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Cullen dislikes parties -- fetes, balls, cotillions, whatever ridiculous word Orlais wants to use -- as a general rule. Somehow, knowing that the damned country's embattled empress is meant to be dead by dawn doesn't manage to make it any better. Experience has taught well enough that deferring to Leliana and Josephine in terms of secrets and society is always the best course of action. Or at least the best way of getting the fewest of their people killed.
He just can't convince himself to like it.
"I don't have the patience for the Game," he tells Bull, resisting the urge to drop his head down on his desk. Repeatedly. It's quite possible that being temporarily addled would only improve the situation.
Bull, sprawled comfortably in a chair against the left wall, quirks the corner of his mouth in a wry smile. "Too many ways to offend people."
"Yes." Cullen smacks his hand against the desk for emphasis. "It's all six generations of insults tangled together because someone's great-great grand uncle was caught kissing the wrong hand of the daughter of some family's dowager."
Bull nods. "Yeah," he agrees, "and if you, personally, fuck up then Celene ends up dead, Orlais falls into more chaos, Corypheus takes over the world and it's all your fault, personally."
"I--" Cullen realizes he doesn't have anyway to end that.
Groaning a little, Bull pushes himself up and and moves to lean against the edge of Cullen's desk. Someday, Cullen is determined that Bull's sheer, ridiculous size will fade to normal. It just hasn't yet. Proximity still makes Cullen pause every Maker-damned time; like the children new to Skyhold whose mouths fall open in gaping wonder the first time they see the famed Iron Bull.
(And he is becoming famed among the people. They all are, but Cullen's not shocked that the horned Qunari mercenary captures a bit more of the common imagination than this is or that human.)
"There are a lot of things that could make this go sideways," Bull says, shrugging. "But they're not all on you. Our people, for the most part, seem to know what they're doing."
Cullen exhales and shoves his hands through his hair. "I'd rather we could surround her with swords."
"You and me both, but I trust Josie and the Nightingale when they say we can't."
The worst of it is knowing that Bull is right, and that Leliana and Josephine are both right, and knowing that when it comes to empresses and their cousins and armies and nations there are too many people at stake to be blunt about it. Cullen was trained to be a blunt instrument. A holy one, though little enough of that righteousness survived the circle and Kirkwall, but a simple weapon nonetheless.
Weapons don't negotiate. They don't kiss hands and compliment, and they certainly don't do that trick of saying nice words and meaning grave insults. There's a reason no one brings a real sword to a dance. They're not useful. He hates feeling useless.
"Hey."
Bull's voice startles him a little, as does Bull's hand coming up to cup around Cullen's chin.
Cullen can't suppress a little shudder. A good one, but one of the nice things about Bull is that Cullen never has to haltingly explain that kind of thing. Bull's big thumb strokes gently over the tight muscle in Cullen's jaw. Cullen exhales again -- slowly, carefully, counting in his head -- and grudgingly relaxes.
He meant it back in Haven when he told the Inquisitor he wasn't looking. For Cullen, it's more that Bull found him and, for whatever reason, decided he wanted the man with trembling hands walking the battlements in the dead of night when lyrium's song was a sweet and loud poison drilling into his mind. No accounting for taste, Cullen once said, exhausted from lack of sleep and weary from the dragging struggle of it all.
Bull caught Cullen's wrists in one hand and Cullen's chin in his other and looked at him until Cullen's cheeks were red. It was embarrassment but also exposure, being seen very, very closely. he said, "If you've spent half your life wading through shit, of course you're gonna be a little muddy." Then he pulled Cullen down to bed, threw an arm and leg over him, and Cullen managed to sleep.
(Varric, as yet the only one other than the Inquisitor to comment, said, "Bull, huh? Not who I'd have pegged as your type. Thought you liked more in the way of tits." And before Cullen could begin to come up with a response that wasn't sputtering, Varric slapped him on the shoulder. "He's a good choice for you, Curly. Maker knows there are worse ways than a beating to get the crap you've been through out of your head.")
He still does like tits. Bull, kindly, didn't laugh when Cullen admitted this surprised him a little.
"World's not ending tonight," Bull says, smiling. "Ball's not for another week, and we're gonna spend that on the road."
Cullen groans softly. Not only on the road, but traveling in a style as will suitably impress the Orlesian nobility. Which means carriages and wagons and bloody baggage rather than horses and saddlebags. Bringing servants who have every right to rather spend their time at Skyhold, managing important tasks instead of polishing the thousandth belt buckle so Marquess this and that doesn't sniff at them.
