nibbling | open post pt. 2.

The horse whickers softly, looking at Astarion with her big wet eyes, then tries to mouth at his fingers in case he has another apple.

Bull also makes a slightly horse-y sound at raffish, brow lifted, gaze lingering for a moment. "Yeah, that's what I figure too. C'mon, let me show you what elfroot looks like."

Elfroot, as it turns out, is the flat-leaved weed that's been in abundance along the road, two or three by this tree alone. Bull strips a whole plant, plucking off all but the top leaves. "Every army in every country in Thedas basically runs on this stuff. They brew it up like a tea into a potion, drink it in battle. Burn it in the steam lodge after big battle. Sap can close wounds, roots treat digestive issues. Chew some of the leaves and you'll stop feeling like you got fucked five ways from Sunday." He'll wait until Astarion tries some to mention, "Bitter, though."

Astarion takes the tiniest bite off of a leaf, clearly hesitant even before being told of its bitterness. He hasn't had anything in his mouth that he's had to chew for a very long time, and just the mere texture of something mushy-solid between his teeth makes him want to gag a little. The actual taste is even worse, and he chokes out, "This is disgusting." It does help, though, so he forces himself to keep chewing (albeit not without making some very displeased faces).

There's still a bit of darkness left before the dawn is upon them, but there's no way he's getting back on that horse tonight. So, he leans against the trunk of the tree, hands clasped innocently: "Well. What do you say you pitch a tent?" He really hopes Bull bothered to get some sort of shelter. He probably should have checked. "I'll... supervise."

Yeah, he's not doing manual labor.

"You're such a princess," Bull ribs him, but there's something in his voice that says he's dangerously fine with it. They do have a tent and bedrolls, which Bull will unpack and set up on easy autopilot, tapping in pegs with the butt of his axe. Doesn't bother to light a fire since it'll warm up once the sun rises, just hooks the lantern by the tent flap.

"Fucking hate camping," Bull says cheerfully, taking a swig from the waterskin and looking at his handiwork. "Not - the set-up," lest Astarion think that's a jab, "Just miss my own bed. Really counting the days for that reunion." Even his room in the Blushing Mermaid had been too small and closed in for him to ever enjoy being there.

"I'm sure," Astarion says, only half-listening.

"You know, the day is so long." Actually, he has no idea how long the day is here. Is it the same as on Toril? Guess he'll find out. "How—" He poses languidly against the tree, cringing a little as he puts weight on his still-sore muscles. There's still elfroot in his mouth, and he makes himself swallow it. "However will we pass the time?"

Bull considers him, the lean against the tree, the airy tone. Lowers the water slowly. Head tilting like a dog hearing something humans can't. Jaw shifting.

"You don't have to do that," he says, keeping his tone as carefully neutral as possible — it's different from his usual laconic nonchalance, like maybe for once he actually is a little pissed. "Pretend you're into me."

"Why would you think something so preposterous?" he asks, although Bull is pretty much right. Astarion doesn't even know what it would feel like to be into someone, it's been so long. Honestly, it's come as a surprise that he doesn't feel the same abject hatred he usually feels for everybody toward Bull. Maybe even sort of likes him.

"Look at you. You're so..." It's difficult to come up with something to say, not because Bull is so unappealing, but because it's been so long since he engaged with the part of himself that potentially could find other people appealing. "Nice," he finishes, because that's the thing he actually likes about Bull.

It probably wouldn't be terrible. He seems like he'd be considerate. Astarion would still feel bad afterwards, but that just happens.

"I just thought you might want me to pay you back, is all."

Nice. Bull turns rueful, lifts a hand to scratch the side of his jaw with a little grimace. Like, sure, but he hates having it pointed out. He's a terrifying beserker, actually, get it right.

This is a weird fucking line to tread. For one thing, it's not like he's done a bunch of introspection on what he feels for Astarion, but it's not platonic camaraderie. Somewhere outside the brother-in-arms/fuckbuddy dichotomy he relies on to navigate his close relationships.

But on the other hand: "You flinch when I touch you," he points out. He doesn't take it personally, but he's been reining in his physicality because of it. Folds his arms. "Killing me with this. Pretty sure I wouldn't be back here without you, you don't "owe" me anything."

This has got to be the first time anyone has ever tried to talk their way out of sleeping with him. It's ridiculous and hypocritical, but he finds himself a little offended at the idea that he might be considered unfuckable. Just because Astarion isn't quaking with desire doesn't mean Bull shouldn't be!!!

