If I forgot to post someone’s work, or you didn’t get tag for a gift (and completed your gift), let me know ASAP!
It’s been a fun, wild, chaotic but rewarding ride, and hopefully I’ll see you again next year ;)
From @thekingofcarrotflower for http://foetal.tumblr.com/
Prompts used: Spoiling each other (Dorian spoiling Bull, at least) & eating together
When the merchants filtered into Skyhold with their carts brimming with Josephine’s newest requisitions and whatever new items they had to sell to the denizens of Skyhold, Dorian had politely excused himself from watching the Chargers’ training. It wasn’t uncommon for Dorian to linger near the training grounds when the Chargers used it at what Dorian deemed to be a ‘reasonable hour’, but Bull had noticed the man watching the gates rather than watching Bull, sweaty and swinging a practice sword, like he usually did.
“Huh,” Krem said, digging the tip of his sword into the dirt and leaning heavily on it as they watched Dorian bound up the stairs to the main hall, “He waiting on a new shipment of those fancy soaps and shit of his? Heard him complaining he’d run out of something the other day.”
“I dunno,” Bull shrugged one shoulder, eye lingering on the large double doors. He wasn’t overly concerned - Dorian still valued his privacy, sometimes spend an evening in the library or his own quarters when he needed the space - but curiosity twinged inside of Bull.
“Guess you’ll find out sooner or later,” Krem grunted, lifting his sword again.
Bull grunted in agreement, lifting his own weapon. Krem needed practice blocking blows from his left side, anyways. Whatever Dorian was up to could wait.
—
“New stash?” Bull asked when he returned to his quarters hours later, after training and a long bath. His knee had been acting up since the weather was starting to grow colder, and a steaming bath seemed to do the trick. He’d taken some time to search for Dorian beforehand, to invite him along, but had little luck finding him. Varric had claimed to see him hours ago, conversing with Josephine and heading towards the ambassador’s study, but there seemed to be no sign of him since.
For the prompt: Bull/Dorian open relationship–who else they see, under what conditions, how each of them feels about it, how they communicate about it.
From @saterema for @hobbitkaiju
- - -
When it began, Dorian was content to speak as little of the details of their liaisons as possible. That was familiar, natural even, and seemingly suited The Iron Bull as well. Yet the agreement did not feel the same as ones he had made before, with other men. It was not an unspoken agreement to secrecy so much as that words had not needed to be exchanged. Dorian had been under no illusion that their relationship was anything beyond physical, if he could even have called it a relationship then.
The illicit encounters of his past had always begun with the knowledge that romantic entanglement was forbidden, and often assumed unwanted. But Bull had been different, hadn’t he? Too honest for a Ben-Hassrath, too easy to laugh for a Qunari, too giving for a man who would have only ever wanted sex. Yet the invitation for romantic involvement was as absent as any upfront denial of it; a small detail, but an important one.
That first night still seemed like a dream to him, even now, a night of bliss that stretched for hours into the dawn. He’d never had that luxury before, never had the time to be touched, to be explored, to be worshiped even. It was more than he would have dared expect, and yet Bull had given it to him willingly, happily. And so there was no sinking feeling in his stomach when he left before dawn, puzzling him as much as it excited him. And if a twinge affection rose in his chest the next evening when Bull greeted Dorian jovially at dinner, well… who could blame him?
It had been easy to tamp that affection down though, in the weeks after, when duty called the Altus to Crestwood with the Inquisitor, his knowledge of necromancy a key asset in their countless fights with the undead that haunted the lake. He’d stayed focused, for the most part, on his duty - on being of use. In fact, they’d made quick work of an otherwise abysmal mission.
When all was said and done, lake drained and mayor fled, Dorian had only the return trip to occupy his mind, and so his thoughts wandered. Near a week’s trip on horseback left to sit and wonder if Bull was thinking about him. A week to wonder how many others had found their way into the bed he sought in the Fade as he slept. He dismissed it, as he dismissed most things he desired in earnest. He decided he was not jealous, because to be jealous, Bull would have had to have been his.
Prompt would be “sharing body heat.” Warning for canon-typical violence. For @anidragon from @ofwolvesandshatteredshields
Dorian doesn’t think much of it when the arrow takes him in the arm. It’s most unpleasant, of course, but he has been wounded before, and anyway, there are much more pressing things on his mind. Such as the several dozen Venatori sprinting gleefully toward him over the ice, not to mention the several more dozen who have made the crossing already and are busy gaining a foothold on the snowy bank.
There is an Inquisition camp on this side of the river. The way things are going, that is soon to change.
Dorian puts distance between himself and the melee, moving away from the frozen bridge their mages have summoned towards where the water flows high and fast beside him. The river is as black as the night sky above, and glints in the light of the near-full moon. He reaches up and snaps off the arrow-shaft at his arm, gasping in pain—hasn’t any idea how some people can do that without even a flinch.
Speaking of which, Bull is standing at the place where the bridge meets land, bellowing out some barbaric battle cry or other in that resonant voice of his. He’s neck-deep in Venatori and doesn’t appear particularly bothered by it. The field of snow around him gleams blight with reflected moonlight, and his axe flashes as he swings it through the air. Dorian did try to avoid him for a time—he’s Qunari, after all—but has found himself less repulsed as of late. Qunari, yes, but also thoughtful and clever and, it must be said, considerate at times—if only he weren’t so crude—
With a start Dorian finds a brace of warriors dashing toward him, snow spraying up in their wake. Kaffas. He was almost asleep when they attacked and hasn’t quite woken up yet. He reaches for the Veil to slow the soldiers down—
—and doesn’t find it.
For a moment he’s stupefied—he’s a mage, of course he can feel the Veil. Only he can’t. He only just manages to raise his staff in time to defend himself. Why can’t he sense it? Where did it go? His blocks are weak and sloppy. He stumbles back, wavering in the shin-deep snow, struggling to keep his balance. What’s wrong with him? The two soldiers hack down at his staff, seemingly content just to push him back. So he retreats, and retreats. Each strike jars his wounded arm, the arrowhead still stuck inside it. Again he reaches for the Veil, straining his senses. It isn’t there. It isn’t—
His foot slips down a sharp incline. The bank.
Venhedis.
Dorian heaves his body forward as he slides down the steep slope in a desperate attempt not to fall. Then an armored heel smashes into his cheek, and his head whips to the side, his boots slipping in the snow. He wheels, his arms flailing.
The water slaps into his back and closes over him.
from @ichigo-otaku (a wonderful, wonderful pinch-hitter) for @adaarkadan
“You cannot be serious?” Dorian asks. He is standing in the doorway of his and the Bull’s small apartment (well, what feels small, given that the Bull is a broad monster of a man and can make any living space feel tiny), his arms crossed over his chest and one foot tapping on the floor in disappointment.
The Bull and Krem are standing in the doorway, both of them grinning and holding various objects in his direction. They’re each wearing Christmas sweaters and Santa hats, the Bull even has one on the end of each horn. Krem’s holding a hat out for in Dorian, while the Bull extends a matching sweater in Dorian’s direction.
It’s endearing, if only the Bull’s sweater didn’t read something so crude as “Personal ride of one Dorian Pavus,” and it even has a cute little snowman underneath the caption with a mustache similar to Dorian’s. The sweater in his hands says “Sorry, I only ride the Iron Bull” and is decorated by mini sets of the Bull’s horns. Those, too, have little santa hats on the ends.
“Kadan,” the Bull says, his voice in the tune he uses when he wants to get something out of Dorian. “I think you’d look rather handsome in it. Won’t you put it on for the Christmas party at the tavern? The boys are already waiting for us, and they all pitched in to buy us the set.”
Dorian isn’t hesitant to send Krem a venomous glare, which has Krem responding with a smirk. At least he has the decency to wear a sweater that has some modesty to it, and he must have gotten it second hand from the Bull, as it’s a little large on him and sports a set of reindeer in the midst of a celebratory Christmas romp. Dorian knows he’s seen the Bull wearing something similar once before, in fact he wouldn’t be surrpised if they also had a matching set.
For: @alphabetiful
Author: Melime Greenleaf @melimegreenleaf
Beta: puddlescape
Prompt: Outsider POV on relationship
Words: 1212
Warnings: NoneSummary: The progression of Dorian and Bull’s relationship, through their friends’ eyes.
Felix
Felix checked Dorian’s letter one last time, to make sure he had covered everything in his response. The part about the Qunari agent made him smile, and he wondered if Dorian even noticed he had spent three pages ranting about the advances of a man he claimed not to care about. After a moment’s thought, he added a post scriptum. I know you too well for you to trick me, my friend. This Iron Bull character must be like a dream come true to you. He wondered if he would live enough to see Dorian find a chance at happiness.
Vivienne
Vivienne knew what he was planning since she first saw him that evening. She noticed the elegant but easily removable robes, the recently trimmed mustache, the scent of his perfume imported from Tevinter, the extra care dedicated to his makeup and hair. The following day, when he tried to hide behind alcohol, sell his actions as impulsive, she just smiled at him. She was gracious enough to allow him to pretend that was anything other than a deliberate choice, and she knew before he made up his mind that he would be returning to The Iron Bull’s quarters that night.
