Listening to Bull make those noises makes Astarion feel funny, impulsively pressing down again to see if he'll do it again. It's— vampiric predatory instinct, probably. Some inborn desire to have a helpless person groaning in pain under him. He's very, deeply uncomfortable with the thought that it could be anything else, so he refuses to even entertain that thought.
Instead, he follows the suggestion, pressing up Bull's shoulder muscles even as he says, "Obviously, I was planning on doing that anyway."
Astarion gets the noise he wants, another one as he follows instructions. "Obviously," Bull echoes, ribbing him, but his voice has dropped all gravelly. He's spent months far from anyone he would have trusted near his neck and spine; he's not coping with two centuries of touch-starvation but it's attention he hasn't had in a while. That it's attention from someone he's kind of nursing a low simmer for isn't helping, and the weight and intention carry the rest. "Hrrmmm," he murmurs, low in his lungs. "You know, if we're really going tit for tat, shouldn't you be talking more?"
"Shouldn't you be talking less?" he asks, a little prickly because he's currently grappling with the confusion and shame of feeling some type of way (NOT saying which one) about this. What, he's supposed to have feelings and entertain Bull at the same time? Besides: "—I don't have any heroic tales of valor to share."
"Doesn't have to be a story about you," Bull says, though it's not careful avoidance, he doesn't quite grasp the extent of how Astarion's captivity has infected his life. He just means: he'd take the Thedas equivalent of the phonebook. "Doesn't have to be anything. I just wanna listen to you." And he will actually shut up for it, too, if Astarion doesn't seem too lost about working him over.
"Oh," Astarion says, the movement of his hands slowing as he briefly wonders if he's being mocked. Cazador had hated to listen to him talk. Or step too heavily. Or exist too loudly. He picks up again after a moment, moving his palms slightly downward so that he can flatten them against Bull's shoulder blades and press his thumbs into the grooves. Astarion's always got a lot of stress built up there, so he figures it can't hurt to see if Bull does, too.
"Well. I suppose I could tell you about this novel I pilfered from—" One of the people whom he seduced and led to their doom, naturally. "It doesn't matter where I got it from." The important thing to keep in mind is that he stole it, so it's not like it was his literary choice! The reason why this is important becomes clear quickly, as he begins to describe an incredibly low-quality bodice-ripper paperback, complete with quivering bosoms. Still, there is some semblance of a plot in between all of the throbbing manhoods, which finally starts to come together—
"Mm, and then I came here and left it behind, so I guess we'll never know if Isadora was the lost princess with amnesia. Pity."
Edited (and if i admit i don't know when to use 'who' and when to use 'whom', then what) 2025-11-13 03:59 (UTC)
As promised, Bull is quiet bar the occasional arm-muffled noise as Astarion works the tension out of his shoulders — something Bull would say he gets way better at now that he's thinking about Isadora's breasting boobily down the stairs instead of what his hands are doing. Sometimes he clarifies a minor detail — "A what?" — or huffs out a laugh, but mostly he just lets Astarion walk him through it.
Until there's no more to walk through. "Edging me with a book that doesn't even exist here," he complains. Probably he could guess the end himself, trashy novels aren't exactly making unique narrative moves and he's read all of Varric's stuff, but it's the principle.
"If I have to live the rest of my life never knowing whether Isadora chose the proper noble or the rakish criminal"—both of them equally gifted in the crotch area, one can only assume—"it's only fair that you do, too."
It does help to have something else to focus on besides the fact that he's voluntarily touching someone for the first time in ages and that it's making him feel kind of tingly. Sort of satisfying, actually, seeking out the tightness in Bull's muscles as he travels down the sides of his spine. Kind of like using his lockpick to seek out all the right pins to coax open a lock.
"If she has any sense, of course, she'll pick the wealthy one." Romance fades, but poisoning your husband and inheriting all of his assets is forever.
Bull sighs, heavy enough Astarion can feel it under his hands. "I still don't see why she has to choose." Monogamy is such made-up human bullshit. "They meet different needs. Plus, didn't you say at the start, the kingdom's at war? If she is the princess then their first priority should be supporting her while she does her job."