There are times Cullen finds himself in deep and unexpected sympathy with Sera.
"Hey," Bull says again, jerking his chin gently. "Back to me, soldier."
A little frisson of heat unfurls in Cullen. Soldiers are useful and practical and blessedly general. A soldier belongs only to an army, not inherently any cause, or banner, or general, or purpose.
"My apologies," Cullen murmurs.
"Nah, don't apologize. It's gonna suck," Bull agrees, almost cheerful. "But my point is that it's not happening tonight."
Cullen glances down at the paperwork spread over his desk. "I have a thousand things to do," he says, but even he can hear the distinct lack of conviction in his voice.
"Yeah, you always will, though. Part of being important." Bull tightens his hand. The frisson expands to fill Cullen's chest. "But you're just a man, soldier. You've done enough for one night. Stand up."
Cullen has learned, if not yet become entirely comfortable with, that he does well with orders in more ways than he realized. And what he couldn't have done of his own power is not easy, but possible, with Bull's hand and Bull's words. He's just a soldier, after all. That very often means doing things without understanding why they must be done.
"That's it," Bull says, softly praising. "Armor off, and anything else you've got on below your waist."
"Down here?" Cullen asks. He glances at the ladder to the loft.
Bull raises an eyebrow. "Fix your roof yet?" Cullen blushes. "Yeah, down here."
Cullen feels just a bit...wicked, stripping off the marks of his office in his office. Even knowing the door is closed and securely bolted and that Adaar quietly ordered all soldiers to let him rest after nightfall short of true emergency, Cullen's throat goes a little tight in anticipation. What if someone were to walk in on him, commander of the armies of the Inquisition, half-naked?
No one will, of course. But what if they did?
He flushes at the thought and sets it aside. Not long ago, he would have ignored such things as a matter of course. It's because of Bull -- for Bull, perhaps? -- that he gives them any consideration at all now. But later. Bull watches him with massive arms folded over his massive chest and a sharp glint to his gaze.
Cullen manages cape, gauntlets, and greaves. Bull helps him with his breastplate. Cullen's use to aids with small, clever hands flitting over the buckles -- there is a reason the youngest recruits are typically given such roles. Bull's hands are impossibly oversized for how clever they are. Cullen feels a flush of heat crawl up his neck. Imperious Celene and Gaspard and Orlais all begin to slip into the background.
He feels small without his breastplate. He is smaller without it. Vulnerable? It makes him shudder as Bull easily sets it on the floor. Carefully, but without any effort. Cullen's used to the weight and still his back creaks in relief to have it gone. What must it be like to have such strength? How frightening must it be?
"Keep going, soldier."
Cullen jumps a little, bending to untie his boots. His soft clothes are creased from wear. Not dirty, precisely, but they've been close to his skin. From the look on Bull's face, the jump of his throat as he swallows, Bull can smell it. (Secretly, in the way where Cullen hasn't the faintest idea how to put it to words, he is -- fascinated? by the little things about Bull that are animal. The things he can scent. The blunt scrape of his clawed nails. His horns.)
He sets his boots the side of his desk, folds his trousers and sets them in his chair. For a moment, Cullen hesitates with his fingers on the hem of his shirt. The scar on his lip keeps him from being vain. Not that he ever was. But too many of the few who have seen the scars on his chest have wanted to pet him with gentle pity. "Poor, poor baby," they say. And, inevitably, "Tell me what happened?"
Bull reaches out curls a hand around the back of Cullen's neck. "You're still not more cut up than me."
It's true. Cullen eases his shirt off and sets it aside.
He pauses in his smallclothes and looks at Bull, who laughs. "I can rip 'em off you, if that's what you want," he says, and takes a step forward with his hands out stretched. Cullen shies away, surprised when he laughs in embarrassed response.
Orders, then. Good soldier. All of that. He pushes them down and sets them aside and stands naked as birth in front of Bull, who somehow manages to lose his own clothing as Cullen did. Gooseflesh crawls over him, from the chill that wafts down from his bedroom loft and from anticipation. He briefly pokes at the upcoming ball and, thank the Maker, finds it uninteresting when compared to the reality of Bull standing there.
Bull smiles broadly. "One of these days I'm gonna make you clear off that desk so we can use it without losing something important."
Cullen flushes from his ribs to the top of his head. Probably all templars who ever trained had some version of that same fantasy, but it still feels indecent to say it aloud.
"I'll keep that in mind," Bull laughs.
