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Corypheus is dead. Corypheus is dead, but the news is still so fresh that Cullen has to repeat it to himself every morning when he wakes up to a shock of desperate adrenaline. Corypheus is dead, and somehow, somehow, Cullen still lives.
He was not prepared for this.
In many ways, life goes on as before. Cullen still supervises troop drills, reads reports of bandit incursions, sends soldiers to guard the camps that their ever-roaming Inquisitor establishes. He still goes to bed weary. Yet without the looming threat of Corypheus, there are moments when everything else feels terribly empty.
He mentions this one day to Leliana, and she laughs, bright and clear. "You have spent your years in the shadow of endless crises, Commander. I suggest you rediscover how it feels to live in no shadow but your own." She whistles, and her newly reunited nug scampers up to her feet. (Cullen can never remember its name — Snuffles? Snuggles?) But her smile, as she pulls the squirming creature onto her lap, has a softness that Cullen never saw before the Breach closed.
Reluctant, but unable to deny her unspoken point, Cullen tries to make good on her advice. He makes more time to play chess with Dorian. He drinks ale with his troops in the Herald's Rest. He arranges a sparring match with Cassandra, trading thrusts and parries until they both gleam with sweat, stripped down to their undershirts.
Unsurprisingly, the bout has attracted a circle of onlookers, who trade bets loudly on the winner. Among them is the Iron Bull, standing by a few of his Chargers; a relaxed grin softens his face, but his eye tracks Cullen's movements keenly. Suddenly his lieutenant elbows him and says something into his ear, and the movement distracts Cullen enough that Cassandra can feint, twist, and knock him off his feet. Her sword hovers above his throat. "Yield."
"The match is yours," he says, feeling rather cheerful about losing to her. Besides, after a long bout of exertion, it feels quite nice to lie on the ground, the cool earth beneath his back, and catch his breath.
When Cassandra grips his arm and helps him back up, Cullen's eyes seek out Bull again. He's watching him, still, but the smile has twisted into something playfully predatory.
And that's when Cullen remembers the offer.
"You're a tough man, Cullen. A good leader. But if you ever need to let go of that load for a night, my door's always open."
He'd dismissed it at the time; fighting Corypheus left no time for distractions. But Corypheus is dead, and Cullen is alive. Perhaps it's time to live.
---
It's a raucous night in Skyhold when Cullen finally knocks on Bull’s door.
A large contingent of soldiers returned during the day, the last units to make it back from the Arbor Wilds, and the tavern is buzzing with reunions and tales of travel. It’s loud enough to ensure a paradoxical sort of privacy: the background din of drinking songs and tall tales will cover the sounds of more private encounters. (At least, that’s what he hopes.)
So Cullen buys a drink, nurses it in a dark corner, and watches carefully to make sure that no one else has already requested the Bull’s attention. When it looks like Bull is heading to his quarters alone, Cullen follows.
In Bull's room — unlocked, as promised — a single oil lamp fills the space with flickering illumination and the dense scent of burning fat. Bull is sitting on the edge of his bed, massaging balm into his horns with slick, firm strokes.
Cullen would blame the twists of Bull’s wrist for sending his own thoughts in a filthy direction, if they hadn’t already been there before he set foot though the door.
“Cullen,” Bull says, continuing his work as he speaks. “What can I do for you?”
“I,” Cullen says, then stops. “You said, some time back, that if I wanted…” He trails off, hoping that Bull will understand. At his age, Cullen knows what he needs, but talking about it has never gotten easier.
“So I did. You sure you know what you’re getting into, though?”
He scratches the back of his neck, nervous and self-conscious of showing it. “I think I’ve got a good idea. The soldiers talk. Listen, can’t you just… ask me the questions and get started?”
“The ‘questions’? So you’ve done this before?”
Cullen shrugs and shifts in place while Bull wipes the remaining balm off his hands, then focuses his full, sharp attention on Cullen’s words. “There was a place in Kirkwall. An elf who worked there, she — she had a routine for certain clients. But before she started, she asked me a lot of questions — what I’d done, what I liked, what I wanted to try, what I wouldn’t allow.”
“Can I tie you up?” she’d asked, and he’d flinched, remembering the cold blue walls of his magical prison. This woman was neither mage nor soldier, and he felt confident that he could overpower her to halt things — and yet, and yet. “No,” he’d said. “I need to be able to move.” I need to be able to stop you.
“All right, then,” Bull says. Cullen can see the calculations flickering behind his keen gaze like chess strategies: recalibrations, potential outcomes. “Get on your knees.”