But it's hard to get worked up about this point when Astarion does something that eases all his tumblers into place and he takes another deep breath just to feel how much easier it comes, lets it out on a groan. Rolls his hips into the mattress a little, subtly, or what he hopes is subtly. "Getting good at that."
Oh. Astarion notices. The movement of his hands stops for a split-second, just long enough to be noticeable and just short enough to have plausible deniability that it was nothing at all. After that instant of hesitation, he presses both of his thumbs into the small of Bull's very not-small back. Bull's technique had felt firm but not overly forceful; meanwhile, Astarion has to lean his entire body weight into it to get through that thick qunari hide. Honestly, it's quite a lot of physical work. His wrists kind of ache.
He'd really like to say something to keep the mood casual and lighthearted, but he's now too distracted to think of a single thing to say besides an acknowledging mmm. He throws himself into the physicality of it instead, methodically working out the muscles of Bull's lower back until he reaches the base of his spine. Yeah, he's not going any lower than that.
With imperious dismissiveness: "If you turn over and ask very nicely, perhaps I might do those tree trunks you call legs as well."
What Bull's gonna do is fall asleep in a bed he's too tall for; he's a puddle in the soft mattress, relaxed despite being turned on, struggling to keep his eye open.
"Thanks, but I'm good. Left tree trunk is too fucked for anything except self massage." The one he has braced, doesn't even like healers prodding at it because the wrong angle on his knee gets nerve pain so white hot it's past even his high threshold. So they're not gonna risk that, even if he appreciates that Astarion put his back into this. Adds with tired humour: "You're all paid up, Astarion. Think you can sleep now?"
On one hand, he's a bit relieved that it's over, given both the uncomfortable interest it sparked and the fact that his delicate hands were obviously not made to work. On the other hand, he's sort of annoyed that he didn't get to choose when it ended, and although the interest was uncomfortable it was still interest. It had been sort of appealing touching someone with minimal risk of being touched back.
Astarion's hands are still oily, so he very rudely wipes them off on Bull's arm. "I don't sleep," he corrects for the millionth time. "I trance. Much more elegant." And now he's really not in a meditative state of mind, but it isn't like he doesn't spend most of his attempted trances ruminating on one thing or another.
"But I suppose so, yes. Thank you for..." Mm. "Your services."
"Any time," Bull says, putting more weight on his elbow and rolling back onto his side so he doesn't have to twist to see Astarion. Deeply immodest about the fact that he's bricked up over a little innocent touching. Rolls his shoulder thoughtfully, feeling the looseness there. All things that really don't involve getting up and out of Astarion's bed.
"I also offer cuddling services, if those'd help with your elegant trance." Dry on the last words because he still thinks it's just pretentious sleeping. Sincere offer, though.
Astarion is not exactly shy about sex. He's obviously super sexy and desirable and anyone would get excited just being near him, much less being touched by him. But there's something about the fact that it's Bull, and the fact that he doesn't even have the decorum to be ashamed about it like a normal person, and that he's not just leaving.
Paranoia runs through him. Obviously, that thing he said about not wanting Astarion to pretend to be interested was a lie to get his guard down. Now he's going to expect Astarion to do something about this, and really, it's his fault for getting too comfortable in the first place. There's a reason he's kept his distance from people for 200 years, and it's because they're all awful, even the ones that make you think they're nice and care about you as a person instead of just what you can do for them.
Astarion settles down on one of his many pillows, gritting his teeth and preparing himself for the overture that's no doubt about to come. Maybe he should just do it first, so that at least he can have some control over this. "I'm sure you can offer all kinds of services," he says, which is, like, the lowest-hanging innuendo possible here, but he's not really feeling inspired.
"Yeah," Bull agrees, deliberately obtuse, "Monster hunting, bodyguard work..." He's joking, mainly to cover the fact that he's a little nervous. Gaze tracking Astarion's face; the lack of pretending to hate the idea is a bad sign, he thinks.
