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Chapter Text

Halfway up the stairs, Cullen realizes his mistake as the topmost box on the rather ambitious stack he's carrying begins to make a run for it. To the left, of course, because the wall is on his right, and if the box was sliding to the right, he might be able to recover, but there's nothing he can do now as the box marked "FRAGILE!" succumbs to gravity and his stupidity.

"Shit," he breathes, stomach twisting in anticipation of the crash. He retains just enough sense not to lunge for it and sacrifice everything else he's carrying--including another box marked "FRAGILE!", this one with "I MEAN IT RUTHERFORD" underneath--but that leaves him nothing to do but watch in horror as the box...

...stops. Dead. In midair.

After a blink, Cullen's brain catches up and he widens his focus, spotting the arm now extending out from under the box. An arm that connects to a massive shoulder, which in turn connects to a neck that might be thicker around than Cullen's thigh. At the top of that neck is a face, grinning cheerfully at him as he cranes his head around.

"Need a hand?" the owner of said face asks, and the eyebrows waggle as silent acknowledgement of how literally true the offer is.

The eyebrows are more of a distraction than they should be, because they draw Cullen's gaze to the eyepatch, and the edges of the scar peeking out around it. He's staring like an idiot, but part of him is still screaming "Catch it, catch it, catch it!" because it hasn't yet realized there's no longer anything that needs catching, and the rest of him apparently doesn't have the social skills of a ten-year-old.

"Uhhh..." he says articulately.

And then Dorian is there to "help" him, shouting from the bottom of the stairwell, "If you drop my shit, Rutherford, I will end you!"

"How 'bout you carry your own shit?" Cullen yells back before he can think, then winces, darting a glance at the stranger from the corner of one eye.

But the guy just laughs, his face crinkling up in amusement.

Which is the point where Cullen realizes exactly how close they're standing: the guy is almost hugging him, one hand on the far railing and the other arm curved around Cullen to catch the box that tried to escape.

Cullen flushes for reasons he doesn't understand, hating the way his pale complexion showcases it so perfectly. "Sorry," he says, though what he's apologizing for is a mystery even to him.

"No problem," the guy says easily, dropping back a step without losing his hold on the box. "Want me to carry anything else?"

Without the guy looming in his space, Cullen can breathe again, and he shakes his head. "I got it. Really."

Thank god the guy doesn't question him, just shrugs those massive shoulders and gestures up the stairs.

Cullen takes the hint and resumes his climb, paying more attention than necessary to the weight of the boxes in his arms. The last thing he wants is to drop another one, not when he knows exactly how much of an ass Dorian will be about it.

Possibly because Cullen assured him three times that it wasn't too many boxes to carry at once, but whatever.

Their new apartment is on the fourth floor, and two flights of stairs have never seemed so long. By the time they get to the top, Cullen is cursing everyone he can think of: Dorian for picking this apartment, himself for agreeing to it sight unseen, and the maintenance person who couldn't get the elevator working today of all days.

On the landing, Cullen pauses, trying to rest the boxes on his hip so he can get the door, but his new helper just slides by to shove it open. He holds it, grinning, and Cullen steps through while trying not to let any part of himself brush against the guy.

Whoever he is, he leads the way down the hall as if he knows exactly which apartment is Cullen and Dorian's. Before Cullen can decide if this is just a nosy neighbor or if he should actually be creeped out, he hears the stairwell door bang open and Dorian say, "It's the last one on the left."

"I know," the guy says, sounding amused. "I can remember a number long enough to climb a couple flights of stairs."

Cullen blinks over the top of his boxes. "Do I know you?"

He flushes again as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Of course he doesn't know this guy, it's just that he's used to knowing all of Dorian's friends, and he would definitely remember someone so...so...

His brain provides several ways to finish that sentence, each more embarrassing than the last, and Cullen presses his lips together before anything else stupid can fall out of his mouth.

"Oh!" Dorian says, smacking himself in the forehead. "I'm sorry, I forgot you two hadn't met. This is my brother!"

Cullen stares. "Your brother..." He pauses, fumbling for a name. He remembers what Dorian calls him, but he suddenly can't remember if that's a family thing, or actually what the guy calls himself. Better safe than sorry. "Your brother the lawyer?"

"Of course!" Dorian says, looking at him like he's crazy.

And okay, that's fair, because it's not like Dorian has more than one brother, but still. It's not Cullen's fault that the only pictures Dorian hangs are artsy ones of steel girders and clouds reflected in puddles, rather than anything that shows people, much less his family.

"You don't look much alike," Cullen says weakly.

"I know," Dorian's brother says with a laugh, looping his free arm around Dorian's neck to pull him into a one-armed hug. If Cullen or anyone else tried that, they'd earn themselves a rabbit-punch in the kidneys, but Dorian just beams up at his brother, the hero-worship so obvious Cullen has to cough to cover a laugh of his own.

"I'm Cullen," he says, shifting the boxes to his hip so he can hold out his hand.

"Bull." He lets go of Dorian to shake Cullen's hand, his grip firm without turning it into a pissing contest. "Well, William, actually, but our mother's the only one who ever calls me that."

Which answers the name question. He definitely looks more like a Bull than a William, that's for sure. "Nice to meet you," Cullen says, feeling weirdly shy. He's heard a lot of stories about Dorian's brother, but he'd always pictured someone a little more...lawyerly. Not someone who looks like he could pick up Cullen and Dorian together without breaking a sweat.

His grip on the boxes begins to fail, and he staggers sideways, accidentally bumping into Bull as he tries not to drop anything. Bull steadies him and the boxes together, propping Cullen up with a shoulder while his free hand coaxes the topmost box back into place. "Sure you got it?" Bull asks.

"Yeah, no problem," Cullen says, feeling more like an idiot every second.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Dorian mutters, moving past them. "Let me get the door before you manage to break all my shit."

"Don't be a dick," Bull says affectionately, ruffling Dorian's hair to Dorian's obvious and vocal annoyance. "Man's carrying your shit, the least you can do is be nice to him."

"That'll be the day," Cullen mutters, but at least they're in the apartment now, and he can finally set down his load on the already overloaded kitchen table.

"I heard that, Rutherford," Dorian says, and Cullen doesn't even need to turn around to know exactly what look is on Dorian's face.

"You were supposed to, Pavus." Maybe not the best comeback in the world, but he's still feeling awkward, unexpectedly aware of Bull's presence looming behind him.

"Okay, kids," Bull says. "Don't make me turn this apartment around."

"He started it," Dorian says, right as Cullen says, "He's breathing my air."

Bull laughs, a laugh that seems to involve his whole body, and Cullen finds himself laughing helplessly along. Dorian is giving them both a superior look, but that's par for the course with Dorian.

"Okay," Bull says at last. "Let's get the rest of your shit upstairs, and then get some lunch. Don't know about you guys, but I'm starving."

Mouth open to agree, Cullen closes it again, thinking guiltily of the current state of his bank account. He really can't afford to eat out very often, and while he lets Dorian talk him into it occasionally, he knows exactly how much grad school is costing his parents. "I can't," he says apologetically. "Sorry, starving college student, you know how it is."

But Bull waves this away. "My treat. Selling my soul to the devil has to be good for something, right?"

"Selling your...what?"

"Lawyer, right? We're all spawn of Satan."

"Oh." Cullen searches desperately for something--anything--to say that doesn't sound impossibly lame, and comes up with nothing. "Okay."

"But hey," Bull continues with a shrug, "being spawn of Satan pays well, so I might as well live it up now. Besides, I need to eat before we start unpacking, or I'll end up taping Dorian into a box, and that would be hard to explain to the parents."

"Like they'll notice," Dorian mutters with the same bitterness that's always there when he talks about his parents.

Bull shrugs, uncomfortable for the first time, and hurries on. "And if we're eating, might as well feed you, too."

"Okay," Cullen says again, feeling stupider by the second. "Thanks?"

Dorian punches him in the shoulder like everything's perfectly normal, then rockets back out the apartment door. Cullen can hear his footsteps pounding down the hall and the bang as he hits the door into the stairwell, then silence.

A silence that's more than a little oppressive as he stares at Bull, who's looking back at him with his one intact eyebrow lifted. "Okay?" Bull asks.

"Yeah," Cullen says, feeling dazed and not entirely sure why. "Yeah, fine."

###

The rest of the morning is only marginally less awkward, at least for Cullen. If Bull or Dorian notice, neither of them says anything At least in Dorian's case, that's pretty good evidence that he didn't notice, because he's incapable of passing up an opportunity to tease Cullen. Though to be fair, Cullen is equally unlikely to pass up a chance to tease him.

For lunch, Bull takes them to one of the little coffee shops around campus. They all look alike to Cullen--too many hipsters and not enough real food--but Dorian of course has opinions about every single one, opinions he shares at length when Bull asks where they want to eat.

"All right, big guy," Bull interrupts, five minutes later. "Pick one before I starve to death."

Dorian gives an extremely put-upon sigh. "But there are important differences-"

"This is lunch," Bull says. "Not a fucking essay question. Pick one, or we're going to McDonald's."

That gets him a look of combined horror and disgust, and Cullen grins, meeting Bull's gaze for a moment of shared amusement. Bull's return smile is brilliant, lighting up his whole face in a way that does strange things to Cullen's stomach.

He doesn't say much during lunch, trying to focus on his food rather than on Bull's foot under the table, which is resting casually against his. As tall as Bull is, there's really nothing unusual about the contact; it would be more unusual if Bull could sit at one of the little cafe tables without invading other people's space. Still, Cullen is careful not to move his foot: pulling it away would imply he's noticed the contact, and he doesn't want anyone else to suspect how much he's noticing it.

The muscles in his calf are burning by the time they finish eating, strained from holding the same tense position for too long, and he stumbles as he gets up. Bull's hand under his elbow startles him, and he jerks away before he can think, only wanting to get away from the shock it gives him.

"Sorry," Bull says, holding up both hands in surrender. He sounds sincere, too, which just makes Cullen blink at him.

"Don't...don't worry about it. You just surprised me." It's not like grabbing someone's arm is a big deal, especially not when that person is doing a good impression of a clumsy idiot.

Bull doesn't touch him again, not even in passing. He guides them out of the cafe with a hand on Dorian's back, but he doesn't make even a motion toward Cullen, letting him trail behind as they walk back to the apartment.

Which makes Cullen feel even stupider. What the hell is wrong with him today? He's not a touchy-feely person, but it's never bothered him before if other people touch his arm or his shoulder in passing. Even if it had once, he's been friends with Dorian for years, and Dorian touches people constantly. Come to think of it, maybe Cullen understands now where the habit came from, but none of that explains why he's so jumpy about it today.

Maybe he's just tired. It has been a long week, between packing and driving and unpacking, and anyone would be worn out at this point. Maybe tomorrow he'll be back to normal, and someday, he can tell Dorian and Bull about this and they'll all laugh.

Chapter Text

A little to Cullen's surprise, he actually does feel better the next morning. That Bull isn't around anymore doesn't have anything to do with it, he tells himself. And it better not, since he'll be seeing Bull pretty regularly for the next year or so. After moving over the summer, Bull only lives a couple miles away, and they've already got plans for dinner in a couple days.

Well, Dorian and Bull have plans, but Dorian just seemed to take it as read that Cullen would join them, and Cullen couldn't think fast enough to protest when it wouldn't have been rude, so now he's stuck.

Or not stuck, because everything will be fine. No weirdness at all. None.

He keeps telling himself that, even when he gets home that afternoon to find Bull playing Halo with Dorian. As soon as he opens the door he can hear them talking shit to each other about whatever's happening on screen, and he pauses with his hand on the knob, letting his head fall forward to thunk gently against the doorjamb.

Get your shit together, he tells himself. You can't avoid the guy forever.

The problem, of course, is that avoiding isn't what he wants to do, and that's so confusing he gives up thinking about it and just closes the door.

Bull is stretched out on the couch, propped up on one elbow, while Dorian sits cross-legged on the floor in front of him. Neither of them looks away from the TV when Cullen comes in, though there's something about the way Bull's weight shifts that makes Cullen think he's noticed. Cullen's gaze is pulled toward Bull's shoulder, which is straining the fabric of a plain white t-shirt, and he makes himself look at the screen instead.

"You're playing in co-op mode?" Cullen asks, because it's the first thing that comes into his head, and he feels even more awkward than usual just standing here staring at the TV while pretending he doesn't want to stare at Bull.

Dorian jumps about a foot in the air, but Bull just leans against the back of the couch to look up at him. "We always play co-op," Bull says.

"Yeah, because you won't do PVP," Dorian mutters. He cranes his head around to look at Cullen and rolls his eyes dramatically.

Bull reaches down to pat him on the head patronizingly. "Because the last thing you and I need to do is play PVP." He looks back at Cullen and adds by way of explanation, "We're both too fucking competitive, and the one time we did PVP, we didn't talk to each other for a week."

"It wasn't a week," Dorian protests. "It was what? Three days?"

Cullen tries to imagine not talking to his siblings for three days--over a game--and his brain hurts.

"Five days," Bull says. "And another three where the only things we said were, 'Pass the salt.'"

"You're both insane," Cullen says, amazement winning over the discomfort that's plagued him for the last two days.

"You're one to talk, Rutherford," Dorian says, settling himself back against the couch. "Who was it who stayed up all night to beat all four games on Legendary in twenty-four hours?"

"You," Cullen answers instantly.

"But only after you did it," Dorian says.

Bull laughs and musses Dorian's hair, getting his hand swatted for his trouble. "And you wonder why I call you competitive." He looks back over his shoulder at Cullen and raises his eyebrow. "Did you actually get it in less than twenty-four hours?"

"He did," Dorian answers before Cullen can. "Of course, he had to mainline Red Bull to get through his classes the next day, but greatness does require sacrifice."

With a start, Cullen realizes he's now resting his hands on the back of the couch, close enough to touch Bull if he wanted to. Which he doesn't. Much.

"Did you want to play?" Bull asks, offering the controller to Cullen, who holds up his hands and shakes his head.

"He won't play with me," Dorian says. He drops his head back against the seat of the couch so he can glare at Cullen upside down.

"No," Cullen corrects. "I won't play against you, but since you won't play co-op, that doesn't leave me a lot of choices."

"You're a competitive little shit," Bull informs Dorian, who just grins unrepentantly.

"Look who's talking," Dorian says. "I learned from the master." His lip curls, his smile turning sour before he straightens and Cullen can't see his face anymore. "Masters."

Bull's hand drops to Dorian's shoulder rather than his head this time, squeezing hard. "Fuck 'em, right?"

"Fuck 'em," Dorian says, but his tone is still bitter. "They'll just have to console themselves with having only one perfect son, rather than two."

That gets him a flick on the back of the ear. "Cut it out. You know better than to let them get to you."

Dorian shakes himself all over, like a dog coming in out of the rain. "I know." He looks back over his shoulder at Cullen and explains, "They called a couple hours ago. Fun times."

Cullen's kind of glad he missed that, though he's also glad Bull was here to keep Dorian from breaking things or dropping into a funk that could last for days. If Dorian is already playing Halo and making jokes after only a few hours, then either the conversation wasn't too bad, or having Bull here helps.

After six years of friendship, Cullen knows which one it is, and it's worth a little discomfort to know that Dorian's got someone else nearby to help him.

So he needs to be an adult about this, and get over whatever weirdness hits him the second Bull shows up. Because he's going to be seeing a lot of Bull, and he'd better get used to it now.

Bull is taking up the entire couch, so Cullen slouches in a chair and props his feet on the coffee table while Bull and Dorian resume their game. Unlike Dorian, Cullen can actually enjoy watching other people play without vibrating in his seat with the need to snatch the controller away and do it "right."

"Did you want to play?" Bull asks, after a while. He's not looking at Cullen, his eye fixed on the TV, and Cullen takes the opportunity to look without being observed in turn.

He really doesn't look much like Dorian, aside from the brown skin and the dark hair. At least, Cullen assumes his hair would be dark, if it wasn't all shaved off; the scruff on his face that's halfway between stubble and a real beard is dark enough. And since when are lawyers allowed to look like that? It's unprofessional, and inappropriate, and...and...and not hot. Not at all.

"Cullen?" Bull asks, and this time he does glance over.

Cullen snaps his attention down to the controller in Bull's hands. "Uhh, sure." He doesn't, actually, but he can't think very fast right now, and it's the first answer that falls out of his mouth. He adds hastily, "But only on co-op mode."

Dorian sulks in exaggerated disappointment, but Bull and Cullen ignore him. Bull from a lot of practice, presumably, and Cullen because he's just realized the problem with agreeing to play: the only good place to sit, other than the couch, is beside Dorian, which would have him practically leaning back against Bull.

He tries not to drag his feet as he crosses the room, but he's not so distracted by his own thoughts that he doesn't notice how Bull hands off the controller to him: carefully, holding as little of it as possible, so Cullen can take it without any chance of their hands brushing. And the controller is no sooner handed off than Bull is clambering to his feet and heading for the kitchen.

"You want anything?" he calls back to Cullen.

"I'm good," Cullen answers, settling himself beside Dorian. The controller is still warm from Bull's grip, and-

Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is wrong with him today? If Bull were a woman, Cullen would know what the problem is, but he's never been attracted to a guy before, not even once. All his crushes in elementary school were on girls, and the only people who made him walk into doors in high school were girls. He has no memory of ever wanting to kiss another guy, much less get naked with one.

The random thoughts that jump through his head when jerking off hardly count. Hell, sometimes he thinks about whether he remembered to lock the front door. There's no predicting what his brain will throw at him in those last seconds before orgasm, and every thought that's lasted longer than half a second has featured women. Prominently.

Well, whatever the problem is, he needs to get the fuck over it. Cullen shakes himself, a milder version of what Dorian did earlier, and unpauses the game.

It's not a perfect distraction, but they're playing on Legendary, and with just the two of them, it does need a fair amount of concentration. Not so much that he doesn't notice Bull returning, and that when he does, he sits in the chair Cullen vacated, well clear of Cullen's presumed personal space. Which makes Cullen feel more awkward rather than less, and like a bit of a dick for his reaction yesterday, however involuntary.

"Fuck!" Dorian growls, and Cullen brings his full attention back to the game before they both get shot.

###

Cullen gets through the next few days by finding excuses to stay out of the apartment, or to hide in his room when that isn't an option. Less than a week into the semester, studying is kind of a weak excuse, but Dorian doesn't do anything more than roll his eyes when Cullen retreats to his room with only a mumbled, "Hello, goodbye" on his way past. Of course, hiding in his room is only a slight improvement, since he can still hear Bull's voice from the living room, even if he can't make out the words.

Actually, not being able to make out the words is worse, because his brain can fill in all kinds of things instead. He spends a lot of time with his headphones in.

By the time he gets home on the night they're supposed to go to dinner, he's wound up so tight he feels ill. He considers using that as an excuse, but he's never much cared for lying. Which is just as well, because he's also never had a talent for it, and getting caught in that particular lie would be worse than just going to the fucking dinner.

He's wandering around his room trying to psych himself up when Dorian calls. There's an extended rant that Cullen only half follows but which seems to boil down to, "I'm thirty minutes away because of my stupid professor, and Bull will be there in five minutes, be nice until I get there."

What can he say to that except, "okay"?

Bull knocks on the door three minutes later, a solid rat-a-tat-tat Cullen can hear even in his bedroom, and he has a moment of real panic. What the fuck is he supposed to say? He has enough trouble talking to Bull with Dorian there to run interference, and thirty whole minutes is going to be fucking agony. Is it too late to pretend he's not home?

