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?"
It's a good thing Bull preempts the kicking, because he does try, instinctively and involuntarily. He has to grip the bedroll so as not to punch Bull for it. "Motherfucker," he hisses, eyebrows raised. It hurts so bad that he forgets to be nervous about being touched at all, which is... something? Getting his sore muscles pressed on is probably not a long-term solution to the touch problem, but at least in the short-term, it gives him something else to focus on.
He hates that it feels better afterward. "I take back everything I said about your niceness." Sadist. "Just do it quickly," he demands with that same imperious tone, verbally wrestling for control of the situation even now.
"It takes how long it takes," Bull says, which is very qunari for a guy who's left the qun, but this has him in that headspace. "But I think you can handle it."
Hopefully that's true, because now he's just gonna keep doing it, working his way up the pressure points from hip to calf, with a pause to go a second time on the evil one alongside the kneecap. It's the same each time though, rhythmic: Bull murmurs a word of warning, there's five seconds of shrieking pressure, and then a warm wash of massage as a reward for taking it without uh, killing him.
"Doing good," he says, abandoning that leg to climb over Astarion and sit on his other side, taking the opportunity to check in again.
"I hate you." It takes how long it takes. Dick. But it really does help the soreness, and it's so methodical and predictable that the anxiety of having someone's hands on him has reduced to a low thrum, so he doesn't tap out. Besides, it's sort of novel to have someone touch him in a way that feels like it's for his benefit; his own experience of it has historically been largely unimportant up until now.
It does, of course, still feel a little uncomfortably intimate. Bull's summary rejection of his advances—while offensive, at the time—soothes most of the worry on that front, though. If he'd intended on doing untoward things to Astarion while he was stuck in this tent, he had his opportunity.
"You could at least try to distract me," is a genuine complaint. Again, he's endured centuries of torture, but his mild discomfort tolerance is not great. "Don't you have any ridiculous tavern stories to tell?"
All that flaying when Cazador could have just been putting little stones in his shoe or making him ride a horse.
Anyway, Bull grins, pleased to actually be asked to talk. "So many," he promises, and it's a good request, shifts his mindset away from processing all this intense service-sadism as something it isn't. "You wanna hear about taking down a dragon? Or how I lost my eye and met my right hand man? Shit, actually, we're going through Haven tomorrow. I should tell you about the fucking breaches."
Physically, he's just mirroring what he did to the first leg, but now, while he's not careless, there's less intense hypervigilance over Astarion's well-being, Bull relaxing somewhat as he sketches in broad strokes the Inquisitor closing the breach, and Coryphius' army attacking Haven, forcing them to flee up the mountain to Skyhold.
Having something to listen to does distract him from the pain, although it's slowly becoming— not good-hurt, but tolerable-hurt, at least. It's unsurprising and always the same: a few seconds of intense pressure, then relief. For someone whose life has been ruled by someone else's unpredictability, it's actually sort of nice to have something he can foresee.
"Ah," he still whines, because he's a whiner. "What an... exciting life you've led."
Actually, it sounds like this Inquisition business is all very complicated in a way he's not a fan of, but surely he can just keep his head down and ignore all of that.
He stretches his leg back out when all is said and done, crossed daintily at the ankle. "Am I supposed to return the favor?"
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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."
no subject
He scratches his belly a moment, deliberating. "You want a massage?"
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"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
"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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
He hates that it feels better afterward. "I take back everything I said about your niceness." Sadist. "Just do it quickly," he demands with that same imperious tone, verbally wrestling for control of the situation even now.
no subject
Hopefully that's true, because now he's just gonna keep doing it, working his way up the pressure points from hip to calf, with a pause to go a second time on the evil one alongside the kneecap. It's the same each time though, rhythmic: Bull murmurs a word of warning, there's five seconds of shrieking pressure, and then a warm wash of massage as a reward for taking it without uh, killing him.
"Doing good," he says, abandoning that leg to climb over Astarion and sit on his other side, taking the opportunity to check in again.
no subject
It does, of course, still feel a little uncomfortably intimate. Bull's summary rejection of his advances—while offensive, at the time—soothes most of the worry on that front, though. If he'd intended on doing untoward things to Astarion while he was stuck in this tent, he had his opportunity.
"You could at least try to distract me," is a genuine complaint. Again, he's endured centuries of torture, but his mild discomfort tolerance is not great. "Don't you have any ridiculous tavern stories to tell?"
no subject
Anyway, Bull grins, pleased to actually be asked to talk. "So many," he promises, and it's a good request, shifts his mindset away from processing all this intense service-sadism as something it isn't. "You wanna hear about taking down a dragon? Or how I lost my eye and met my right hand man? Shit, actually, we're going through Haven tomorrow. I should tell you about the fucking breaches."
Physically, he's just mirroring what he did to the first leg, but now, while he's not careless, there's less intense hypervigilance over Astarion's well-being, Bull relaxing somewhat as he sketches in broad strokes the Inquisitor closing the breach, and Coryphius' army attacking Haven, forcing them to flee up the mountain to Skyhold.
no subject
"Ah," he still whines, because he's a whiner. "What an... exciting life you've led."
Actually, it sounds like this Inquisition business is all very complicated in a way he's not a fan of, but surely he can just keep his head down and ignore all of that.
He stretches his leg back out when all is said and done, crossed daintily at the ankle. "Am I supposed to return the favor?"