Cassandra
Cassandra claimed not to understand. She would question what they could have in common, The Bull’s continued flirtation with her, how The Bull could concile his fear of magic with that relationship, how could they disregard the war happening between their peoples. In private, she would think about how it something coming out of a romance novel, two people meeting under impossible circumstances and finding comfort in each other against all odds. Although she wouldn’t admit it even to herself, she hoped that when this was over they wouldn’t part ways; and that Varric would write that book about them.
for @bluesoulspirit and the prompts filled were “May I…hold your hand?” and ‘A loving gaze into their eyes’ (but mostly the first one). from @themusicmaker69
“May I…hold your hand?”
Dorian stared in shock at the Bull. Was this happening? This was like a dream come true, but it was so unexpected, Dorian was wary to trust it. Was this an attempt to appease him or mock him? Had he fallen asleep and was speaking with a demon? Before he could stop himself, he blurted out the simplest thing that came to mind.
“Why on earth would you want to do that?”
He hadn’t meant it to sound scolding, but as he saw the Iron Bull’s face drop, he knew he had failed. As silly as he knew it was, Dorian did want to hold the Bull’s hand. He wanted to stay the night and wake up snuggled up to him the next morning. But he knew better. He knew better.
The Iron Bull muttered a quick apology before turning around to catch up with the rest of the party, leaving Dorian to his thoughts for the remainder of the trip back to Skyhold.
For: @chaoslindsay
By: @amurderof
Tags: nsfw, no other warnings apply
Prompt: - time travel threesome! Older!Dorian travels back to the present and blows Dorian/Bull’s minds not only with being absolutely awesome at sex but also with the obvious depth of his affection for Bull, speaking to a long-lasting loving relationship that Dorian never thought possible for himself
“Are you really?” Sera asks, voice breathless and still too-loud in the revelation that’s followed his — no, the stranger’s, the impostor’s — appearance. “All messed up with your own magic again?”
What do you mean “again”? Dorian’s already halfway to asking, rolling his shoulders back and tipping his head up, opening his mouth — when the impostor laughs, laughs and smiles so easily that it makes something within Dorian’s chest seize painfully. Delightful. His heart will simply give out. Unfortunately everything you’ve fought for in your entire life will be for naught when you decide at some point in the future to fuck it all up and send yourself back to terrify your younger self to death.
“I don’t mess up, Sera,” the impostor says, and his smile colors the words, and he doesn’t at all posture when he says it, and Dorian knows that the man before him is utterly foreign. A stranger. This simply can’t… And then the man turns to Dorian and his smile goes soft around the edges, indulgent and what Dorian wishes desperately were patronizing. “Oh, look at me. What year is it? I’d forgotten how young I looked.”
“It’s 9:42 Dragon,“ Adaar pipes up helpfully, because she’s enraptured with this turn of events, it would appear. Dorian half-expects her to turn to him at any moment and harangue him for never telling her time magic could be applied so frivolously, for the delight of everyone in the room save Dorian himself. "Where — when are you from?”
“Oh, just ages past,” the imposter replies, and he lifts a hand to his chin and scrutinizes Dorian. Dorian has to fight off the urge to step back, or turn and leave. What kind of friend would he be were he to leave Sera and Rae to this — well, to what is clearly a demon. Clearly. Obviously.
“I’m finding the Seeker. If no one else here sees the danger involved in standing about with our tongues lolling out of our mouths, then I will need to take the initiative to protect the future of the Inquisition.”
And that gives him the excuse he needs to — not flee, blessed Andraste, he’s not the kind of man who flees from any such thing. But to extricate himself from what will surely be an increasingly troublesome conversation.
Ha. Troublesome. Troublesome.
He finds Cassandra walloping one of the training dummies in the courtyard, and it’s only as he arrives and she lowers her sword that he realizes he has to now explain why he requires her unique talents.
“Shit,” he says with feeling, and she lifts one of her naturally perfect brows (oh, he despises her) and purses her lips.
Title: Cold Nights, Warm Hearts (subtitle: and other novels by Varric that Dorian refuses to admit he’s read)
For: @doozer-doodles
From: @redeemer-headcanon / @coveredinfeels
Beta: @chocobofangirl
Warnings/etc: mild Trespasser spoilers/references.
prompt: ‘Snowed in’
Ferelden, late autumn, winter nipping at its heels.
There are times, in these years, when Dorian can spare time to come south, not merely over the border into Nevarra, but South, times when excuses of diplomacy give them weeks together at a time, Bull playing bodyguard and joking about what Varric’s books would have to say about well-muscled bodyguards.
He enjoys these trips. He could have done without the snowstorm that appeared to have blown up overnight and sealed them in the little mountain hut they’d stopped at to rest themselves and their horses, but only because if he’s going to be shut in somewhere with Dorian, he’d prefer that his Kadan was happy about it.
“I should have listened to my mother.” Dorian mutters, staring out the window– or at least, attempting to. There wasn’t much to stare at.
Bull has never met Lady Pavus, and doesn’t particularly expect to any time soon, but from what Dorian has told him of her, directly and indirectly, that statement doesn’t really fit the context. “Had a lot to say about coping with blizzards, did she?”
“Not as such, but she did always insist that one should never step foot inside any accommodation described to one as quaint.” Dorian says, giving the carved mabari bootscraper by the door a look of utter contempt. “At least there are no holes in the roof, I will give it that.”
“We’ve got firewood, food, and a fairly nice bed.” Bull points out. “You know what one of Varric’s novels would have to say about the situation, right?”
Magister Pavus, highly respected luminary of the Tevinter Magisterium, turns on him and expresses his opinion on that in language that would make a Rivaini sailor blush, ending with “…and stop helping the dwarf!”
“So, we’re not going to conserve body heat?” Bull asks, and laughs when Dorian’s response is a rude gesture, wreathed in flame, before he stalks off to investigate their food– and wine– supplies for himself.
Dorian’s concerns about missing the various important meetings his presence is probably required at aside, it doesn’t look as if they’re really in danger of much more than a slight delay. Once he’s settled down, he uses the sending crystal to contact the Inquisitor, and Red’s networks are more than able in the matter of getting word to whoever needs word got to.
Secretly, Bull’s a little glad. It’s not as bad as it once was, but he thinks Dorian still fears that if he takes his eyes off his homeland for a moment, it will slip back into the madness of the old days, the Tevinter of the Venatori and of Corypheus. That he, alone, is the sea wall holding back the flood, and shit, that sounds pretty damn poetic in Trade, but it’s none less true for it.
So he thinks it does his Kadan good, this, to accept that there’s little he can do about the situation except complain about the paltry amount and undistinguished quality of the wine he fishes out of their luggage, and then relenting when Bull offers to mull it for him.
“One of the few good things to come out of the South.” he says, smiling. It makes his scar curve in a way that reminds Bull of a Tallis he knew, in another life. He still wishes he’d been there to see it, Dorian striding into the Magisterium the day after with the wound still bright and fresh, breathing more fire and ice than all the dragons the Inquisitor had hunted down put together. But reminding Dorian of it makes him frown, still, makes him too self-conscious.
So, he holds his words. Says it without words, instead, when despite his earlier protestations against 'sharing body heat’, Dorian curls his hands around his mug of mulled wine and his body against Bull’s own. Tries to say: wouldn’t have ever thought I’d be here. Not sure what 'here’ means. For one: stuck in a mountain hut with a gorgeous, grumpy mage who against all odds appears to still be in love with me, certainly, beyond anything he’d ever been able to consider a possibility.
But also: wouldn’t have thought I’d be in love. Wouldn’t have thought I’d be Tal Vashoth, clear and free of mind and happy for it. Would probably have given even odds I’d even live this long. Some days, would have given even odds I’d live to see the sunrise.
“Amatus…” he hears, and looks down to see Dorian’s fingers against a scar of Bull’s own. No points for guessing which one he’s fussing over.
You risked yourself, and the Chargers–
“Yeah.” he says. “Me too.”
From @dichotomous-dragon to @eugenideswalksintoabar
Bull wants Dorian. Dorian wants Bull. It should be that simple, and predictably isn’t.
Tags:
Mutual pining
Misunderstandings
Sera
Krem
The Bull’s Chargers
Happy ending (?).
It wasn’t the first thing he noticed.
The first thing Bull noticed: the man…no, the mage, was poetry in motion, staff cutting down demons in as martial a display as Bull himself had provided cutting down ‘Vints on the Storm Coast. Bull could smell the ozone in the air that meant ‘magic’ but the man in the Chantry wasn’t using it. Either tapped out or holding it in reserve, didn’t seem to matter. The bladed end of the staff tore into a demon as he spun, smashing an attacking shade with the focus stone at the apex of the same movement.
The second thing? He was fucking gorgeous. Chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, well-muscled, if the chest peeking from below the white silk cloak was any clue. His skin was a rich golden shade even in the eerie green light of the rift, his hair somehow perfect despite the rigorous activity. High maintenance and higher breeding stock, Bull snorted. What was it about Redcliffe that seemed to be drawing Alti these days?