Astarion had been dreading the overture, but the uncertainty of not having one made is worse. He can't help it— the anxiety makes him say, "Go on, make a move already. That's why you stayed here, isn't it?" He cringes a little after, embarrassed at how insecure it sounds.
Bull considers that, still watching him. "You think because you get me hard you have to do something about it? You don't. I like you, but I can control myself — that's basically my whole thing." The shrug of a shoulder. He does make a move, but it's to reach out a hand to find one of Astarion's, brush one of his fingers lightly over Astarion's knuckles.
On one hand, he's infinitely relieved that he's not going to have to do something about it. On the other hand, Bull not following the predictable script he'd expected makes him feel nervous. "You like me," he repeats, a little dumbfounded, not really sure how to respond to that. It's evident on his face, the way his brow raises and then furrows.
Incredibly fucking skeptical: "—For my personality?"
"For your taste in literature," Bull deadpans. A beat as he realizes Astarion doesn't believe him. "C'mon. You're resilient, you're funny, you're brave — you don't hit on me every five minutes or treat me like some savage." Astarion escaping the fantasy racism allegations solely by coming from the wrong world.
"You helped me get home. I could keep going." Even if he's getting kind of embarrassed now; these are all, in his opinion, objectively factual statements about Astarion that anybody would make, but they also feel like they're getting closer to talking about feelings, which he's obviously never had in his life. Can't a guy just cuddle another guy without it being a whole shitting thing.
"Oh." Huh. He feels a little bad for instantly assuming that Bull just wanted to get laid, but in his defense, he's pretty sure no one has ever liked his personality before. "...Of course you like me. I'm eminently likable."
This is one of those moments where he could accuse Bull of being nice again, but he doesn't seem to like that, and Astarion is very, very reluctant to do anything that might scare him away from saying more complimentary things like this in the future. Unfortunately, he really likes hearing it. "I guess your personality is rather unobjectionable, too," he forces out, feeling more than 'kind of' embarrassed.
A moment, and then he pulls the covers all the way up. "Point that thing away from me, if you're going to be here."
That's way more like the reaction he expected, and he snorts. This is the world's least sexy conversation so it's not such a massive problem anymore, but he still rolls all the way onto his back so he can put his head down, very careful of the angle so he doesn't hit the headboard, or Astarion, with his horns. Lifts an arm to tuck under the pillow to get a better angle.
"Offer to cuddle remains open," he informs Astarion, settling in for an afternoon nap.
It feels incredibly strange to have somebody lying beside him in bed who he didn't just have sex with, but not necessarily bad, so Astarion allows Bull the privilege of not getting kicked out. In a few hours, he'll wake Bull and demand he show him around and help him find a wizard who might have some knowledge of a protective spell or artifact to take care of his pesky little sunlight problem. (Also, he might ask Bull where he can find some nugs. Like, a lot of them. This minuscule amount of blood isn't cutting it when a vampire is meant to drain entire people.) Until then, though, he does his best to make himself comfortable among his excessive amount of pillows.
"In your dreams," he huffs, closing his eyes, although he does allow the very sides of their arms to brush so that he can tell Bull is still there to be his quote-unquote heroic protector should something happen. This is exceedingly affectionate coming from Astarion, really.
It's always reassuringly easy to wake Bull; he can look like he's sleeping cartoonishly deep and yet, with a nudge or a cleared throat or even too long a gaze and his eye opens again like he was faking it the whole time.
The sky is still all pinks and purples so their tour starts inside Skyhold: the Throne Room (busy) and the War Room (busier), up and down the atrium, vague gestures to corridors that lead to the sleeping quarters, or stairs leading down to the wine cellars, the dungeons, the Undercroft. Bull is kind of enjoying revisiting the place and showing it off at the same time; it's been months, and there's been a lot of renovations, scaffolding removed and rubble cleared away.
Through the kitchen into the night, redolent with the sounds and smells of the army roasting their dinner around the cookfires outside their tents. Not to mention the sights and smells of the stables, where Astarion can be reunited with the horse he rode in on, and Bull makes big Will Smith Presenting My Wife arms at his usual Dracolisk mount as she tries to bite his fingers off with her awful lizardy teeth.