Cullen blinks, suddenly off-kilter. “You’re not going to ask the questions? You’re not even going to establish a watchword?” Cullen isn’t afraid, he isn’t, but something hot and desperate begins to tighten around his throat.
“Look, kid, let me put my cards on the table. When I started this job, the Ben-Hassrath sent me profiles on all the big figures in the Inquisition, and that included you. So I know about Kinloch Hold. I know that it fucked you up. And I might be going out on a limb, but I think that what you need most right now is to learn that you can let go of control and still be safe. So we're keeping things simple tonight. You say ‘stop,’ or ‘no,’ or ‘don’t,’ and I’ll stop. That’s your watchword. And if you want me to do something that I’m not doing, you ask for it, and you trust that I’m going to listen. Anything more complicated than that can wait for another night.”
The Bull crosses his arms across his chest as he speaks, and Cullen can’t stop looking at them, at the ropes of muscle as thick and solid as stone pillars. He imagines those arms holding him down, and the knot of wanting-but-dreading weighs so heavily in his gut that he can’t breathe, cock hard and muscles trembling, right up until he imagines himself saying stop and —
— and being heard. Just that impossibly simple.
“All right,” he hears himself saying, and he steps forward to kneel at Bull’s feet. Some part of him still doesn’t believe that controlling the Bull could be as simple as saying no.
But right now, he’s going to make himself try.
“That’s good,” Bull says with approval, and Cullen’s not sure whether his skin is flushing at Bull’s rumbling tone, or at the novelty of simple praise. “You got anything you like to be called? I can run with ‘Cullen,’ but sometimes people like names: boy, pet, sweetheart, slut, dog, soldier, slave…”
“Oh, Maker,” Cullen breathes. Serendipity had always called him “pet,” and most of the other words feel awkward to him, but the word “slut” feels like a pulse of lightning through his veins — shameful and inescapable all at once. “Yes, ser.”
Bull leans over him, a pleased twist on his lips; even seated, his height forces Cullen to look up like a supplicant. “Which one of ‘em? I want you to say the word.”
“S-slut,” Cullen forces out, hating the stutter in his throat. “Please call me — that.”
Bull outright grins then, predatory and sharp-toothed. “‘That’? I figured that a slut as needy as you would be able to say it.” Without warning, he grabs Cullen’s hair and yanks it back, forcing him to look Bull straight-on. “Try again. Tell me what you are.”
A curse almost slips out of Cullen’s lips, but he bites it off and tries to ignore the prickling wetness at the corners of his eyes and the uncomfortable pressure of his trousers over his cock. “I’m. I’m.” He opens his mouth, but the word still won’t come out.
“You’re what?” Bull demands, the unrelenting pressure of his fingers still pulling Cullen’s hair. “Say it.”
Tears shimmer so thickly in Cullen’s eyes that he can hardly see, and he finally breaks with a wet gasp. “I’m a slut, sir. I’m a slut.”
“Damn right, you are. You’re a slut so desperate to be touched that you’re practically humping the air in front of you.” Deliberately, Bull nudges his booted foot between Cullen’s thighs, then slides it upward in a single long stroke over Cullen’s tented trousers. It’s so far from a touch, just the blunt pressure of hardened leather, but its crudeness only makes the shock of desire more intense. “Now take off those damn clothes before I flip you over and tear them open.”
Cullen nearly chokes at the image, but manages a “Yes, ser.” He pulls off his clothing as swiftly as he can, ignoring the memories of Chantry sisters chiding him for discarding them without folding. He’d removed his plate armor earlier, of course, but there are still a few layers to unlace and slide off. Once his doublet and shirt sit in a heap, he starts to rise to remove his boots and trousers, but Bull’s enormous palm blocks his head, pressing him back down implacably.
“No. You’ll do it from down there. Sluts gotta stay where they belong, right?”
“Ser,” Cullen acknowledges, but he’s fairly certain his irritation has seeped into his voice. Doesn’t Bull know how ridiculous that will look, contorting awkwardly to wrestle travel-stiff leather off his legs and feet?
He’s already tugging at one boot, though, and when he glances up and sees a hungry gleam in Bull’s eye, he suddenly understands. The Iron Bull wants Cullen to look awkward, to lose his balance and nearly fall on his face. Cullen is trusting Bull with his ridiculous appearance, his vulnerability, his inadequacy, and Bull is drinking in that gift like precious wine. The realization shocks him so much that it takes Bull nudging him again with a boot to remember that he’s paused his undressing.