The third was the voice; pleasant in timbre, cultured in accent. It resonated in the wrecked building, the tone easy, almost relaxed. But there, underneath the eloquent mannerisms and obvious flirtation was a cadence of desperation, maybe of sadness and betrayal. Bull wondered at the ease with which the mage swept from fighting to flirting; from one to the other in a blink. He was good, better than good, and knew it, every iota of his expression and movement calculated to produce the most stunning effect.
The ring was, in fact, the fourth thing Bull noticed. Thick silver and unadorned, noticeable on his left hand amidst the intricate gold on most of his other digits, it flickered in the sickly green glow. A wedding band. It was a shame Dorian of House Pavus was married, the Bull thought, as the five of them leapt into battle with the demons. He might be a double-agent, one more back-stabbing ‘Vint in a damn sea of them, but something about the mage was alluring in a way that had nothing to do with how hot he was.
“Watch yourself. The pretty ones are always the worst.” Bull growled it out loud, as much a warning to the others as to himself. He had an unhelpful weakness for ‘pretty’ and it wouldn’t do to forget it.
Even if Dorian was on their side, he was clearly off-limits.
A very merry Adoribull exchange to @dichotomous-dragon ! You suggested (among others) hurt/comfort, or someone taking a blow for someone else, and I decided to smush the two together as best I could. :)
1.9k! T-rated, I suppose, for brief mentions of Bloody Stuff. This is set after their individual character quests, but before the end of the game.
From @labarkour
*
My Heart is Breathing
*
The Bull shouldered his way into the tent. The rain pattered noisily against the canvas.
Dorian, back bent and given up to the healer, looked over his arm. He’d filth caked in his mustache, the hairs plastered.
“I hope you brought wine,” said Dorian. The Bull spread his hands. Dorian made a show of sighing.
“Close it,” said the healer. “And you. Stop moving.” The needle flashed. She tugged the thread. The stitch settled beneath Dorian’s shoulder.
The Bull stooped beneath the first support. The canvas flap dropped into place again. He lingered there in the entrance, on the mud cloth.
“What thanks,” Dorian said. “I risk my life, and you come empty-handed to watch this barbarian sew me up like a soldier playing at housewife.”
“All right,” said the healer. She sat back with the needle still in hand. “How about you finish up?”
“Fetch me a mirror and I’ll do it.”
“You know,” said the Bull, “I heard the Avaar pour piss on their wounds. Keeps ‘em from going bad.”
Dorian made a tremendous face. The healer laughed and leaned in again.
“Perhaps I spoke in haste.”
“Did that, did you,” said the healer.
“I should hate to use barbarian so freely no word remains for that.”
GIFTEE: @maliwanhellfires from @hobbitkaiju
PROMPT: Arranged Marriage AU!
RATING: Adult, contains some semi-explicit sex
LENGTH: This is Chapter 1 of 2, and is 17 pages (rest will be posted/linked on AO3)
CONTENT WARNINGS: Halward appears in the beginning of this fic, being his awful self. Heads-up about that. Also, this particular scenario implies that Sebastian Vael died in the Chantry explosion in Kirkwall, so I suppose this needs a warning for background character death. It’s only mentioned in passing, and never in any detail. And finally, this fic makes use of the idea that all Qunari are essentially one sex and are thus all capable of several means of reproduction. Thus, male pregnancy is alluded to as a possibility though never portrayed. Credit for this idea goes to @twelve-colors (twelvicity on AO3)
Chapters: 7/7 + Epilogue
Written for: @falsechaos and @ichigo-otaku for pinch-hitting
By: Nessa_T
Prompt: Spy AU, canon setting. Dorian is an agent
of the Venatori, determined to bring them down from within and joins the
Inquisition as a double agent. Bonus points for covert shenanigans with Bull.
Warnings: Death, Blood, War, Reference to Torture
/ Mutilation, Abuse, Death by Blight
Notes: Inquisitor Adaar sided with the
Templar and did not meet Dorian at the chantry when Felix gave him the note. He
feared ambush from Tevinter, specially when the Redcliffe village was crawling
with them and mages allied with them.
Read on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5672797/chapters/13068511
The Redeemer
Chapter 1
The dreams returned as always and it was no different tonight.
His hand was pressed against his face, left cheek stinging and lip bleeding where his father had struck him with an open palm. “Get out,” his father had said. “You are no son of mine.”
“Father,” the boy began to say, voice shaking, and tasting copper in his mouth.
Magister Halward turned his face away. Eyes hard and lips pressed together in a grim line. The boy left his father’s study and a part of him died every night since then.
***
Bull had expected the first ball of fire that was flung in his direction. He did not, however, expect it to hurt as much as it did when it singed the top of his shoulder. The inky blackness of the night was momentarily illuminated by the fiery display as the mage, Dorian, dodged and sidestepped away from the Qunari’s grasp.
“Stop it,” the Bull snapped, his voice low and annoyed, one of his hands hovering above the hilt of his axe. If the mage were to charge in his direction, he would be ready to defend himself. His experienced eye narrowed upon the man before him.
“Stay away from me, Bull,” Dorian retorted. His voice was even, yet there was a feverish look in the mage’s eyes that Bull did not like. Eyes wild, breath heavy and hand gripped tightly around his staff – Dorian had the look of a man who was driven to act by keen sense desperation. Desperate men were dangerous men.
“You’re stealing supplies from the Inquisition’s cache,” Bull continued, attempting reason. “We’ve just arrived in Skyhold, and I don’t think Adaar would take lightly to someone stealing from him when there are so many who are in need of them.”
The mage had, upon his person, precious medicine, food and water when Bull caught him sneaking out of the castle hours ago in the middle of the night. Equipped with nothing but a pack containing rations and his staff, Bull had watched with interest from the dark corner of the tavern as the mage cloaked himself with magic and snuck past unsuspecting guards.
Considering that the Inquisitor had left at first light earlier in the day to search for Hawke’s mysterious Grey Warden friend at Crestwood, Bull had figured whatever it was that Dorian had intended to pursue, the mage had taken advantage of Adaar’s absence to do so.
Dorian stood before Bull, back straight and proud while the crystal on his staff glowed ominously in warning.
“It is none of your concern,” Dorian said, his eyes locked onto the Qunari’s, body tense and ready for flight. They stood like that for a few long seconds, eyes to eye, before Bull snarled, ducked his head and charged forward to take him down. “Kaffas!” the mage cried, eyes wide and arm rising to conjure another fiery ball from air.
Yet he was no match against sheer brute force. There was a fierce scuffle and a few balls of fire blazing in the night before Bull finally outmaneuvered the smaller man, pinning him to the ground. Face pressed against the dirt, and arms pinned behind his back, Dorian cursed and swore as he struggled before Bull wrapped an arm around his neck.
Bull squeezed, slowly cutting off the mage’s air supply while Dorian clawed at him, gasping for air and nails raking red grooves upon the Qunari’s arm, face and neck. One minute passed and Dorian slumped unconscious in Bull’s arms.
“Sorry, big guy,” Bull muttered, setting him gently down on the earth before rummaging around in his pack for ropes.
Chapter 2
The dream changed, like a picture of winter transitioning into spring. The boy, now in his teens, was in the brothel in the slums of Minrathous. Head heavy with brandy, body hard and flushed with desire, he stood naked by the bed, watching two elves pleasuring each other.
The door to his room came open with a crash. It was Alexius. The boy raised an eyebrow at the look of disapproval presented before him.
“Ah, lads. We have company. Such a distinguished one too,” he said, giggling as the elves regarded them with some alarm. Then, simpering, he staggered towards the newcomer, wrapping his slender arms around Alexius’s neck.
“You can watch if you like,” he slurred into the older man’s ear, “Or join us. There’s always room for one more.”
Alexius stepped back, sighed and shook his head, tugging at the boy’s earlobe. Not enough to hurt, but enough to chastise. The boy yelped in protest.
“You’re coming home with me, Dorian. Right now.”
Rated: PG
Wordcount: 1704
For: @chicaaago from @fwolflingPrompt: -A litter of kittens lost their mother to the cold, and are rescued just in time by whomever. They can hardly take of them all, and enlist Skyhold for help, including Bull. He is quite fond of his kitten, Dorian not so much. He grows to love the little thing, but he denies it at every turn, even when Bull catches him cooing at it.
The first time Dorian laid eyes on the cat, she was a tiny ball of black fluff curled in the Bull’s large hand, even he had to admit she held a certain cuteness. Mostly though he was amused at the baffled look on Bull’s face when Cole had placed her there. Baffled and confused was not an expression that Bull wore very often after all.
“She likes your horns, The Iron Bull,” Cole told him and Dorian watched Bull’s expression go from baffled to bemused to an openly affectionate smile in just as many heartbeats.
“Does she now? She’s got good taste, ” Bull said, raising the hand the kitten was sitting in up to his face. The tiny creature met his gaze solemnly for a long moment then her tiny mouth opened in a yawn. “Aw.” Bull grinned, enchanted. “Look at all those sharp teeth. You’re going to be dangerous when you grow up aren’t you?”