Yeah, probably. And in the unlikely event that Dorian didn't kill him for it, imagining his mother's disapproval of such rudeness is enough to send him to the front door, even if he drags his feet the whole way.

He gets a reasonable approximation of a smile on his face before he opens the door, and manages to hold it even as his heart starts to hammer at the sight of Bull filling the doorway. "Come on in," he says, grateful his voice doesn't break in the middle.

Despite the narrow hallway, Bull slides by without making contact. "How's the semester going?" he asks as Cullen follows him into the living room.

"Okay so far," Cullen says. He knows he should ask something back, that it's his turn to keep the conversation going, but he's drawing a blank.

An uncomfortable silence falls, and Cullen knows Bull feels it, too. He's shifting his weight, eyes skimming around the apartment without meeting Cullen's, hands jammed in his pockets.

"Dorian's getting ready?" Bull asks the sofa.

"He's not home yet," Cullen says, startled. "Sorry, I thought he'd've called you."

For the first time since coming in the door, Bull looks directly at him. "He's not home?"

"He should be here soon," Cullen says. "Maybe another twenty minutes. You want something to drink while we wait?"

Bull hesitates, and Cullen swears he's about to make some excuse and bolt, but then his shoulders roll once, and he says, "Just a glass of water."

It may be the slowest Cullen's ever filled a cup, each ice cube individually chosen from the tray and the water added at a speed that's only marginally faster than the rate at which the ice cubes are melting. That kills maybe two minutes, then he kills another two filling a cup for himself, and then there's nothing to do but sit in the living room and try to make small talk.

At least the time in the kitchen let him collect his thoughts a little. "So you're a lawyer," he says. It's not the wittiest opening line ever, but it's better than silence.

"Yup," Bull says. He looks as relaxed as ever, as if that moment where Cullen thought he was going to run never happened. "I'm still trying to convince Dorian to switch to pre-law, because I think he'd be perfect."

"Well, he does like to argue," Cullen says, and mentally pats himself on the back when Bull laughs. See, this isn't so hard. "Do you have to spend a lot of time in court?"

Bull laughs again. "No, thank god. If I'm in court, then something's seriously fucked."

"Oh." And shit, now he's stuck again, even though this shouldn't be so hard. He's not exactly a people person, but he usually does all right. Why his brain insists on sticking whenever Bull's nearby, Cullen doesn't know.

Just before the silence grows uncomfortable, inspiration strikes. "What kind of law do you practice?"

"The boring kind," Bull says dryly. "Or so Dorian will tell you." There's a pause, and Cullen is afraid for a second that he's going to have to think of something else to say, but then Bull goes on. "I do estates and trusts mainly."

"That sounds interesting," Cullen says. He even manages not to hesitate before the last word.

"No, it doesn't," Bull says with a grin.

Cullen laughs, a little embarrassed. "Okay, no, it doesn't. But you like it?"

"I do. And I'm good at it, and it pays well. So what's not to like?" He scrubs a hand over his shaved scalp and rolls his eye. "Well, I like it most of the time."

"Most of the time?" Cullen asks. Then, feeling greatly daring, he hazards, "Not so much today?"

"Not so much today," Bull agrees. "Some families, as soon as there's money on the table, everybody loses their fucking minds. Grandma's estate becomes an excuse to drag out every fight and insult from twenty years ago."

"And you had one of those today?" Cullen asks. He's starting to relax, falling into the conversation without the mad scrambling in the back of his head to think of something.

"Two," Bull says with a grimace. "But hey, I've had lots of practice at dealing with family drama, so, you know. What the hell. At least I get paid by the hour when it's someone else's family. Unlike my own."

Cullen mirrors his grimace. "Your parents are...ummm...interesting people."

"Fucking nutjobs, you mean," Bull says.

"I haven't met them," Cullen says, because it's the only thing he can think of that's both honest and polite.

"Count your blessings," Bull says. "I keep trying to convince Dorian we should go anywhere but home for Christmas, but so far, he's not buying it."

"Yeah, well..." Cullen shrugs. "He's not so good at knowing when to quit."

"That's for sure," Bull mutters. He takes a drink, and Cullen tries not to stare at his throat as he swallows.

Another uncomfortable silence falls, and Cullen knows they're both thinking the same thing: Dorian keeps hoping, if he just tries hard enough, that he can be good enough at everything else to outweigh the terrible sin of being gay. Cullen doesn't need to meet the Pavuses to know how unlikely that is. All Dorian's academic achievements to date haven't made an impact, and if completing most of a master's program by twenty-one doesn't do it, Cullen doesn't think anything will.

"But hey," Cullen says, "at least he's got you. He really looks up to you, you know." It sounds stupid, but the silence is getting too heavy.

"Fuck if I know why," Bull says with a smile. "Never really thought of myself as a role model."

"You did...you know, when he told them he was gay," Cullen says, and is he actually getting stupider by the minute, or does he just feel that way?

Bull gives him a surprised look. "What, told them I was bi? Dorian told you about that?"

"That they were going to kick him out, he said, and you said..." Wait, is he really going to quote Bull to Bull? He absolutely is getting stupider. "Well, you know."

"That if he went, I did? Don't know that that makes me a role model. I'd been chickenshit for years about telling them I was bi, letting it slide by just to keep things easy. Maybe if I'd said something sooner, it wouldn't've got to that point with Dorian, where they felt like it was okay to kick him out."

"Still," Cullen says, "you did it when it mattered. I know it means a lot to him."

"Taking care of him is what I'm supposed to do." Bull shakes his glass gently, rattling the ice cubes around as he stares at them. "He's my baby brother."

"Oh god, don't let him hear you call him that," Cullen says, starting to grin. "He'll bust something."

"Why do you think I do it?" Bull says with an answering grin. "That's been a button since he was five."

"You're what? Ten years older?" Cullen asks.

"Eleven," Bull says. "So yeah, that's where it started, because he was always following me around, and I was sixteen. I didn't want this baby in my space all the time."

Cullen can't help but do the math: if Bull is eleven years older than Dorian, that makes him eight years older than Cullen...

And why the fuck does that matter? He's flushing, and he doesn't even know why, and he really needs to keep this conversation moving so Bull doesn't notice. "So you get to pick on him, even if nobody else does?"

"Of course!" Bull says, pretending to be indignant. "You got any brothers or sisters?"

"Two sisters and a brother," Cullen says.

"And you never pick on them?" Bull asks, smiling.

"All the time," Cullen says, smiling back. "Especially the younger ones."

"Can't let them think they're in charge," Bull agrees. "It'd be chaos."

Behind them, the door bangs open and Dorian comes through it like a miniature hurricane. "Sorry I'm late!" he says, slinging his bag onto the kitchen table.

There's something odd about his tone, and Cullen squints at him, trying to figure out what it is. Dorian won't meet his eyes, and that only makes Cullen more suspicious, but before he can ask, Dorian says, "Ready to go?"

About to say yes, Cullen looks down at his feet and realizes he's short one thing. "Let me grab my shoes," he says.

Dorian snaps his fingers impatiently, but he's smiling. "Hop to it, Rutherford. We have reservations!"

"I have a lot of reservations about this." The pun is more for form's sake than anything, called over his shoulder as he heads for his bedroom.

His shoes are right where he left them, and it takes less than thirty seconds to cram his feet into them. At his bedroom door, though, he pauses, startled by the intense whispering from the living room. Bull sounds pissed, even if Cullen can't hear his words, like he's chewing Dorian out about something.

"...shitty thing to do to a friend," he hears Bull say, his voice rising a little.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dorian says, in the aloof tone he uses when he knows exactly what the other person is talking about but will die before he admits it.

 "Don't do it again," Bull says, and it sounds like a threat.

Cullen goes back into his bedroom as quietly as he can, then calls, "If this is the kind of place that needs reservations, am I okay in jeans?"

"You're beautiful just the way you are!" Dorian replies in a saccharine voice, and Cullen snorts.

Back in the living room, there's no sign Bull and Dorian were ever arguing, both of them looking expectantly in his direction. It's a little intimidating, actually. "I'm ready," he says unnecessarily, just to cover the awkwardness.

"Wonderful!" Dorian says, rubbing his hands together. "After you."

Down in the parking garage, Dorian starts to climb into the backseat and leave Cullen shotgun, but Bull gives him a single hard look and he changes direction. Whatever that's about, Cullen doesn't know and doesn't ask. He's had all the awkward he can take for one afternoon.

Chapter Text

Cullen doesn't see Bull for a little while after that, which is actually worse, because it doesn't make him any less aware of Bull, but it does make him aware that he's keeping one of Dorian's favorite people away from their shared apartment. So now he feels like shit, on top of the complete confusion over his feelings toward Bull.

After two weeks of it, Cullen reaches the end of his patience with himself. He and Dorian are stretched out in the living room playing Halo, and working their way through the three pizzas Dorian insisted on ordering when they couldn't agree on one. He should be studying--they should both be studying--but it's Friday night and he's got all weekend. Well, most of the weekend, since he does have to work.

Dorian's phone buzzes as Cullen's handing off the controller, and Cullen glances at it without really thinking. Bull's face grins up at him, and he gets a weird jolt from throat to groin as he reads the text: Want to get some dinner?

Dorian swipes the phone off the coffee table and thumbs the screen on, typing out a reply Cullen can't read but can guess.

"He could come over," Cullen blurts out, because he hates the way Dorian is looking at his phone, almost forlorn.

"Huh?" Dorian says, blinking up at him. "No, it's fine, don't worry about it. I'll get dinner with him tomorrow."

"No, really," Cullen says more firmly. "I mean, look at all this pizza. We're gonna be eating leftovers for days, somebody else might as well help."

He's getting a wary look, like Dorian's waiting for the trap. "Are you sure?"

That look is what clinches it, because as little as Cullen likes to see Dorian upset, he hates getting the look Dorian usually reserves for his parents. "Yeah, of course. I mean, assuming he doesn't mind pizza."

Dorian studies him a little longer, then shrugs one shoulder and goes back to his phone. Instead of texting, though, he calls, and Cullen feels awkward all over again. He can't not listen to Dorian's half of the call, not when they're sitting two feet apart, but that means he also can't escape the low rumble of Bull's voice, too quiet to make out words but plenty loud enough to hum in his ear.

It's hard to ignore, but he is trying, right up until Dorian startles him by thrusting the phone under his nose.

"He wants to talk to you," Dorian says.

"What?" Cullen asks, blinking at the phone and then at Dorian.

"He wants to talk to you," Dorian repeats patiently.

"Why?" Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic, he tells himself, beginning to panic anyway.

Dorian rolls his eyes. "You could take the phone and ask him."

For a second, Cullen considers a strategic retreat to his bedroom. Except then Bull won't come over, Dorian will continue to mope, and Cullen will feel like an even bigger asshole.

He takes the phone.

"Hi?" he says, then winces. He would really have been a lot happier if that hadn't sounded like a question.

"Hi," Bull says, and Cullen is glad he's looking down at his lap, hiding his face from Dorian, because...

Because he's probably making some stupid face. That's all. Nothing more to it than that.

"Dorian said you wanted to talk to me?" Cullen asks.

"Is he still sitting there?" Bull asks.

Cullen blinks at Dorian, because where else would he be, but before Cullen can say anything, Dorian huffs out a long-suffering sigh, then climbs to his feet and heads for the kitchen, giving Cullen at least a little privacy.

"Not anymore," Cullen says. There's a pause while Cullen tries to think of something intelligent to say and comes up blank. "So...uhhh...you wanted to talk to me?"

"Yeah," Bull says, drawing the word out like he's thinking hard about something. Cullen's heart is beating too fast, for no reason he can identify. Eventually, Bull says, "Look, I'm gonna be blunt, okay?"

"Okay?" Cullen says, even as he winces again. He really needs to stop letting everything he says turn into a question.

"Okay," Bull says. "You seem uncomfortable around me. You don't owe me an explanation or anything, but I'm not invading your space just because Dorian says that you said it was fine. You don't even need to answer me, I just wanted to tell you that it's fine, that I'm not pissed at you or anything. It's your apartment, and your space, and you don't have to put up with having people in it who make you uncomfortable. Don't let Dorian push you around on this stuff, just because he's a charismatic little shit who's too used to getting his own way."

There's a smile in Bull's voice at the end, and Cullen can't help the answering smile he feels spreading over his own face. Bull sounds sincere, not like this is some passive-aggressive guilt-trip designed to manipulate him into doing what Bull wants.

"So I just wanted to let you know that," Bull says. "Everything's good between us from my side, and I'll get Dorian to leave you alone about-"

"It's fine," Cullen says, and thank Christ he actually gets it to come out as something other than a question. "Really. He didn't ask, I offered."

Bull's quiet a while before he says, "I meant what I said. You don't owe me, or anybody, an explanation for anything. Even if you don't know why I make you uncomfortable, you don't have to justify it."

"I'm not good with new people," Cullen blurts out. "And then...well, I felt like kind of an idiot, you catching those boxes, and then I couldn't stop tripping over my own damn feet."

All of which is true, and as an added bonus, it skips right over Cullen's unexpected attraction to Bull. Fuck, he's only on the phone right now, and Cullen still feels like everything has narrowed down to Bull's voice in his ear.

Which is when he realizes that at some point along the way, he shut his eyes. Shit.

He forces his eyes open, pathetically grateful that Dorian is banished to the kitchen, and says, "So it was just that. I felt stupid, and then you were uncomfortable, and I thought I was making you uncomfortable."

Bull makes a thoughtful noise, then says, "You sure? Because I'm serious. You're not going to hurt my feelings, and I know all about how important it is to have your space be someplace you're comfortable."

Well, Cullen is definitely uncomfortable right now, and getting more so the longer this conversation lasts. "It's fine," he says firmly, because even if it isn't right now, he'll make it be fine.

###

 For the first thirty minutes after Bull arrives, Cullen thinks he's made the world's biggest mistake. He's practically vibrating, so nervous he can't hold still or concentrate on anything. Anything except Bull. Because he might be getting his ass kicked by the game, but he knows exactly where Bull is at any given moment.

It comes to a head when Dorian says, "For fuck's sake, Rutherford, if you're going to play the game, sit over here where you can actually see the TV."

"Dorian," Bull says warningly, but Cullen is suddenly sick of the whole thing. If he's going to do this, he's going to do it.

Before Bull can chew Dorian out, Cullen scoots across the living room floor to prop himself up against the sofa. Bull's leg is right by his shoulder, so close Cullen would only have to lean a few inches sideways to rest against it, and he would swear he can feel the heat radiating off it.

Get it together, Rutherford, he orders himself, because Bull will notice his discomfort if he doesn't get it under wraps soon.

So he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, the way he used to do before a game in high school. Then he pours all his focus into playing Halo, the same way he did when playing football. Everything else is a distraction, and irrelevant.

A little to his surprise, it actually works. By the time they've decimated both the pizzas and the Covenant, Bull's presence has retreated to a background hum: still there, but no longer overwhelming. After a particularly hard fight, Cullen flops back against the sofa, his shoulder coming to rest against Bull's shin, and it's several long seconds before it occurs to him to pull away. He even manages to shift without making a production out of it, casually sliding sideways a couple inches without jerking away like he's been burned.

By the time Bull leaves, Cullen is patting himself on the back for being a grown-up about the whole thing. He's actually looking forward to next Friday, and a replay on the evening, and by Bull's relaxed grin, Cullen's not acting like a weirdo anymore.

He flops out in bed after they've cleaned up the apartment, his body still buzzing with too much energy, and he's not really surprised to find his dick getting hard. He's also not really complaining; all that energy has to go somewhere, and there are plenty of worse ways to spend time than jerking off.

When he curls his fingers around his dick, he's hit with a confusing jumble of thoughts, including Bull's voice rumbling in his ear and Bull's leg resting against his shoulder. Cullen takes the whole messy lot and kicks it mentally to one side, focusing instead on nothing more than the feel of his hand.

He's not going to make this weird again. He's not.

###

The next morning, he lets Dorian drag him off to the library to study. Well, for Cullen to study and Dorian to work, but that's all right: they've been doing this for years by now. Cullen will grab a space big enough for both of them, and Dorian will drift in and out as traffic and the spirit move him. Since he usually manages to show up right as Cullen is ready to tear his hair out over whatever bit of literary analysis he's supposed to be working on today, it works out pretty well.

Today is no different: Dorian working, and Cullen bent over a book struggling his way through a poem that's supposed to be deep and meaningful but somehow just makes him itch to break out a red pen and start putting the punctuation in the right spots.

"It's just a poem about skunks," he complains to Dorian, who grins at him.

"Well, it's about that, too," Dorian says, propping his ass on the edge of the table to look over Cullen's shoulder.

"I mean, why would anyone write a poem about skunks?" His voice rises a little too far, and he gets an evil look from the girl sitting at the next table. "Sorry," he mutters in her direction, but she's not looking at him anymore, and repeating himself louder seems a little passive-aggressive.

"Don't forget the worms," Dorian says, not even trying to hide his grin. "There's a worm farm, too."

"Skunks," Cullen mutters, ignoring him in favor of glaring at the page in front of him.

"What about skunks?" someone asks from over his other shoulder, and Cullen jumps.

Bull.

Of course.

The skin at the back of Cullen's neck tingles, and he rubs at it as he looks up and smiles politely. Caught off guard like this, it's hard to ignore the way his heart rate picks up, or the way his eyes want to linger on Bull, once again drawn to the way his t-shirt pulls tight across his shoulders. He really should buy shirts that fit him better, Cullen thinks in some annoyance.

"It's a poem," Dorian says after a pause that Cullen realizes, too late, he was supposed to fill. "And Cullen has opinions about poetry."

"Don't like it much?" Bull asks sympathetically, stepping close enough to look over Cullen's shoulder. "Or do you just not like poets who don't use proper punctuation?"

It's hard to tell from Bull's tone whether he agree, so Cullen just shrugs. "It's hard to read, that's all. I mean, it's like he just threw words at the page, and now he's standing back laughing while we all look for shit that isn't really there."

"That'd be pretty funny," Bull says. "Best prank in the whole fucking world, huh?"

"Exactly!" Cullen says. "I mean, that's the whole reason we have punctuation, right? To make communication easier! So why go and take it all out?"

"You could add it back," Bull says, a gleam in his eye as he reaches for Cullen's pen. "It'd be a public service, right?"

Cullen grins triumphantly at Dorian. "See? It's not just me."

"It's not," Dorian agrees, slapping Bull's hand away from the pen. "You heathens have a lot of company. Uncultured barbarians, the lot of you." He's grinning back, though, and the kick he directs at Cullen's shin is half-assed at best.

Bull aims an equally half-assed swat at the back of Dorian's head as he asks Cullen, "What are you reading, anyway?"

"It's a poem about a skunk farm," Cullen says, before Dorian can wax eloquent on symbolism and the existential futility of it all.

"Soooo," Bull says, the corners of his mouth tucking in. "You're saying it stinks?"

Cullen snorts out a laugh as Dorian groans and covers his eyes. "That's horrible."

"Yeah," Bull says smugly.

"Did you need something?" Dorian asks. The kick he gives Bull's shins is definitely not half-assed this time. "Or did you just invade my library to make horrible puns?"

"Are you saying my puns stink?"

Cullen tries and fails to contain another snort as Dorian levels a look at Bull that should come with a caption of We Are Not Amused. "I'm ignoring your puns, in fact," Dorian says primly. "And just for that, I won't help you find whatever you're here to find."

"Fortunately for me," Bull says, shoving Dorian hard enough that he loses his balance and his perch on the table, "I know how to look shit up myself."

