"I want to try something," Bull says. "I'm pretty sure you'll like it."
Spread on his back with Bull between his thighs, Cullen very much likes what they're doing. Bull's horns are rough against the tops of thighs, nails scraping idly along Cullen's sides. They've both already come; Bull's mouth is undemanding, without expectation. This pleasure is idle.
"I don't think I can," Cullen says, aware of the slur around the edge of his speech. He coughs and smiles crookedly at Bull. "Again tonight, I mean."
"Don't need you hard for it," Bull chuckles. "You don't have to do anything."
Cullen considers himself through the pleasant, heavy lassitude settled over his skin. His muscles promise soreness, but not pain. Bruises too, as always. It took Cullen a long, long time to work up the nerve to tell Bull that he could leave them without checking first. Longer still to ask for it.
"All right," Cullen agrees.
Bull rumbles a pleased noise and bites affectionately at the soft skin of Cullen's thigh. He hisses, hips flexing up instinctively, but with no real effort to get away. Bull eases off the end of the bed and pulls Cullen toward him. The effortlessness of his strength makes something hot twist low in Cullen's hips.
He's curious, but only distantly. Bull grunts as he arranges himself; Cullen tells himself to remember to get salve from the healers for his quarters. It was strange for them both, the first time Cullen pulled Bull's foot into his lap and started in on tight muscles and old scars. He's fairly certain now that Bull looks forward to it.
"The word?" Bull asks.
Bull hums. "This is a good view. Knees up, high as you can get 'em."
Movement is an effort, but the warmth of Bull's breath on his cock is a suitable motivation. Groaning a little, Cullen drags his legs up and apart and closes his eyes. There's a secret pleasure in being so displayed that makes Cullen fist his hands in the blankets and shift his hips.
Then Bull mouths along his cock and cups his balls in one hand and Cullen stops caring about anything else. Pleasure sparks behind his eyes and in his hips. He pushes up against that lovely wet heat, distantly aware that he's making that low, groaning noise. Years of stifled sound haven't primed him for cries Bull loves, but he's learning to allow them. In inches.
Bull's mouth moves down. His tongue is broad and rough against Cullen's balls and Cullen arches, digging his heels into the mattress. "Maker," he gasps, reaching down blindly with one hand until he finds the rough ridge of Bull's horn. Bull laughs around him and Cullen feels it.
Cullen is distantly aware of slipping sideways in his own head. Or sinking, maybe, down away from the things he is outside a bed shared with Bull. It doesn't feel like forgetting, but a sense of things easing. He tried, once, to explain to Bull what it felt like. Bull had smiled at him, said, "That happens, if you need it," and pulled Cullen to his chest.
Bull pulls off. Cullen makes a different noise -- it could reasonably be called a whine, and he will care about that later -- and Bull presses his palm to Cullen's belly. Holding him in place, yes, but Cullen has never felt trapped with Bull.
Then Bull's horns press against the backs of Cullen's thighs.
Then Bull pushes his tongue against Cullen's hole.
"Fuck the Maker," Cullen gasps, raw, ridiculous sensation coursing up his spine like a mage's electricity spell. He scrabbles at the mattress for purchase he won't find, trying to arch his back and bow inward at the same time.
He hears Bull laughing. "That's a new one. Fuck the maker; did the Templars teach you that?"
Cullen manages a meaningless noise in answer. Heat washes over him. Bull presses his tongue again, hot and wet and insistent against fragile skin. Cullen grunts out another strangled sound and digs his heels into Bull's back.
"That good?" Bull asks mildly.
It takes Cullen several moments to gather up enough of himself to answer. "That. That is. Bull."
"It's great, right?"
"It's." Cullen swallows. "It's obscene."
He turns his head, wishing for anything to hide his face against. "Filthy, Bull. Maker."
There's a pause.
"Cullen," Bull says, "Look at me."
Oh, but if he does that Bull will read through him like he always does. Cullen swallows hard and, reluctantly, slits his eyes enough to see Bull's face between his knees. Bull's mouth crooked in a wry grin. Bull's mouth wet from his ministrations. Cullen's breath catches. The good templar boy. It's very funny, everyone thinks so.
"I've fucked you when you were still bloody from fighting," Bull says. "I've fucked you caked with sweat. I've fucked you sticky from booze." His grins turns sharp. Cullen's chest clenches. "This is dirty?"
Intimate, Cullen thinks. The last thing I can think of that I haven't given you. He jerks his head in a slight nod.
"Well," Bull says slowly. "Should I stop?"
Cullen exhales. And shakes his head.