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Mar. 9th, 2015 10:21 pm He has three days to watch the Inquisitor sleep. Boss hadn't been exaggerating the effect of the 'glut', he is nearly insensate, only turning every few hours to sleep on his other side. His breathing is shallow and slow, skin radiating warmth that's almost a fever.
Bull takes the time to catch up on some of his reading, card tricks, and a few notes he crumples and burnes after writing because he'd been cut off from the Qun, what need is there to report? Now and then he let his hand drift over to comb the tangles from dark hair, tracing long tipped ears that twitch ticklishly and garner him a throaty purr.
The elf is soft in his sleep. Touchable. The Iron Bull had noticed that in the tavern, cuddling the overwrought form and helping pull himself together from whatever shattering edge he'd reached until he was comfortably asleep in the Bull's arms. Even through blankets and full armor, he'd been able to feel and map some of that satiny skin, hairless and surprisingly soft over iron hard muscle and tendon. Now Idhronn of Bosmer is helpless and trusting and Bull only takes the liberties that he's absolutely certain the elf won't take offense to. He undresses the elf and puts him to bed, and on the second day gives him a warm wash down with a cloth that stays chaste and respectful.
The glut is driving the elf's body hard, keeping him hot, layering muscle and fat under the copper skin while his distended stomach slowly retracts. Bull can't imagine the metabolism required to manage it. Lizards and snakes coming to mind. Soft skin is even more elastic and fragile now, reminding Bull of budding horns and satiated cocks.
Bull isn't much of a thinker. Too much to be a simple worker, true, but not enough to be more than a set of ears and eyes for the Hand. He gathered the pieces and let the Arishok put them together. Now he has to do it himself. He's got plenty to work with, he just doesn't know what kind of picture they're making.
'Fus', Bull thought. It didn't mean anything to him, but still brought to ind his old Qunlit lessons. Sometimes when Boss spoke, The Iron Bull thought he heard the language of home but it never made sense. Words and grammar all mucked up. 'Fus' wasn't a word, not in Qunlit, yet when Boss spoke it things blew to pieces, including Bull's composure. He lost track of the times he brought off his release to the memorized *feel* of the sound. The elf could get him aching with a whisper if he had a mind to.
They'd be having a lot of amazing sex if Bull could wrangle the Herald into it. Unfortunately Andraste's chosen was the sort who wanted more than sex, before they even got the sex. That was one of the main reasons Dorian's flirting would never get very far, the mage made it plain his future lay back in his homeland, where elves like Idhronn of Bosmer were bought and sold like cattle.
The Fade scared Bull. Demons scared him. He would admit it, if he had to, although he didn't like being so weak. He'd been scared of demons since he was a child, but at least now if one snaked into his brain, he had the Boss at his back.
It was reassuring to know he had the might of the Inquisition behind him. Too bad it included Cullen.
Bull takes the time to catch up on some of his reading, card tricks, and a few notes he crumples and burnes after writing because he'd been cut off from the Qun, what need is there to report? Now and then he let his hand drift over to comb the tangles from dark hair, tracing long tipped ears that twitch ticklishly and garner him a throaty purr.
The elf is soft in his sleep. Touchable. The Iron Bull had noticed that in the tavern, cuddling the overwrought form and helping pull himself together from whatever shattering edge he'd reached until he was comfortably asleep in the Bull's arms. Even through blankets and full armor, he'd been able to feel and map some of that satiny skin, hairless and surprisingly soft over iron hard muscle and tendon. Now Idhronn of Bosmer is helpless and trusting and Bull only takes the liberties that he's absolutely certain the elf won't take offense to. He undresses the elf and puts him to bed, and on the second day gives him a warm wash down with a cloth that stays chaste and respectful.
The glut is driving the elf's body hard, keeping him hot, layering muscle and fat under the copper skin while his distended stomach slowly retracts. Bull can't imagine the metabolism required to manage it. Lizards and snakes coming to mind. Soft skin is even more elastic and fragile now, reminding Bull of budding horns and satiated cocks.
Bull isn't much of a thinker. Too much to be a simple worker, true, but not enough to be more than a set of ears and eyes for the Hand. He gathered the pieces and let the Arishok put them together. Now he has to do it himself. He's got plenty to work with, he just doesn't know what kind of picture they're making.
'Fus', Bull thought. It didn't mean anything to him, but still brought to ind his old Qunlit lessons. Sometimes when Boss spoke, The Iron Bull thought he heard the language of home but it never made sense. Words and grammar all mucked up. 'Fus' wasn't a word, not in Qunlit, yet when Boss spoke it things blew to pieces, including Bull's composure. He lost track of the times he brought off his release to the memorized *feel* of the sound. The elf could get him aching with a whisper if he had a mind to.
They'd be having a lot of amazing sex if Bull could wrangle the Herald into it. Unfortunately Andraste's chosen was the sort who wanted more than sex, before they even got the sex. That was one of the main reasons Dorian's flirting would never get very far, the mage made it plain his future lay back in his homeland, where elves like Idhronn of Bosmer were bought and sold like cattle.
Varric was a dwarf alone with his stories. He might love 'Growly' for saving Hawke, but it wasn't the kind of love involving bedrooms, tables or the handy wall... The kind of love Hawke had with his own misfit elf according to rumors. Along with that traitor mage Boss ... unpossessed? Depossessed? Whatever, 'Anders'.
'Bend Will'. That was a scary name for a spell. 'Soul Tear' was downright terrifying. Cullen hadn't seen it himself, the green-blue ofthe spirit fighting the arching electrical black of the elf's magic, and the subsequent toll on both casters. He hadn't heard the screams. The only reason he'd suggest trying the same on demons was because of his profound ignorance, never knowing what it was to hold a thin bundle of bones and sinew as it sobbed and whimpered itself into exhausted slumber. Cullen was a fortunate idiot in Bull's opinion, who was going to drive their leader to a breakdown.The Fade scared Bull. Demons scared him. He would admit it, if he had to, although he didn't like being so weak. He'd been scared of demons since he was a child, but at least now if one snaked into his brain, he had the Boss at his back.
It was reassuring to know he had the might of the Inquisition behind him. Too bad it included Cullen.