"Fortunately for you," Dorian agrees. He looks past Cullen's head and sighs. "Duty calls. I'll be back, try not to desecrate any library books in my absence."

"We'll try," Bull assures him, and Dorian snorts.

With Dorian gone back to the reference desk, Cullen more than half expects Bull to wander off. Instead, to his combined dismay and delight, Bull pulls up a chair, props his elbows on the table, and leans over to continue reading over Cullen's shoulder. "It is kind of fucked up," Bull agrees after a moment.

"Best prank in the world," Cullen mutters. "You've got that right."

"So why take the class if you hate it?" Bull asks. He sounds honestly curious.

"I don't hate all poetry," Cullen says. "Just...poetry like this. Word vomit pretending to be poetry."

Bull grins. "That's one way to put it, I guess." He glances down at the page again and shakes his head before looking back up at Cullen. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess you're not working on a degree in literature?"

"Nope," Cullen agrees, kind of hoping Bull won't ask the obvious next question.

"What are you working on?" Bull asks, dashing that hope before it can even fully form.

Dodging won't do anything except prolong the agony, though Cullen has learned to hate that particular question. Or rather, he's learned to hate the weird reaction so many people have to the answer. "My undergrad degree was in history," he says, "but now I'm working on a master's in teaching."

"What grade level do you want to teach?" Bull asks.

Most people get around to that eventually, but almost none of them start there, so it takes Cullen a second to catch up with the conversation. A ridiculous number of people start by asking him if he knows that teachers don't make a lot of money. As if that's the only reason to do anything. "High school," he says. Then, before Bull can respond, he adds, "American history."

"And they're making you read poetry?" Bull asks.

"It's an elective," Cullen says with a sigh. "I thought...a lot of literature is about history, right? And if I want to teach history, then I should know what else was going on at the same time, what was influencing the way people thought, or how they were reacting to what was going on around them."

He pauses, but Bull is nodding as if he's actually interested, so Cullen presses on, getting more excited as he goes. "There's so much overlap between history and literature, too. Especially when you think about how biased most history text books are."

"History is written by the winner," Bull says with a smile.

"Exactly!" Cullen says, too loud, and gets another dirty look from the girl at the next table. He smiles apologetically at her and lowers his voice. "What's in the history books we've got today is so heavily influenced by what was in those history books last year, and the year before that, and the year before that, and...and..." He flails for a second, waving one hand in Bull's direction. "If the winners write the history books, then you can't trust everything that's in them, because the stories are...are slanted, to make the winners look good. That's just the way people are, right?"

"Don't I know it," Bull mutters. When Cullen looks at him quizzically, he says, "Attorney, remember? An attorney who handles people's estates. Do you know how many times a week I hear, 'But Grandma would have wanted me to have it'? And always with some story about how the person saying it deserves Grandma's house or car or diamond ring, or whatever it is they're all fighting about. People are really fucking good at spinning stories when it will get them what they want. And ninety percent of the time, they're lying to themselves as much as they're lying to me."

"Exactly!" Cullen says again, though at least he manages to keep his voice down this time. "Sometimes they lie on purpose, but most of the time it's just because they have to believe whatever makes them feel like they're not a bad person."

"Which are usually the hardest lies to see," Bull says.

Cullen nods vigorously, leaning toward Bull without thinking. "And that's when they're lying to your face, right? Now pass it on to someone else, and have them write it down, and then have that written account summarized by someone else, twenty years after the fact..." He shrugs. "If I don't know what else was happening in the world, I don't have a hope in hell of telling the self-serving bullshit from the truth."

"Context," Bull murmurs. He's leaning forward, too, Cullen realizes, but for once that hyper-awareness of Bull is muted, buried under his enthusiasm for a topic that turns most people glassy-eyed. "If you don't know the context, it doesn't make sense."

"Or it makes the wrong kind of sense," Cullen says.

Someone clears their throat at his elbow, an embarrassed sort of cough, and Cullen turns to find Dorian, with the girl from the other table standing behind him. Dorian looks somewhere between amused and annoyed, while the girl just looks flat out annoyed.

"I'm going to have to ask you gentlemen to keep it down," Dorian says, a flick of his eyes indicating the girl. "Or maybe you'd like to move to one of the study rooms?"

"Sorry," Cullen mutters. "We'll be quiet."

"You know what?" Bull says. "Let's just move. Everybody'll be happier that way."

Cullen can't think of a polite way to decline anything that involves being shut in a small room with Bull, so he just gathers up his books and follows reluctantly. He's back to being aware of Bull: his skin prickles when Bull's arm brushes against his, and again when Bull steps close to allow someone else to pass them. It's like there's a force-field around him, pressing against Cullen even when Bull is a foot away.

With only two people, they really should take one of the smallest study rooms, but Dorian leads them to one of the larger ones and ushers them in with a smirk. Cullen would kiss him in gratitude, except that it would be awkward for all involved.

After a moment's consideration, Cullen takes a seat at the short end of the table, leaving no space for Bull to sit beside him. If Bull even notices, he gives no sign, just takes the seat across the corner and stretches his legs out to the side.

"I admit," Dorian drawls as he braces his hands on the back of Cullen's chair, "I was surprised when someone complained to me that the two of you were disruptively loud." He pokes Cullen in the shoulder blade with one finger. "You're not exactly passionate about poetry."

"I like lots of poetry," Cullen says. "Just not this. It doesn't make sense."

"Give me the book," Dorian says, one hand appearing in Cullen's peripheral vision.

"Why?" Cullen asks warily.

Dorian sighs. "Just give me the book, Rutherford. I promise it won't hurt you, and it might even help your grade."

Still wary, Cullen passes him the book, turning halfway around in his chair so he can keep an eye on Dorian.

For his part, Dorian is skimming through the book, flipping pages rapidly as if he's looking for something. Without lifting his eyes, he says teasingly, "I should have known what you'd be talking about, as soon as I realized who was being so disruptive. If you had half as much passion for poetry as you have for that particular rant, your professor would swoon."

Cullen smiles. Dorian is allowed to tease him about this, because Dorian is one of the few people who doesn't shut him down when the subject comes up. If anything, Dorian will give him all the necessary straight lines to let him keep right on going.

But there's a set response to Dorian's accusation, so Cullen forces his smile into a glare and says, "I don't rant."

The noise Dorian makes is deeply skeptical. Before Cullen can respond, Dorian makes another noise, this time triumphant, and finally looks up. "All right," he says, staring hard at Cullen. "I want you to listen. Just listen."

"You're going to read one out loud, right?" Cullen asks. "Somebody already did that in class, and it didn't help."

"But they couldn't possibly be as good as I am," Dorian says.

Bull snorts, and Cullen decides that about covers his opinion, too.

Dorian ignores the sound, his gaze intent on Cullen. "I'm going to read one aloud, as you surmised, but I want you to stop analyzing the individual pieces. That they don't make full sentences doesn't matter. This is poetry you feel, not poetry you think about."

"Says the guy who reads this stuff for fun," Cullen mutters in an aside to Bull. A glance from the corner of his eye shows Bull grinning at him, until Dorian flicks Cullen in the forehead to reclaim his attention.

"Think of this as the poetic version of Pointillism," Dorian says. "You don't look at a painting in that style from three inches away. You look at it as a whole, letting the dots create a picture without focusing on any one."

Cullen doesn't bother to mention that he's never been all that fond of Pointillism, either. "Pointillism. Emotions. No thinking. Got it."

The corner of Dorian's mouth twitches before he forces it down into an exaggerated frown. "Pay attention, Rutherford. Your grade needs all the help it can get."

Which in this class is unfortunately true. Cullen puts on an attentive face, as exaggerated as Dorian's frown, and turns fully around in his chair so he can prop his elbows on the back. Chin on his hands, he stares raptly at Dorian, like a five-year-old ready for story time.

Dorian is obviously contemplating another flick to the forehead, but after a second, he raises the book and begins to read.

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

The last line surprises Cullen into a smile, the words helped along by the way Dorian reads them, his tone a little irritated and a lot dismissive. Glancing up in the pause between stanzas, Dorian catches his smile and raises his eyebrows in a clear "I told you so" before he returns his attention to the page.

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
for even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

This time when Dorian glances up, Cullen tilts his head in a silent message of his own, acknowledging the link between the poem and his earlier conversation with Bull. His rant, as Dorian teasingly calls it, even though Dorian will usually rant about it right along with him. A version of that joint rant was their first real conversation, a mutual bitch session after a lecture from a particularly pompous history professor who docked points from any paper that didn't agree whole-heartedly with the text book.

Dorian is smiling now as he looks down at the book again.

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

Okay, now Cullen's a little lost again, his brain trying to pick the words apart and assemble them into full and complete sentences that make logical sense. If this is poetic Pointillism and he's supposed to appreciate the emotion rather than the grammar, then he still doesn't understand what he's supposed to be feeling.

Except that he wants to look at Bull, and the feeling gets stronger as he replays the words in his head. It's almost a compulsion, like something in the poem is trying to physically turn his head around, but he manages to resist, even if he can't quite stop himself from blushing a little.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Dorian hands back the book, still open to the poem he just read, and Cullen is glad for the distraction. "Was that so bad?" Dorian asks.

"The last stanza doesn't make sense," Cullen mutters. He's not looking at Bull. He has no desire to look at Bull. There's no reason for him to look at Bull.

"All right," Dorian says with a shrug, "I'll admit it does change direction at the end. That said, you seemed to appreciate two-thirds of it just fine."

Denying that would be childish, not to mention a lie so obvious he might as well not bother. "Okay," Cullen says. Grudgingly, just to tweak Dorian. "But sixty-six percent is still a failing grade."

That gets him an eye roll, but Dorian is smiling. "Well, you'll just have to come up with sixty-six percent of more than one poem, won't you? In the meantime, I have a reference desk to man." He opens the door out of the study room, then turns back to add with a smirk, "Try not to disrupt anyone else. It would be embarrassing if I had to evict my roommate and my brother."

Bull chuckles, the first sound he's made since Dorian started reading. "Beat it, brat," he says. "We'll be good little library patrons."

"I doubt that," Dorian says, but fondly.

He's out the door before Cullen can come up with a response.

The room is unnaturally quiet with him gone, even the minimal noise from the rest of the library muffled by the walls. Cullen takes his time turning himself back around to face the table, setting the book down with unnecessary care and smoothing out the pages.

"He really is good at that," Cullen says eventually.

"Yeah," Bull says, and he sounds as fond as Dorian. "He can be a brat sometimes, but he's my brat."

Cullen snorts a laugh, and it breaks some of the tension. Enough that he can turn the page and say, "I guess I should take his advice, huh?"

"Can't hurt," Bull says. "You've got a whole book to choose from, something in there has to work, right?"

"If I'm lucky," Cullen mutters, but he bends his head back over the book.

Bull leans sideways to read over his shoulder for a second, then straightens abruptly. For a second, Cullen thinks it's more of Bull's so-careful consideration of his personal space, but Bull continues to his feet.

"I'm going to leave you to it," he says, clapping Cullen on the shoulder. "Didn't mean to get between you and studying, and I did want to pick up a couple things."

"It's not a problem," Cullen says, a little disappointed. He smiles tentatively. "Not a lot of people besides Dorian will let me babble at them about history."

Bull smiles back. "Maybe next time, then. Enjoy your poetry." And he laughs at the face Cullen makes in response.

When he's gone, Cullen returns to struggling his way through a poem about a Christmas tree. It's not horrible--at least it makes sense--but it sure doesn't seem like great art. Re-reading it doesn't change his impression in the least, so he sighs and looks at the facing page, hoping for better luck there.

The very first line makes him flush, but he can't stop reading, his eyes scanning down the page against his will as his skin burns hotter and hotter. He can't complain that this one makes no sense, because he can feel the emotion under the words in the pit of his stomach.

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

His embarrassment only intensifies as he realizes that this was the page closest to Bull. If Bull saw this in the few seconds he was leaned over the book with Cullen, if he was reading this while Cullen was reading about Christmas trees...

It would certainly explain that hasty retreat, though Bull hadn't looked even a little bit embarrassed. Cullen doesn't know whether that's better or worse, but he does know he doesn't want to think about it.

He turns several pages hastily, only to find himself staring at another, dirtier poem. A few more page turns, and he's staring at a third, even worse than the first two.

Which is the point where he slams the book closed. Time to study something else for a little while.

Chapter Text

Cullen tries not to think about that poem when Bull comes over for dinner a few days later. He spends so much effort not-thinking about it that he loses track of the conversation half a dozen times, until both Bull and Dorian are frowning at him in concern. Sitting on the floor beside Dorian, Bull on the couch behind them, Cullen can feel the weight of those frowns even when he can't see them.

"Are you okay?" Bull asks finally.

"Just worrying about a class," Cullen says, waving away his concern. It's sort of true, since he wouldn't have been reading that poem if not for a class.

Dorian looks away from the TV and the game long enough to frown at him. "If you still need help, you know all you need to do is ask."

"I didn't say I was worrying about anything real," Cullen says, forcing a smile. "I'm doing okay, I just worry I'm going to screw it up next time."

And oh, he hadn't meant for those words to have a double meaning, but do they ever. Thank god Bull is behind him, making it impossible for Cullen's eyes to jump to him without permission.

"Well, don't wait until you're failing to ask for help," Dorian says, turning back to the game.

"That was only once," Cullen protests. It had been early on, too, when they'd barely known each other. "And like you're all that good at asking for help."

Dorian grins unrepentantly. "I never said I was, but we're talking about you right now, Rutherford. Ask for help if you need it."

What Cullen needs help with right now is sitting on the couch behind them, knee so close Cullen would only have to lean a few inches to rest his shoulder against it. He has absolutely no intention of saying so to Dorian, though. "I'm not going to fail the class," he says instead, then deliberately runs his character forward to draw the attention of the next group of enemies, which effectively shuts down the conversation.

Dorian picked up a third controller at some point this week, so all three of them can play together. It's more fun than Cullen would have expected, especially with Bull there to insist on co-op mode. There was some initial complaining from Dorian about that, but it was perfunctory at best, and he abandoned even that after the first five minutes. They've been playing for a couple hours at this point, in between demolishing a few pizzas.

Or rather, they're playing when Cullen isn't getting them killed because he's not paying enough attention. Every time it happens, Bull stops both Dorian's ribbing and Cullen's embarrassed apologies with the same genial shrug and an unconcerned, "It's just a game." They'll start over again, and Cullen will be fine for a while, until "the thrill of under me you quite so new" or "i like kissing this and that of you" runs through his head and they all get shot again.

Cullen's lost track of how many times that's happened before Bull finally says, "Okay, guys. I've got work tomorrow, and you've got class." He leans forward to lob the controller in the general direction of the console, then uses Cullen's and Dorian's shoulders to push himself to his feet. "So it's probably time to call it a night."

There's the requisite scrambling to put controllers away and cram empty pizza boxes into the trash can, then Bull is at the door, tugging Dorian into a rough, one-armed hug. "I'll see you," Bull says, kissing the top of his head. Dorian rolls his eyes at the gesture without making any effort to avoid it.

Bull releases Dorian, shoving him gently, and then he looks at Cullen, who realizes belatedly that he's standing too close, as if he's looking for a hug of his own. The pause is infinitesimal, not even long enough to begin to be awkward: Bull's shoulder shrugged slightly up, his arm ready to turn out in a hug, while Cullen's brain tries to send his body into a panic.

Fuck this, Cullen thinks, stepping forward to take that almost-offered hug.

It's the same one-armed hug Dorian got, minus the kiss on the head. Cullen's glad to skip that--isn't he?--and the hug is definitely shorter than Dorian's, barely more of a quick squeeze before Bull is letting himself out into the hallway. "See ya, guys!" he calls over his shoulder, his posture as relaxed as ever.

Cullen has never envied anyone so much.

###

A week or so later, Cullen gets home after a run to find Bull propping up the wall beside the apartment door. Bull is focused on his phone, thumbs tapping away at the screen, and he barely glances up as Cullen approaches.

"Sorry," Bull says, eyes on his phone. "Dorian was supposed to meet me here twenty minutes ago."

"Not a problem," Cullen lies as he jams his key in the lock. He's sweaty and disgusting, wearing nothing but a pair of running shorts that could charitably be called "well-worn."

"He should be here soon," Bull says without looking up. "How's it going?"

"Same old, same old," Cullen says, wiping away a drop of sweat that's trying to get into his eyes. It's still hot as fuck outside, summer not yet ready to let go, and he's literally dripping with sweat. What he wants right now is a couple glasses of water and a shower, not to hover in his own doorway feeling like an intruder.

Get it together, Rutherford, he thinks. He's done this before, had a completely normal conversation with Bull. He can do it again.

Cullen sets his jaw and shoves the door open, holding it wide for Bull as he asks, "How's it going for you?"

"Same old, same old," Bull says, and Cullen can hear his smile. "Crazy clients, doing crazy shit. How's the...."

He trails off, and Cullen glances at him in confusion. "How's the what?"

Bull is looking at him with an odd expression, his gaze fixed somewhere in the vicinity of Cullen's bare chest. "What?" he asks, clearly distracted by whatever's on his mind.

"I don't know," Cullen says. "You were asking me how something was, but you didn't finish the sentence."

"Shit," Bull mutters, gaze going back to his phone. "Sorry, got distracted."

"Work?" Cullen asks sympathetically. Bull talks sometimes about the weird things clients do, and while they make for great stories, Cullen can imagine how frustrating it would be to actually deal with them on a daily basis.

"Yeah," Bull says, still looking like his mind is elsewhere. He taps something on his phone screen, frowns, taps it again, then shakes his head. "Your Lit class. How's the poetry going?"

"Ugh," Cullen says, with absolutely no emotion.

It wins a small smile from Bull. "So...better than it was?"

"Yeah."

Bull is still focused on his phone, so Cullen shrugs mentally and goes into the kitchen to get some water. He drains the glass the first time without pausing for breath, swallowing as fast as he can. The second glass goes a little slower, and he only drains half of the third before he makes himself go back out into the living room.

Bull is sitting on the edge of the couch now, phone in his hands and elbows on his knees as he frowns at the screen. He doesn't appear to be paying any attention to Cullen, right up until Cullen takes a big gulp of water and lowers the glass to find Bull watching him. It's the same odd look as before, even if Bull's eye is now on his throat instead of his chest.

"Everything okay?" Cullen asks.

"Yeah," Bull says again, looking away. "Or it will be." Something about his tone carries heavy undertones of "I'll make it be okay."

"Right then," Cullen says, shifting from foot to foot. "Well, I guess I'll...go change then?"

Even as he curses himself for making it a question, the front door slams open, Dorian almost bouncing off it in his haste. "I'm here!" he says breathlessly, as if they might have somehow missed his arrival.

"I noticed," Cullen says, when Bull just continues to frown at his phone.

Dorian flips him off absently and says to Bull, with a puzzling level of sincerity, "Sorry. I lost track of time." He sounds like he's apologizing for something way more serious than just being a little late, particularly when he's never before given a shit about being on time for anything.

"It's fine," Bull says, waving him off without looking up from his phone. "Let me just finish this, and we'll head out."

There's an odd look on Dorian's face, one that doesn't make any more sense than the intensity of his apology. He looks sincere, but he also looks like he's thinking way too hard about something as he asks, "Want to come with us?"

Since his gaze is still fixed on Bull, it takes Cullen a moment to figure out that the question is aimed at him.

"Where you headed?"

"Dinner, then either a movie or bowling."

Cullen mouths the word "bowling" a couple times, trying to figure out what he missed. Because Dorian's never expressed the slightest interest in bowling, any more than he's cared whether he's a couple minutes late to something.

