Astarion flops onto his back, body lying perpendicular to the mattress. He already tried to sneak in a little trance, but even putting the circumstances aside, it's difficult to get comfortable here after centuries of sleeping on a small, lumpy bed surrounded by other vampires.
"Perhaps I will," he says regardless, already shifting a little with restlessness. "If you aren't going to tell me a bedtime story, then I suppose you're dismissed."
"If it'd help you sleep easier I can stick around," says Bull, aware it's too earnest an offer and likely to activate Astarion's infinite prickles, but he can't think of a way to frame it. He's not unfamiliar with the hypervigilance that comes with trying to sleep in a new place. Probably he makes a better door guard than Charter.
"That's rather presumptuous," Astarion says as he sits back up, visibly puffed up like an angry cat. It's not that he's annoyed by the thought of Bull sticking around; he's annoyed that Bull couldn't come up with some sort of excuse to stay so that he didn't have to embarrass himself by asking. Ugh, apparently he has to do everything around here.
"...Mm," he says after a moment of thought. "I see. Clearly, you've been tasked by that Inquisitor of yours to linger here and make sure I don't steal anything." He's actually eighty percent sure that's why he's had a woman standing outside of his door this whole time, but he's pretty sure Bull isn't here to stop his sticky fingers. "Well. If you must."
Bull wants to ask what Astarion thinks he'd even steal, but it seems to run contrary to what he's aiming for here, so he (sensibly) shuts the fuck up instead. "Guess I must."
He comes around the chair he's been leaning his forearms on and takes an actual seat, slumped somewhat perpendicular to Astarion. Settling to stay a while. Good thing there's a battle for everyone in the castle to gossip about.
Astarion settles back on his pillows proper, still atop the covers. A pause, and then he crawls under them, pulling them up to his chin like a child afraid of the dark. He turns onto his side, facing Bull, and then turns away.
Back to Bull: "So you're just going to sit there and stare the whole time, or...?"
A huff of a chuckle, because yeah. Fair enough. "Wasn't planning on it."
The room has a desk, at least; Bull drags the chair over to it, the legs making an awful noise against the floor, and then settles again heaveily. Fishes through the little drawers for paper. He can spend the time writing a more detailed report, get Leliana off his dick.
An elbow on the wood, glancing sidelong, gaze drawn back to Astarion regardless.
Astarion, still restless, rolls around uncomfortably until he winds up on his back, arms at his sides as he assumes a meditative position. He closes his eyes, dead lungs filling as he takes a breath in and out.
Five minutes pass, and he still hasn't made any headway into trancing, mind racing far too much to enter any sort of meditative state. He peeks one red eye open, although it's unnecessary. He knows Bull is still there, because he's been hyperaware of the sounds in the room, listening to see if Bull will just up and abandon him despite his offer to stay.
"...I told you this bed is too soft," he complains, although that's not really the reason he can't relax.
The quill is small and a little silly-looking in Bull's hand, both of them caught looking at each other. Bull slowly leans back in his chair. "You want me to get you a bedroll and you can sleep on the floor?" Bull asks, in a tone that more accurately conveys okay, Goldilocks. He'd do it, he just doesn't think that's the problem any more than the amount of pillows.
"The floor?" is offended. Gods, that's worse than the lumpy bunk beds. "No, I think I got my fill of sleeping on the ground yesterday."
So, yeah, he's just complaining for the sake of complaining. "Perhaps—" A moment of hesitation here. "Well, perhaps it's only uncomfortable because I'm..." Astarion sighs, a little melodramatic. "So sore."
Astarion is inventing plastic by being so transparent right now. Bull exhales through his nose with the faintest little twitch of his lips. "We did spend a while on horseback today." Like, even for him, that was a hard ride. He puts the quill down again, turning further towards Astarion. And because he's nice, he doesn't make him ask. "You want another massage?" Not like it's in any way a hardship for him.
This is still making him ask!!! In Astarion's perfect fantasy world, Bull would be on his knees, begging Astarion to please let him rub his back. This whole 'expressing wants' thing is still very difficult for him; he feels like surely he's going to get mocked and derided any moment.
He can never just say 'yes' to anything. Instead, he sits up and shrugs. "Well, if you're offering. I know how very badly you need practice."
The chair scrapes along the floor with another ugly noise as Bull gets up, comes over. The mattress, like a cloud, dips deep under his weight when he sits. He's fully aware that Astarion is an emotional pretzel, but that's also what held his interest back when they first met. Everything since then has just been learning which threads to tug to untangle him a little.
"There's not much you can ask for that I won't just say yes to, Astarion," he says, tugging at the covers. Apparently just ignoring the attempt to make this something he needs.