Before long, albeit with some contortions that would have been much easier ten years ago, Cullen kneels again at Bull’s feet — this time, utterly nude. Even though the room is warm, a shiver ghosts over his skin. Serendipity made him feel this vulnerable sometimes, this weightless and untethered, but Bull’s brought him there faster than he thought was possible. And despite the almost shameful burn of exposure, Cullen hasn’t even been tempted yet to ask Bull to stop.
“Fuck, you look good like that,” Bull rumbles. One of his hands is casually palming his cock, and even through his billowing trousers, the size of it makes Cullen shiver. He’s no virgin, but is Bull really going to make him— “Hey,” Bull’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “Come back here with me. I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what you can handle, but if I fuck up, this stops the instant you say so. You’re safe here.”
A small smile quirks Cullen's lips. “I almost feel like I can believe you.”
“‘Almost’ is close enough for me to work with.” Heat builds in Bull’s gaze as he looks Cullen up and down, his eye lingering on Cullen’s cock. “Normally I’d bring out my supplies for this kind of play — some nice soft rope to hold you where I want you, maybe a small plug to ease open your hole. But your slutty dick couldn’t wait, could it? So we’re gonna make do, and you’re gonna play fetch for me.”
The hot wrong-good wash of shame is almost more than Cullen can bear. His cock had gone a little softer while he undressed, but he can feel it betraying him by returning swiftly to attention, and he knows that Bull has already noticed. “Fetch?” he asks.
Bull nods at a small pack lying open beside the bed. “There’s grease in the green jar. Go get it for me. But keep your hands on the floor, where you belong.”
He’ll have to get the bottle with his mouth, Cullen understands, and bites out another “Ser.” Then he crawls over to the pack, aware of how the movement displays his bare arse to the Bull. In the pack, the green jar is easy to find, but it’s squat and broad, larger around than any of the cocks that Cullen has encountered. He’ll be able to get his jaw around it, but only barely.
(Fuck. He’s going to start drooling all over the jar, he just knows it, and the thought is humiliating.)
Carefully, so focused on his task that he almost forgets Bull’s gaze on him, he bends down and takes the jar in his mouth. The sides are straight and smooth, and oh Maker, he’s going to have to suck on it to keep it from slipping out. So he does, sucking in and gripping, the effort so frustrating that he wants to cry, but he doesn’t — just turns and clambers across the floor back to Bull. His stretched-taut lips are burning by the time he drops the jar into the Bull’s waiting hand, but it’s all worth it when Bull smiles at him, approving and not mocking.
“That’s my good slut,” Bull practically purrs. Then he unscrews the jar and scoops out some grease into his palm. “Turn around for me and present yourself.”
Cullen colors but obeys, rotating his body until his arse is propped up for the Bull’s inspection. “Legs wider,” Bull prompts, and Cullen does — sweet Maker, he can feel the night air cool against his hole, feel the exposed dangle of his balls.
A moment later, he feels a single finger brush over his hole, slick and cool with grease, enough to make him shiver. “Just relax,” the Bull soothes him. “You’re doing really well, Cullen.”
Cullen can’t stop the flinch that jolts through him, and he’s not surprised that Bull notices too. “Hard to believe me, huh? Trust me, there is nowhere else I would rather be than right here, watching you wrestle all that strength and stubbornness into submission.” A warm chuckle. “I’ll be getting off to this memory more than a few times — believe me.”
And that thought — Bull, jerking off alone to the thought of him — is enough to bring a new flush to Cullen’s cheeks, and he presses his arse up against the still-gentle presence of Bull’s finger. “There’s my pretty slut,” Bull says, and slides forward his fingertip just enough to breach Cullen, so gentle that the stretch hardly hurts despite his sheer size. “I’ve got you. I know it’s been a while, so we’re gonna go slow.” He pauses. “You’ve done this, right? You know what to expect? Just nod yes or no for me.”
Cullen nods with an embarrassing eagerness, because Maker, he just wants to feel more than the tease of Bull’s fingertip. And he may not be very experienced, but Serendipity would fuck him sometimes with her cock or toys or even, once, her whole hand, and he remembers how unrelentingly good it felt to come with that almost-painful fullness.
Then all his thoughts halt, because Bull's finger is nudging up against the sensitive spot inside him, almost massaging it, and Maker, Maker, Maker, Cullen's biting his tongue until he tastes the tang of blood. "That's right," Bull says, his voice sounding far away. "Just feel. You're being so good for me, so good."
Cullen is floating, drifting. The sensations of his body — roughness beneath his palms, the chill of night on his bare limbs, the fullness of Bull's finger within him — they feel like disconnected pinpoints, distantly vying for his attention. It's so good that Cullen never wants to leave this moment, despite the waves of urgent arousal.