"It's no big deal if you've got stuff to do," Bull says, still focused on his phone like looking away might kill him. "It's just a thing."

"A thing?" Cullen repeats.

"It started when I was in high school," Dorian says.

"Actually, it started as a lie," Bull says. His shoulders, which Cullen hadn't even realized were tight, relax. "I just told our folks we were going bowling so we'd have an excuse to get out of the house and do shit without having to provide a report later."

Cullen wonders how he'd missed this particular chapter of Dorian's life, then remembers exactly how often Dorian talks about anything even tangentially related to his parents. "And fake bowling turned into real bowling?" he guesses.

"Yeah," Bull says. He still hasn't looked up from his phone, his thumbs flying over the screen, and Cullen is impressed by his ability to talk about one thing and type something else.

"They would ask us about the score," Dorian says. "Who won, that sort of thing. And we simply made up answers at first, before it dawned on us that one of these days, someone was going to expect us to know something about a sport we theoretically practiced every week."

"And since most of what we were doing was just talking anyway," Bull says, "we figured we could learn to bowl while we did it." Finally, he looks up, turning back over his shoulder to grin at Dorian. "You needed some convincing, if I recall."

Dorian smirks. "I believe the exact phrase you used to convince me involved the importance of learning good ball-handling skills?"

In the middle of finishing off the last of his water, Cullen nearly chokes. By the time he gets done coughing, Bull's eye is back on his phone, and Dorian looks entirely too pleased with himself.

"You didn't really expect me to pass up such an excellent straight line, did you?" Dorian asks.

"Do you ever?" Cullen asks.

"Exactly." Dorian starts to sit down on the couch, then pauses. "You never actually answered. Are you joining us?"

Cullen gestures down at himself, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bull's eye track the movement. It makes him incredibly self-conscious, knowing how scruffy he looks right now. The drying sweat from his run is only made worse by the fact that he hasn't shaved in several days, and though blond hair gives him a lot of leeway, that only stretches so far. It probably doesn't stretch all the way to a week. "Don't want to make you guys late."

"That implies we have reservations somewhere," Dorian says, settling onto the couch. "This is more of a hamburgers and French fries sort of night."

Which means it would be cheap, but not free. Cullen considers the state of his bank account, something he has to think about way more often than he'd like, then reluctantly shakes his head. It would be nice to go with them, but he can't spare the cash for dinner and equipment rental. "No, sorry," he says with real regret.

"We can wait," Dorian says. "I mean, it's not like you ever take more than five minutes to get ready anyway."

A long-standing joke between the two of them, that in this one area, they fit their respective stereotypes perhaps a little too well.

"It's not that," Cullen says, uncomfortable again. He hates talking about money, especially the lack of it.

"Do you want to go?" Bull asks, and Cullen blinks at him. "Because if you don't want to..." He cranes his head back to give Dorian a quelling look. "...I can haul him out of here and get him off your back."

"Hey!" Dorian protests. "If I don't badger him occasionally, he'd keep the thermostat at fifty-five and eat cold oatmeal three meals a day." He raises his eyebrows, inviting Cullen to argue. "You're not very good at fun."

Cullen laughs reluctantly, because it's true, even if he hates the way that must make him look to Bull. "I don't have the money," he says, almost mumbling it into his glass as he pretends to take another sip. Since the cup is empty, it's not all that convincing, but neither Bull nor Dorian mentions it.

"Do you want to go?" Bull repeats patiently. "Because I can cover it, if you do."

Cullen hesitates, and Dorian says, "Ha! Just say yes, Rutherford. Fun doesn't actually hurt."

"I've seen some of the things you consider fun," Cullen mutters, deliberately baiting Dorian. "Jumping out of airplanes isn't fun."

"It's called skydiving," Dorian says. "Plenty of people do it."

"Yeah, sure," Cullen says. "Plenty of crazy people."

"So..." Bull says. "Bowling?" He looks in Cullen's direction, if not exactly at him. "My treat."

"Go shower," Dorian says, before Cullen can say anything. "Seriously. It's dinner and bowling, he's not buying you a car."

And Cullen really does want to go. He just doesn't want...

Actually, he doesn't know what he doesn't want. Maybe for Bull to not treat him the way he treats Dorian? Cullen wants to be an adult in his eyes, and it's more important than it should be.

Explaining that to anyone else isn't an option, though, so Cullen just heads for his bedroom. "Ten minutes," he promises.

"We're not on a schedule," Dorian says, flopping down on the sofa beside Bull.

But they are waiting on him, and Cullen doesn't want that. Knowing that other people are thinking about what he's doing is almost as bad as having them watch him while he does it, whether that's getting a glass of water or taking a shower.

Okay, maybe especially taking a shower, because naked and with a handful of soap, there's something else he could be doing. Maybe not if he actually wants to be ready in ten minutes, though, and why is he even thinking about this?

It takes him eight minutes, and two of those are spent staring into the mirror, trying to convince himself that now is not the time to start experimenting with any of the hair goop lined up along the counter. Dorian wouldn't care--he's offered in the past--but Cullen has visions of all the hair-related atrocities he could inflict on himself and decides it's better to leave well enough alone.

When he comes out of the bathroom, skin a little sticky from the heat of the shower, Bull is leaning against the wall by the front door tapping furiously away at his phone. He's so intent Cullen wonders if he's playing a game, because most people don't have that kind of tight focus when they're just answering emails. Not to mention, Bull has never been the kind of person who can't put his phone away when talking to people.

"Everything okay?" Cullen asks.

Bull looks up, blinking. "Yeah, sure. Why?"

Cullen points at the phone. "You were frowning."

"Oh, sorry." Bull clicks the screen off and slides it into his pocket. "That was rude, I just got caught up in something." His nostrils flare, and Cullen realizes that the wave of steam from the bathroom is making the already warm apartment too warm here in the hallway.

He starts to apologize, then bites it back, unsure what he's apologizing for. Being unable to magically avoid creating steam when taking a hot shower? Taking a shower at all?

"So how's the class going?" Bull asks.

"Fine," Cullen says cautiously, wondering why they're having this conversation again. Being unable to find things to talk about has never been Bull's issue.

Bull grimaces. "Sorry, you said that already." He presses his thumb to the bridge of his nose, eye squeezed shut for a second. "Brain's not all here right now."

"You sure everything's okay?" Cullen presses.

"It will be," Bull says, in the same tone he used before.

Cullen can actually watch him pull it together, his shoulders relaxing as he draws in a deep breath, and when he opens his eye, he's smiling again. "You run a lot?" he asks.

"A bit," Cullen says. "Got into it in high school when I was on the football team, and then just never lost the habit."

"Bull's training for a marathon," Dorian says, startling Cullen as he pops out of the kitchen. "You two could run together."

"There's no way I'm running twenty-six miles," Cullen says, laughing at the thought. He runs because it gives him space and time to think, to digest his day and gather himself together for the evening. That usually takes five or six miles, max. "Besides, I like to run at night instead of in the morning, unlike pretty much everybody else."

"Actually," Bull says, almost apologetically, "I do run at night. After work. Gives me a way to avoid killing any clients."

"A chance to think," Cullen says, and when Bull nods, Cullen nods back, feeling almost at ease again. "I'm still not running a marathon, though."

"It's not twenty-six miles every day," Bull says. He looks down at his hands as if he wishes he was still holding his phone. "Most days it's only six or seven. Don't know how many you normally do, but..."

He trails off, sounding more tentative than Cullen's ever heard him. "Do you want to?" Cullen asks, not sure how to read him.

"Wouldn't have offered if I didn't," Bull says, smiling at him again. "How 'bout this? Text me with some times, maybe we can meet up."

"Sure," Cullen says. "Sounds good." With a guilty twitch, he looks around for Dorian, realizing he'd forgotten about him entirely.

Dorian, who is sitting on the arm of the sofa, watching them with a funny smile. "You should do it," he says, when Cullen looks at him. Then he makes a face. "Especially once it starts getting dark."

An argument as long-standing as the joke about how long it takes them to get ready, because Dorian seems to think that Cullen is in danger of getting mugged if it isn't full daylight.

Cullen rolls his eyes, the way he always does when they have this conversation. "I'm fine," he says. "And I will be fine. How long have I been running by myself?"

"Statistically speaking, the more often you participate in a risky activity, the more likely you are to be hurt." Dorian is being deliberately pompous, giving his chin a superior tilt.

"Says the man who jumps out of airplanes," Cullen says.

It's all rote, a call and response refined over the years they've known each other, and so it's a surprise when Bull cuts into the middle of it to say, "You should be careful."

"Not you, too," Cullen says, throwing up his hands. "Seriously. I'm fine."

"Or you could run with someone else," Dorian says with a pointed look at Bull.

Exasperated, Cullen pulls out his own phone and flips over to the calendar. Pointedly. "Monday?" he asks. "Six?"

###

Which is how he finds himself standing on the sidewalk outside Bull's apartment building at ten minutes to six on Monday. It's another hot day, hot enough that Cullen would normally have gone out shirtless, but what feels perfectly normal by himself somehow feels rude the second it involves someone else.

He's early, too, and that just adds another layer of discomfort to the whole thing. Does he wait outside looking sketchy, or does he go in and get in Bull's space before Bull is ready for him? It shouldn't be a hard decision, but he ends up making it by default, dithering around on the sidewalk until Bull comes through the door in shorts and a tank top, showing a lot more of his skin than Cullen is used to seeing.

"Ready?" Bull asks, settling a baseball cap on his head.

Cullen's throat is inexplicably dry, so he just nods.

The stretching is awkward to say the least, Cullen constantly aware of the way he's bending and where he is in relation to Bull. It doesn't help that Bull talks, idle chatting about his day, questions about Cullen's, the normal sorts of things people say to each other. The only problem is that Cullen doesn't like to talk when he runs. Yes, he's always been told that if he can't talk while he's running, then he's running too fast, but that's the entire point, that forced silence that's basically permission to do nothing but think.

If Bull is going to talk the whole time, Cullen is going to have to find an excuse to beg off any more running dates.

Even as he thinks the word "date," he winces away from it. Not date. Appointment?

Ugh, that's worse. Meeting is no better, and engagement is the worst of all.

"Ready?" Bull asks, while Cullen is still searching his mental thesaurus for a word to describe this that doesn't make him sweat worse than the heat can account for. Though if he's never doing it again, does it matter what he calls it?

"Cullen?"

Cullen straightens, embarrassed. "Sorry, I'm here." He tries a smile. "Mentally, not just physically."

"You ready?"

"Yeah." The sooner they get started, the sooner he can be done and go home to think of excuses why they can't do this again. Mid-semester, he can't exactly change his teaching schedule, but maybe he could move his office hours? Of course, he doesn't have a lot of leeway on that, either, not as a TA.

Except that as soon as they start running, Bull stops talking. He doesn't drop off in the middle of a sentence, but the change is abrupt enough that Cullen has to look over to be sure he's still there.

"This pace okay?" Bull asks.

"A little slow," Cullen says, because it is.

Bull chuckles, and there's a note of friendly taunting in his voice when he says, "Well, pick it up, then."

There's no way Cullen can turn down a challenge like that, and he grins. "Try to keep up, old man." He doesn't wait for Bull's reply before putting on a little extra speed, running a couple paces ahead until Bull catches up to run beside him again.

It's a good run. Bull has longer legs, but Cullen is younger, and the combination leaves them about evenly matched. Cullen thinks Bull may be holding back a little, but the pace is already a stretch for him so he says nothing. He's competitive, not stupid.

Running with Bull is easy, far easier than Cullen thought it would be. They call out the occasional warning to each other, but otherwise, the only sound between them is their increasingly-labored breathing. By the end of the fifth mile, there's that weird metallic taste in the back of Cullen's mouth, and his chest and legs are aching.

Running six miles at his own speed is entirely different from running six miles with Bull, and Cullen loves it, loves the way it pushes him out of the comfortable rut he's fallen into, loves the way he has to work for it now. So much of his day is spent locked inside his own head, and this is his escape, this hour in which he's nothing more than a machine made of bone and muscle. His grades don't matter, the balance in his checking account doesn't matter, whether he'll be able to find a job when he finishes school doesn't matter.

Three blocks from Bull's apartment, Bull looks over and grins at him. "Race you to the end?"

He's off as soon as the question is out, laughing over his shoulder at Cullen's outraged, "Cheater!"

Tired as he is, Cullen chases after him, feet pounding hard against the pavement. His lungs are on fire, and his legs want to know what the hell is wrong with him, but he almost manages to win, his hand connecting with the door to the apartment building only half a second behind Bull's.

They're both laughing and out of breath, leaning against each other while they wheeze. "Cheater," Cullen says again, when he can.

"Age and treachery," Bull says, the words coming out between gasps. "Gotta keep you kids in line, or you get uppity."

"Uppity?" Cullen demands. "Uppity?"

"If I'm old, how come you're going deaf?" Bull asks. He straightens, shoulder rubbing against Cullen's, and Cullen steps back to put a little distance between them. There's comfortable and then there's comfortable, and while Cullen is about a hundred times more relaxed than he has been in the past, he's not quite prepared to deal with Bull's skin sliding against his while they're both sweaty and panting.

Still, he's comfortable enough to follow Bull up to his apartment after they walk their cooldown, to accept a huge glass of water and a towel to mop up the sweat while he does the last of his stretches. And when Bull says, "Wednesday?" Cullen doesn't hesitate before agreeing.

Chapter Text

It's surprisingly easy after that, to run with Bull a few times a week, and have dinner with him and Dorian a couple nights on top of that, and sometimes to just bump into him in the library and chat for an hour that blows by in what feels like ten minutes. Bull takes to leaving random books of poetry for Cullen to find: on the coffee table in his own apartment, on the kitchen counter at Cullen and Dorian's, and sometimes on the table in the library while Cullen is studying. He'll be buried in an assignment, unaware Bull has even been by, until he looks up and finds a new book on top of his stack.

Always poetry, never e. e. cummings, and mostly properly punctuated. Sometimes Bull will mark a page when he finds something he particularly likes, and Cullen discovers that if he marks pages of his own and goes back to work, Bull will sneak back by and take the book away. Cullen knows he looks at the pages Cullen marks, because the next book to appear will usually riff on the same theme, or provide a counter to it.

It's silly and ridiculous and by the end of October, just the sight of a book of poetry is enough to make Cullen smile. They never talk about it, and Cullen very carefully doesn't think about it, even as he marks pages with his "replies."

There's no harm in it, after all. It's just a game. And if he still struggles sometimes to accept the hugs Bull offers so freely, he likes to think he's getting better at hiding it.

###

One afternoon in early November, Cullen comes home to find the apartment empty, which is surprising but not entirely unwelcome. He's got a test tomorrow, and he really needs to study, not let Dorian talk him into playing Halo or going out to dinner or watching movies until they're both ready to puke from too much popcorn. Fun as those things are, his parents aren't paying for grad school so he can fail his tests because he was too busy assing off.

As he shrugs out of his jacket, he glances around out of habit and spots Dorian's laptop on the kitchen table. That by itself isn't unusual, but what is surprising is that the screen is still lit, as if Dorian walked away from it only minutes ago. But since they would almost certainly have passed each other on the stairs if Dorian had just left, that can't be it.

"Dorian?" he calls just to check, but the apartment is as empty as it feels.

Cullen rubs his cold fingers together, briefly tempted to turn up the heat. Dorian can afford it--Dorian, in fact, complains constantly at the temperature--but Cullen is adamant about paying exactly half the bills, and he isn't that cold.

Instead of heading for the thermostat, Cullen crosses the living room to the kitchen table and Dorian's laptop. His only thought is to close it and save the battery, but his hand stops a few inches away as his brain finally processes what his eyes have been seeing.

It's porn. Explicit porn, on a video loop, some guy getting fucked over a table and very obviously enjoying it, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open on cries Cullen can't hear without headphones. A distant part of him realizes the video loop is likely what kept the laptop from turning itself off, but the rest of him isn't paying much attention.

The loop isn't very long, and after he's watched it a couple (dozen) times, Cullen tears his eyes away and stumbles back. He almost closes the laptop on instinct, then stops himself. The last thing he wants is for Dorian to know he saw that video.

Movements jerky, he turns away and heads for his bedroom, fingers clutching the strap of his backpack until they ache. Once safely behind the closed door, he sets out his textbooks with careful deliberation, focusing as hard as he can on the test review that was the only thing on his mind when he first walked into the apartment. He's definitely not thinking at all about how his dick is halfway hard.

By the time Dorian gets home a few hours later, Cullen's dick has lost interest, even though his brain is still randomly jolting him with clips from the video whenever he doesn't pay attention to not paying attention. It's bad enough that Cullen stays in his room most of the evening, only emerging around eight o'clock to find some dinner.

Dorian is in the living room watching TV, his laptop now closed and innocuous. Cullen's gaze tracks to it against his will, and when he looks away, Dorian is watching him with the blandly interested face that only fools people who haven't known him as long as Cullen.

"Fuck you," Cullen says, the flush already creeping up his face, but really, why is he surprised? Dorian likes to play pranks on him, and this is hardly the worst one ever. With a few hours in between, it's even kind of funny.

"I didn't think I was your type," Dorian says archly. He only maintains that look for two seconds before he falls over onto the couch, laughing. "Your face!" he gasps. "You should see your face!"

Cullen gives him what he hopes is a withering look and continues on to the kitchen. A smile is tugging at one corner of his mouth, though, and he's already plotting his revenge. Accidentally stumbling on Dorian's porn is embarrassing; being set up by Dorian is a challenge of the kind they've been issuing each other for years.

He makes himself three peanut butter sandwiches and takes them back to his bedroom, despite Dorian's suggestion that too much studying is bad for the brain and wouldn't he like to watch a movie? Because of course he'd like to watch a movie, but he'd like to pass his classes more, and unlike Dorian, he can't just attend the lectures and pass everything without ever opening a text book. Why Bull even bothered to buy the books in the first place, Cullen doesn't know, though he's still grateful that his own books got included in Bull's generosity.

It's after midnight by the time he finishes. Dorian called a goodnight through the door about fifteen minutes ago, and the apartment is quiet as Cullen brushes his teeth and gets ready for bed. Quiet and cold: the autumn chill has settled in pretty firmly, and the bathroom tiles make Cullen shift his weight from foot to foot in a vain attempt to keep his toes from freezing.

Back in his room, he huddles under the blankets with his hands tucked under his arms until his fingers aren't quite so icy. Jerking off is pretty much guaranteed to warm him up, but his balls try to crawl back up inside his body at the thought of touching himself before he's got his hands warm. Soon enough, though, he's feeling plenty warm, his hand stroking lightly over his dick until he's fully hard.

Which is when the memory ambushes him: Dorian's trick, the video loop of that guy getting fucked. Cullen hasn't given the question a huge amount of thought, but he's always assumed that anyone getting fucked that way was doing it for his partner, giving something to the other guy rather than getting anything out of it himself. But the guy in the video was clearly enjoying himself.

Though Cullen is plenty old enough to know that porn only ever has a passing acquaintance with sex in real life. So maybe those faces the guy was making are as real as the tits on the average female porn star? Or maybe...

His hand stills on his cock, and he hesitates. It's one thing to think about it; a weird thing, but easy enough to ignore later. God knows he's thought about stranger things while jerking off, and he's long past being embarrassed by the occasional passing thought.

Actually doing it, though? That's a different story.

