The fuck-all most inconsequential trivial shit of being Tal-Vashoth— being, not just playing the role and getting to eat and fuck his way across Thedas at the same time, which is good shit— is that it’s damn hard to find good horn balm. Bull tried haggling at the market for some and if Harding hadn’t been there to drop her jaw and grab his arm, he would have wandered off with a dehorning cream used for calves, and that would have been such a profound and disappointing shame.
Half his jokes wouldn’t work anymore, for starters.
“Looking a lil’ rough, innit?” Sera asks, precariously wobbling in a chair. She’s tilted it back on its hind legs, face screwed in concentration and toes wriggling through the broken seams of her boots. “Your horns.”
“Telling the Chief to polish his horns?” Krem snorts, poking a finger at Sera’s seat.
Sera swats his hand away, yelps as she falls forward so the chair slams the ground. She’s no worse for it, though she rubs her ass with a ferocious scowl.
“Hey, I jack off same as anyone else!” Bull protests, because that’s just biological. Everyone’s going cow-eyed about the dreadnought but they never knew how close they came, that sometimes a decision has to be shoved outside where it can be picked apart and tossed by someone who actually knows what the fuck they’re doing, someone who can take responsibility for it because Hissrad, The Iron Bull, they were things, purpose, position, and things don’t make decisions—
But it doesn’t stop Bull from eating or swinging his sword. Or jacking off.
He still hasn’t polished his horns though.
“Well, yeah,” Sera snorts. “But look at those things.”
“My eye’s down here,” Bull grumbles.
Still beats Cole trying to help. Nice kid, creepy with all his business of tugging on tangles and touching hurt. Emotions aren’t meant to be toyed out like spools of wire, not unless they're tools.
Ben-Hassrath training teaches you to use what you can. Sadness, anger, pick a hook and use it. Separate the edges of a wound or shove it deep.
(He’s not Ben-Hassrath anymore.)
At least he still has Varric’s package of guimauves.
. . .
“Darling, you must take care of yourself,” Vivienne says, and there’s no brooking that tone, even if he wanted.
If he’d known she was coming, he would have at least shoved the pie farther under the bed, but she says nothing— but he knows she knows about the pie, and she knows he knows, and if he keeps chasing that rabbit he’ll just spin himself dizzy— and steps over the overturned candles, the discarded wine bottle, the half-empty journals filled with notes he’ll never send, info that’s screwed tight inside his skull now.
She sits on the edge of his bed, and it’s not as if he hasn’t thought about her like this before, but it was in a more abstract way, a passing ‘what-if’ similar to checking the exits on a room or a marked deck of cards. Transient thoughts: data, analysis, decision, weighing possibilities for actions not taken.
“Sit,” she says, gesturing to the floor.
The stone’s cold, even through his pants. He should put a rug down, really, make this a little cozier. But usually he’s been a big enough (heh, big enough) draw that no one else has ever complained upon seeing his room. He pushes so his back’s towards Vivienne’s knees, and she unscrews something with a pleasant, solid scrape to it— some sort of well-fitted wood or ceramic, and it fills the air with a green spice scent. Vaguely sharp, like there’s rosemary in it, possibly lemon.
She massages his scalp, the tender area where horn meets skin, and he doesn’t know where she got it but he knows it’s good shit. It’s thick without being greasy, soothing to the touch as she sets her thumbs in small circles, fingers tracing crevices of the skin.
He allows his shoulders to slump, sinks himself small.
“Are you sure you aren’t a little bit tamassran?” he asks. One long slow exhale of breath, spine unknitting itself.
“My dear, I don’t believe there is such a thing as ‘a little bit tamassaran.’” She massages over his horns, rough keratin soaking up her touch as much as the balm. He can’t feel it anymore except as a vague sense of pressure, but her knees are warm against his back as she leans forward. “You have value, darling. Both for yourself and the people around you. This sort of sloppiness ill-suits you.”
She sets a hand on his shoulder, rubbing the ointment along the long horizontal bar of his horn. Squeezes, just enough that her nails prick his skin, and it's a lullaby in motion as she switches sides.
Bull could sink into a warm puddle of nothing, just as he is. Just her hands on him and nothing else, would even go on his hands and knees, brace be damned, and be her footstool. Let her use him, mold him like putty until there's no space for thought.
But she rises to her feet and extends a graceful hand that is more show than support, since if he was actually dumb enough to take it he’d fall flat on his ass and drag her with him. So he waves it off, his mind all muddied waters as he lurches to standing.