All the while, people stop Bull to talk to him — quick reunions, passing gossip, innuendo, whatever. He introduces "My friend, Astarion," each time, with various levels of threatening emphasis on friend depending on how racist against elves any given person is.
Astarion doesn't really pick up on the subtle 'don't-be-racist' threatening, because despite the fact that Bull has informed him of anti-elf sentiment several times, it's still difficult to grasp. High elves are used to being the ones who look down on others, not the other way around. So, regardless of who Bull is introducing to him, he holds out a limp-wristed hand like he half-expects them to kiss it rather than shake it and says, "Charmed."
When the sweet little dwarf scout he's just met scurries away down the hall, Astarion puts his hands on his hips and regards Bull with a contemplative look. "You're very popular, aren't you?" Understandable, really, given his easygoing personality, but it's kind of annoying. He was hoping Bull wouldn't have anything more important to focus on than helping him, but it's becoming quickly obvious that isn't the case.
"The more people who like me, the less that might try to kill me," Bull points out evenly. He is a little uncharitably surprised at how many of the Inquisitor's inner circle have affected genuine relief and pleasure to see him back safe, though. "But yeah, I know a lot of people." People are mostly easy, he finds. Except Astarion.
"They'd be very stupid to try to kill you," Astarion points out, not because of Bull's talent in combat but because of his natural advantages. Sucking up to other people so they won't hurt you is something for regular people, like Astarion. Bull is big (lengthwise and widthwise) and strong; he doesn't need to kowtow. It's something Astarion is incredibly jealous of, in fact.
Another thing he's jealous of is the fact that Bull doesn't feel the urge to kill and drain people, something which has been steadily growing with each new face introduced. He keeps hoping Bull will say something that would easily excuse their murder, but not yet. Astarion scratches his cheek.
"—I don't suppose there are any horses back in that stable that the Inquisition wouldn't miss."
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Instead, he follows the suggestion, pressing up Bull's shoulder muscles even as he says, "Obviously, I was planning on doing that anyway."
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"Well. I suppose I could tell you about this novel I pilfered from—" One of the people whom he seduced and led to their doom, naturally. "It doesn't matter where I got it from." The important thing to keep in mind is that he stole it, so it's not like it was his literary choice! The reason why this is important becomes clear quickly, as he begins to describe an incredibly low-quality bodice-ripper paperback, complete with quivering bosoms. Still, there is some semblance of a plot in between all of the throbbing manhoods, which finally starts to come together—
"Mm, and then I came here and left it behind, so I guess we'll never know if Isadora was the lost princess with amnesia. Pity."
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Until there's no more to walk through. "Edging me with a book that doesn't even exist here," he complains. Probably he could guess the end himself, trashy novels aren't exactly making unique narrative moves and he's read all of Varric's stuff, but it's the principle.
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It does help to have something else to focus on besides the fact that he's voluntarily touching someone for the first time in ages and that it's making him feel kind of tingly. Sort of satisfying, actually, seeking out the tightness in Bull's muscles as he travels down the sides of his spine. Kind of like using his lockpick to seek out all the right pins to coax open a lock.
"If she has any sense, of course, she'll pick the wealthy one." Romance fades, but poisoning your husband and inheriting all of his assets is forever.
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But it's hard to get worked up about this point when Astarion does something that eases all his tumblers into place and he takes another deep breath just to feel how much easier it comes, lets it out on a groan. Rolls his hips into the mattress a little, subtly, or what he hopes is subtly. "Getting good at that."
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He'd really like to say something to keep the mood casual and lighthearted, but he's now too distracted to think of a single thing to say besides an acknowledging mmm. He throws himself into the physicality of it instead, methodically working out the muscles of Bull's lower back until he reaches the base of his spine. Yeah, he's not going any lower than that.
With imperious dismissiveness: "If you turn over and ask very nicely, perhaps I might do those tree trunks you call legs as well."
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"Thanks, but I'm good. Left tree trunk is too fucked for anything except self massage." The one he has braced, doesn't even like healers prodding at it because the wrong angle on his knee gets nerve pain so white hot it's past even his high threshold. So they're not gonna risk that, even if he appreciates that Astarion put his back into this. Adds with tired humour: "You're all paid up, Astarion. Think you can sleep now?"