But he's curious now, and turned on enough that the part of his brain prone to thinking too hard about things is already on mute. Without letting go of his dick, he slides the first two fingers of his left hand into his mouth, licking them until they're both wet to the last knuckle. Then carefully, a little nervously, he reaches down between his legs, behind his balls, to press the tip of one finger inside.

It doesn't hurt, but it also doesn't do much for him. More curious than nervous now, he shoves the finger deeper, or as deep as he can from this angle. Which does actually feel kind of good, even if it isn't blowing his mind, so he slides the other finger in on the next thrust.

And okay, now he's starting to get it, because both together are stretching him open, and he wouldn't have guessed it would feel good, but oh, it does. He thrusts again, right hand beginning to move on his cock, stroking in time to his fingers fucking in and out of his ass, and he has to tighten his throat against a moan as he fucks himself harder.

The only problem is his wrist, which starts to protest the angle in short order, a dull ache that starts small and builds until he can't ignore it anymore. Frustrated, he lets both hands drop to the bed and tries to think with what little blood his brain has left.

Inspiration strikes in the form of a memory: the memory of Dorian's birthday present to him last year. Or at least, one of them, the one that Cullen didn't think he wanted at the time, but now...now he wonders where he put it. He doesn't remember unpacking it, and he would definitely remember that, so it has to be in one of the boxes he hasn't gotten to yet.

The search takes longer than he expected. It's not under the bed or in the boxes on the floor of the closet, but when he pats around on the shelf at the top of the closet, his fingers connect with another box. It's almost out of his reach as he flails around, disturbing the dust and random screws that hang out there, but at last he teases it out far enough to grab. Inside is an assortment of crap, the stuff that didn't end up in one of the bigger boxes, but he shoves aside the sewing kit and the pens and the half-used chap-sticks until his fingers close on silicone and he can extract his prize with a soft "ha!"

It probably says something about his current state of mind--and body--that he's clutching a dildo like it's an Olympic baton. A gag-gift from Dorian for his birthday last year, he knows it would be neon pink and sparkly if he turned on the light, but since he has no plans to do any such thing, Cullen ignores that particular memory. When he'd unwrapped it, his face had probably matched it in color, and he'd hidden it under the discarded wrapping paper as quickly as he could, Dorian laughing maniacally.

After that, he'd been too embarrassed to do anything except stuff it into a box. He could have thrown it away, but he'd had horrible visions of the trash bag ripping open as he carried it to the curb, and that had just been too mortifying to contemplate. So into a box it had gone, and in that box it had stayed for the last several months.

Now he weighs it in his hand, measuring the girth against that of his two fingers together. It's not huge, some monstrous thing no one could actually use. When he'd unwrapped it, that had actually made it all the more embarrassing. If it had been as thick around as his fist, it would have been clear it wasn't anything except a stupid gag, but of course Dorian had had to buy one Cullen might plausibly use.

Cullen checks the lock on the door, then drops down to sit on the side of the bed. His dick has lost all interest, limp between his thighs. He's not too worried about that, except that the returning blood flow to his brain means he's beginning to re-think this entire plan. The dildo might not be huge, but it's definitely bigger than his two fingers, and how the hell does he expect that to fit there? He doesn't even have any lube.

Hand lotion. What about hand lotion? He's got that, but he's also got a vague memory that some things are bad for silicone toys. Not that he paid much attention; apparently just enough to remember that hand lotion might be a bad idea, without being able to remember if it really is, or even what "a bad idea" translates to in practical terms.

Okay, he's giving this way too much thought. People do this all the time without hurting themselves. Hell, people did this all the time even before they had the internet for reference, so it can't be but so difficult.

He wraps his fingers around his dick again, stroking himself back to hardness, and the harder he gets, the more this seems like a great idea again. Except that whole lack-of-lube issue. That's not so good.

Inspiration strikes again, and he brings the dildo up to his mouth, sucking on it the way he sucked on his fingers earlier. For about half a second, he feels like an idiot, and then his brain helpfully flashes over to the thought of doing this to Bull. His hips jerk as the fantasy paints itself across the insides of his eyelids: Bull's dick in his mouth, Bull's hands stroking his hair, Bull's voice murmuring encouragement as Cullen sucks him.

No. No, he is not going to come like this, his hand around his dick while he gives head to a fucking pink dildo. A pink, sparkly dildo. Not happening. Hand lotion it is, and he'll just have to hope "a bad idea" doesn't mean he's going to have some awkward explaining to do later, because he's way too turned on to stop now.

At least the hand lotion doesn't require another scavenger hunt through his room, and the dildo doesn't spontaneously melt or burst into flames when he strokes a fistful of lotion down it. His body just might, though, because his brain is more than happy to turn from blowjob fantasies to handjobs, to kissing Bull hard and deep while...

No. Cullen sucks in air through his teeth, fighting for control, trying to shove away all thoughts of Bull. It's not easy, especially given what he's about to try.

Caution has him slicking his fingers up with more lotion before he slides forward so his ass is half off the bed and he can fuck himself again. When two fingers no longer feel like a stretch, he adds a third, spreading them as best he can until he can't wait anymore.

The dildo is cool and slick, and for a second, he can't get it lined up right, but then he does, and oh god, the feel of it sliding in is amazing, so good he chokes on a cry, shoving the last few inches into himself a little too fast. That burns, but he doesn't care, pressing hard against the base while his body squeezes around it and his balls draw up tight.

He scoots backward, bringing his ass all the way back on the bed, and then leans forward, using the mattress to hold the dildo in place as he strokes his dick, and oh Jesus god, how did he make it to twenty-four fucking years old without knowing about this? Because he's already a few seconds shy of coming, and as he rocks his hips, the dildo shifts, exactly like he's being fucked. His brain fills in the obvious fantasy, sitting astride Bull's lap while Bull fucks him, and Cullen has to tighten his throat against the noises trying to spill out of his mouth, except then the fantasy changes to one where he's fucking himself just like he is now, but with Bull's cock in his mouth at the same time, and that's too much.

It's a miracle he doesn't scream, his whole body jerking with the force of his orgasm, wave after wave rushing through him as he fucks up into his fist and then back down onto the cock in his ass, until everything is too much and he falls over sideways onto the bed, sucking in ragged breaths as he tries to figure out what the hell just happened. Or rather, how he feels about what just happened, because fucking himself on a sparkly pink dildo while fantasizing about his best friend's older brother had not been part of the original plan for this evening.

He knows he's going to be embarrassed as hell about this tomorrow, but right now, all he can work up is a brief twinge of something that might be guilt or shame, or might just be a pulled muscle. Anything else is too much effort when all he really wants to do is lie here and bask in the way his whole body feels like it's turned to liquid.

Eventually physical discomfort does what tomorrow's potential embarrassment couldn't, and forces him from the bed. Dildo in hand, he frowns at it in the dark. What's he supposed to do with it now? Clean it, probably, but with what? Can he use whatever soap is in the bathroom, or is there something special he's supposed to do?

The bathroom. Fuck. There's only one bathroom in the apartment, the one down the hall that he shares with Dorian, and while Dorian usually sleeps like the dead, it'd be just Cullen's luck that tonight is the night he suffers from insomnia. But still, tossing the dildo back into the box as it is now isn't a very good option either.

Especially not if he wants to use it again.

Even alone in the dark, his face burns at the thought, but there's no point in denying it, because there's no way he's going to pass up the chance at further experiments. Which means he needs to clean the thing, and maybe buy some lube, if he can figure out what kind to buy without dying of embarrassment. There's no way in hell he's asking Dorian, or anyone he knows, but maybe he can find something online? If he even dares to google that from his phone.

In the end, he wraps the dildo in one of his t-shirts--even as he mocks himself, because there's nothing in the least bit odd about a midnight trip to the bathroom with a wadded up shirt in his hands--and then all but runs down the hall. He shuts the bathroom door a little harder than he meant to, freezing on the other side while he waits for any sound from Dorian's bedroom.

Nothing.

He takes a slow, deep breath and deliberately doesn't make eye contact with his reflection as he washes up. With the floral hand soap his mother sent, because he really doesn't know what else to use, and since it seems to do the trick, he tries not to think about what associations he's going to be making with that smell from now on.

The trip back to his room is as incident-free as the trip out, and he leans against the door for just a second, dildo in one hand and shirt in the other. It all catches up to him at that point, and the giggle bursts out of his throat before he can stop it, followed by a snorting laugh as he covers his mouth with the crook of his elbow.

When he's regained his composure, at least enough to not laugh out loud, he tosses the shirt in the direction of the dirty laundry and picks up the abandoned shoebox the dildo was in. He stuffs the dildo back in the box, but the box itself goes under the bed rather than back on the top shelf of his closet

He collapses onto the mattress, but his earlier lassitude is completely gone. His brain is now in overdrive as it picks apart every thought that went through his head while he was jerking off. There's ample material to choose from, and all of it is confusing as shit, now that his dick isn't hard.

This isn't the first time he's thought about a guy while jerking off, but it's the first time a guy has featured as anything other than a hazy outline in fantasies centered on women. And it's not like he thinks there's anything wrong with a guy liking other guys. The problem isn't with the idea of being gay, or bi. It's just...not who he thought he was, and he'd kind of assumed that by this age, he was pretty clear on what--and who--he liked in bed.

By way of an experiment, he tries to imagine kissing Dorian. Not the quick kiss on the cheek Dorian sometimes hits him with, usually when he's trying to annoy someone else, but a full on, hot-and-heavy kiss, tongues and teeth and gasping breaths. It's kind of weird, disturbing in the same way as imagining kissing his sister, and not in the least bit arousing.

Reassured, Cullen imagines his last girlfriend, imagines fucking her while she moans against his mouth, and that's definitely interesting. Interesting enough to make his dick twitch again, and he reaches down to stroke himself lightly, falling into the memory...

Only to have it change in a blink. He's still fucking Evelyn, her body hot against his, but now Bull is fucking him at the same time, and his dick gets so hard so fast it's a wonder he doesn't pass out.

He could fight it, he supposes, but why? The combination of memory and fantasy is so intense his hips are already lifting off the bed, and with his ass still a little sore from earlier, it's easy to imagine Bull slamming into him, driving him down into Evelyn, all three of them groaning and panting. He can almost feel Bull's hands on his hips and Evelyn's mouth moving under his.

This time when he finishes, he doesn't bother getting up, only wipes off his hand on the farthest corner of the sheet. He's once again blissed out and boneless, too exhausted to worry about anything, though he knows his brain isn't done putting him through the wringer on all this. But that's a problem for tomorrow, along with whatever embarrassment he has to suffer the next time he sees Bull.

###

In the morning, he's not embarrassed. He's mortified.

Dorian, thank god, isn't a morning person, and so he doesn't seem to notice that Cullen hunches over his cereal bowl and won't look at him. Bull, on the other hand, is a good deal more observant, and he frowns at Cullen in concern when he arrives to pick Dorian up. "You okay?" he asks.

"Fine," Cullen croaks.

Bull's hand on his forehead locks up all his muscles, and Cullen almost chokes on his cereal. "You sure?" Bull asks.

"Just tired." His voice is rough, not right, and Bull's frown deepens.

"I can take you to the doctor," Bull offers. He's stroking Cullen's hair back from his forehead, the same kind of casual touch as always, except now it reminds Cullen of last night's fantasies, of Bull's hands in his hair while Cullen went down on him.

"No really!" Cullen says, his voice slipping higher. "Really, I'm fine. I think I'm just gonna...get some more sleep. Yeah. I'm just tired, that's all, up too late studying, you know how it is."

He abandons his cereal and the kitchen, retreating to his bedroom, but Bull follows him as far as his bedroom door.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Bull asks, then he blinks as he takes in the room. "And what happened in here?"

Cullen blinks himself, looking around at the mess he made last night and stumbled blindly past this morning. "I was looking for something," he says truthfully. "I wasn't sure where I'd left it."

"Did you find it?"

"Yeah." Cullen is painfully aware of the shoebox sticking partway out from under the bed. He knows it's stupid, but it feels like the box is glowing, like it's one second away from a 3-D, hi-def replay of all last night's fantasies.

He's flushed and sweating, and that's not going to help him convince Bull that he's fine, but he tries again anyway. "I'm fine," he says. "I just need to get some sleep."

Bull frowns at him again. "It's not a problem, if you need a ride to the doctor."

"I'm fine," Cullen says, as emphatically as he can.

"All right," Bull says, holding up his hands. "Okay. Sorry, didn't mean to get in your space." And it's Bull, so of course he means it, instead of just hiding assholery behind an apology. "You need anything, let me know."

"Yeah," Cullen says. "Sure."

Bull closes the door quietly behind himself, and Cullen's knees give out, dropping him onto the side of the bed. His dick is half hard despite the embarrassment, Bull's voice rumbling in his head, offering things a lot more interesting than a ride to the doctor.

Shit.

He is so fucked.

Chapter Text

The next week does not go well.

There's the library on Saturday morning. He stares at the same page for an hour without seeing it, and for the first time, he's aware of exactly when Bull sneaks by to leave the latest book of poetry on the table beside him. His fingers tingle when he picks it up, and he reads the poem six times, his brain trying to find messages where there are none. Picking a poem for his "reply" is a lost cause, and he ends up sticking the bookmark in almost at random. Almost, because he does glance at the page to be sure it doesn't contain anything that would embarrass him later.

There's dinner with Bull and Dorian on Sunday evening. Cullen says three words that don't involve asking someone to pass the food and barely chokes down half a meal's worth. Playing Halo is easier than he thought, because it gives him something to concentrate on, but every time there's a pause in the game, his attention snaps back to Bull on the couch behind him.

There's running with Bull on Monday evening. Cullen trips over his own feet three times, nearly brains himself on a sign, and turns the wrong way even though they've run the same route three times a week for months now. Wednesday is worse, and he begs off Friday to study for an imaginary test.

And then there's every single night in between. He jerks off thinking of Bull: sucking his dick, or fucking him, or being fucked by him. Sometimes he gets out the dildo, and sometimes it stays in the box, but every night, as soon as he lies down, the fantasies rush forward to fill his thoughts. The one night he doesn't let himself jerk off, he dreams of Bull and wakes up with his dick so hard it hurts.

By Saturday evening, he's a wreck, and when Dorian invites him to a party, he claims a relapse of his pretend sickness from last week, on top of a deep need to study for that imaginary test. If he's not careful, either Bull or Dorian is going to start asking for details about what he's studying with such intensity, but maybe he'll have himself under control before that happens.

Maybe.

He's stuck somewhere between desperate and despairing when Mia comes looking for him. In her usual style, she does this by letting herself into the apartment with the spare key he gave her for emergencies, then knocking once on his bedroom door before barging in.

She squints at him for a minute, then says suspiciously, "You don't look sick."

"I'm fine," he says.

"That's not what Dorian said."

There are days he really hates that his sister and Dorian get along so well. "Well, I was sick earlier, but I'm better now."

She's still looking at him like she's waiting for him to confess to something, but since Cullen has no intention of confessing any of what's been bothering him lately, she's going to have to wait a while.

When he doesn't say anything else, she crosses her arms over her chest, tilts her chin up aggressively, and says, "If you're fine, then you won't mind coming to the party with me."

"I have to study-" he begins, gesturing at the pile of textbooks on his desk, but she cuts him off with a snort.

"I don't know what you're avoiding, but you've been studying all week. You can take a couple hours and come have fun with us."

"But I don't like parties." Not strictly true, but true enough that he can maybe fake it.

"You don't like frat parties," Mia says.

So much for that tactic. "I'm not sick anymore," he tries, "but you know, I was feeling like shit earlier, and-"

"Cullen," Mia says, in a pitch-perfect imitation of their mother. "Whatever you're avoiding, you can tell me about it. You know that, right?"

"Sure," he lies. "But I'm not avoiding anything. I just need to study."

"What you need is to get out for a bit. You'll study better after a break!"

There are a lot of other arguments Cullen could use, but as he looks at her face, he realizes nothing short of an actual hemorrhage is going to get him out of this party. He can give in gracefully, or he can be dragged kicking and screaming. Not going is not an option.

"Okay," he sighs. "But just for an hour."

###

Why he thought Bull wouldn't be there is a mystery, but of course he is, holding court in a corner of the living room. It's a pretty big living room, in an apartment big enough to fit three of the one Cullen and Dorian share, and Cullen holds out some small hope that he can avoid any interaction at all. If he can get lost in the crowd, he can make Mia happy without catching fire from embarrassment.

Because every time he looks at Bull, he thinks about the fantasies that have been running through his head all week, and his face burns. It's warm enough in the crowded apartment to hide his reaction, except that his reaction also includes spilling his drink and forgetting how to talk. Seeing Bull outside the routine they've established over the past few months makes Cullen even more nervous, something which shouldn't be possible.

Talking to Bull, or going anywhere near him, is right out no matter how much Cullen's eyes want to drift in his direction. Bull will know instantly that there's a problem, even if he can't figure out what the problem is, and that's assuming Bull doesn't take one look at his face and see everything Cullen is trying to hide.

After ten minutes of avoiding Bull's gaze and mumbling at anyone who tries to talk to him, Cullen escapes to the roof. It's currently free of smokers, and he can sit on the edge with his feet hanging off while he wonders how long he has before Mia finds him.

About twenty minutes, it turns out. Half an hour after they arrived at the party, Mia is once again staring at him in exasperation, her hands on her hips and her head cocked to one side as if he's a difficult puzzle she's determined to solve.

"Okay," she says when staring at him produces no response. "What's up with you and Dorian's brother?"

Cullen's skin goes cold, and his eyes widen before he can stop them. "N-nothing!" he protests. It might be more convincing if his voice didn't squeak at the end.

Mia looks about as convinced as he'd expect. "Really."

"It's fine!" he tries again. "The party was just...loud. Really loud. And crowded."

"Uh-huh." She's just looking at him now, her eyebrows up.

"There are a lot of people down there. It was hot, and I just got done being sick, and I thought I'd feel better if I got some fresh air." There. That's not a bad excuse at all.

"And you could avoid a certain someone."

"I'm not avoiding anyone!" Cullen protests.

Mia sighs deeply. "Cullen, I watched you. You looked everywhere but at him, except when you forgot to pay attention, and then you were staring at him. So what's up? I know you guys have spent a lot of time together, and I thought you liked him." Her eyes narrow. "Is he being creepy?"

"No!" Cullen says, too fast and too loud. He coughs and tries again. "He's not being creepy at all. It's just..."

When the pause has gone long past the point of uncomfortable, Mia prompts, "It's just...?"

"I don't know!" Cullen says. He shoves his hands through his hair, gripping it as though that's going to help. "I don't know."

Mia giggles suddenly. "Do you like him?" she teases.

Cullen knows she doesn't mean it, but he can't stop the way his shoulders tense, and Mia notices. Because of course she does.

"You do!" she breathes. Then, louder and significantly higher pitched, "You do! You like him!"

"I don't!" Cullen says.

"You do," Mia says again, this time almost crowing in triumph. "Oh my god, you've totally got a crush on him, don't you?"

"I'm not gay!" Cullen says, then ducks his head and looks frantically around to see if they're still alone on the roof. Thank god they are, or he might have to just throw himself off rather than wait for the embarrassment to kill him.

Mia is cackling now, almost bouncing. "You're gay for him!"

"I'm n-" Cullen cuts himself off mid-protest. "I'm what?"

"You're gay for him!" Mia says. She's way too gleeful, and Cullen thinks maybe he'll push her off the roof. "You're totally gay for him!"

Cullen wants to argue, to point out that he's never even thought about a guy that way, except he's spent the last week thinking about Bull in exactly that way. Repeatedly and at length.