Vivienne presses the tub into his hands, squeezing her hand over his to prevent refusal.
“My dear, manage your appearance. For my sake.”
. . .
Bull knows they’re hunting wyverns because Vivienne asked the boss, and he’s happy enough to tag along because hey, wyverns are the next best thing to dragons. They’re not as big, don’t get the blood flowing the same way, and their shits are twice as foul, but still fun to chase down and whack.
The white one’s a bit of a surprise, but hey.
It’s not until after, when Vivienne bids him to slice the sternum and crack open the ribs like an old book, when she dons long black gloves and plucks the heart out wet and gleaming, that he thinks—
Oh. This is something else.
He noses around, keeps his ears open. Vivienne keeps herself to herself, all silk silence and careful reserve, so he picks up the pieces from the boss.
So Bull picks his time and visits Vivienne on the balcony. She stirs her tea; warm spice, heavy with milk and sugar, so carefully that her spoon does not scrape the bottom, does not chime against the sides. Control so careful it might shatter.
“Ma’am. I am sorry for your loss. If I can serve you in any way, just ask.”
“Thank you dear, but I shall manage.”
He squares his shoulders, stands straight. Chin out, he steps into the role she’s shaped for him. “I mean that, ma’am. If you require tea, or books from a high shelf, I can serve.” Does not say ‘I can care,’ because that shaves too close to truth. Better to offer a polite fiction for this highest form of trust.
“A leash pulls from both ends, my dear. You offer me service, but ask for control.” Her spoon rings against the cup, stills. “I am aware of your proclivities, Bull. I am no stranger to games of command and service, and you presume much.”
Words unspoken: this is my grief, private. Not to be shared.
“With respect, ma’am. This is what you need.” He keeps his gaze fixed over her left ear, does not meet her eyes because that would imply equality. He is not her equal in this, and obviously the little bit of tamassran in her did much better to soothe his loss than the little bit in him is doing for her. “His death was beyond your control. I am offering you complete control, and to indulge you as you deserve.” As he is, tall and broad. A commanding presence, to be commanded. Power in the palm of her hand. “I am not expecting bed games or watch words.”
Her eyes glitter like morningstars.
“If you truly wish to be of service, you will do exactly as I ask. No more.”
. . .
The first service he learns: to press her morning coffee. It’s an exquisite Antivan import, the beans releasing rich oils as he grinds them in a mortar and pestle. There is something reassuringly tactile in the scrape of ceramic, the way the precious beans break to pieces, grit, grain. It scents him dark and bitter, and Vivienne informs him that it begins losing potency within a minute of being ground, so it’s a balance of speed and thoroughness as he tilts it into a tiny Orlesian press. Pours hot water, breathes the aromatic bloom before stirring to break the crust. Adds more water. Screws the lid on top, plunger fully pulled.
Timing is everything, dear, Vivienne had said.
Timing is everything.
He measures the time in breaths, heartbeats. A clock could tell him the same thing, probably, and there’s something to be said for using them to coordinate meetings— you can hardly arrange for a dead drop or secret rendezvous at ‘fifty-two breaths after dinner’ or ‘seventeen yawns past midnight’ — but clocks can break, wind down, hide their flaws. Clocks don’t hold time any more than mouths hold secrets.
He pushes the plunger in one slow press. The resistance is minimal, though it grows thicker to the bottom as more of the grounds get caught in the filter. He pours immediately, the coffee a rich brown in Vivienne’s elegant white cup. He sets the cup on a saucer, the saucer on a tray, and sets them before Vivienne in offering.
She uncrosses her legs. Accepts.
Her smile is small, but still there. “Well done, dear.”
It is the first of many rituals, each with its own precise steps. No worse than the Dance of the Six Candles (step, step, turn, step, shuffle, spin) but more applicable.
Vivienne enjoys starting her day with a hot drink, and it is his pleasure to serve her. She always selects the tea, the coffee, the chocolate, and while he is occasionally invited to drink with her, the point is this: she selects, but he provides. As he proves himself, each day making it to her specification, he is entrusted with more. He speaks with the merchants to acquire more of the Antivan beans, the occasional Orlesian chocolate, and loose-leaf teas and sachets of herbs and spice to make Vivienne’s brews. Dalish helpfully provides bits of twine and ribbon, braids them into pretty twists and Bull follows with his fingers, learns to make the bows on his own and to make each small gift of tea or coffee its own unique ceremony.