Dorian couldn’t hold back a snort of disbelief. “Dangerous? That thing is literally a ball of fluff with eyes.”
“Yeah, but she’s going to be a dangerous ball of fluff,” Bull argued, still grinning at the thing. Carefully he stroked her fur with a single finger and was rewarded with a rumbling purr that was entirely too loud to come from something so small.
Bull’s eyes went all soft and affectionate at that. Looking back, Dorian would pinpoint that as the exact moment it became inevitable that the kitten would become a permanent part of their lives.
Swimming prompt for @damnyoualex from @grenoiulle
Dorian loathes the water. Liquid, he feels, is for consumption only - and intoxication preferably - and under no circumstances should he actually be immersed in the stuff.
Even more than the water, he loathes the cold. And while it never occurred to him to add ‘being stranded on a shoddily constructed raft in middle of the Waking Sea with only a Qunari for company’ to the list, he’s beginning to suspect he loathes it most of all.
“I think I’m going to be sick again,” he announces.
“Well, you know the rules. Do it over your edge of the boat, big guy.”
“You’ve strapped a handful of planks together with - what is this? Rope? Seaweed? This qualifies as a boat as much as those,” Dorian gestures vaguely in his unfortunate raftmate’s direction, “qualify as pants.”
The Qunari shrugs. “They’re comfy.”
“Well I’m not.”
A particularly choppy set of waves hits their raft and Dorian groans, retching for the third time over the edge. His stomach is long empty, but it makes a truly valiant effort at regurgitation regardless.
A massive, soothing weight settles itself between Dorian’s shoulderblades, rubbing small circles as he coughs. It takes a moment for Dorian to register that it’s the Qunari.
“Shit, you really don’t mix well with water travel, huh?” he says sympathetically as Dorian dry-heaves a last time. “Was it this bad for you on the ship?”
Dorian shakes his head. He spent the last of his birthright money on a third-class ticket aboard the ill-fated Caspar’s Pride, and a pouch of small pills that some Nevarran merchant swore would keep his stomach calm.
Concentrated nug shit, most likely. But against all odds they’d worked, up until the point Dorian was forced to jump ship without them.
The constant gentle pressure on his shoulders feels unexpectedly good, and eventually the nausea subsides.
“Thank you,” Dorian manages.
The Qunari’s arm falls away and he nods. “No problem. I’m the Iron Bull, by the way.”
Dorian stretches out on his back and throws an arm over his face, in the vain hope that perhaps obscuring the sight of the sea, the raft, and the Iron Bull will make the lot disappear.
“Cremisius Aclassi. Charmed,” he says.
Author: @ms-ashri
Words: 4568
Rating: Explicit!
Summary: Adoribull holiday exchange for @elthadriel! Dorian has an intimate surprise for the Iron Bull.
Sorry if there are any inaccuracies and stuff, I’ve only really played through the game itself once.
—
The Iron Bull had briefly mentioned it a few weeks ago during one of their nights together in the mercenary’s mess of a bedroom. Dorian had been pressed up against the wall, squirming, with this hands pinned above his head with one of Bull’s hands while the other was down the front of his smalls. His hand was wrapped around the mage’s cock, stroking him firmly. Dorian’s body shuddered, whimpering slightly as Bull bent down to suck at a spot on his neck.
“Fuck Dorian, even your underwear is all fancy,” hissed Bull, trailing more kisses up his neck and behind one of his ears. There he gave a low growl. “Mmm, I’d love to fuck you in a pair of silky panties. Maybe pink. Have you make a mess in them, just for me.”
Honestly Dorian had forgotten about that comment for a couple days, until one night while he lay alone in his bed, thoughts drifting to the Iron Bull who was out in the Hissing Wastes with the Inquisitor. The bed was much too cold without him there, nude, with those large hands running over his body. He’d lean his massive body over Dorian, his hot breath drifting across his face as he pressed against him –
The moan he released seemed to ring around in his small room, startling him. He kept his hand wrapped around his length, moving it in long, teasing strokes just as Bull loved to do to him. It was then that he remembered. Laying there he could just imagen the silken lace covering his body, along his crotch and the stockings on his thighs. Oh, and the look on Bull’s face when he realized Dorian remembered his offhand comment, that Dorian had put effort in doing something just for Bull, a man who gave everything and never asked for anything in return.
Besides, he would look rather fantastic in something like that.
…
It took a while for Dorian to even start on his plan. He had to wait for the Inner Circle’s next trip to Val Royeaux, which didn’t come up too often, much to his disappointment. Then there was the difficult task of obtaining said article of clothing without Bull finding out; not exactly a simple task when the one you are involved with is an ex-Ben-Hassrath Spy.
Thankfully, a month later a few members of the Inquisition were making their way to the city. The whole journey he was rather giddy, nearly hoping up and down in his seat, earning a few questioning looks from Blackwall thought he never made any comments. Even better was that Bull was assisting the Chargers with a mission not too far from the Orlesian City and would be rejoining with the rest of them in a few days’ time. It was the perfect opportunity for him to put his plan into action.
Bull falls in love. Slowly.
To @cyber-fairie, from @zythepsary. I hope you enjoy! <3
Prompts:
- Hurt/Comfort from either of them
- First time they each realize what they have is maybe love
- Reunion after separation (prefer pre-Tresspasser)
7k words | Adult | Brief mentions of violence
Something is wrong with Redcliffe.
The rifts are weirder than usual, the Grand Enchanter is acting like she didn’t run into Lavellan in Orlais, and there’s way too many mages around for Bull’s comfort. All the Tevinter people are mages, even the ones in full armor; the way they hold their swords gives it away. Some of the southern mages still try to hide their staves under their cloaks, like the shape of a staff isn’t recognizable, and they’re all tired and hungry. That won’t end well. People do things they regret when they’re desperate, and a frightened mage can do more damage than one strong man with a sword.
Bull can’t believe this town hasn’t gone up in flames yet.
“I don’t like it, either,” says Lavellan, as they exit the tavern. He reaches over his shoulder towards his quiver, absently tapping each arrow. “While we’re here, we might as well walk into the trap.”
It’s not a trap, but adding another Vint to this mess doesn’t help. The man they meet in the Chantry is all smiles and quick wit, addressing them with an odd kind of grace, like he’s on stage. He’s fascinated by Lavellan and the mark on his hand, and Bull doesn’t trust that for a minute.
“Watch yourself,” says Bull, keeping his eye on Dorian. Four against one. One exit. He could bring the Chantry down on their heads with his fire, but Bull knows that mages can’t cast as well without their hands. First: the hands, and then the throat. Keep his axe ready, in case a demon claws its way out. “The pretty ones are always the worst.”
Dorian takes that as a compliment, beaming. His smile falters when he glances at the axe on Bull’s shoulder.
“Suspicious friends you have here,” says Dorian, and then the Redcliffe problems get weirder.
From @thekingofcarrotflower to @ofwolvesandshatteredshields for being a wonderful human being & pinch hitting. <3
Angst with a happy ending, blood, canon-typical violence below.
“I have sand in my boots, sand in my robes, sand in places I never dreamed of having sand,” Dorian complained as they traversed the expanse of shifting desert. Bull let out a small huff in answer - it had been nearly two weeks of this now, and everything from Dorian’s complaining to the Boss’s ceaseless exuberance to the unrelenting rays of sun were getting to be too much, even for him.
Normally, none of those things bothered Bull. Really, he could even say he had grown fond of Dorian’s whining, finding it endearing when Dorian’s nose crinkled in exaggerated disgust or annoyance. But, the desert heat was unrelenting, his skin was raw from the sun and wind, his knee ached from more than one misstep that caused him to go skidding down a dune. There were still more Venatori to clear out, another one of those eerie tombs in the distance left to explore, and rifts that made the night sky glow green on the horizon. He was tired of the desert, and sympathized with Dorian about how irritating the sand was becoming. Each evening meant taking off his boots and dumping out a pile of sand outside their tent. There was sand in their bedrolls, which did admittedly make it to places to Bull didn’t particularly want sand.
“Ah, shove it,” Sera said, poking Dorian in the shoulder with the sharp end of an arrow she’d been using to clean her fingernails, “We all got sand in places it don’t belong. ‘Sides, I bet you like it when you get an excuse to ask the big guy ‘ere to inspect all your crevasses.” Sera punctuated the statement by smacking the arrow against Dorian’s ass.
Dorian spluttered slightly, batting her away. It was hard to tell, his already dark skin having deepened even darker under the constant sun, but Bull could swear Dorian was blushing. He caught Dorian’s gaze for a moment and grinned. Whatever their … relationship was, it had recently went from the occasional tumble whenever Dorian decided to show up in his room, to a more consistent thing, Bull expecting him to make it to his room more nights than not. Even the Boss had asked them both about it, and she was currently giving them an amused smile over her shoulder.