Astarion turns his head, squints. Part of him wants to snap at Bull, tell him to stop being so nice to him. It makes Astarion feel strange to be the recipient of it, and strange is scary. On the other hand, it's been a very long time since he's asked for something and gotten it, and he kind of likes it.
A brief pause, and then he wriggles out from under the covers. "Do the legs first." He needs to get warmed up before he can muster up the bravery to bare his back.
"Might hurt worse," he admits, which probably seems like an impossibility but all the pressure points are still going to be sensitive from the last massage. "Just tap out if it gets too much, we can take a break." Though he's also slowly learning Astarion's pain threshold.
Hm. It's a little weird how habitual Bull is about this, but not necessarily in a bad way. It's anxiety-soothing to feel as if he knows exactly what to expect, if he can predict where he's going to be touched and prepare himself before it actually happens.
Astarion would usually jump at the chance to complain about discomfort, but the fact that Bull almost seems to expect him to be too weak to handle it makes him puff up and preemptively grit his teeth. "I won't need to tap out," he says, defensive even though he just told Bull that he's precious, delicate cargo yesterday. "You'd be surprised what I can bear."
"I bet you can take a lot of pain," Bull agrees warmly, like that's something to be proud of instead of the product of whatever Astarion's gone through. "But you don't have to, so."
Bull's still kinda mentally chasing his own tail (metaphorical tail) about how and why they got back here again, but he puts it aside as a pointless question and just does what he does. Pre-empts further huffing by holding his leg in place and pressing into the first pressure point near the hip, and letting Astarion decide how he's going to handle how that feels. It's still very satisfying, in a way completely detached from Astarion as a person, to unlock his knotted up muscles with skilled fingers. Maybe he should have been a masseuse instead of a hired killer.
The stretch of his leg feels good, actually, and Astarion is just thinking about how surprisingly nice it feels to be touched in this wholly nonthreatening way. It's like seeing a displacer beast in a cage, exposure to something scary that can't actually hurt him. At least, that's what he's thinking until Bull's fingers dig into that incredibly tender knot, and suddenly his eyes are widening and he's squirming in place to try to tolerate it, letting out a strangled and surprised, "I thought you were just exaggerating."
He doesn't tap out, though, determined to tough it out. Then Bull moves on to the next spot, and it's even more sensitive than the last, and he can't help it. It's been a long, long time since he's said this word—no point in saying it when no one's listening—but he squeezes his eyes shut, heated embarrassment already crawling up his neck as he says, "Stop."
It's a sharp brake, Bull taking his hand away completely and immediately; the other one loosens his grip on Astarion's calf, less holding him than letting him keep resting his leg there — but aware of Astarion's body language, ready to stop touching him entirely if that's the vibe.
"No problem. Take a breath," he suggests, voice gone low, eyes on Astarion's face.
Even though it runs counter to everything Bull has ever done since the first moment they met, Astarion still somehow expects him to ridicule, to deride, to ignore the request completely. It's just how this works. He's tensed up all over waiting for it, like someone bracing for a punch, and when it doesn't come, he cracks open one eye and then another, muscles slowly slackening again.
"Oh." This is really, really weird. Weirder than any interaction he's had with Bull so far, which is saying something. It feels good, though, just like that displacer beast in a cage again.
"No, it's fine. I was just surprised. You can keep going." The moment Bull makes a move to do just that, he says, under less distress now, "—Actually, I changed my mind. Stop." This time, his eyes are open and watching Bull, hypervigilant for any signs that he's put out by this, testing how much power he actually has in this situation.
Astarion doesn't know it, but this is a test not just limited to traumatized elves getting massages. There have been plenty of new submissives who kink on the dangerous, brutal qunari thing that play similar games: if I say the watchword even when I clearly don't need the watchword, will you keep going, hee hee? He won't. Self-control is too important to him.
Still, this feels a shade different to Astarion being entitled; he's all fear and surprise by turns. It only makes Bull more determined to give him whatever he wants, even if it takes a few rounds of stop/go for him to decide what that is.
Oh, again. It's that easy? Astarion's still learning to put names to these novel sensations, but the feeling that rushes through him is something like pleasure or satisfaction or happiness. The corner of his mouth even twitches up, the point of a fang peeking out. He feels uncharacteristically powerful in this moment, and it gives him the urge to play Red Light, Green Light with Bull for hours, just to keep getting that rush of having someone obey when he tells them to stop.
Even he knows that would be pushing it, though. Making Bull a participant in some strange pseudo-therapy is probably the limit on things Bull would say 'yes' to, if he had to guess.
Instead, he basks for a long moment in the strange new feeling of having control over what happens to him for the first time before relenting. "All right." A deep breath in. There is still a mild amount of trepidation over how fucking tender these knots are, but it feels immensely easier to tolerate it when he knows he doesn't actually have to. In a tone that suggests he's enjoying the opportunity to be lordly: "Continue."