Mia pulls out her phone, thumbing the screen on with a quick swipe. "Does Dorian know?" she asks, and Cullen is horrified to realize she's already typing out a message.

"No!" Cullen says, leaping up to snatch her phone away. "Because there's nothing to know!"

"Cullen," she says, in a disapproving tone a little too reminiscent of their mother. "Is there something wrong with being gay?"

"There is when I'm not," he says, holding the phone out of her reach as he deletes the beginning of her message.

"Bi, then," she says with a roll of her eyes. "Is there something wrong with being bi?"

He just looks at her, not sure which of them he's more exasperated with, her or himself. In return, she has on her "trying to be serious even though I think this is fucking hysterical" face.

Cullen gives up first, looking off to the side at the occasional star bright enough to make it through the city's light pollution. "There's nothing wrong with it," he says quietly. "It's just...a little weird, okay? I mean, it's not something I ever thought about before."

"Ever?" Mia says, clearly surprised. "You've never thought about a guy ever?"

"Not really," Cullen says, still not looking at her. "I mean, yeah, I'm not blind. Sometimes I'd look at a guy and I could see why women might think he was hot, but it was never...it wasn't something...I could see it, but I didn't feel it." He tries to scrub his hands over his face, then realizes he's still holding her phone. "Does that even make sense?"

"It does," she says, and the glee is gone from her voice. "I'm a little surprised, I guess, but it does make sense."

"What, do you think about women like that?" he says, trying to tease her back.

"Sometimes," she says, like it's no big deal, and when his head snaps toward her, she shrugs. "What? Some women are hot. Just because I'm not interested enough to try anything doesn't mean I don't see it."

She's laughing at him again, a little bit, but Cullen doesn't mind so much this time. "I've never looked at a guy and thought about-" He cuts himself off, because he's definitely not sharing any of his fantasies with his sister, but Mia gets the idea.

"Thought about what?" she asks innocently. When he tries to swat her, she takes advantage of his distraction to steal her phone back, though at least she doesn't try to text Dorian again.

"It's just weird," he says again, watching her hand as she stuffs her phone back into her pocket. "I kind of figured by now I knew who I liked." Not to mention what he liked. It's been an interesting week for that, too, because some of what's gone through his head have been fantasies about things he never knew he wanted. "And I keep looking around at other guys, and nothing's changed. Like the guys downstairs. I don't want to...to do anything with any of them."

"Just Bull?"

"Just Bull." Saying the words out loud is terrifying and exciting at the same time.

"So do something about it," Mia says, like it's that easy.

Cullen shakes his head vehemently, terror winning over excitement. Mia rolls her eyes at him and says, "Why not?"

"What if he's not interested?" Cullen asks. "I mean, why would he be? He's...him, and I'm just...me."

"Very eloquent," Mia says, but her smile is sympathetic. "And maybe he is interested."

"How am I supposed to know without looking like an idiot?"

"Well," she says, hooking her arm through his so she can lean against his shoulder. "You said he's over all the time, that he comes over to hang out with Dorian. Does he act like you're just part of the furniture, or does he talk to you?"

Cullen thinks about all the times in the last few months that Bull has been over when Dorian's out, and all the times he's stayed after Dorian has had to run off to class. "He, ummm, talks to me. But that doesn't mean-"

"Ah-ah-ah," she says, nudging him with her elbow. "So we know he at least likes you as a friend. That's a good start. What about other things?"

"Other things?"

"Oh, come on," Mia says, exasperated. "You've dated people before, even if none of them were guys. You know how people give signals when they're trying to see if the other person's interested. Does he buy you things? Find excuses to touch you? Hang around even when he has other places to be?"

"I guess?" Cullen says doubtfully.

"You guess? What, you're not sure if he touches you or not?"

"He does," Cullen says. Mia perks up, and he hastens to add, "But not like that. He touches everybody, he's just one of those people. It doesn't mean anything."

"I haven't seen him touch a lot of people," Mia says.

"Because you've spent so much time around him?"

She shrugs, acknowledging the point, but goes on undeterred. "Still, that's good. Well, probably. It's not like those stupid slaps on the ass guys are always giving each other, is it?"

Cullen's brain cramps at the thought of Bull slapping him on the ass, which means that the first thing out of his mouth is an inarticulate jumble of sounds. He clears his throat and starts over. "He doesn't do that stupid yawn-and-stretch 'my arm just happened to wind up here' thing, if that's what you're asking."

"God, I hope not," Mia says. "That's so high school."

"Right," Cullen says, a little embarrassed. He's pretty sure he was out of high school, the last time he did that.

They stand in silence for a bit, until Mia sighs. "Well, nothing for it. You'll just have to ask him and see what he says."

Cullen chokes on his own spit. "What?"

"Don't be such a baby," she says. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"He could say no."

"He could," Mia agrees. "Or he could say yes."

"Or he could say no," Cullen repeats. "And then it could be awkward for the rest of my life."

"Or he could say yes, and you could be having fantastic sex for the rest of your life." Mia makes a thoughtful noise. "Or at least the next few months."

Cullen's face is so red he thinks he might actually be glowing in the dark. "Ummm," is the best he can manage.

"Or you could stay up here and never know," Mia says, in much the same tone she used to use when they were kids and she was about to double-dog-dare him to do something incredibly stupid. "Wouldn't it be better to know for sure?"

"No," Cullen says emphatically. "Being embarrassed is worse."

"You're hopeless," Mia says.

"But not currently dying of embarrassment," he points out.

"But also not getting laid," she points out right back, which makes him laugh.

"Look," he says finally, "it's not that easy. I mean, you've seen him, right? What am I supposed to do, just walk up to him say, 'Want to fuck me?'"

"You're such a guy," Mia says, as if it's the worst insult she can think of. "God."

"I...am a guy."

"But you don't have to be so...so...so much of one." She sniffs in disdain. "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but here's what you do. We'll go back downstairs, and you'll stop avoiding him. That's step one."

She pauses like she's waiting for something, so Cullen says, "Okay, no avoiding. Got it."

"Step two, just go stand next to him. It's a party, you've got an excuse to stand real close, so take advantage of it."

"What, just like lean on him?"

"No," she says on a sigh. "Just close enough that you're almost touching. Or just your shoulders. Make sure every time he moves, he knows you're there. And if he moves away, puts a little distance between you, then maybe he's not interested, but if he moves in closer, for the love of god, don't move away."

"I can't believe we're having this conversation," Cullen mutters.

"Me, either," Mia says. "But here we are. Step one, step two. Even you can't screw that up."

"That's it?" Cullen asks. "Two steps? What next?"

"Oh for..." She mutters something too low for him to hear. "If he starts moving closer, and you don't move away, I like to think you can figure things out from there. If you can't, then you really are hopeless, and I wash my hands of you."

"Thanks so much."

"You're welcome," she says, matching his sincerity. "Now go get 'em, tiger."

"Wait, what?" Cullen says, voice slipping higher. "Now?"

"No time like the present!" she says cheerfully, clamping her arm tight to her body. With her hand still in the crook of his elbow, it effectively pins his arm as she turns them in the direction of the door back downstairs. "We're doing this. You're doing this."

"Now I know how all those virgin princesses felt," Cullen mutters.

Mia cackles, damn her anyway. "Yeah, except if he's terrible in bed, you're not stuck with him for the rest of your life. You're going to fuck him, not marry him." She's headed for the door now, dragging him along. "Or let him fuck you. Whatever, you two can work that one out."

Cullen can feel his face burning, but he doesn't get to think about that, because Mia is dragging him bodily down the stairs and back to the party. The noise of a couple dozen people talking and laughing washes over him, the whole thing almost dream-like. He's aware of Mia as the source of the pull on his arm, and aware of the people around him as the source of the noise, but it all feels disconnected, like he's a ghost passing through the crowd.

The real world slams back into him as Mia lets go of his arm and pushes him toward Bull, who's a few feet away talking to a woman Cullen doesn't know. The heat and the noise are momentarily disorienting, and between that and Mia's push, his first step toward Bull is more of a stumble. Bull doesn't seem to notice, thank god, and Cullen's walking normally by the time he's close enough that Bull sees him.

The smile he gets makes him flush, for reasons he's not entirely clear on. It's just Bull's smile, warm and friendly, nothing out of the ordinary. At least the lighting in here is shit, so maybe no one will notice how red his face is.

"Hey there." Bull slings an arm around his shoulders for a one-armed hug. "Glad to see you're feeling better."

Cullen's throat is closed, his heart beating so fast he's almost sick, and all he can do is nod. A quick glance back at Mia shows her flashing him two thumbs up with a huge, shit-eating grin.

"You are feeling better, right?" Bull asks, turning to look at him. Because Cullen hasn't moved away, Bull's arm is still around his shoulders, which means their faces are less than a foot apart. Cullen can smell a subtle hint of his aftershave.

Please don't look down, he prays, aware that his hard-on would be plainly visible if Bull did. Please don't let him look down.

"Cullen?" Bull asks, frowning in concern.

"I'm fine," Cullen blurts out. "It's just kinda warm in here."

"Yeah, little bit. Somebody needs to open a window or something." He lets go of Cullen's shoulders, and Cullen realizes too late that his words could be taken as a hint.

He's still cursing himself for that when Bull asks, "You need a drink or something?"

"I'm good," Cullen says. He kind of does want a drink--not for the liquid courage, just to have something to do with his hands--but he'd be more likely to spill it on someone than drink it.

"I'll catch you later, Bull," the woman says, and Cullen starts. He'd forgotten about her completely.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You're fine," she says with a wave and a smirk Cullen doesn't understand. "I'm going to get myself a drink and maybe step outside for a bit. It really is too hot in here."

Bull looks after her, frowning slightly, and while he's doing that, Cullen grabs his courage in both hands and steps closer, pressing his shoulder to Bull's.

Maybe too hard, because Bull twitches back as if surprised. "You okay?" he asks again. "You seem a little off tonight."

Fuck, why is he so bad at this? Maybe he does want that liquid courage after all. "I'm fine," he says again. Aside from the fact that he thinks he might be sick, if he can't get his heart to slow down.

Bull loops an arm around his shoulders again, squeezing gently. "Okay, let me know if that changes." His arm stays where it is, just a casual hug like Cullen has seen him give dozens of people before. Like he's given Cullen a dozen times before.

Casual or not, Cullen normally moves away from those hugs as soon as it's polite. With Mia's lecture fresh in his mind, he stays pressed against Bull's side, hoping it's not too obvious if it turns out Bull isn't actually interested.

"You sure you're okay?" Bull asks. "You've been sick twice this week, and being around all these people isn't going to help."

"Mia dragged me out," Cullen says truthfully. "She called me a recluse." Which is slightly less true, but it's not like Cullen can say, "She wouldn't let me keep avoiding you."

"You're allowed to be a recluse when you're sick," Bull says, and his tone sounds as if he's prepared to tell Mia so.

"I'm over being sick," Cullen says, which might be the biggest lie he's told yet, the way his stomach is turning itself inside out. "I was just studying tonight."

Bull's hand rubs down his arm to his elbow then back up to his shoulder, and Cullen shivers. "How's the studying going, anyway?"

"Same as always," Cullen says. "Fucking poetry."

It's a weak joke, but Bull chuckles. "Not getting any better?"

"Apparently poetry in the last fifty years doesn't believe in punctuation." Then fairness compels him to add, "Though Dorian's been helping. At least I'm not failing."

"That's something," Bull says. He seems distracted but then, so is Cullen. Bull's hand keeps moving up and down along his arm, touching skin in brief flashes as his palm rubs past the sleeve of Cullen's shirt.

"How are you doing?" Cullen asks, because polite social nothings are all he can think of right now. That dreamlike quality is back, the rest of the party retreating to background noise, except that Bull is painfully real.

"I'm doing good," Bull says. "Got a new client who thinks his kids will magically stop hating each other when it comes time to settle his estate. That's always fun."

Cullen snorts. "What, they'll work it out once money is involved?"

"Of course," Bull says. "That's always how this works, right?"

From Bull's blindside, Mia makes little shooing motions with her hands. Cullen can't flip her off, not without drawing too much attention, but he deliberately looks away, refusing to make eye contact with her. "Yeah, everybody always acts more rationally once there's money on the table."

Bull's hand has stopped moving, his fingers spreading out so he's touching Cullen's upper arm almost from shoulder to elbow. With a jolt that sends his already over-worked heart into spasms, Cullen realizes that Bull's hugs don't usually last this long, even with people who don't move away like Cullen does. And Bull might be a toucher, but he never touches other people like this, not that Cullen's seen: his hand lingering, his thumb moving in slow arcs as if he's not even aware of what he's doing.

Someone knocks into him hard, sending him stumbling into Bull. "Oh, sorry!" Mia says with a giggle. "Didn't see you there."

She's gone again, back into the crowd before Cullen can come up with an appropriate response. Kick her, maybe. Or at least give her the dirty look her trick deserves.

Except Bull isn't pulling away, and Cullen's arm is now around his waist, where it went on instinct when he lost his balance. Trying not to breathe like an obscene phone call, Cullen slides the half step necessary to turn it from unconscious grab into a real hug, tucking himself under Bull's arm.

Bull's thumb has stopped moving, heat spreading out from his hand, straight through Cullen's t-shirt. "Cullen?" Bull asks cautiously.

"Yeah?" Cullen says, and thank god, his voice sounds perfectly normal. "I'm listening. How many kids has he got?"

"Who? Oh." Against his side, Bull's chest expands in a deep, deep breath. "Six. Which is just fucking perfect, because it means any decision could get completely deadlocked."

"And it will?" Cullen asks, not because he's all that interested, but because he doesn't want to go anywhere, and if they're not talking, it's going to look odd. Not to mention, someone else might decide to join them.

"Of course it will." Bull's hand slides down his arm again, fingers lingering in the crook of Cullen's elbow, and Cullen tries to remember how to breathe. "And I can already tell how the factions are going to split up. It'll be just fucking perfect."

This time when Bull's hand strokes up his arm, it moves across his shoulder to the back of his neck, Bull's fingers curling at the base of his skull and rubbing gently through his hair.

What were they talking about? For the life of him, Cullen can't remember. All around them, people are laughing and talking, but it's like they're on the other side of a wall of glass. Bull's hand is very real, though, and the sound of his fingers moving in Cullen's hair is louder than it should be.

"I'm sorry," Cullen says, his voice not quite as steady as it was. "It's kinda loud, I didn't catch that."

"Cullen."

Cullen twitches. Bull's never said his name like that, not ever, and Cullen wants nothing more than to hear him say it again, in exactly that voice. "Yeah?"

"I'm getting some weird signals here," Bull says quietly. "And I need you to talk to me, because I need to be sure I understand what you want from me."

Oh god. Cullen wants so many things, and he's not prepared to say any of them in the middle of a crowd of people. His throat locks down.

"Because you're not usually a very physical guy," Bull says. His fingers move so he's cupping the back of Cullen's skull, fingers threaded through his hair, and Cullen thinks about what it would feel like if Bull were to close his fist, the sharp tug against his scalp as his hair is pulled.

It's a good thing his throat is locked, actually, because moaning would be embarrassing.

"How much have you had to drink tonight?" Bull asks.

There's no judgment in his voice, just idle curiosity, but Cullen shakes his head vehemently.

"Talk to me," Bull says. "Out loud. I need to know what's going on."

"Just a Coke," Cullen manages, then has to clear his throat. "I had a Coke earlier, and I didn't even drink it, I spilled it on someone because..." He stops, takes a deep breath, and races through the rest of it. "Because I was too busy looking at you and not where I was going."

Bull chuckles, and Cullen feels it all through his body where he's pressed up against Bull's side. "Which is nice, but not what I was looking for. What brought this on? I'm thinking you're not just looking for a hug, but I can't be sure with you, not when you've been kinda distant before."

"Can we go back to your place?" Cullen blurts out.

Bull's arm tightens, his fingers almost pulling Cullen's hair as they try to close into a fist. "And do what, exactly?"

"What do people normally want to do when they ask that?" Cullen says, hoping Bull won't make him admit to everything he wants, right here in public.

Bull makes a thoughtful noise, his fingers trailing along Cullen's hairline. "Step outside with me for a bit?"

"Outside?" Cullen says, his head suddenly full of visions of Bull fucking him in the parking lot. It's maybe not as much of a turn-off as it should be.

"To talk," Bull says, clearly amused. "Just talk."

He moves away, then, and as warm as the room is, Cullen feels too cold. It's all he can do to follow behind Bull, to not reach for him again, and he has no idea what anyone says to him as they navigate the crowd to the door. Cullen doesn't know what they're going to talk about, but he counts it as a small victory that Bull grabs his coat before they head outside. Maybe they won't be coming back after all.

Or maybe they will, because when they get outside and Cullen tries to step close again, Bull holds up a hand to ward him off. "Nope," Bull says.

Stung, Cullen crosses his arms over his chest and hunches his shoulders into his jacket. "Sorry, I just-"

"It's fine," Bull says softly. "But we need to talk, and neither of us needs to be distracted."

The thought that he might be a distraction for Bull, that having him close might make it hard to think, has Cullen straightening with renewed confidence. "About what?" he asks.

"About you suddenly wanting to go home with me," Bull says.

Cullen flushes again, and god he's getting tired of that. As if he wasn't already too warm. "What about it? I mean, this can't be the first time someone's asked you that."

"Not even close," Bull mutters. His hands flex at his sides before he stuffs them in the pockets of his jacket. "But it's the first time you have. The first time you've shown any interest at all. So I've gotta wonder what's behind this."

"I'm not drunk," Cullen says, the first thing that comes to mind.

"I believe you," Bull says, "and I’m glad, because that would be a deal-breaker right there, but it still doesn't answer my question. Why now? What changed?"

Cullen can't look at him and answer. "Nothing," he whispers. "Nothing changed. Except that Mia kicked my ass and told me to do something. That I can't keep pretending it's nothing, that it will go away. And she made me realize that I do want...this. You."

Bull's fingers on his jaw stop him, and he lets Bull raise his head until their eyes meet. "Is this what Mia wants, or is this what you want?"

"What I want," Cullen says instantly, even though the words try to stick. "It's what I want. I don't know what Mia wants, but I don't want to think about my sister right now."

Bull smiles faintly. "Yeah, I guess not."

It's dark out here, the streetlights barely reaching them, but Cullen can see the way Bull's eye tracks the movement when he licks his lips. Bull is close enough to kiss--when did that happen?--and Cullen leans forward, wanting it more than he's ever wanted anything.

"No," Bull says, tilting his head to avoid the kiss. Before Cullen can feel rejected, he adds, "Not here. Because once I start, I don't intend to stop, and I don't think you want me to blow you against this wall here."

Cullen sucks in a breath because really, that sounds like a great idea.

"Or maybe you do," Bull murmurs. His thumb brushes Cullen's lips, and yes, that's definitely a moan that just came out of his throat. "But getting arrested for public indecency isn't going to do anything for your chances of finding a job later, so let's move this somewhere a little more private."

For a second, Cullen is too overwhelmed to move. There are so many questions in his head now, and he wants to find answers to all of them. How would Bull react if Cullen opened his mouth and licked the pad of his thumb? What does his skin taste like, and how far would he let Cullen push this? Is that blowjob against the wall actually an offer?

That's what finally pushes Cullen into motion, because as much as the idea turns him on, he wants a lot more than five minutes with Bull's mouth around his dick. "Okay," he says, and almost changes his mind again as his lips brush against Bull's thumb.

He forces himself back a step and rakes his fingers through his hair. "Where'd you park?" he asks, rubbing away the memory of Bull's fingers on his scalp so he can concentrate.