“Yes, well,” Dorian smoothed out his mustache, a nervous habit Bull had quickly noticed early in their nebulous relationship, “Pleased to hear you’ve picked up on some of my impeccable vocabulary.”
Bull snorted loudly at the deflection, earning a glare from Dorian and a grin from Sera.
The moment of camaraderie quickly passed, the sound of distant chanting rising up from the dunes. Adaar’s attention snapped back to the task at hand, her easy smile quickly turning into something determined. Dorian’s own expression quickly went grim as he recognized the too-familiar incantations of his vile countrymen. Before the Inquisition, Bull wouldn’t have thought anyone could rival his hatred for ‘Vints, but both Krem and Dorian’s disgust occasionally gave his dislike a run for its coin.
Title: The Beefy Bodyguard and the Magnificent Mage
For: @fwolfling
From: @redeemer-headcanon / @coveredinfeels
Beta: chocobofangirl
Warnings/etc: none that leap to mind, it’s fairly tame.
prompt: modern au – Bull and the Chargers are a security team hired by Magister Pavus to provide security for his estranged son after death threats/actual attempt on his life. Dorian is less than thrilled.
Bull should have known something was up, the cagey way the Magister responded when he asked about his son’s current security arrangements. He should have known something was up the moment a Tevinter Magister tried to hire an Orlesian-based merc group headed by a Qunari to guard his son, apparently currently in the Free Marches.
“He’s summering with a friend by the name of Trevelyan, some sort of Ostwick… nobility.” the Magister had said, expression through the grainy video call making it clear that his opinion on Free Marcher nobility was nearly as low as his opinion on qunari mercenaries.
Also, who the fuck says ‘summering’? Poncy asshole. Still, he was very rich, too desperate to negotiate properly, and at least sounded genuine when he was worrying about his son getting knocked off. “You know anything about the source of the threats?”
“It may well be someone from Tevinter. I would not say I am bereft of enemies, and if they can’t get to me, well– it’s politics, you understand.” He says it like he expects Bull to not understand at all, and Bull does his best meathead impression. Understand Tevinter politics, him? Nah. Bull barely knows Tevinter has a Divine, let alone that the guy who most recently bribed and backstabbed his way to said holy position is at odds with the guy who most recently bribed and backstabbed his way to Archon, and everyone else is either taking a side or taking cover.
Tevinter politics as usual, which is to say, it’s a mess. The Ben-Hassrath like a mess. Good to hide in. He might not be one of their number any more, but it’s not like they’ve changed their tactics recently.
Shit, he hopes that’s not what’s going on. He doesn’t fancy a clash with any of his former colleagues. He’ll do it if he has to, but– A mess. Definitely a mess.
“I can’t say I’ll take the job until I’ve talked to your son, but I can promise I’ll go there, meet with him face to face, and do my best to convince him to accept additional assistance with his security. Fee for that’s upfront, mind.” For the sort of money the Magister’s waving about, his boys would happily go to Weisshaupt, never mind a nice jaunt up to the Free Marches. Even if Dorian Pavus tells them to fuck off, they’ll be paid up and ready to take on some local work.
Stitches is going to be happy, at least. And spend all his spare cash on cheese.
For @goddamnbees, by oopsbirdficced/dreamychaos
Prompt: -anything about dorian bonding with the chargers – slowing being integrated into their ranks and becoming ~*ONE OF THEM*~ clenches fist
-Anything with dogs. :|a Is Dorian shocked to learn that there’s something to the southern obsession???? DOES HE ADOPT A THREE-LEGGED, ONE-EYED DOG THAT IS WARY OF BULL AT FIRST???? Does Krem find a box of puppies in the snow???? I trust your judgement
(The dogs featured here are loosely based on Pyranese mountain dogs. I will probably write a coda at some point with the bath scene.)
~
“Keep your guard up, Krem!” Dorian sighed dreamily as he watched. Bull being commanding was delightful to watch.
“If my guard goes any higher, it’ll be in the sky with the damned Breach, Chief.” The slightly acerbic reply came courtesy of one Cremisius Aclassi, who was also very easy on the eyes. There was a reason Dorian hadn’t objected too much to being asked to fling the occasional spell for them to deflect. There was a bright, high chuckle from across the fighter’s ring, where Dalish leaned against the fence, also enlisted to spell flinging duty.
She and Dorian met eyes and shared a moment of perfect accord, before they both smirked, and Dorian flung some low level lightning as Dalish called vines to wrap round their legs. Both men were reduced to swearing viciously. Krem had leapt out of the way of the plants and gotten zapped by the lightning, while Bull had blocked the lightning and gotten snared by the plants.
They got themselves sorted out, and we’re about to re-engage, when a small bundle of russet hair and brown and green clothes bolted out to the ring.
“Krem, Krem!” The person who had neatly vaulted to sit atop the low fence was none other than the Inquisition’s own lead scout. Dorian couldn’t quite remember her name. It had something to do with Varric’s books, he was certain. Krem lit up, and with a brief glance at Bull, loped over to greet her.
“Lace, what’s up? Is everything okay?” The man bent to give her a kiss on the cheek, and Skinner wandered up to lean beside Dalish. Maybe not one of Varric’s books then? And he’d been so sure. Bull was going to be disappointed, he’d been trying so hard to get Dorian to remember people’s names. Called it ‘spoiled brat reconciling to the people’ - at least, that had been the last silly moniker. Dorian called it the school of hard knocks’ version of showing him how to be what the South considered to be a decent person. It was definitely an uphill struggle, and the very definition of culture shock. Dorian tuned back in to the conversation.
“…and this great huge idiot decided to give us puppies! I’m not sure if it was out of thanks, or like, some misguided idea of tribute or what, but puppies!” the usually quite level-headed dwarf was practically squealing at the prospect. He’d thought, up til now, that the Fereldan preoccupation with dogs was mostly just exaggeration, and a fondness for displaying national pride. He had a sinking feeling it also extended to the actual furry wiggly beasts. She sounded far too excited about this prospect.
“Okay, then. Shall we go meet some puppies, Chief?” Krem was smiling. Dalish actually looked excited, and Skinner was actually displaying human emotion on her actual face, a faint smile to be precise. And Bull wasn’t objecting, no, he’d turned around and yelled for Grim, Stitches, and Rocky. Dorian had a moment of fleeting horror, looking at Bull, whose face was light, happy, and expectant, and realizing he was actually going to have to go meet the drooling monsters. Ugh.
Krem and Bull departed briefly to remove their weighted armor, and returned in casual clothes. Dorian had recognized this as the prime moment to escape, but Dalish, tricky elf that she was, had engaged him in an interesting magical theory debate, and now he was stuck. Dorian was beginning to suspect a conspiracy.
He trailed after the excited crowd, dispirited, and Bull dropped back to check on him, chuckling when he saw the other man’s expression.
“Don’t look too excited there, Kadan.” He laughed. Dorian sighed dramatically. “Puppies, Kadan. Puppies shouldn’t make you look like you’re walking to the gallows.”
“Puppies are slobbering, clawed, hair-shedding monstrosities.” Dorian grumbled. “My outfit is going to be ruined.”
“Ah.” Bull nodded sagely. “Which means that you’ve secretly wanted one your whole life, but your parents and society being what they were, you couldn’t have one?” Dorian sputtered and huffed. Bull looped an arm around his shoulders and Dorian leaned into his solid, steady bulk, grumbling.
“I’m assuming they’re Mabari?” He asked, resigned. Bull shrugged.
“Hey, Harding! Are they Mabari pups?” He called up to the scout, and Dorian experienced a brief flare of pride. Her name did have something to do with Varric’s books! Sort of.
“We have other dogs than Mabari, you know,” she complained. “These dogs are better than any silly old wardog. These are Frostback Herding Dogs.” She proclaimed, and Stitches visibly brightened.
“You’re joking! Someone just gave us two litters of Frosties? Those dogs are most Fereldan farmers’ most prized possessions!” Stitches was wide eyed, and Harding, Dorian could swear, had little hearts on her eyes. She started gushing about something he couldn’t fillies related to breeding and working dogs, and Dorian sighed slightly, leaning more firmly into Bull’s side. Not cuddling. At all. He was faintly disappointed.
“If they’re not Mabari, they don’t do that weird mystical bonding thing, do they, Amatus?” He asked softly, not wanting to show the extent of his ignorance. He hated being ignorant. Bull chuckled lowly.
“That’s a predominant trait in the Mabari line, yeah, but that sort of loyalty is something they breed for. They might not have a ‘mystical bond’,” here Dorian elbowed his lover for making fun of his choice of words, receiving a smile, a squeeze, and a slightly sore elbow for his trouble. “But they are loyal to a fault. That’s all the fabled Mabari bond is, you know. Unwavering loyalty. In Mabari it’s bred to the extreme, creating a dog who will literally follow one person until one of them dies.” Bull finished his explanation, and Dorian wondered idly on what occasion he’d chanced upon learning this random factoid. He hummed thoughtfully.