When the Bull chuckles, Cullen almost crashes back into self-consciousness, but he's distracted by a heavy hand stroking down his back. "Look at you," Bull says, his tone fond. "Just perfect. Now come here and sit on my lap, so I can give that pretty little prick some attention." Even as he speaks, Bull is tugging out his own cock.
Cullen tries to obey, though his limbs feel too loose for any kind of coordination, and Bull manhandles him into position. (He finds that he doesn't mind that at all.) When he settles into place, Bull has him straddling his lap, face to face, so that their cocks stand flush against each other. When Bull's finger slides back into his hole, easier this time, Cullen can't decide whether to fuck himself backward, or thrust forward in search of contact. A glint in Bull's eye says that he's well aware of the dilemma.
"Hey, Cullen," Bull says, his voice serious for a moment. "Can I kiss you right now? 'Cause I'm really into this side of you, not gonna lie."
The question confuses Cullen, though he couldn't say why, and he fumbles to form words. "That's ... that's fine."
"Good," Bull says, and his free arm wraps around Cullen to pull him into a kiss. This part is completely different from Serendipity; Bull's mouth is large and hungry, licking into Cullen eagerly, nipping at his lips with inhumanly sharp teeth. They kiss, and it probably should feel awkward with Bull's finger slick inside his arse, but instead it feels like it's completing a circuit, like Bull is overpowering Cullen from both ends, taking him until there's nothing left in between.
Then Bull's hips give a little thrust, rubbing his cock against Cullen's, and a sharp gasp slips from Cullen's throat. Bull breathes in, hard, and pulls his lips from Cullen's to look at him. "You've got two choices here. You wanna take us both in hand and rub us off together, you can do that. Probably come pretty fast, too. But I bet that you could come just from humping my cock with your little prick. Want to show that to me, slut?"
The transparent desire in Bull's voice is a balm to places that Cullen had forgotten were so rough, so scarred. "Yes, ser," he breathes. "May I — may I touch —?"
"You can touch whatever you want," Bull says with a grin.
So Cullen does: grips Bull's biceps, lets himself feel their solidity and strength. Something in his gut twists at the thought of all that power, there to protect rather than imprison. He lets his hips buck forward, lets them thrust against the breadth of Bull's cock — and Maker, he feels like an animal, filthy and primal, but it feels so blighted good.
From there, it doesn't take long. Bull starts to rock his finger in and out of Cullen, the steady slick movement intoxicating, and Cullen can't shake the thrumming speculation of what would his cock feel like inside me, oh Maker. He's so close, despite the uneven pressure against his own prick, and all he needs is something that he can't even verbalize, up until Bull gives it to him. "Come on me, slut," Bull says, his words a tender offer. Cullen obeys, the force of orgasm crashing over him like an avalanche, and white numbness follows in its wake.
Distantly, as if outside himself, he feels Bull slide out of him and wipe off his hand, then cradle Cullen close with both arms. But there's something — "You didn't—" he says, voice a little slurred, feeling a wash of embarrassment at Bull's still-aroused state.
"Don't you worry about it," Bull says with a fond chuckle. "I'm real good."
Despite the reassurance, Bull's own climax feels like the most important thing in Cullen's hazy universe. He twists free of Bull's arms, then slides down to his knees and presses his lips to the gleaming ruddy crown of Bull's cock. The wet gleam of precum tastes different, more mineral than Cullen expected, but it's not unpleasant. More challenging is Bull's sheer size; Cullen can lick hungrily around his crown, but he can barely stretch his jaw to slide around his breadth.
Even so. Maker, even so — Bull's fleshy head is soft between Cullen's lips, fuller than the gags that Serendipity sometimes used, and the sound that punches out of Bull is halfway between a growl and a moan. He feels like the cockslut that Bull keeps calling him, but Cullen can't help himself; he licks up and down Bull's length, using the slickness to slide one hand over him in a rhythmic pumping motion, relishing the way that he can feel Bull's cock grow even firmer and thicker with every stroke. He alternates the long lapping tastes with teasing short licks over Bull's crown, savoring the beads of precum that well up like dew, tracing over Bull's sensitive frenulum.
Bull has one hand threaded through Cullen's hair now, holding him firm with just a sweet hint of too-tight pain. "Fuck, but you're good at that," he groans. "Such a sweet little slut for me. Want to mess you up so badly, make you filthy. That good with you?"
Cullen moans affirmatively into Bull's dick, nodding his head for good measure, and redoubles his effort. Nothing matters outside the two of them, right now, nothing but the cresting need to see Bull come undone.
"Firm and slow," Bull guides the stroking of his hand, rocking his hips back and forth in rhythm. "Just like that. Fuck, I'm close."