“Luxury is taking the opportunity to immerse oneself in the sensual. It’s a type of mindfulness,” Vivienne says, sipping today’s offering (orange and ginger, an aroma somewhere between sunshine and orchards) and favoring him with a small smile. “True flavor is a composite of the senses— the smell wafting towards one’s face, the lovely orange glow against white porcelain, the weight of the cup in one’s hand— and creates more meaning than taste alone.”
“Is there a lesson here, ma’am?”
Her smile does not broaden, but her eyes glitter; a subtle crease at the edges. “I am sure I do not know, dear.”
. . .
There is a freedom in stillness, in motion. He is an empty vessel, filled to purpose.
He officially learns to set table, to eat properly, to array all the minute cutlery as precisely as any skirmish. There’s an element of control there, silver knives flashing under the warm sun, then the cool moon, as Vivienne makes him set the table, over and over. His behavior reflects status— not hers, as might be assumed, but his. There is a pattern to everything, and while Bull has eaten among nobles he never truly internalized their mannerisms, but Vivienne never loses sense of the greater designs at play.
When he can set a place without error, fold the linen napkins just-so and properly distinguish the forks used for salad from dessert from escargot from meat, then he is entrusted with preparing Vivienne’s bath. She sets aside fragrant oils and towels for him to heat in front of the fire, to lay carefully in place and to pour into the tub. The tub is a deep, claw-footed thing of elegant curves, slipper-shaped to cradle the bather. Small warming runes traced in gold line the base of the tub, as discreet as their owner.
He never sees her naked, of course. It is too much to even flirt with her, to presume a teasing charm or flattery will make up for what she requires above all else: respect.
Of course, it does not mean she can’t tell him to go fuck someone else.
“You should seek pleasure with someone you fancy,” Vivienne says, rolling her foot so her toes press his thigh. He continues massaging her calves, fingers rolling into the curve of her knee, but no higher, her silk stockings dimpling beneath his touch. He may only touch her through layers, when permitted to touch her at all. She is sitting, as she deserves, in a high-backed chair in her private chambers. He is sitting on the floor, which may not be exactly what he deserves but makes a nice emphasis on their positions. Basic psychology, nothing subtle to it, but still effective. “You do know that my service does not demand you be celibate, dear.”
“Would you like to select my partner, ma’am?”
Her lips twitch down, a carefully lacquered version of revulsion. There is genuine sentiment beneath it, but shaped to something pleasing.
(Of course, she could just as easily have shown him nothing at all. He watches, but there are still pockets she keeps to herself.)
“Darling, that is entirely between you and your intended. I would prefer nothing so tawdry as sex to mar our exchanges.”
. . .
After Bull demonstrates his mastery of the basics, after he’s provided her tea and coffee not only in the comfortable confines of Skyhold but served her green apple tea in the teeth-chattering Emprise du Lion, peppermint in the early morning chill of the Hissing Wastes, some vaguely tropical blend of black tea with tiny shreds of coconut and pineapple that smells like distant shores and nothing at all like the druffalo-and-pine of the Hinterlands (and one hasty cup of coffee drawn into the sucking mud of the Fallow Mire, part joke and part apology, the drawn lines of steam oozing into oblivion even as Bull apologized for the muck having soaked their supplies), Vivienne deems him ready for a ladies’ luncheon.
“Of course, you are always welcome. But now you are ready to be seen.”
Her praise is precious. He melts with her regard.
He doesn’t bother putting on a shirt, any more than Vivienne bothers dressing in anything more formal than her usual elegance, but this is a chance to demonstrates his etiquette, his courtesy. Most of it is old hat by now; sure, he can pretend to be brutish with the best of them, but part of knowing how to play the role is knowing exactly how far to push and no farther. Using the tiny escargot fork for the salad is sufficient to send Orlesians tittering, but scratching your ass with it goes too far.
The lunch include the usual cast, minus the Boss— he’s off butting heads or locking lips with the Carta, maybe both at once. But for now it’s the real foundation of the Inquisition, the women who built it from bare bones and hope; Josephine, Leliana, Cassandra. Morrigan sits at the periphery, ostensibly absorbed by her tea (an Orlesian blend, black tea enriched with bergamot and lavender) but her knees subtly angled towards Leliana, centered on some old feeling. The slippers that peep from the edge of the table are red and lined with fur.
Even Sera makes a surprise appearance, a sudden dustdevil burst of laughter and a sloppy kiss for Josephine before pinching the best treats and scarpering off with her cheeks bulging.