The limit does not exist. Bull is actually kinda ready to be stopped again, especially with how delighted Astarion seems, but he does return to what he was doing, placid as his namesake, putting his hands back on Astarion's thigh like he's finding his place in a book.
"If I could turn it down slow for you, I would, but it's all or nothing." With the pressure points, anyway, it needs to be slightly torturous to feel better after. He can spend more time getting ready, at least, warming up the muscle with a gentler, broader pressure. Reluctant to knock that rare pleased expression off Astarion's face. "Want another story? I can tell you about the time I got paid in rice." Or more accurately the time he lived out the plot of Seven Samurai, for some reason. "Or you can talk." Finally digging his thumb in somewhere white-hot that precludes an answer for long moments. "Or we can just be quiet, sometimes pain's easier if you lean into it."
"Motherfucker," Astarion says to that, because it's pretty much the massage equivalent of the dentist asking you questions with their fingers in your mouth. He clenches his fists but doesn't otherwise tense up, the knowledge that the pain will end in a few seconds keeping him from reacting more strongly. It does feel significantly better afterwards, which sort of pisses him off a little. What do you mean relief can only be gained by directly confronting where it hurts? That's such bullshit, and definitely not applicable to anything other than knotted muscles.
After a moment of recovery: "I don't think I'll be leaning into it, no." That's not really his thing. "Tell me your ridiculous rice story."
He finds he actually likes listening to Bull talk, which is quite out of the ordinary considering that most of the time he can't even bear the sound of another person breathing near him. Bull's tone is always low and steady, though, and he's never raised his voice at Astarion even though he's definitely deserved it a few times. He wonders if the demeanor is something inborn for Bull, or if it's a consequence of growing up with all of those rules. Hard to ever really tell, he supposes, what's the real you and what's just a product of what's happened to you.
"Okay, okay, so back when it was just me and Krem and like, five other guys, we crawl up out of these shitty Darkspawn infested caves and find ourselves in this village..."
It's a story of Bull and his Chargers agreeing to protect an impoverished and isolated village from a nearby bandit clan in exchange for sacks of treasure. Too late, they realized they were outnumbered nearly ten to one, with the only way out either back through the caves, or through the pass occupied by the bandits. Instead the Chargers spent the days leading up to the next raid training the villagers themselves in basic fighting manoeuvres, and building confusing fortifications to transform the village into an advantageous battle ground.
After a difficult victory, the villagers revealed their sacks of "treasure" were nothing but rice: "So that's why now? We always make sure to get paid upfront."
He slowly lowers Astarion's leg, pats him lightly on the knee, trying not to look too pleased with himself — hopefully it can just be taken as due to the tale of an unlikely win, a challenge surmounted.
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"Perhaps I will," he says regardless, already shifting a little with restlessness. "If you aren't going to tell me a bedtime story, then I suppose you're dismissed."
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"...Mm," he says after a moment of thought. "I see. Clearly, you've been tasked by that Inquisitor of yours to linger here and make sure I don't steal anything." He's actually eighty percent sure that's why he's had a woman standing outside of his door this whole time, but he's pretty sure Bull isn't here to stop his sticky fingers. "Well. If you must."
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He comes around the chair he's been leaning his forearms on and takes an actual seat, slumped somewhat perpendicular to Astarion. Settling to stay a while. Good thing there's a battle for everyone in the castle to gossip about.
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Back to Bull: "So you're just going to sit there and stare the whole time, or...?"
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The room has a desk, at least; Bull drags the chair over to it, the legs making an awful noise against the floor, and then settles again heaveily. Fishes through the little drawers for paper. He can spend the time writing a more detailed report, get Leliana off his dick.
An elbow on the wood, glancing sidelong, gaze drawn back to Astarion regardless.
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Five minutes pass, and he still hasn't made any headway into trancing, mind racing far too much to enter any sort of meditative state. He peeks one red eye open, although it's unnecessary. He knows Bull is still there, because he's been hyperaware of the sounds in the room, listening to see if Bull will just up and abandon him despite his offer to stay.
"...I told you this bed is too soft," he complains, although that's not really the reason he can't relax.
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So, yeah, he's just complaining for the sake of complaining. "Perhaps—" A moment of hesitation here. "Well, perhaps it's only uncomfortable because I'm..." Astarion sighs, a little melodramatic. "So sore."
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He can never just say 'yes' to anything. Instead, he sits up and shrugs. "Well, if you're offering. I know how very badly you need practice."
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"There's not much you can ask for that I won't just say yes to, Astarion," he says, tugging at the covers. Apparently just ignoring the attempt to make this something he needs.