When he doesn't get an immediate answer, he looks at Bull, who's looking back at him with raised eyebrows. Cullen blinks, looks around again, then flushes. Bull's car is literally two feet away, directly under a streetlight, and Cullen can't help it. He laughs.

He stops laughing on a gasp when Bull's fingers touch his cheek. "My place?" Bull asks, and Cullen just nods.

Chapter Text

The ride to Bull's apartment might count as the longest car ride ever. It feels like it lasts days, the tension so high Cullen's dick aches with it, and it doesn't get any better when they finally get out of the car. Bull takes his hand, holds it the whole way up, but that's the only contact he allows, even when they're alone in the elevator.

Inside the apartment, Bull hangs up his coat with careful, precise movements, then takes Cullen's and does the same, fitting it around the hanger as if it's not a beat up old army jacket that's actually older than Cullen.

"Something to drink?" Bull asks casually, then laughs when Cullen makes a sound that's half growl, half whimper. "Or not."

He turns away from the closet, shutting the door gently, and moves toward Cullen. Each step is slow and deliberate, until they're chest-to-chest, and still he keeps going, forcing Cullen to step back or be knocked over. Three steps like that, and his back is against the front door, Bull pressing forward to pin him there.

The first kiss is slow and soft, Bull cupping his face in both hands, their lips barely touching. Gentle as it is, Cullen still feels like he's just been tackled in a football game: he's breathless, and every part of him aches. Only, this ache isn't about pain, and he wants it almost more than he wants to breathe.

Bull kisses him again, just like the first time, and Cullen whispers his name, not caring if he's begging.

This time, he can feel Bull's smile, but the kiss is just as much of a tease as before. With Bull's hands on his cheeks he can't lean forward to make it more, but it does finally occur to him that he has hands, too. Hands that can touch Bull's chest, that can find the buttons on his shirt and get to work on them.

At least until Bull drops one of his own hands down to stop him, curling his fingers loosely around one of Cullen's wrists. "Hey," he says softly. "You got places to be?"

"What?" Cullen asks, confused.

"You're in a big rush." Bull's thumb strokes the inside of his wrist, so distracting Cullen struggles to follow what he's saying. "So I wondered if you had some place you needed to be."

"No!" Cullen says, louder than he meant to.

"I'm teasing," Bull says, smiling. The hand on Cullen's face shifts a little, Bull's thumb stroking across his lips again as Bull's weight pins him more solidly against the door. "Or at least, mostly teasing. We've got all night. Why the hurry?"

Cullen shakes his head, as much as he can. "I've been wanting this for months." Because he can admit that now: he wanted this long before he fucked himself while thinking about Bull.

"Then we're both idiots," Bull says. "Because god knows, I've been thinking about you just as long. But that's a reason to slow down, not a reason to hurry. If I've been looking forward to a meal all day, I don't wolf it down the second it hits the plate." He leans forward again, kissing Cullen as lightly as before. "I savor it."

"Should I worry, you comparing me to food?" Cullen asks.

"Nah," Bull says. He kisses the corner of Cullen's mouth, then the underside of his jaw. "But maybe a little biting?" Before Cullen can answer, Bull does exactly that, biting his neck and then kissing the same spot.

"Yes," Cullen breathes, and he can feel Bull's smile.

Another bite, this time right under his ear, and Cullen's fingers curl into fists around Bull's shirt. "Bedroom," Bull whispers in his ear, then steps back.

Cullen staggers a half step, caught off balance, but Bull catches him with a hand under his elbow. "Easy there," Bull says, turning him in the right direction.

The bedroom is only a dozen steps down the hall, and Cullen doesn't remember any of them. All his attention is on Bull following behind him, and the next time he's aware of his surroundings, he's standing beside the bed, staring wide-eyed at Bull in the dim light from the bedside lamp.

He's struck by a sudden fit of nerves, or shyness, or something, and he blurts out, "I don't really know what I'm doing."

Bull cocks his head quizzically. "As in, you want out?"

"No, not that!" Cullen says. The last thing he wants is to walk out of here now. "But I've never...never been with a guy before."

"Do you want to stop for now?" Bull asks calmly, as if Cullen can't see his erection straining against the front of his trousers. "We don't have to go from zero to sixty in one night."

"Fuck," Cullen breathes, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. Maybe this will be easier if he can't see Bull. "I don't want out, I don't want to stop, I want zero to sixty right fucking now. I just don't know what I'm doing, or what...what would feel good to you."

Thank god Bull doesn't laugh at him. "I'll let you know," Bull says. "But you've got to return the favor. Just because I've had sex with guys doesn't mean I know what you like."

"I like you," Cullen says, then wishes he could swallow the words back, hating how breathless and needy they sound.

Bull's hands close on his wrists, pulling down so Cullen can't hide behind them anymore. "I like you, too," Bull says, and he's smiling a little. "But you need to tell me if I'm doing something you're not comfortable with. Or if I'm not doing something you want me to do."

He's in deep already, and Bull hasn't laughed at him yet. Cullen makes himself say it. "I want you to fuck me."

Bull sucks in a sharp breath, his pupil going wide. "You don't start small, do you?" he asks, voice an octave lower than it was. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I really hate to say it, but if you've never done this before, it'd probably be better to leave that for next time."

Cullen flushes, wanting to explain and unable to push the words out. Except Bull is watching his face, and his lips part as his eye narrows. "Done a little experimenting?" Bull asks, and Cullen nods.

"Fuck," Bull says, tone almost reverent. "I want to see that."

"See me...?" Cullen can't think of a word he can say with a straight face.

"See you fuck yourself," Bull whispers, catching Cullen's face between his hands again and leaning in to breathe the words against his mouth. "I want to watch you fuck yourself."

"I thought about that," Cullen says, distracted from his embarrassment by Bull's nearness. "Thought about...about doing that while you watched. About sucking you at the same time."

Bull groans and kisses him. Hard this time, mouth open and tongue pushing against Cullen's lips until Cullen recovers from his surprise and kisses him back, just as hard. This is what he was expecting earlier, a kiss that's hot and wet and frantic, tongues sliding against each other, Bull's hands tight in his hair, Cullen's hands fisted in Bull's shirt.

When Bull leans away, Cullen whines a protest, but Bull only laughs. It's some consolation that the laugh is a bit unsteady, though it's not like he was actually worried Bull wasn't interested. The hard dick pressing against his stomach is evidence enough for that.

"I think you're wearing a few too many clothes," Bull says, his hands dropping to Cullen's hips.

"I'm not the only one," Cullen mutters, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt.

He's never gotten naked so fast in his life, and Bull doesn't try to slow him down, just watches with an intent look on his face. It makes Cullen a little self-conscious, and he finds himself doing that awkward, "what do I do with my hands?" dance, now that he doesn't have pockets to stuff them in.

"You're still dressed," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. That feels too defensive, so he clasps his hands in front of his groin, but that feels too much like he's a little kid in the principal's office. Clasped behind his back, and he feels like he should be barking out "sir yes sir!"

On the front of Bull's shirt, however, feels perfect, even as Bull blinks at him in surprise. "I'll get there," Bull says, smiling a little.

"I want you there now," Cullen says. "If I'm naked, then you need to be, too."

Bull laughs, kissing him again as Cullen sets to work on his buttons, trying not to rip the shirt but desperate to get to Bull's skin. When he does, he presses a kiss to the hollow of Bull's throat, kissing his way down to suck on one nipple. Fingers twist through his hair, holding his head in place, so he sucks harder, biting down when Bull groans.

That's all the encouragement he needs to do it again, sucking and biting while Bull's fingers press against his scalp. The second he tries to lean away, though, that grip relaxes, letting him move to the other side and suck on that nipple as well, catching it between his teeth to flick his tongue across it. Bull's chest may be flatter than most of the ones Cullen has seen in the past, but this, at least, isn't so different from what he's used to.

Which only heightens his awareness of Bull's cock, something that is a good bit outside his previous experience, but with Bull moaning softly, he's feeling almost confident as he unzips Bull's trousers and shoves them down enough to wrap his hand around the shaft.

The hands in his hair go from gripping to stroking, and Bull whispers, "Yes," in a way that makes Cullen's own dick ache. He thinks about going to his knees, about trying to suck Bull's cock, but that's where his confidence fails him. As much as one part of him wants to do it, most of him is too intimidated by the thought of messing it up.

Instead, he strokes his hand up and down, trying to mimic the way he strokes himself, and sucks on Bull's nipples again. His free hand struggles with Bull's trousers, shoving at them until they finally make it over Bull's ass and drop to the floor.

He's barely congratulated himself on that when Bull tugs his hair to pull his mouth away, then spins him around so they're back to front. Bull's mouth ends up right above his ear, and the sound of his rapid breathing is doing nothing for Cullen's ability to breathe normally.

Bull's hands are exploring him now, tweaking his nipples, tracing his ribs and hips, stroking lightly over his cock. "God, yes," Bull whispers in his ear. "I think I could just do this for hours."

"Please don't," Cullen says.

"It's tempting," Bull says, one thumb flicking over Cullen's nipple.

It makes Cullen jerk, rubbing against Bull's cock, and Bull makes a noise deep in his throat. The next time, Cullen does it deliberately, grinding back against Bull.

"Still tempted?" he asks, and Bull chuckles.

That's all the warning Cullen gets before Bull picks him up, bride-over-the-threshold style. His arm goes around Bull's neck on instinct, and his eyes widen. He's not a small man, and he's not used to being picked up as if he weighs nothing.

The bed protests alarmingly when Bull drops him on it, then protests again when Bull lands beside him. Before he can recover, Bull is straddling him, hips rolling to press their cocks together, and Cullen arches up to meet him, groaning.

He loses track of time, then, his attention taken up by Bull's hands and mouth moving over him, as if Bull is mapping out every inch of his skin. Not just the obvious places, either: as much time as Bull spends sucking on his nipples and stroking his cock, he spends just as long on Cullen's fingers and the insides of his elbows.

It's overwhelming, so much so that when Bull runs one finger from his balls to his ass, Cullen doesn't even think to worry. He arches his hips, begging for it wordlessly, and Bull obliges, fucking him slowly with just that one finger.

"Oh god," Cullen gasps. "More, please."

Bull makes a noise, half laugh and half groan. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

"Not before you fuck me," Cullen says, and if his voice has gone high and breathy, Bull kindly doesn't mention it.

For a second, he thinks he's said something wrong, because Bull moves away, but before Cullen can make his hands work to grab for him, Bull is back, and Cullen's brain shuts down at the sight of the condom and the bottle of lube. A tiny part of him is worrying, but most of him is panting, "Yes yes yes, please now, please now, please now!"

This time when Bull fucks him, it's with two fingers, and it feels so good he can't stop himself from rocking onto them, trying to push them deeper. "Slowly," Bull murmurs. "Slowly. I don't want to hurt you, and we've got all night."

Cullen wants to tell him that if they've got all night, that means they can do this more than once, but his mouth isn't really under his control anymore, and all he can do is make pathetic begging noises until Bull kisses him again. Not that the kiss makes him feel any less needy, but at least no one can hear him, now.

Bull's fingers slide in and out, slow and steady, while his mouth presses hard against Cullen's, tongue thrusting between Cullen's lips as Cullen rises up to meet him, desperate for more contact. He grabs the back of Bull's neck with both hands, holding on like that's the only thing keeping him from falling, and Bull laughs into the kiss.

Even with the strength of Cullen's grip, Bull still manages to break the kiss enough to say, "Tell me if I'm going too fast."

About to inform him that, if anything, he's going too damn slow, Cullen stops when Bull's fingers are replaced with his cock. Just the tip at first, pressing against him without actually penetrating, winding up the anticipation until Cullen thinks he might scream.

Then Bull's hips flex and his cock pushes in. Just an inch, but it's almost too much, stretching him open, too open, and he wants to say stop, to change his mind, except Bull is already pulling out again, and that's wrong, too. Empty. He doesn't want that emptiness, and he realizes that he doesn't care if it hurts, he just wants to be stretched around Bull's cock, full and aching and thoroughly fucked.

Bull's cock is there again, opening him up, and this time it doesn't hurt, not like it did before. But just like before, Bull's already pulling out, leaving him wanting, ready to beg for it if he could find the words.

Inch by inch, Bull fucks him. All the way out, then back in a little deeper than last time, until their hips are pressed together, his balls resting against Cullen's ass.

"Okay?" Bull asks, and Cullen can hear the strain in his voice, the effort it's taking him to hold still.

"Fuck, yes," Cullen gasps. "Fuck me, please."

Bull mutters something that might be a curse or might be a prayer. "Jerk yourself off," he says. "I want to watch you do that while I fuck you."

Cullen's hands aren't working much better than his voice, but he manages to get one wrapped around his dick. As Bull withdraws again, Cullen starts to stroke himself, fingers loose to fend off the orgasm he can already feel building inside him.

For all Bull said he wanted to watch, his eye is on Cullen's face rather than his hand. Cullen might feel self-conscious about it, and about whatever faces he's making, except that Bull is fucking him in earnest now, long hard strokes that he feels through his whole body. Fucking himself has nothing on this, on the way Bull owns him, takes him, pushes him far past the limits of what he thought he could withstand.

Bull leans forward, bending him almost in half, and drives into him harder. Cullen gasps for breath and begs, "Please," and Bull hisses like Cullen punched him.

"Come on," Bull groans. "Want to feel you."

His weight is pressing down on Cullen, straining the backs of his thighs as Bull leans down far enough to kiss him, wet and filthy. Cullen grabs the back of Bull's neck with the hand not on his cock, not caring when the kiss turns sloppy. All he cares about is Bull's cock and Bull's mouth and his hand on his own cock, stroking faster.

Bull's lips follow the line of his jaw to his ear, licking and biting at the skin until he's sucking on Cullen's earlobe, his breathing loud and heavy. "God yes," Bull mutters in his ear. "God, I've been wanting you...wanting this...for too...damn...long..." Each word is punctuated by a thrust, and Cullen's mouth falls open on a soundless shout as he comes, Bull's whispered encouragement stealing the last of his control.

He's still shuddering when Bull groans and freezes, cock buried deep, and Cullen gets his eyes open in time to see his head tip back, his mouth open and the line of his neck taut, and it sends another shudder through him. If he hadn't just come, he would now.

"Fuck," Bull whispers at last, and for some reason, it makes Cullen laugh. Bull grunts, half protest and half amusement, and rolls away from him.

Cullen is content to lie there, even if he does have come all over his hand and stomach, just remembering how to breathe. His ass is a little sore, but not much, and if Bull suggested a round two, he definitely wouldn't say no.

Bull returns with a washcloth and minus the condom, then sits on the side of the bed while Cullen cleans himself off. There's a tension in his shoulders Cullen doesn't understand, until Bull says, "What now?"

"What...now?" Cullen asks, feeling fucked out and stupid. "Ummm...I was thinking maybe sleep?"

"Sleep sounds good," Bull says, taking the washcloth and lobbing it in the direction of the clothes hamper. "Are you sleeping here, or at home?"

Before Cullen can decide whether Bull is kicking him out, he adds, "I'd like it if you stayed, but it's not a problem if you want to go. I can drive you back, or get you a cab, or whatever."

"I'd rather stay," Cullen says, too boneless to want to move. And too blissed out to try to hide exactly how much he means it.

Bull's smile is crooked, his fingers gentle as he pushes Cullen's hair away from his face. "Well, then," he murmurs. "You definitely should."

Chapter Text

Bull wakes up too hot, buried under way more blankets than he remembers falling asleep with, and half smothered by a pillow that isn't the one currently under his head. Not entirely awake, it takes him a moment to struggle free of the tangle, but when he's finally upright and able to breathe, he almost laughs as he realizes what happened.

It turns out that Cullen is the opposite of a blanket hog: somewhere in the middle of the night, he tossed all the covers onto Bull, along with his pillow, and now he's sprawled on his stomach with the sheet barely over his ass. It's a mystery how he isn't freezing, but he doesn't look uncomfortable, and Bull isn't about to complain.

He slides out of bed as carefully as he can, tip-toeing across the bedroom to the door. Cullen is still sound asleep when he glances back, face burrowed into the crook of his own arm, and Bull debates crawling back into bed to kiss him awake.

First things first, though.

There's a bathroom at the far end of the apartment from the bedroom, and he hits that, then the kitchen to toast the last two slices of cinnamon-raisin bread. His kitchen is bare of anything else to eat, but they can always go out, depending on how Cullen feels when he wakes up.

Coffee mug in hand, the plate with the toast stacked on top, Bull heads back for the bedroom. Cullen doesn't appear to have moved, and he doesn't stir when Bull gets into bed, settling his weight slowly so the mattress doesn't shift too abruptly. Bull is grinning outright by the time he's leaning back against the headboard with his coffee and his toast.

Maybe it's weird, staring at Cullen while he sleeps, but Bull can't stop himself. He's been on his best behavior for three fucking months, not being the creepy guy drooling on his little brother's friend, and now that he's allowed to look--to touch--he's planning to do both for as long as Cullen lets him. For now, he limits himself to looking, since Cullen is still asleep.

There's certainly plenty to look at, from the curve of his cheek just visible under his arm, to the wild disarray of his hair that practically begs for Bull's fingers, to the long line of his back ending in a tease with the sheet that covers him from the hips down. Bull is contemplating whether he can peel the sheet back without waking Cullen when he glances back at Cullen's face and realizes he's being watched.

"G'morning," Cullen mumbles into his own arm, sleepy but not embarrassed or uncomfortable. The corner of his eye crinkles in a smile, his mouth still hidden by his arm.

"G'morning," Bull says. Now that Cullen is awake, he doesn't have to feel even a little bit guilty about leaning down to kiss the curve of his neck, letting stubble scrape over skin as Cullen hums, sleepy and pleased.

"You smell like cinnamon," Cullen says, sounding marginally more awake than he did a minute ago.

"Toast." Bull leans back onto his elbow so Cullen can roll over, holding up the plate by way of explanation. "Want some?"

Without waiting for an answer, he sets the plate down on his hip and breaks off a small piece of toast to offer it to Cullen. Bull is still propped on one elbow, and when Cullen sits up enough to take the toast, he also slides sideways so he's propped half against Bull and half against the headboard, his head leaning sideways against Bull's shoulder.

It puts his head at the perfect height for Bull to kiss his temple, so he does. While he's distracted, Cullen steals another piece of his toast.

"Hey!" Bull protests, making no effort to steal it back.

"You offered," Cullen says. His breath is warm on Bull's skin, and his mouth is warmer when he turns to kiss the hollow of Bull's throat. "No take backs."

"You want some of my coffee, too?" Bull asks, glancing over his shoulder at the mug sitting on the nightstand.

"Nah," Cullen says. He kisses the same spot again, and this time, his tongue flicks out to taste the skin.

Bull doesn't bother to hide the way it makes his breathing stutter, but Cullen doesn't take the hint, just shifts a little and steals another bite of toast. His hair is now brushing against Bull's throat whenever either of them moves, light touches that are more than a little distracting.

"So what's the plan?" Bull asks, moving the plate from his hip to Cullen's stomach and ignoring the voice in his head that suggests he just toss the plate on the floor and kiss Cullen rather than talk.

Already reaching for another piece, Cullen pauses. "The plan for what?"

Why is there no way to talk about relationships that hasn't been turned into a cliché by bad romantic comedies? Bull stifles a sigh and takes the least embarrassing option. "Us. What's the plan for us?" He thinks about that, then adds, "Is there an us, or is this a one-time thing?"