(And perhaps less surprise than Sera would think; Bull noticed how Josephine had placed the fruit tarts by her elbow, and Vivienne had tugged the canelé tray to the edge of the table, where Sera could grab without disrupting the rest of the snacks.)
Bull takes his share of the finger foods, but does not load his plate because Vivienne watches. He is rewarded for his restraint with a small nod of approval, and freely helps himself to seconds after the salmon canapés and lemon macarons disappear in a few short swallows. The food provides cover as he listens without eavesdropping; Leliana and Morrigan circle one another like old friends or lovers, roses beneath thorned words. Cassandra earnestly discusses poetry with Josephine, and they exchange slim volumes of Antivan poetry and Chantry-inspired verses, favorite passages marked with pieces of ribbon.
And Vivienne is seen, seeing. She drops words where she can, small gems to contribute to Cassandra and Josephine’s poetry, subtle tugs that angle Leliana and Morrigan into reminiscing about the Warden, careful inquiries after Kieran— and Morrigan’s weird by any standard, Bull figures. Seems no one outside the Qun uses creches. The Circles come the closest, where mages are hardly expected to raise their own children, but few single mothers are open apostates either.
When the snacks are done and the tea all drunk, Vivienne escorts Bull back to the tavern.
He slows his strides, keeps pace to match her clicking heels on the stones. “What sort of drink would you prefer for tomorrow, ma’am?”
She smiles. Tilts her head, enough to grace him with the weight of her full attention. “You are familiar with my preferences, dear. I shall allow you to decide.”
Vivienne leads, as always, but Bull opens the door for her and offers her in with a sweep of his arm. She shakes her head with a smile, and leaves.
When Bull makes his way to his usual table, he sees Krem standing on his chair (as if he’ll ever convince anyone he’s that tall, really), face blanched, jaw loose.
Aw crap. Not again.
“Madame de Fer?” Krem asks, and that confirms it. As if Bull needed confirmation, because Krem has a thing for elegantly dressed women, falls in love at the drop of a hat and would go diving for said hat solely to clutch it to his chest and spout poetry and offerings at the target of his affections. Krem’s not the type to lay a cloak over a mud puddle; he’d throw himself face-first in the muck and beg them to step on him.
“The one and only,” Bull says, as if he even needs that confirmation.
“She is magnificent,” Krem breathes.
Well, shit. Can’t blame the kid for having eyes.
. . .
So really, it’s no surprise when Krem suggests a picnic outing, and while Skinner makes her usual grimace, Dalish claps her hands with enough enthusiasm to overcompensate. Grim grunts (one of the positive ones with the tiny up-pitch that means ‘yes’), Stitches packs a couple poultices in case of bee-stings, and Rocky wonders aloud what kind of flowers a certain scout might like.
Bulls sets himself comfortably under a tree, where he can itch his shoulders against the trunk. Aw yeah, this is good shit.
“Why anyone like flowers. Is stupid,” Skinner says flatly, arms crossed and scowling as Dalish weaves white and yellow meadow-flowers into crowns and loops.
“You’re just angry that you haven’t gotten the trick of it yet,” Dalish says, lilting sweetly. “Also, you might possibly be a tiny bit allergic.”
Skinner makes an awful hocking noise, scratching her nose.
“Ambassador sent her flowers. I’m sure she likes flowers,” Rocky says.
Stitches carefully sets his own crown upon his head, studying his shadow in an effort to get it evenly placed. “Ambassador might be courting her.”
Rocky frowns. “Does she not like men, then?”
“Caught her blushing at Flissa,” Dalish says cheerfully, tugging Stitches’ crown askew. “Also caught her blushing at Krem after training, so.”
“Can’t blame her. Krem’s very blushable,” Rocky says sagely.
“Or maybe she only likes shem,” Skinner suggests. Her scowl could crack granite.
“What do you think?” Krem asks Dalish. He has a bouquet of purple and white flowers, with tiny blue buds filling the gaps.
She wrinkles her nose critically, then snaps a yellow stalk from the nearest bush. “There! You really should think more vertical, you know.”
“He wants to think horizontal,” Skinner says, with a vulgar gesture.
“You want to think horizontal,” Dalish replies.
Skinner grins, broad and savage, and plucks one of Dalish’s flower crowns from the ground. She flings it sideways in a lazy arc, lobbing it so it bounces off Bull’s forehead. “Two coppers say next time, I get his horns.”
