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."
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—"
"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.
Gods, just rip off the bandage, why doesn't he. Astarion of course tenses up all over at being touched like this, body relying on sense-memories of times someone's hands in these places led to hands in other places.
"It'sfine," he blurts out before Bull can make it weird, because the last thing he wants is some awkward pity. He forces himself to relax, increment by increment, taking in and breathing out unnecessary breaths. It helps, at least, that it feels almost clinical. Like Bull had described, just working out a buddy-ol'-pal's sore muscles.
"It just hurt, that's all." It really did, but then again, everything hurts right now. "I'm very delicate, you know. You have to be careful with those big, brutish hands of yours."
Bull is on high alert for every little tension and flinch, Astarion's breathing — but he's letting Astarion dictate where his limits are for now, while the stakes are relatively low and everyone's wearing clothes, and doesn't stop what he's doing.
His brow does twitch up. "Yeah, yeah, handling priceless treasure here, I get it." Shifts Astarion's knee slightly, in rather than out. "Okay, this is gonna be bad for a moment," he warns, and his grip tightens to keep Astarion from kicking him while he presses his thumb hard into the corner of muscle at his hip, searing white heat to the bone for three, four, five long seconds before he releases the pressure and the knot unlocks for him. Bull presses out the relieved muscle like he's kneading dough until he gets to the next spot. "How's that? Still with me? You good for again?"
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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."
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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."
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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."
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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."
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"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."
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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.
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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."
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He scratches his belly a moment, deliberating. "You want a massage?"
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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?"
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"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.
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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."
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"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.
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"It'sfine," he blurts out before Bull can make it weird, because the last thing he wants is some awkward pity. He forces himself to relax, increment by increment, taking in and breathing out unnecessary breaths. It helps, at least, that it feels almost clinical. Like Bull had described, just working out a buddy-ol'-pal's sore muscles.
"It just hurt, that's all." It really did, but then again, everything hurts right now. "I'm very delicate, you know. You have to be careful with those big, brutish hands of yours."
He's joking. It helps to run his mouth, too.
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His brow does twitch up. "Yeah, yeah, handling priceless treasure here, I get it." Shifts Astarion's knee slightly, in rather than out. "Okay, this is gonna be bad for a moment," he warns, and his grip tightens to keep Astarion from kicking him while he presses his thumb hard into the corner of muscle at his hip, searing white heat to the bone for three, four, five long seconds before he releases the pressure and the knot unlocks for him. Bull presses out the relieved muscle like he's kneading dough until he gets to the next spot. "How's that? Still with me? You good for again?"