Cullen swallows so hard it makes Bull's throat hurt. "I'd like there to be an us," he says quietly, fiddling with the half-eaten slice of toast.

"I think I'd like being an us with you," Bull says, kissing the top of his head and smiling when Cullen's shoulders slump in relief.

"Good." He leaves off playing with the toast to put his hand on Bull's side, thumb stroking over his ribs until something makes him laugh. "Even if Dorian will be smug as shit about this."

"Oh god," Bull mutters, because Cullen is right.

"You know what he's going to say?"

"'What took you so long?'"

"Well, I was thinking, 'Fucking finally!' but that works, too." Cullen snorts and breaks off another piece of toast. "Pun unintended."

Bull's face is starting to hurt from smiling. "Kind of appropriate, though."

Cullen hums agreement and lets the conversation lag, but the silence isn't uncomfortable. Bull is perfectly content to bury his nose in Cullen's hair and think about nothing except his breathing.

Eventually, Cullen flicks the edge of the plate, drawing Bull's attention. "You want any of this before I finish it?" Cullen asks.

Bull takes another bite for form's sake, crunching it slowly while Cullen devours the rest and licks the butter and crumbs off his fingers with excessive thoroughness.

Turned on and amused both, Bull asks, "You want some real breakfast, or you want to sleep a little longer?" As if he can't guess what the answer will be.

"None of the above?" And yes, Cullen is definitely smiling as he kicks off the sheet to free his legs.

The movement draws Bull's attention, and the sight of Cullen's dick keeps it. He's more than halfway to hard, the invitation obvious.

"None of the above?" Bull asks, feigning confusion as he twists backward to set the plate down beside his mug. "A trip to the library, then? Or did you want me to take you home?"

For an answer, Cullen pushes him over onto his back, following so that he ends up astride Bull's waist, his hands braced on Bull's chest. "Maybe later," he says, spreading his fingers wide as if he's trying to touch as much of Bull's chest as possible.

"Okay," Bull says. He rests his hands on top of Cullen's, thumb rubbing over the backs of his fingers. "But I'm still not sure what the plan is for this morning, if we're staying here but not getting breakfast."

He expects Cullen to kiss him, or stroke himself, or do anything except what he does, which is say in a low voice, "I want to suck you." The tips of his ears are bright red, and he won't quite meet Bull's eye. His expression is set in the determined mask of someone about to take a test they forgot to study for.

"It's not a requirement," Bull says, amused and trying to hide it.

"I want to," Cullen says, eyes still fixed on Bull's shoulder.

Bull suspects he knows where this is coming from, and he has to fight to keep the laugh from his voice as he says, "You don't have anything to prove."

"I want to," Cullen says stubbornly. His cheeks are now as red as his ears, but at last he looks up. "I just don't have a clue what I'm doing."

Bull opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Cullen's eyes narrow. "And don't say there's no such thing as a bad blowjob, because I can tell you some stories."

This time, Bull doesn't bother to hide the laugh. "We could trade, because yeah, I've had some bad ones. But that doesn't mean you'll be bad at it."

Cullen looks skeptical. "Not sure how I'd be anything else." He ducks his head and coughs once. "Will it...bother you, to tell me what to do?"

Pretty much the opposite, and Bull's cock is getting harder at the thought. "Not even a little bit." Cullen still looks like he's bracing himself for something painful, so Bull touches his cheek. "Hey, I'm serious. You don't have to do this. Giving head is not a requirement to prove your gay-ness, or bi-ness, or whatever."

The skin under Bull's fingers heats, but at least Cullen is smiling again. "Bi-ness?"

"Or whatever." His fingers drift from Cullen's cheek to his lips, tracing the edge of the bottom one until Cullen tips his chin down enough to get his mouth around the first two. His teeth are gentle, pinning Bull's fingers in place while his tongue flicks over the tips.

Distracted, Bull has to scramble to remember what he was going to say. Before he can quite collect his thoughts, Cullen is shifting backward to lie between his thighs, and Bull changes his mind about continuing that particular discussion. Instead, he asks, "Is it going to bother you if I watch?" The last thing he wants is to make Cullen even more self-conscious about this, but part of the fun for him is in watching.

Cullen looks up from his inspection of Bull's half hard cock, his eyes too dark for the bright room. "I like you watching."

And now Bull's cock is definitely more than halfway to hard. He runs a careful hand through Cullen's hair, and Cullen leans into it, turning his face to kiss the center of Bull's palm. "I thought about that a lot," Cullen says, the words barely audible. "You watching me while I did...all kinds of things."

"What kinds of things?" Bull teases.

"This," Cullen says, leaning forward to kiss the head of Bull's cock. He's got one hand around the base now, stroking lightly. "I thought about sucking your dick while you watched me."

"Well then," Bull says. He can't look away from Cullen's mouth, so close to his cock but not quite close enough. "I think we can probably manage that. And maybe later you can tell me about the other things."

"Maybe." Cullen's smile is almost shy. "Probably."

Bull is looking forward to that, but for now, he concentrates on Cullen, who's lowered his head to lick the entire length of Bull's cock. Slowly. When he gets to the head, he wraps his lips around it and glances up through his lashes to check Bull's reaction. It's cute, and also hot as fuck.

"Yeah," Bull murmurs. He strokes a thumb over Cullen's cheek, rubbing idly across the stubble. "That's good."

Cullen smiles without raising his head, and that's pretty hot, too, him smiling with his mouth around Bull's dick. His tongue moves over the head, broad sweeps with the flat and tentative flicks with the tip, his eyes on Bull's face the whole time.

Wrapping his hand around his dick, overlapping Cullen's but closer to the head, Bull says, "Can you go down more? Just to my hand." Someday he wants to see Cullen swallow the whole thing, his lips all the way to the base, but not today.

There's a moment of hesitation, then Cullen shifts his weight and lets his mouth sink down. He's maybe a little too afraid of accidentally getting his teeth involved, because his mouth is open wide enough that his lips are more of a tease than anything, and most of the pressure is from his tongue. The upstroke is just as light, barely a touch against Bull's cock.

With a little coaxing, he curls his lips around his teeth and presses in more firmly, gaining confidence as his mouth moves. He starts to experiment, changing the pressure and the angle, following Bull's hand as it slides downward, until Bull takes his hand away and Cullen's mouth meets his own fist on every stroke.

"God, you look good like that." And oh, does he ever, his mouth and his hand moving together now as he works Bull's cock. His eyes are closed in concentration, his breath coming faster and his cheeks red. "I could watch you suck my dick all day."

Cullen shivers and makes a small, helpless noise, his hand squeezing tighter for a second before he moves again, faster than before.

Bull grins. "You like that? You like me talking about how you look with your mouth on my dick?"

This time, the noise Cullen makes is more of a groan, even as his face turns redder.

"Just the sound is hot." Bull combs his fingers through Cullen's hair, tugging lightly without trying to control him. "I don't need to look, I can hear every goddamn stroke, but fuck. Watching my dick slide between those lips, watching you fight to take as much as you can? I want to see that."

He didn't actually mean it as an instruction, but Cullen takes it that way, shifting so his finger and thumb are wrapped loosely around the base of Bull's cock while his mouth continues to move. Slower, though, taking his time on every stroke: all the way up until his lips are barely making contact with the head and then down until he's almost choking.

Bull can't look away, his fingers tightening in Cullen's hair before he catches himself, because fuck. He's always liked watching, and Cullen looks like he's enjoying himself now that he's stopped worrying so much. The fingers of his free hand move up and down Bull's leg, thumb grazing the hollow at the top of his thigh or along his balls on each stroke. A firmer touch would be nice, but the tease feels good, too, especially since his plans for the morning involve a lot of things other than just letting Cullen suck him until he comes.

No matter how good this feels right now.

Cullen lifts his head enough to say, "I thought you were going to tell me what to do," and Bull's hands curl into fists again.

This time, he doesn't force them open. He tugs as gently as he can on Cullen's hair and says, "Get up here."

Rather than obey, Cullen twists against Bull's grip, head pulling down as if he's trying to get away.

Bull releases him immediately, but before he can apologize, Cullen makes a disappointed noise and says, only a little embarrassed, "I wasn't...I didn't want you to let go. I just wanted you to pull harder."

Fucking hell. He pulls again, tightening his grip by degrees until Cullen's face is buried in the crease of his hip and he's gasping, each breath coming out on a moan. One of his hands is still on Bull's cock, and he strokes it, rough and fast, like he's lost track of the fact that it's not his own dick he's touching.

"Get up here," Bull says again, tugging upward.

This time, Cullen moves, shaking and awkward in his haste. He almost puts his knee down on Bull's dick, but he hasn't managed to spit out all of an apology before Bull is dragging him down into a kiss.

All the confidence he lacked with his mouth around Bull's dick is back. His teeth catch Bull's lower lip, sucking on it hard before his tongue licks across it and into Bull's mouth. One of his hands is braced on the pillow while the other cups the back of Bull's neck, his thumb stroking over the curve of Bull's jaw.

Cullen pulls back with a laugh, rubbing harder with his thumb. "I'm not used to stubble there." He bends down to kiss the spot he's been stroking, sucking gently on it. "Not complaining, mind you. Just not used to it."

He moves from jaw to earlobe, breath loud, and Bull hisses as he bites down. As soon as he lets go, Bull flips them over, pinning Cullen to the bed with his weight and doing to Cullen what Cullen just did to him.

With his lips against Cullen's ear, he whispers, "So tell me about these other things you thought about while you jerked off." Cullen hesitates, and Bull can almost feel the embarrassment. He brushes his nose against the curve of Cullen's ear, exhaling softly. "Last night you said you thought about fucking yourself while I watched."

Cullen nods and swallows hard.

"I want to see that." He said it last night, but he's not sure Cullen believed him. "I want to see what you like, and how you look when you do it."

The sound Cullen makes is ridiculously hot, his hips flexing under Bull's. "I don't...I mean...I can't..." He's stumbling over the words, almost stuttering, and Bull is about to reassure him that they don't have to do anything he doesn't want when Cullen manages, "I don't have my...the...ummm..."

Bull can't resist teasing him just a little. "I have an ummm. I have several ummms, in fact." He'd expected Cullen to need persuading, and maybe some time to get used to the idea, but if he's willing... "If I got you one, would you let me watch while you fucked yourself?"

Cullen's nod is jerky but emphatic. Bull kisses his cheek before rolling to the edge of the bed, and he's once again both amused and turned on when Cullen follows to see what he's doing.

It takes Bull a second to find the box's handle and pull it out from under the bed, and another second to find the edges of the lid to open it. When he does, Cullen huffs out a laugh and says, "Wow."

"Never know what you might be in the mood for," Bull says. He glances over at Cullen, who's staring into the box with his eyes gone huge. Following the line of his gaze to a plug the size of his fist, Bull laughs. "This isn't a challenge."

"Good thing for me," Cullen mutters. He reaches down to tap a smaller box inside the larger one. "What's in here?"

It isn't what Bull would have grabbed, but it has potential. He flips the lid open and says, "Something a little different."

Cullen's brows draw down in concentration, like he's trying to figure out exactly what he's looking at. The stainless steel curve is a little shorter than Bull's forearm, slightly tapered and with a ball at each end. Their reflections, warped by the curve of the metal, stare back at them until Cullen picks up the toy.

He blinks at the weight, hefting it in his palm for a second before scrambling backward to sit on his heels. Bull shifts to prop himself up on an elbow, content for the moment to watch Cullen turn the toy over in his hand, using his finger and thumb to test the width of it at various points.

"Can I...?" he asks at last. Despite the hesitation in his voice and the blush across his cheeks, he looks eager when he raises his eyes to meet Bull's.

Seeing Cullen excited like this is making it hard for Bull to breathe normally, and he has to cough once to clear his throat before he can say, "My toy box is your toy box."

The corners of Cullen's mouth twitch, but all he says as he leans over to kiss Bull quickly is, "Show me?"

If ever there was an invitation Bull couldn't refuse, that would be it. "Lie down."

Cullen doesn't so much lie down as collapse sideways, his head hitting the pillows with a soft whoomph. He spreads his arms wide as if to say, "Here I am," grinning up at Bull, who wastes no time grabbing the lube and sliding down to kneel between Cullen's thighs.

He starts simple, his mouth on Cullen's dick because he's been wanting to do this even longer than he's wanted to fuck him. This was the first fantasy, the one that kicked him in the chest--or possibly a little lower--when he looked up from his phone to find Cullen shirtless and sweating, wearing a pair of running shorts Bull was sure would have fallen down with one good tug. In that moment, Bull could almost taste his skin, what it would be like to suck his cock, to feel it soft in his mouth, growing harder with every passing second.

He'd jerked off to the fantasy that night, and felt guilty about it later. Not guilty enough to avoid doing it again, though.

Now he does all the things he's thought about for so long, licking and sucking and stroking until Cullen's hands are twisting in the sheets, the toy forgotten beside him. His lips are moving, but the only sounds he's making are harsh gasps and the occasional moan rising sharply into a whine. He cries out when Bull fucks him with two fingers, one hand rising to pull hard at his own hair, and Bull wants to stroke himself to the sight of Cullen spread out and writhing on his bed.

There'll be time for that later. For now, he slides his fingers slowly out, spreading them wide so that Cullen's hips jerk. While Cullen gasps for air, hands still fisted in his hair and the sheets, Bull grabs the toy and applies the lube liberally. He'll have to change the sheets later, but so what?

With the toy just resting against Cullen's ass, Bull looks up. Cullen is watching him, glassy-eyed and panting, his face and chest flushed red.

"This is a good look for you," Bull says.

Cullen gives a slightly-strangled laugh. His hips are moving again, pushing against the toy, but Bull keeps his grip loose enough that the metal just slides through his fingers.

Cullen growls in frustration. "Are you going to fuck me, or not?"

"Or not," Bull says. Cullen looks at him blankly. "You're going to fuck you, remember?"

The flush creeps another few inches down Cullen's chest. "Yeah," he breathes out. "I remember."

"Then I'm going to need a hand," Bull says. It gets him another blank look, and Bull tries not to laugh. "Like, your actual hand."

Cullen blinks, and then they're both laughing, Cullen's arm flung over his eyes. "God, I'm an idiot," he says to the ceiling, shoulders shaking.

"Nah," Bull says, the laugh still bubbling in his chest. "I'll take it as a compliment."

"Fuck," Cullen says without moving his arm. "I can't even think right now."

Bull pitches his voice low and strokes his free hand up Cullen's thigh. "Then don't."

A shiver runs down Cullen's body, goosebumps rising everywhere, and he drops his arm away from his face to look at Bull. Whatever he sees there, it makes him shiver again.

"Hand?" Bull murmurs, and Cullen holds it out to him.

Bull guides it to the toy, wrapping Cullen's fingers around the curved shaft. "All yours," he says. "Take it as fast or slow as you want."

Apparently, that's very slow--tentative even--but Bull isn't going to rush him. It's hot, watching him stretch himself wide around the metal, pushing forward and easing back, then pushing forward again, a little farther every time. His eyes are closed, his lips parted, and Bull is briefly mesmerized by the path of his tongue across his lips.

Cullen gasps as the ball at the end of the toy slips all the way inside, his fingers twitching around the metal shaft. After a second, he tugs gently on it: not hard enough to pull it back out, but enough that Bull knows he can feel the stretch. Watching him do it, Bull's resolve--to keep his hands to himself, to let Cullen explore on his own--wavers.

He limits himself to a single touch, one finger tracing the line where the metal disappears into Cullen's body, pressing down to feel the hard curve of the ball under Cullen's skin. Cullen groans, so Bull does it again, rubbing a little harder this time, wanting to hear Cullen make that noise as many times as possible.

"Can you come like this?" Bull asks, watching Cullen's throat work as he tries to swallow.

"I...don't know?" Cullen sounds half gone already. "Maybe?"

"Do you want to?" He strokes his thumb over the skin behind Cullen's balls, nudging his thighs wider to give himself a better view. "Or do you want to play with it a little more first?"

For an answer, Cullen stops pulling on the toy and pushes instead. With the widest part already inside him, it slides easily, a few more inches disappearing before he pulls it almost all the way back out. The second time he presses in, Bull guides his hand, keeping his movements slow, forcing the ball to curve up-

Cullen's eyes fly open wide and his back arches so far his hips come off the bed, his throat working soundlessly. It's a long moment before he collapses back, his hands shaking and his cock still hard.

"Oh." It's almost a sigh, barely more than a breath.

Bull's own dick twitches, and he lets go of Cullen's hand to stroke himself. Lightly.

Now that he knows what he's looking for, Cullen doesn't need any help, though it does take him a little longer this time. Bull knows when he finds it from the way his whole body spasms. His hand is back in his hair, gripping so hard his knuckles are white, and his legs are shifting, feet scrabbling for purchase on the sheets.

Before one of Cullen's knees can hit him anywhere unfortunate, Bull crawls up the bed to lie propped on an elbow beside him and works on untangling Cullen's hand from his own hair. His goal was to get Cullen to stroke himself, but Cullen lets go of himself only to grab the back of Bull's neck, pulling him down for an uncoordinated kiss. Mouths open, tongues thrusting, Cullen moaning with every breath, and Bull has to grip his own dick hard to keep from coming.

He leans back enough to grab the hand on his neck, bringing it around to kiss the backs of the fingers before wrapping it forcefully around Cullen's dick. "Come on," Bull whispers. "Show me what you'd do if I wasn't here."

Both of Cullen's hands stop, and he opens his eyes with what looks like immense effort. "...want you here..."

Bull smiles at him. "Then show me what you like."

"...you..." Cullen mumbles, his hands moving again as his eyes close. "...like you..."

"I like you, too." Bull kisses the corner of his mouth. "Show me what else you like. I want to see you come like this."

Cullen shudders. His mouth is moving again, and this close, Bull can tell he's whispering "fuck" over and over. The only part Bull can hear is the hard click at the end, the softer sounds lost in Cullen's gasps for air. His hand is moving fast over his cock, his hips twisting and rocking, and then his body seizes, back arching as he comes all over his chest and stomach.

Bull waits until he's started breathing again to kiss him. It's no better coordinated than last time, but Cullen panting into his mouth, shaking from the force of his orgasm, is all Bull wants. He stops trying to hold himself back, squeezing and stroking his dick, his breath speeding up as Cullen's evens out.

Almost at the edge, he leans back, needing air slightly more than he wants to keep kissing Cullen. When he opens his eye, Cullen is watching him, pupils blown wide, looking exactly like someone who's just been fucked within an inch of his life. Tremors are still running through him, shivers Bull can feel where their bodies are pressed together.

His heart is beating too hard for him to hear anything, but he can read his name on Cullen's lips. The "please" that follows is the last straw, and he comes so hard he's not even sure he has a body anymore, like his nerves have burned themselves out in one pure, perfect explosion.

He manages to collapse on the pillow instead of on Cullen, their heads close without knocking into each other. When his heart has slowed a bit and most of the shaking has stopped, he wipes his hand off on the sheets and reaches down to help Cullen pull the toy free. Beyond that, he doesn't do anything more than toss it gently to the far side of the bed before draping an arm over Cullen's chest.

Cullen takes a huge breath and lets it out slowly, his body turning more boneless, something that shouldn't be physically possible.

"Doing okay there?" Bull asks into the pillow.

"Yeah," Cullen says, sounding sleepy and satisfied. "Doing okay."

Bull smiles. They should get up and get some breakfast--something a little more substantial than a couple slices of toast--and probably take a shower in there somewhere. And they're going to have to face Dorian and his "fucking finally!" at some point.

At some point.

But not right now.