Then he moves. Cullen has a moment to be struck, again, by how unexpectedly fast and graceful he is, then Bull's hands find purchase wrapped around his thighs and he's being lifted. Easily, of course. The strength, the raw and ridiculous strength, makes Cullen shudder with feeling and -- gratitude. The thing he has circled around since this began and been unable to explain to himself.
Maker, but it's gift to feel small.
Bull carries him across the room to the opposite wall. Cullen grunts at the scrape of cold, rough stone against back and claws his fingers into the thick muscle of Bull's shoulders. Bull kisses him, mouth wet and insistent. Possessive, Cullen thinks wildly. Possess me. You understand how terribly frightening that is.
"Got you," Bull assures him a low voice when they break apart. "I've got you."
He pushes his hips forward, pushing Cullen up the wall. The stone drags against his skin and he gasps, arching forward. He claws lines across Bull's shoulders. His hips push back in kind, heedless of any conscious thought. Sometimes, Cullen fears how frantic Bull so easily makes him. Like a reckless youth, hungry for everything and uncaring of anyone else.
Bull's big hands dig into Cullen's thighs. He'll have bruises in the morning. When he sits, they'll twinge, and he'll blush. The first thought he'll have is shame, but that's only because he's more practiced at shame. Then it will be comfort, because it always is. He'll shift in his chair to make the ache flair when his thoughts refuse to order themselves.
Cullen likes routine. He likes this routine. It was strange at first, but now he always includes thanks in his prayer for the strange gift that is Bull.
Bull bites at Cullen's bottom lip and hauls him up. There are unbalanced moments where one of Bull's hands moves, but then it all shifts. Bull's cock is next to Cullen's, both sweat-slick between their bellies. Cullen grunts, a low vibrating noise that he feels deeply in his chest, and pushes his face into Bull's shoulder.
"Yeah, got you," Bull repeats. His voice is strained, needful. He manages half a kiss on Cullen's temple. "Stay with me."
Another order. Cullen is good at orders.
Bull's hips move slowly at first, in careful and controlled thrusts that push Cullen against the rough wall and move Bull's cock a scant few inches trapped between them. Stay with him. Cullen holds tighter and bucks his hips against Bull's. It's arrhythmic at first, jarring and juddering. Cullen grunts frustration to Bull's skin.
But Bull hands dig in and release. Cullen feels it and follows it and, by inches, they make their way toward each other and the first roll where it's right. Cullen cries out, tossing his head. Distantly, he can hear Bull's pleased laughter, his orders and encouragement. Cullen is good. Cullen is right. Cullen is safe.
Their cocks slide against each other. Cullen's is respectable, but Bull is Qunari. His is half the size of Bull's. Maybe that should be another shame, but it isn't. Bull is a bulwark. His bulk and weight push Cullen against the wall and trap their cocks between them.
He can't be responsible for the world, now. The world no longer exists.
Climax surprises him. Cullen convulses, arms and legs contracting around Bull. It's so slick between them he can't feel his spunk, just the pounding throb that careens through his belly and balls.
His thoughts reduce to a babble; thank the Maker, thank Bull, this gift, this is a gift.
He's aware of Bull following him through a haze. Bull shuddering and pressing against Cullen so hard he can barely drawn in breath. Cullen relishes it, clumsy tongue unable to urge him on. Yes, Bull, use him. Cullen is a blunt instrument to be used. Bull presses his forehead against Cullen's, eyes screwed shut as his hips lose rhythm. For a long moment, they are wound up unmoving together. Pushed into silence, each set of hands clawing the other closer.
Then the moment breaks with a relief so sweet Cullen can barely breathe from it.
Bull stumbles back and they tumble down onto the rug together. Bull sprawls on his back with Cullen draped on top of him, both sticky from neck to hips, and panting for breath.
"Is your leg--" he begins, when he's come back to himself somewhat. "Is it alright?"
Bull's chuckle rumbles pleasantly beneath Cullen's ear. "It's fine. You still want to preemptively burn down Orlais?"
Cullen considers it for a moment. He can only just barely remember the names of the relevant figures. "It would mean me standing. And that's not practical, just now."
"Good." Bull draws in a long, long breath and slowly exhales. Cullen likes how much he's lifted up and shifts closer. "How's your back?"
"My back?"
Bull smirks. Then, with great and unfair precision, slaps Cullen companionably on the shoulder.
Cullen shouts in surprise at the shock of raw, stinging pain, remembering the stone a moment too late. Bull laughs and lets his arm drop. "Gonna be feeling that for a few days."
Through the ball, with any luck, Cullen thinks. He murmurs assent and closes his eyes.