He followed the rest of the Chargers through the barn door, and into a stable that had been ringed in hay bales to, presumably, prevent and escapees. He resigned himself, then and there, to replacing his current outfit. He clambered over the hay and through the stall door with the rest of them, and was confronted with the sight of eleven enormous, fluffy white clouds, decorated with straw and dirt. They quickly resolved into giant, young, fluffy dogs, and Dorian gaped slightly.
“Those aren’t puppies! They’re enormous!” He yelped, and Bull positively melted.
“Yes they are, Kadan, just look at the size of their feet!” He gushed, and dragged Dorian down to the floor with him. Dorian yelped again, as a puppy bounded up to him and knocked him over to enthusiastically bathe his face.
“Amatus, help!” He sputtered, flailing uselessly. Bull laughed, pulling the puppy off and propping Dorian up against his side. His moustache was absolutely wrecked, no two ways about it. Dirt and dog slobbering spiked it out oddly, and part of it was sort of smeared up his nose. Bull chuckled, but not unlikely, and leaned over to kiss him. Dorian squawked and tried to redirect him.
“Don’t kiss me, I’m hideous!” He cried, and the Chargers, to a man, laughed. He shot them all glares, but their expressions weren’t malicious, just fond and slightly exasperated.
“Kadan, a bit of dog slobber doesn’t make you hideous. Come on, Dorian.” Bull cajoled, as a small, soft, wet something dabbed gently at Dorian’s hand. He looked down and saw a pup, smaller than the rest, and strangely missing a leg.
“What happened to this one?” he asked, tentatively rubbing one of the puppy’s velvet-soft floppy ears. Harding looked over and her expression softened.
“It’s a birth defect. It happens sometimes, even when the breeders are careful. It’s odd,” she said, with a smile. “That little girl’s the runt of the whole pack. She’s so shy, but she’s cuddling straight up to you.” Harding’s smile grew. “I think you just got claimed, Tevinter.” She teased, and Dorian looked down grumpily at his lap, onto which the three-legged girl pup had curled, filling it perfectly.
“Perfect. A shy pup for a shy man.” Bull proclaimed, and any other day he’d draw around himself a cloak of indignation, and declaim the fact that he was not shy, he just had more refined tastes than any of his present company. He didn’t though. Instead he tucked himself more firmly into Bull’s side, muttering about a cold draft, and skritching his new puppy’s ears. Bull chuckled fondly, pressing a kiss, finally, to Dorian’s pouting mouth before changing the subject.
He held Dorian a little tighter, though, and Dorian relaxed, drifting into a safe, calm brain-space as he combed through thick, tangled, curly white fur with his fingers.
“You need a bath, little one,” he murmured, and there had been an unfortunate lull in the conversation just then. Harding looked up with an unholy grin.
“You know what, Tevinter? You’ve got a good point.” She said slowly, and that grin was contagious. Bull was grinning too, though Dorian had to crane his neck strangely to see.
“Chargers, we have a duty to the Inquisition, and a job to do! Horns up!” Bull laughed, a little manic, but mostly just because. The Chargers were all grinning and figuring out how to organize eleven puppies and a bath, and Dorian just sighed softly, gathering his lapful of slightly smelly, fluffy giant dog a little closer, much to her delight. He dropped a surreptitious kiss atop her head, before leaning up to press a fond kiss to Bull’s jaw.
“Thanks, Amatus.” He murmured. Bull tilted a little further and pressed a brief kiss to Dorian’s lips, despite a small, fussy noise of protest.
“Anytime, Kadan.”
“Anytime, Kadan.”
Summary: In which Bull is human, and teaches science, and Dorian is Qunari (or Tal-Vashoth, if you care for distinctions) and teaches magical theory at a high school in Haven. Or, the story to really put the Alternate into AU.Tags: alternate universe - modern with magic, alternate universe- modern thedas, high school, teachers, human!Bull, qunari!Dorian, developing relationships, fantasy racism, bar fights, blood and violence, hurt/comfort.
for @hcvillicrd from @littlexabyss
“Kid,” he sighs, and scratches his head with the end of his ballpoint pen, “All the justification in the world isn’t going to stop me giving your ass detention. You know the rules. If you’re stupid enough to let me catch you doing it, maybe a detention is going to make you think twice about it in the future. Grow a brain, huh?” The young qunari mutters something and shuffles his feet. Bull’s pen stops on the pad, and he growls, “Didn’t catch that.”
“Nothing, sir.” But the inflection on the word is too glib, and Bull decides to serve a little education. He looks down slightly, into the skinny face. Though the boy cannot be more than fourteen or so, he is almost as tall as Bull, but with gangly limbs not yet at their full potential. His adult horns have not yet fully grown in either, and though he pulls himself up straighter and puffs out his chest, he is not yet any kind of match for Bull physically. And besides - Bull knows this kid. He’s a Vashoth, well known amongst the faculty for sarcastic comments and rolled eyes - clever, but a bit of a wiseass. As Bull continues to stare at him through his one narrowed eye, the young Vashoth swallows nervously and shuffles his feet again. Bull lets the silence stretch for a little longer, then murmurs softly, his voice full of latent threat, “Really? Didn’t sound like nothing. Sounded like don’t have to take orders from some viddathari scum. That sound like something that’d come out of your mouth?”
The boy’s nostrils flare as he looks up into Bull’s face. He shakes his head mutely, and Bull grins, asks, “Speak up, wouldja?”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir.” The kid’s voice has lost its flippance, and Bull leans back, finishes writing out the detention slip.
“Give this to your homeroom teacher, Adaar. I’ll see you in class later.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy takes the slip meekly enough, and Bull watches him scurry away.
He hates hall duty. He wishes he was back in the lab, trying to formulate experiments which are both exciting and curriculum-based. There is a woeful lack of teachers in Ferelden after the war, and the government had offered attractive packages to teachers from overseas to try and fill the vacancies. That’s how Bull ended up here - he supposes it’s pretty mercenary, but hell, the pay is good, and the work isn’t too taxing. But until all the vacancies are filled, there won’t be many opportunities for creating a junior science lesson plan with anything approaching the usual standard of both rigour and entertainment that Bull strives for. He sighs into the now abandoned hallway, and continues on his rounds.
Finally, it’s lunch. The day is turning lazily away from the noontime zenith, and Bull yawns over the pile of marking in front of him. Do your homework next time, he writes on the bottom of the paper in front of him, then sighs. He hates to see potential wasted, and the kid that wrote this paper has that in spades, but no head for application. Putting one hand against his stubbly cheek, he leans an elbow on the table, and raises his eyes to find his coffee cup.
And then, it happens.
Merry Christmas, @hotrodngold! Hope you like how this turned out—I tried to hit as many of your requests as I possibly could while staying true to the story I had built in my head. It was fun to write, even if it took longer than it should have. Hope you enjoy, and Happy New Year!
– @http://toddnyallison.tumblr.com/
* * *
“How many languages do you speak, Bull?” Dorian asked suddenly.
Dorian and The Iron Bull were sitting in Dorian’s room, light filtering through the window. The mage was sprawled across his chair, slouching away from a pile of books. Bull looked up from the book he’d been reading, his eyes refocusing on the real world.
“Huh?”
“How many languages do you speak?” Dorian repeated patiently, looking over at Bull with an expression that said I’m bored. Please distract me from all of this.
“Good question.” Bull placed a bookmark where he’d stopped reading and set the book aside, sitting up slowly. “Let’s see…Qunlat is my first language, obviously. I also speak fluent trade tongue.”
Dorian rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”
“I also know Orlesian,” Bull scratched his head. “And a little Tevene, though my accent is shit. I also know a few Rivaini words and phrases, but not enough to actually get myself around. Gatt was better at Rivaini than I was.”
“Gatt?” Dorian frowned. It was a moment before he remembered. “Ah, yes. That elven man we met in the Storm Coast. The viddathari.”
Bull raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised you know what a viddathari is.”
Dorian smirked. “Why should that surprise you?”
Bull chuckled and leaned back. “Maybe it shouldn’t. What about you? How many languages do you speak?”
“Not very many,” Dorian sighed, twirling a pen between his fingers. “Tevene is naturally my first language, and I know passable Ancient Tevene, though that hardly counts as speaking a language.”
“Why’s that?” Bull asked curiously.
“Because no one actually speaks it,” Dorian rolled his eyes again. “No one has been able to read or write Ancient Tevene in over a thousand years. It’s a dead language. In Tevinter, only the upper class use scant phrases now and again to sound educated.”
Bull laughed. “Sounds about right.”
“I wouldn’t mind learning Orlesian,” Dorian continued. “I know enough to get by, but I’m hardly fluent.”
“I could teach you,” Bull offered, sounding amused. “It wouldn’t be hard, if you already know the language. All I’d be doing is expanding your vocabulary.”
Dorian hummed, setting the pen down and facing Bull properly. “Would you be interested in teaching me Qunlat as well?”
Bull arched an eyebrow. “Why would you be interested in Qunlat?”
“For the same reason you’re interested in Tevene?” Dorian suggested, smiling innocently.
From @cassandrashipsit: My giftee is @hubbabubbagumpop and my prompt is “Modern Bull and Dorian adopting qunari babies.” I would say it’s rated gen/teen.