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A brief pause, and then he wriggles out from under the covers. "Do the legs first." He needs to get warmed up before he can muster up the bravery to bare his back.
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"Might hurt worse," he admits, which probably seems like an impossibility but all the pressure points are still going to be sensitive from the last massage. "Just tap out if it gets too much, we can take a break." Though he's also slowly learning Astarion's pain threshold.
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Astarion would usually jump at the chance to complain about discomfort, but the fact that Bull almost seems to expect him to be too weak to handle it makes him puff up and preemptively grit his teeth. "I won't need to tap out," he says, defensive even though he just told Bull that he's precious, delicate cargo yesterday. "You'd be surprised what I can bear."
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Bull's still kinda mentally chasing his own tail (metaphorical tail) about how and why they got back here again, but he puts it aside as a pointless question and just does what he does. Pre-empts further huffing by holding his leg in place and pressing into the first pressure point near the hip, and letting Astarion decide how he's going to handle how that feels. It's still very satisfying, in a way completely detached from Astarion as a person, to unlock his knotted up muscles with skilled fingers. Maybe he should have been a masseuse instead of a hired killer.
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He doesn't tap out, though, determined to tough it out. Then Bull moves on to the next spot, and it's even more sensitive than the last, and he can't help it. It's been a long, long time since he's said this word—no point in saying it when no one's listening—but he squeezes his eyes shut, heated embarrassment already crawling up his neck as he says, "Stop."
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"No problem. Take a breath," he suggests, voice gone low, eyes on Astarion's face.
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"Oh." This is really, really weird. Weirder than any interaction he's had with Bull so far, which is saying something. It feels good, though, just like that displacer beast in a cage again.
"No, it's fine. I was just surprised. You can keep going." The moment Bull makes a move to do just that, he says, under less distress now, "—Actually, I changed my mind. Stop." This time, his eyes are open and watching Bull, hypervigilant for any signs that he's put out by this, testing how much power he actually has in this situation.
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Astarion doesn't know it, but this is a test not just limited to traumatized elves getting massages. There have been plenty of new submissives who kink on the dangerous, brutal qunari thing that play similar games: if I say the watchword even when I clearly don't need the watchword, will you keep going, hee hee? He won't. Self-control is too important to him.
Still, this feels a shade different to Astarion being entitled; he's all fear and surprise by turns. It only makes Bull more determined to give him whatever he wants, even if it takes a few rounds of stop/go for him to decide what that is.
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Even he knows that would be pushing it, though. Making Bull a participant in some strange pseudo-therapy is probably the limit on things Bull would say 'yes' to, if he had to guess.
Instead, he basks for a long moment in the strange new feeling of having control over what happens to him for the first time before relenting. "All right." A deep breath in. There is still a mild amount of trepidation over how fucking tender these knots are, but it feels immensely easier to tolerate it when he knows he doesn't actually have to. In a tone that suggests he's enjoying the opportunity to be lordly: "Continue."
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"If I could turn it down slow for you, I would, but it's all or nothing." With the pressure points, anyway, it needs to be slightly torturous to feel better after. He can spend more time getting ready, at least, warming up the muscle with a gentler, broader pressure. Reluctant to knock that rare pleased expression off Astarion's face. "Want another story? I can tell you about the time I got paid in rice." Or more accurately the time he lived out the plot of Seven Samurai, for some reason. "Or you can talk." Finally digging his thumb in somewhere white-hot that precludes an answer for long moments. "Or we can just be quiet, sometimes pain's easier if you lean into it."
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After a moment of recovery: "I don't think I'll be leaning into it, no." That's not really his thing. "Tell me your ridiculous rice story."
He finds he actually likes listening to Bull talk, which is quite out of the ordinary considering that most of the time he can't even bear the sound of another person breathing near him. Bull's tone is always low and steady, though, and he's never raised his voice at Astarion even though he's definitely deserved it a few times. He wonders if the demeanor is something inborn for Bull, or if it's a consequence of growing up with all of those rules. Hard to ever really tell, he supposes, what's the real you and what's just a product of what's happened to you.
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It's a story of Bull and his Chargers agreeing to protect an impoverished and isolated village from a nearby bandit clan in exchange for sacks of treasure. Too late, they realized they were outnumbered nearly ten to one, with the only way out either back through the caves, or through the pass occupied by the bandits. Instead the Chargers spent the days leading up to the next raid training the villagers themselves in basic fighting manoeuvres, and building confusing fortifications to transform the village into an advantageous battle ground.
After a difficult victory, the villagers revealed their sacks of "treasure" were nothing but rice: "So that's why now? We always make sure to get paid upfront."
He slowly lowers Astarion's leg, pats him lightly on the knee, trying not to look too pleased with himself — hopefully it can just be taken as due to the tale of an unlikely win, a challenge surmounted.
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