A few strokes later, and Bull tugs Cullen's face back off his dick, just in time to come all over it in hot, sticky splashes. It's so much, so much more than a human or elf, that it drips down his cheeks and off his chin faster than he can wipe it away.
Cullen imagines how he must look right now — dripping with Bull's cum, face smeared, lips swollen — and shudders at the humiliating rightness of the image.
Bull, for his part, has let himself lean backwards onto the bed, drawing in deep gulps of air. "Damn, that was good. Even hotter than I'd been imagining. You good?"
"Mmm-hmmm," Cullen hums, still feeling too loose-limbed for words. As he continues to kneel, flexing his jaw around its lingering ache, he can feel the pleasant haze start to drift away like a foggy morning.
With a spike of humiliation — the unpleasant kind, this time — he realizes that he's kneeling, naked, his face starting to become tacky with a coating of semen. He'd thought — he doesn't know what he'd thought Bull would do to him, but Maker, he must look like an idiot. Flushing, he starts to rise to his feet —
— and then Bull's hand is on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Cullen. Hey. You're all right. You were perfect. And I know you've gotta leave soon, but can you humor me and come up here for a minute?"
Cullen nods, confused, and rises to sit next to Bull on the bed. To his surprise, Bull loops one arm around him, almost like a hug, and pulls him close. "Much better," Bull says, a comfortable looseness in his voice. "Dunno if you had this happen with your friend, but some folks can hit a real mood drop after this kind of thing."
Shaking his head, Cullen makes a weak effort to pull away. "I'm sorry. I would not make you bear my own weakness."
"Not weakness," Bull says firmly. "Like I said, it's normal. And I like taking care of folks when they're like this — still fuzzy and relaxed. Don't get to see you much like that. I like it."
"No accounting for taste, I suppose."
At that, Bull snorts a laugh and squeezes Cullen tighter. "You're an asshole sometimes, you know. Now hold still for a minute — just gonna grab something." He stands up, walks across the room, and returns a minute later with a damp rag. "The water's cold, but it'll get you clean."
"Thanks," Cullen says, then bites back a curse at the first swipe of the ice-cold rag across his face. But it warms up quickly on his skin, and it does feel good — not just the bracing cleanness, but the indulgence of being tended by someone else. By the time that Bull's careful movements have cleaned up the last bits of mess, Cullen's anxiety has mostly dissipated.
(He can still taste the bitter iron tang of Bull's cum on his tongue, though, and Maker, what is wrong with him, that he finds himself hoping the taste will linger?)
But he knows what happens next: he is to rise, and pull on his trousers, and leave. If this were Serendipity, he'd be adding a generous tip to the bedside table; as it is, he's not sure what to do with himself, how to say goodbye. "Well..." he begins.
"Right. You've gotta go. I won't keep you," Bull says with a friendly smile. He leans back and gestures to Cullen's clothing, a playful leer in his eye that says he intends to watch Cullen dress. "This was good. Any time you want a second round, my door's open."
Cullen tugs his clothing back on, trying not to flush at the Bull's gaze. "Right. I'll — the offer is appreciated."
"I mean it, too. Don't be a stranger. You deserve some no-strings happiness, and if I'm the one who helps give it to you... let's just say that the pleasure is definitely mine."
A wry smirk twists Cullen's lips. "Tell that to my friend in Kirkwall. She took payment in coin, not pleasure."
"People pay coin to fuck people, too. Doesn't mean it's not also a fun way to spend an evening without changing hands."
"I suppose," Cullen concedes, privately doubting the comparison between ordinary fucking and this. "You'll let me know if you ever need me to return the favor?"
Bull raises an eyebrow. "So when you say 'return the favor,' do you mean that you'd be giving orders while I crawled around, or do you mean that I'll come visit you when I've got an itch to scratch? 'Cause I'm fine with either, if it's what you want, but you've gotta be specific here."
"You are impossible," Cullen sighs, but he can feel a smile tugging at his cheeks. "You said your door's open. Well, so is mine. For, er, either."
"I can work with that," Bull grins. He's still recumbent on his bed, unashamed of either his scars or his nudity, and Cullen isn't sure whether he envies him or craves him with greater strength. If he let himself —
No-strings happiness. That's what Bull is offering. And that's what Cullen wills himself to permit. He thinks of the simple joy in Leliana's eyes as she held her nug, and for the briefest moment, that joy seems close enough to feel its breath on his cheek.
"I'll see you soon, Bull," he says, and meets Bull's gaze with a wordless promise before he turns to leave.
Perhaps this living business isn't so bad.