"Fine," he says, chin tipping up. It's incredibly fucking embarrassing to strike out like this, but he can still maintain some sort of dignity. "It isn't like I'm hard up for it."

Obviously put out by being rejected for what must be the first time in his un-life, he stalks away to the tent, pulling back the flaps. Like every insecure man who gets turned down, he immediately starts in with the you're not even that pretty. "I'm tired, anyway."

Bull rubs a hand hard over his face, muttering something in qunlat to himself. Presses a fist of the bridge of his nose, exhaling hard and loud. Line completely veered off and crashed out. Probably better than the outcome where they fuck and he hates himself, but, you know, barely.

Okay. Okay. He can't argue about who has more prospects in the back-end of Ferelden (but it's him, thanks.) He considers seriously just dragging a bedroll out onto the grass and letting Astarion have the tent for the day, but no. It's not his tantrum. And maybe he's proving a point about how nice he actually is when he just follows Astarion over and ducks inside the cramped interior.

"Then go to sleep," he suggests, in the tone of then perish, settling down onto his own bedroll and unbuckling his shoulder pauldron.

Edited (as if Bull wears anything on his chest like cmon) 2025-10-21 15:28 (UTC)

Astarion flops down on his bedroll, fully-clothed, shoes and all—yes, throwing a bit of a tantrum. It shouldn't bother him. He didn't even want to. But being superficially appealing is also the only thing he's good at, so to have failed in that makes his neck heat in humiliation.

"Elves don't sleep," he says to the top of the tent. "We meditate. It's all very elegant."

"Huh." Is that true? Well, whatever, maybe it's true for drow. Feels like Solas is always off sleeping somewhere.

Bull puts his cover-nothing armour to the side and starts in on his boots. Glancing over at Astarion more than he'd like and less subtly than he thinks.

He can practically feel the eyes on him. "What?" Astarion snaps. "Don't tell me you're going to be precious about this."

Actually, he's incredibly worried that this was a huge misstep and that now he's fucked everything up. Bull had been nice to him, and now he's going to change his tune. Fuck, Astarion really must be incompetent.

But he can still fix this, maybe. "It's not like I was asking to hold hands." Just in case Bull is afraid that he's fallen in some sort of pathetic love with him. Bull seems like the sort of guy who prefers things very casual, so he's careful to be as nonchalant as he can, shrugging a little. "Honestly. I just thought a morning of tented passion might help pass the boredom."

Caught looking! Bull leans back on an elbow, stretching out, feeling the crackle of joints and the pull of old scars. "Cute. Listen, Astarion, it's not that I'm not— You've seen you." Unaware that Astarion has not, in fact, seen himself in a while. "And the bitchy princess thing really works for me. It's. I dunno." He sighs, frustrated at himself and Astarion both. "You wanna repay me, come join my guys, let's do some jobs together, kill some shit. Not whatever this is."

Still nice. Astarion should be relieved, except he has no clue how to navigate this. He laces his fingers over his abdomen, thumbing at a loose thread on his shirt. Finally: "Gods, you really are quite the teddy bear." It's not entirely unkind.

He shifts onto his side after that, back to Bull, silent for long enough that it would be reasonable to assume he's decided the conversation is over. But he eventually turns his head, adding, "And it's not your touch I'm flinching at." Feels like an important distinction, in case Bull has gotten it into his horned head that Astarion is afraid of qunari, or whatever. He hadn't hated all of it, either. He'd almost liked having his hair ruffled, except for the part where he'd had to blindly fix it all afterward. "It's just... mm. Complicated." That's as open as he's comfortable being about that. "You could stand to warn me first, that's all."

"I can do that," Bull says. He hasn't lain flat yet, still watching Astarion even though it's just his ear and the line of his back. Bull's assumption about what's going on with Astarion and touch is — well, wrong, facts-wise, but definitely in the right genre. Between the qun's treatment of mages, being pretty up close and personal with Tevinter slavers in Seheron, and building a merc crew out of anybody looking to escape a bad situation, he has a good idea of the shit people can do to each other in the name of cruelty and subjugation.

He doesn't ask, though, not while they're both sober and Astarion's trapped in the tent until the sun goes down. Instead, he cannot let this lie: "And hey, for the record? There are people out there shitting themselves at the thought of the Iron Bull coming to get 'em. You better not start saying that teddy bear crap where people can hear. Nice doesn't earn coin."

"Oh, yes. You're very terrifying."