Research was something Dorian did exceptionally well. It came to him naturally and he enjoyed it immensely. He loved to bury himself in information, filing it away in his mind for future use, leading to brilliant conclusions down the road. Naturally, when he and Bull decided to adopt a child, he did research. Seeing as they were adopting a qunari child, he felt it was even more important to be completely and totally prepared for the arrival of their proverbial bundle of joy.
Dorian was not prepared. Bull, who had spent many of his formative years tending to the needs of the smaller children in his cohort was, perhaps, slightly more prepared, but only slightly. Dorian had researched co-parenting, sleeping arrangements, bottle vs. breast feeding (there had been a highly embarrassing conversation at 2:37 am where Dorian was convinced that the proper stimulation would allow Bull to breastfeed, which Dorian still twitched and blushed at the memory of) and making organic baby food. He had spent years going with little sleep as he chased fascinating thaumaturgical formulas, and so he felt he was well versed in the forms of sleep deprivation.
What the books and YouTube videos and even the so called “mommy blogs” he read had failed to truly convey was the absolute, crushing terror of child rearing. When the smiling nurse, under the supervision of a stone faced social worker handed Felicia over to Bull, swaddled in the pinkest, tiniest hat and mittens Dorian had ever seen, he had felt two emotions: one, an overwhelming sense of affection that left him feeling as if his chest was suddenly too small to contain the ache inside of it, and two, abject fear.
He and Bull were now responsible for a small, sentient being, totally dependant upon them for every possible need she could have. Why in the name of the Golden City had he thought he was ready for that level of responsibility? He could fail. He could fail utterly and then Bad Things would happen to her and not only would that be unacceptable and unthinkable, but it would be his fault.
Felicia was precious. Her soft skin was a darker grey than Bull’s, her fluffy curls as white as starlight on snow, and her big eyes quickly shifted from from the deep blue of infancy to a bright and charming brown. Dorian was completely smitten. She was an amazingly well behaved baby, something he had felt a bit smug about at first, until the paranoia set in. She was too good. She woke with regularity during the night to demand that her hungry belly or soiled diaper be seen to, but the minute she received attention from one of her fathers she quickly became a cooing bundle of chubby happiness that left Dorian breathless with that affection so strong it was painful. He kept himself awake some nights watching her intently in the crib attached to their bed, terrified of the potential she represented, the weight of her well being on his shoulders, and also the possibility she might simply stop breathing because of course that was a thing that babies did and what on earth had the Maker been thinking?
By @heronfem for @toddnyallison. The prompt asked for Satinalia gift exchange or birthday celebrations; Bull trying on Tevinter clothing or Dorian wearing Qunari-inspired fashion; or someone being mildly sick and the other helping them. I managed two of the three, and I’m sorry that this is late!
“Teach me how to do the knots.”
Bull looked up from where he was working on a report for Cullen, monocle firmly in place. “What?”
Dorian stood in the doorway to his room, shifting uncomfortably back and forth. He was carrying a heavy bundle of bright red rope, just thin enough to be used for decoration instead of more athletic endeavors. Bull removed the monocle, and Dorian stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“What’s this about?” Bull asked as Dorian set the rope on the bed.
“Well.” Dorian took a deep, slow breath. “I was talking with Adaar.”
“And?”
“And she told me about the knots meaning different things. I thought- I thought it might be nice to learn what they meant, and know how to make them.” He ran his fingers over the rope, not looking at Bull. “I know they’re not just for armor, Bull. You put me in some of the same decorative harnesses as I’ve seen when Adaar wears the Antaam-saar. I want to know how to do them too.”
Bull leaned back in his chair, considering Dorian for a moment. “This is kind of strange,” he admitted. “We’ve been tiptoeing around this for a while now, this whole culture clash thing.”
“I know.” Dorian glanced up, giving him a faint smile. “We should do better, don’t you think? They’re so much history between us, and yet so little we talk about. I want to learn more about you. I want to understand, and learn, and this- this is important. Will you teach me?”
“Yeah,” Bull said quietly. “Yeah.”
First of all I want to wish you wonderful holidays and a happy new year.
I kind of unintentionally filled in the horses prompt and the third one because domestic just doesn’t sit with me if it’s not followed through with peril.
I truly hope you like this! From @yogurt-gun to @inked-drakePrompts filled:
-something with lizards? or horses!
oh, and in view of the recent events that happened in my city, something -big happen (explosion/ politic attentat) near/where dorian is away on business (in tevinter? or on a diplomatic visit somewhere?) and bull not knowing if he’s alright? but happy ending?Also, post game, I always imagined they’d have their own little hideaway.
—-
Dorian leaves in silence before the night even turns into a day, minutes away from dawn. It’s cold outside, something Bull has come to realize will be a constant in his life when it comes to Dorian, and while it’s not snowing yet, hoarfrost has settled on the ground, covering the grass in small patches.
The brown mare whose reins Dorian has in his hand snorts, hitting at the ground with its front hoof a couple of times before settling. Beside him, Dorian is bundled up in his riding furs and leathers, checking if he’d taken everything he needed for his ride back to Tevinter. It was finally the time for him too, they’d been putting it off far too long, extending Dorian’s stay. Perhaps they shouldn’t have, not if it was going to be this hard to watch him go every time, but it’s already too late and Bull doesn’t want to deal with it now.
Dorian pulls the last of his buckles taut and then he’s ready. If he were smart, he would have just climbed the damned horse and rode away, but nobody ever accused either of them of being clever when it had concerned their relationship. So no, Dorian doesn’t go to the horse, instead he walks over to Bull, letting go of the reigns, so close their toes might be touching.
Bull can feel heat radiating off of him and to his bare skin it’s a revelation and recognition. He manages not to do anything like beg him to stay though the words are somewhere in the back of his throat, jumbled and dark. The only thing he can offer in exchange is to put his hand on Dorian’s back and draw him into a hug.
By all means, it should not be as intimate as it is but with Dorian warm at his front, his hands at his sides holding just a little too hard, two warm points on his otherwise cold skin, it is.
It’s the absolute worst thing to have to let him go. Bull has to though, because it’s not his right to hold Dorian back.
Dorian sighs once Bull lets go, cradles Bull’s face in his hands and presses their foreheads together.
Bull is fairly certain Dorina says something then but the white noise in his head is too loud to recognize it and then Dorian’s pressing a soft, sweet kiss into his lips and Bull feels as if a wave is crashing over his head.
Once he opens his eyes Dorian’s already climbed onto his mare and it is once more entirely too quiet. Even the sound of the hoofs against ground when the mare turns is quiet.
.
Dorian smiles at him over his shoulder and once he starts riding, he doesn’t look back.
For: @justanotherscribblejunkie
From: @siujerkjai
Prompts:
happy ending, if a fic.
some awkwardness.
there’s an accident.
(I tried to incorporate all three.)
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
Under normal circumstances, Dorian would wave off an apology from Sera–if he’d ever heard her apologize for anything, certainly if she sounded as frantic as she did at the moment–but he was a bit busy clutching at the grass beneath him and trying to keep the whimpers in his throat from escaping his lips. Not writhing also became critical when he shifted his hips and a bolt of searing pain radiated out from the arrowpoint dug into his flesh.
The flesh of his ass. Of course. Of course. Because the Maker had an abominable sense of humor.
Pressed against the ground as he was, he felt the vibrations of the rift sealing and heavy footfalls coming in their direction. A large palm settled at the base of his spine, and the welcome warmth shook loose his shock. He sucked in a sharp breath and buried his face in the dirt, squeezing his eyes to prevent their wateriness from coalescing into tears.
“Not your fault, kid,” Bull said. “That demon tossed him right in the way of your shot.”
“He’s lucky it was you,” Lavellan added. “An archer without your reflexes would have put that one through his neck.”
Dorian heard the crunch of dry leaves beside his ear as Lavellan knelt at his head. He cracked an eye open, and from its corner, he tried to focus on the valleslin that to his dizzy mind seemed to squirm about her face.
“Hey, Sparkler,” she said, her tone not ungentle. “You with us?”
“Yes,” he rasped. “Unfortunately.”
Above him, Bull laughed, damn him. Lavellan’s lips quirked into a smirk before she turned to Sera, who stood at the edge of Dorian’s vision, still wringing her hands. The older woman tugged the strap of her satchel over her head and tossed it to the younger.
“Dig out a poultice and a potion,” she ordered.
Sera squatted on the ground and began to paw through the bag. Dorian felt Lavellan’s calloused fingers grip his shoulder, a smaller counterpoint to Bull’s hand still resting on his lower back.
“I’m going to pull it out,” she told Dorian as she pulled a rough linen handkerchief from her pocket. “You ready?”
“No,” he croaked. But when she raised an eyebrow, he sighed, gave her a little nod, and buried his face deeper into the dirt. It still couldn’t quite muffle his shout when the arrow tore free. He bit back on another cry when she pressed the handkerchief to his wound and leaned all of her weight on that hand. When he felt her other hand fumbling with the laces of his trousers, he would not have objected to a fissure opening in the ground and swallowing him whole.