“Five coppers says you don’t,” Bull snorts, and then there’s nothing for it but to be pummeled by crowns, bouquets, and flowers for the next half hour.
. . .
Ma’am is less than pleased to find the muddy bouquet on her desk. Her eyes narrow, and Bull can feel his balls shrivel, temperature dropping as Vivienne radiates frosty disdain.
“Bull, I trust this wasn’t you?”
Bull thinks of Krem, pink and sweating, tying together that sad bouquet with a yellow ribbon and then dropping it as Skinner stabbed her fingers in his ribs—
“No, ma’am,” he says with perfect truth.
. . .
Vivienne has obviously drawn her own conclusions, snubbing Blackwall at every opportunity and treating him even more coldly than usual. She remarks at length upon his failures of hygiene: the dirt under his nails, the grime on his shirt, his unwashed socks. She wrinkles her nose at the manure on his boots, loudly tsks over the gravy in his beard, and shreds her bouquet into the dracolisk’s feeding trough.
Blackwall notices nothing out of the ordinary.
Bull softens it, at least. He buys Blackwall a round, slings his arm across Blackwall’s shoulder and belts dirty drinking songs that shake the rafters. Sera somehow wedges her way between them, making up new words whenever they fumble.
And Bull thinks about bananas. Sure, Blackwall’s smaller, squishier, less bendy— but what the hell, could be fun.
Bull thinks about it. Smiles a bit more. Laughs a bit louder. Thinks if he just asked, Blackwall might be up for it. Blackwall makes no secret that he prefers ladies, but ‘prefers’ isn’t the same as ‘only,’ and there’s a little piece of Blackwall that begs for a firm hand and a rough touch.
Ultimately, Bull decides nah. Just leaves it at a scratchy, whiskery kiss outside the stables, Blackwall laughing beer and malt and patting Bull’s left tit. “Thank you. This was— this was good. We should do this more often.”
“We should,” Bull agrees, kissing the top of Blackwall’s head. He smells a little, sure. Horse and hay and leather. Not bad smells, really. Just not Vivienne smells.
Bull already made up his mind not to ask, but Blackwall scratches awkwardly behind his neck. Scuffs his boots against the ground. Lets out a blustery sigh through his moustache, like some sort of deflated ghost. “If you’d like to do more— more, I mean. Now is good.”
There’s a piece of history peeking through, Bull figures. The bit that still says Blackwall doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve whatever makes him happy. The man doesn’t need punishment, just needs to know he isn’t a complete piece of shit.
“Now is fucking good,” Bull growls, and Blackwall mumbles something about this being his first time. “With a man? With a Qunari?” Bull asks, and Blackwall bites back a startled laugh.
“Still not my first time with a Qunari, Tal-Vashoth,” Blackwall snorts. It’s play-nasty, not sharp-nasty, the way it might have stung right after the dreadnought. It puts some bite into Blackwall as he pushes Bull, so Bull pushes back, a little harder, and it’s a wonder they’re not tripping over their damn boots as they jostle their way to Blackwall’s bed up in the loft. The dracolisk gives a sleepy sort of hiss at them, which they promptly ignore, and Blackwall might not know much about fucking another man or a Qunari, but he knows skin, knows touch, knows how to unfasten Bull’s strap so his pauldron falls away, how to undo Bull’s pants with a few tugs and then squeeze his cock, so hard it hurts at first— and Bull hisses between his teeth, digs his nails into Blackwall’s bicep until Blackwall eases off with an apologetic kiss on the belly— and then to jerk with a clumsy slap of his palm against Bull’s crotch.
“Easy there,” Bull says. “We’ve got all night.” Which is actually a lie because he has training the next morning, but it’s the nice kind of lie they can both believe, at least for a little while. “C’mon, I wanna see you out of those clothes.”
Blackwall fumbles to undo his gambeson, and Bull takes the opportunity to taste those gaps of exposed skin, to nuzzle the new-exposed strip of neck and to slide his hand under the edge of Blackwall’s shirt. Man’s covered in hair, black and curly and tickly against Bull’s palm, a pleasing sort of crinkle as he scrunches his nose into it. Hair does wonderful things for capturing smell, warmth and body and the faint musk of rut.
“Ticklish? You? Would never have guessed,” Bull chuckles.