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Astarion's hands are still oily, so he very rudely wipes them off on Bull's arm. "I don't sleep," he corrects for the millionth time. "I trance. Much more elegant." And now he's really not in a meditative state of mind, but it isn't like he doesn't spend most of his attempted trances ruminating on one thing or another.
"But I suppose so, yes. Thank you for..." Mm. "Your services."
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"I also offer cuddling services, if those'd help with your elegant trance." Dry on the last words because he still thinks it's just pretentious sleeping. Sincere offer, though.
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Paranoia runs through him. Obviously, that thing he said about not wanting Astarion to pretend to be interested was a lie to get his guard down. Now he's going to expect Astarion to do something about this, and really, it's his fault for getting too comfortable in the first place. There's a reason he's kept his distance from people for 200 years, and it's because they're all awful, even the ones that make you think they're nice and care about you as a person instead of just what you can do for them.
Astarion settles down on one of his many pillows, gritting his teeth and preparing himself for the overture that's no doubt about to come. Maybe he should just do it first, so that at least he can have some control over this. "I'm sure you can offer all kinds of services," he says, which is, like, the lowest-hanging innuendo possible here, but he's not really feeling inspired.
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Incredibly fucking skeptical: "—For my personality?"
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"You helped me get home. I could keep going." Even if he's getting kind of embarrassed now; these are all, in his opinion, objectively factual statements about Astarion that anybody would make, but they also feel like they're getting closer to talking about feelings, which he's obviously never had in his life. Can't a guy just cuddle another guy without it being a whole shitting thing.
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This is one of those moments where he could accuse Bull of being nice again, but he doesn't seem to like that, and Astarion is very, very reluctant to do anything that might scare him away from saying more complimentary things like this in the future. Unfortunately, he really likes hearing it. "I guess your personality is rather unobjectionable, too," he forces out, feeling more than 'kind of' embarrassed.
A moment, and then he pulls the covers all the way up. "Point that thing away from me, if you're going to be here."
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"Offer to cuddle remains open," he informs Astarion, settling in for an afternoon nap.
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"In your dreams," he huffs, closing his eyes, although he does allow the very sides of their arms to brush so that he can tell Bull is still there to be his quote-unquote heroic protector should something happen. This is exceedingly affectionate coming from Astarion, really.
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The sky is still all pinks and purples so their tour starts inside Skyhold: the Throne Room (busy) and the War Room (busier), up and down the atrium, vague gestures to corridors that lead to the sleeping quarters, or stairs leading down to the wine cellars, the dungeons, the Undercroft. Bull is kind of enjoying revisiting the place and showing it off at the same time; it's been months, and there's been a lot of renovations, scaffolding removed and rubble cleared away.
Through the kitchen into the night, redolent with the sounds and smells of the army roasting their dinner around the cookfires outside their tents. Not to mention the sights and smells of the stables, where Astarion can be reunited with the horse he rode in on, and Bull makes big Will Smith Presenting My Wife arms at his usual Dracolisk mount as she tries to bite his fingers off with her awful lizardy teeth.
All the while, people stop Bull to talk to him — quick reunions, passing gossip, innuendo, whatever. He introduces "My friend, Astarion," each time, with various levels of threatening emphasis on friend depending on how racist against elves any given person is.
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When the sweet little dwarf scout he's just met scurries away down the hall, Astarion puts his hands on his hips and regards Bull with a contemplative look. "You're very popular, aren't you?" Understandable, really, given his easygoing personality, but it's kind of annoying. He was hoping Bull wouldn't have anything more important to focus on than helping him, but it's becoming quickly obvious that isn't the case.
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Another thing he's jealous of is the fact that Bull doesn't feel the urge to kill and drain people, something which has been steadily growing with each new face introduced. He keeps hoping Bull will say something that would easily excuse their murder, but not yet. Astarion scratches his cheek.
"—I don't suppose there are any horses back in that stable that the Inquisition wouldn't miss."
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