Strangely, he actually finds himself less and less afraid of Bull with every interaction. Quite a shock, considering he's scared of everyone as a rule. Is this what friendship feels like? Hard to say. He's not sure he's ever had a friend before. Not one worth remembering, anyway.

"Don't worry. Your cute and cuddly secret is safe with me."

Bull makes a disgruntled noise. "Asshole," he mutters, aware he's just lost ground on that being believable ever again. He drops back onto his back (horns too ridiculous to lie on his side properly) and considers the walls of the tent. "Getting light out. You really meditate?"

Astarion shifts onto his back, too, less inclined to turn away from Bull now. He's struck by a sudden realization: he's not sure he's ever lied next to someone without having sex with them. It feels odd, foreign. Not bad, though.

"Would I lie?" he asks, before immediately thinking better of it. "Well, I'm not lying about this. It's a... restful trance. Preferable to that awful dreaming by far." He can't stand the idea of being completely helpless and out of control in his own mind. How others do it every night, he can't possibly fathom. "I'm marginally aware of the things around me during, so—"

An accusatory look. "Don't snore."

"Yeah, fuck dreaming," Bull mutters in quiet agreement in the middle of that. Qunari don't dream by choice, however that works, for a variety of complicated and highly superstitious reasons that don't matter.

Anyway, at being told not to snore, his mouth quirks. "Got it," he says solemnly. "Quiet as a chantry mouse." He's pretty sure he's not going to sleep, wants to keep an ear on the outside world and the horses. A doze, maybe, at most. He'll close his eyes though. Wait a little while, quiet breathing. Then give a long, low, exaggerated snore.

Astarion, fingers curled in meditation, reaches out a foot and kicks Bull in the shin.

It's still a little light outside when he wakes—earlier than a normal sleeper would, owing both to the efficiency of elven trancing and, well. "Hells," Astarion moans, his whole body having grown achy somewhere during the course of his meditation. If Bull had managed to fall asleep at any point, the whining will surely wake him. "I feel as if I've been kicked by a horse."

Bull wakes from quiet sleep at Astarion's first word, remembers he's sharing a tent by the second and relaxes. While he'd pitched close enough to the tree for some shade it's still only early Fall, and it's getting a little humid in the canvas confines, enough that he kinda wants to sleep a little more.

He scratches his belly a moment, deliberating. "You want a massage?"

He wants Bull to open up his veins so he can really feel better, but he couldn't possibly ask for that. "Wouldn't you like that!" he crows, although he sort of doubts it's actually a come-on. That would be a little ridiculous, after Bull spent last night (morning?) laying out how they absolutely were not going to be fondling each other's private parts.

A shift onto his side is accompanied by a low noise that sounds eerily similar to an angry cat. Stupid horse! He's mad at her all over again. "Why? Are you any good at it?"

"Yup," Bull says, easy confidence. It's the perfectionist's ego: he doesn't tend to offer or attempt to do anything he's less than great at.

"Merc work is a team effort like that. You rub your archer's strained shoulder so he can shoot the next guy who comes at you with a knife." Like locker room physiotherapy. Totally normal and platonic. Doesn't have to be weird. Except also, idly: "Plus a lot of people overdo it riding the Bull, so I've gotten pretty good at the hips." A sleepy smile in his voice.

The flat look on his face says that he thinks riding the Bull is the lamest thing he's ever heard. He doubts anyone named their baby The Iron Bull, so he wonders if the ridiculous little entendre was a factor in taking the name or if it was just a happy coincidence. Either way, it's eyeroll-worthy.

He doesn't dignify that with a response, just rolls onto his back again with an unhappy oof and lies there for a protracted moment, contemplative. Finally, with an imperious tone, he says, "I would allow that."

Coming properly awake now, Bull sits up, careful with his horns and the tent, his body in the space. Sits back on his feet somewhere around Astarion's knees, considers him a moment.

"You say stop, I'll stop," he says, then just goes for it, slips a hand under Astarion's calf and lifts it up, knee towards his chest. "Relax, I'll hold it," he says, because he doesn't want the muscle held taut, just stretched. Other hand presses into the back of Astarion's thigh over his pants, sweeping warmth along his hamstrings, just getting bloodflow back in there and feeling out where the tightness is. He's firm, a little too used to doing his own leg when his fucked up knee locks all his muscles up wrong, but impersonal. Astarion was right on the money that he likes this, but he's put that somewhere else in his head.

(no subject)

nibbling - 2025-10-23 05:38 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

qunlat - 2025-10-23 06:22 (UTC) - Expand