“And you can keep guessing,” Blackwall snorts, but of course that means Bull has to blow his belly (his wonderful, fuzzy belly) with a phenomenal raspberry, the sort that sounds like a hill giant farting, and that means Blackwall can’t stop laughing as Bull grabs his ass, sits back on the bed and pulls so that Blackwall stumbles forward, knees wide and straddling Bull’s lap. The laughter’s done more for Bull’s boner than Blackwall’s clumsy handjob, his cock bobbing between Blackwall’s thighs.
Blackwall swallows, tension in his jaw, his neck. His legs. “Bull. Hands, tonight?”
“Not with that death-grip,” Bull says, but softens at Blackwall’s apologetic wince. “Nah, nah. Just teasing. But yeah. Hands are good. Mouths, too, if you’re up for it. Want a finger in your ass?”
Blackwall doesn’t blush— ha, Bull knew it, man’s had things up his ass and liked it— but shakes his head. “I like your hands on my ass. More like…” His voice drops into a mumble, but Bull has sharp ears.
He grins. “Wanna get spanked? C’mere then.”
Blackwall’s still not bendy, but it doesn’t take a lot of bend to get him sprawled over Bull’s lap, belly slung between Bull’s knees and his forearms on the bed, head resting on that triangle of space between. He’s warm, solid on Bull’s legs, grinding so his cock brushes Bull’s as they sink heavy into the mattress. Bull twists his hand into the back of Blackwall’s hair, and Blackwall hisses, his spine curving, but into it, figuring out some push-pull of tension as Bull decides against releasing and instead asks, “You okay?”
“I like your hand in my hair,” Blackwall says, as if that’s enough explanation.
And it is.
This isn’t control, not really. Just some friendly smacking around, some slap and shove with cocks out. Bull loves the way Blackwall’s ass fits against his palm; good layer of squish, and if Bull spreads his fingers he can just-barely cover the whole thing with the span of his hand. Blackwell carries his weight in his belly and thighs, enough to give them a jiggle. Enough to pad the hard muscle beneath, to hold the echo of soft living.
Bull warms up slow and light, just some rapid pats with his fingers, a couple harder ones whenever Blackwall stops wriggling. Just enough to warm that ass to pink, like cherry blossoms. Blackwall’s not much of a wriggler, more of a happy moaner as he ruts against Bull’s thigh, hands fisting into the covers. Makes it easy for Bull to just wind up, smack the next one harder. One big crack! that leaves his hand and finger stumps outlined, white on red, still gripping Blackwall’s hair so he can feel the teeth-rattle of impact.
Blackwall bellows into the blankets, shoves his cock into Bull’s lap, grinds up against Bull’s crotch. He grunts, “Maker, yes, like that,” as if it could be any more obvious, his scalp pulled taut and Bull obliges, reeling back his other hand to lay down another line of hard smacks. No art or finesse; no games or headspace here, just skin and sweat and flesh in rhythm. High snaps on the curve of the buttocks, and lowers thuds where it borders the thighs, each impact sending a ripple of red motion on pale skin. Blackwall wedges himself so his cock rubs between Bull’s thighs in shallow thrusts. Bull would offer lube, but before he can do more than open his mouth Blackwall comes with a stuttering sigh, hips trembling to a halt.
Bull bends over, ignores the small creak in his back. Breathes in Blackwall’s post-rut smell, like sweet hay and warm leather. Good, good. Even with Blackwall’s seed trickling between his thighs, warm and sticky. A little bit of mess is part of the fun.
“Bull.” Blackwall swallows, sighs. His hair’s tousled into cowlicks and bent angles, a hundred different bits of chaos. Makes Bull want to ruffle his head and start all over again. “Your turn.”
They change positions, Blackwall sitting in Bull’s lap and facing him, soft cock dangling between his legs as his knees stretch wide around Bull’s hips. When Blackwall touches him, Blackwall’s grip still leans firm— man’s spent too much time alone, but Bull’s made that joke already and should give it at least a week before trying again— but he follows directions, cups more loosely and spits into his palm to provide lubrication. Bull could get himself off faster and easier, but part of the fun is watching Blackwall handle his dick, using both hands to cover him and with his callused hands curled soft.
Bull comes, eventually. A couple spurts, hard enough to spatter over Blackwall’s forearm, but that just makes an excuse to lick him clean, to swirl his tongue over Blackwall’s arms and taste him all over again.
It seems a damn shame to walk to his own room, after, especially since they’re sticky and tangled in each other’s cum. Bull rolls onto his back and Blackwall half-sprawls across his chest. They fall asleep in unspoken agreement, Blackwall gently drooling on his ribs.