what noblemen want to hear when they take a lover to their bed, when they ravish a demure elf. That training lingers still, but there is an honest edge to the way his breath hitches after, the way he twists to try and press his legs harder against Bull's mouth if he would not do it himself. ]
Please-
[ And flipped. Like he weighs nothing, he's flipped and lands not with a laugh, but with a whine, hips hitching and grinding against the sheets for some manner of friction. ]
no subject
Please-
[ And flipped. Like he weighs nothing, he's flipped and lands not with a laugh, but with a whine, hips hitching and grinding against the sheets for some manner of friction. ]