“Fenedhis, Bull,” she griped. “How do these damn things come undone?”
“I got it, boss,” Bull chuckled, and to Dorian’s relief, large male hands replaced small female ones.
“I’ll get some bandages.” Dorian heard Lavellan shuffle to her feet and then pause. “Though I can’t say I know how to wrap someone’s ass.”
“Just fold it up. I’ll hold it on while I carry him back to camp,” Bull volunteered.
Dorian tried to formulate a protest, but Bull was already pulling down the back of his trousers. He at least remained mindful not only of the wound but of keeping Dorian’s front as covered as possible. Dorian heard the crinkle of a waxed vellum envelope as Sera handed over one of Stitches’s poultices. He dug his fingers into the soil but couldn’t help but buck at the sharp sting when the herbal concoction made contact. A moment later, the sting faded as did the worst of the ache. Dorian breathed deep in relief, which only sent bits of dry plant matter down his lungs. He raised his upper body to his elbows, hacking and spitting, tears streaming from his eyes.
“Easy, kadan,” Bull soothed. A vial of elfroot potion pressed against Dorian’s lips, and he drank it down gratefully.
When his coughing fit subsided, he let his head hang down between his shoulders to take a few breaths of clean air. He heard female voices quietly conversing, and he glanced up with still-watery eyes to see Lavellan leading Sera away. Sera looked back once, face still pale and twisted with concern and her hands clutching Dorian’s staff, and he tried his best to summon a reassuring smile.
“You owe me a pint when we return to Skyhold,” he called in a hoarse voice. Her answering smile was too hesitant for his liking, so he added, “I plan to pour it over your head.”
She laughed, albeit weakly, and allowed Lavellan to loop their arms and guide her in the direction of camp. Bull laughed too as he eased Dorian’s trousers up. After some careful shifting and fumbling, Dorian ended up held against Bull’s chest, one of his lover’s hands pressed firmly against his ass and Dorian’s elbows propping him up on one of Bull’s shoulders. He tried to loop his legs around Bull’s waist, but the movement chased another whimper from his lips.
“You’re good,” Bull assured him. “I can handle your weight for the walk back to camp.”
“Or you could put me down and let me walk,” Dorian groused.
“Shit, no,” Bull replied as he turned to follow the others. “I’m not giving up a perfectly good excuse to grope you in public.”
He continued at an easy pace–barely seeming burdened for all that Dorian was not a small man–and Dorian let himself relax into his lover’s embrace. The pain had all but vanished beneath the poultice and the warmth of Bull’s hand, and the potion left his muscles feeling pleasantly loose. His new trousers were probably done for, not to mention…
He hadn’t realized he’d let out a soft sigh until Bull twitched his shoulder to nudge him. “You all right?”
“I’m going to have a scar, aren’t I?” Dorian asked with another sigh.
Bull came to such an abrupt halt that Dorian nearly tumbled out of his arms. From his perch, he and Bull were eye to eye, and that was strange enough without adding in the wide-eyed look of wonder on his lover’s face.
“Venhedis, Bull! What…?”
His heart picked up its pace in automatic response to the predatory grin that crossed Bull’s lips. Against his thighs, Bull’s chest vibrated with a low growl that was usually Dorian’s only warning before he was thrown on a bed or pushed against a wall or bent over the nearest piece of furniture. Under ordinary circumstances, such a response required hours of dedicated teasing on Dorian’s part, and he gaped at Bull, wondering if his lover was going to devour him whole in the middle of the Orlesian countryside.
“Your ass,” Bull rumbled in explanation, “with a scar.”
“Oh, for… really?” Dorian tried for exasperated, but his voice came out closer to breathless.
“Mmmmm,” Bull hummed, and they stood, eyes locked in a lust-filled gaze, for several moments before Bull began to move again. Dorian swallowed with a dry mouth and struggled to regain control of his breath.
“I suppose it will be easy to cover at least,” he noted, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably. Determined that they should both be equally affected, he turned his head and found the ear conveniently placed at the height of his lips.
“No one will even know it’s there,” he purred. “It will be hidden away, only to be revealed to a specific gaze under specific circumstances.”
Bull let out another approving growl. “Sounds like quite an…” He turned to meet Dorian’s eyes with a shit-eating grin. “… ass-et.”
Dorian groaned. “You did not just make a pun out of my serious injury.”
“What?” Bull protested with the least convincing tone of innocence Dorian had ever heard. “I’m just agreeing with your ass-essment.”
With one of his dangling feet, Dorian kicked Bull in the thigh. “Now I wish the arrow had hit me in the neck.”
“Come on, kadan,” Bull drawled. “That would have been cat-ass-trophic.”
“Andraste preserve me,” Dorian muttered, burying his face in Bull’s neck. Then he snapped upright with a jerk, nearly smacking his head on a horn. “And if you call her Andr-ass-te, so help me, I will smite you myself and save the Maker the trouble.”
Open affection filled Bull’s smile. “Nah, I’m done.”
“Truly?” Dorian questioned. “You out of puns?” Despite himself and his fervent dedication to the tenets of good taste, he felt his lips twitching. “I’m ass-tounded.”
Bull’s raucous laugh boomed out over the countryside. The sheer delight in the sound filled Dorian’s chest with warmth, and he had to turn away to hide his own ridiculous grin. He could always blame it on the elfroot later.
For: @justjasper
Prompt: misunderstanding angst with happy ending
From @chicaaago
Orlesian parties were suppose to be amazing, or so Dorian had heard. He expected even better than what the gossip alluded to from a ball held by the Empress of Orlais herself, but he was, unfortunately, disappointed by the reality.
Perhaps the entire thing would be more enjoyable if the Inquisition was here simply for the party, and not to uncover some grand assassination plot. At the very least, Dorian was sure he’d be having a better time if the party-goers would stop mumbling behind his back. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard it all before, but it was insulting that they thought he couldn’t hear them “whispering” a mere two feet away.
What would really make this evening enjoyable, however, was if he could talk to Bull. With the whole assassin thing, Dorian was instructed to keep a watchful eye over the garden, while Bull was stationed in the Hall of Heroes. He was only a few yards away, Dorian could probably go talk with him and keep an eye on the garden if they left the connecting door open, but he’d hate to be caught away from his station by the Inquisitor. She, as any good friend would, came checking on him every fifteen minutes or so, and as nice as it was to speak to a friend, it made slacking off hard.
“A Tevinter? In the Inquisition? Are they not worried about where his loyalties truly lay?” One man gasped behind a gloved hand. Little did he know that hiding your words behind your hand hardly helped when you were speaking at a normal volume.
“Oh I’m sure the Inquisitor would be able to handle him, should he turn out to be a spy. She’s a Trevelyan, after all. Quite the family, even if they are from the Free Marches.” At least this one had the common decency to lower his voice somewhat.
“‘Should’? Oh he most certainly is a spy, just look at him! And I heard that he’s been sleeping his way through-”
It was at this point that Dorian decided he had had enough, “Gentlemen, if I really was a spy, then perhaps you should know better than to have this conversation an arm’s length away?” He turned towards the nobles, who narrowed their eyes behind their painted masks and marched off. Dorian relaxed somewhat, though the words still clung to his mind. Nothing unusual.
A very merry Adoribull holiday to @kayura-fuckthechantry-fii! You suggested Bull and Dorian meet before the events of DA:I, and I decided, yep, that’s the one for me. So here is a fic for you!
The stats: explicit! 4,400~ words! There is no objectionable content, I think!
The summary: The Bull met a traveler on the road.
The fic:
On the Road Again
They met a traveler on the road, some thirty miles out from the nearest civilized town in Nevarra. He was sitting in a tree back from the main thoroughfare, and Skinner spotted him.
“Shem in a tree,” she said.
“What,” said Stitches, “is that one of your songs? Chief, stop swinging your arms, I’m trying to get this damned bandage tied.”
“I don’t know that one,” said Dalish to Skinner, “is that from your clan?”
“Thought that was a mosquito,” said the Bull. “Aw, hey, let it bleed. It’s clotting. Look pretty good as a scar. What do you think that is, a scimitar?” He flexed his arm up to examine the cut framing his biceps.
Stitches swore as the ends of the bandage escaped him.
“Leave Stitches be, chief,” Krem called from the wagon trundling ahead of them. “We need him too much for you to make his head pop off.”
“No,” said Skinner sharply. She pointed. “Shem in a tree.”
The Bull looked. A man was halfway up a scraggly tree, behind three other trees, all with better spaced branches and thicker foliage, but nearer to the road. The man stared back at the Bull. He said, “Bollocks.”
“Shit,” said the Bull in mild surprise. “Shem in a tree.”
Dalish, looking thoughtful, said, “Shem in a tree. Shem … in a tree.”
The man was still swearing. “Vishante kaffas!”
“‘vint in a tree,” the Bull corrected.
“What’s he speaking?” Krem asked.
“Mostly swearing.”
They’d pass him soon. Hard to tell at a distance, but the man looked in poor repair; he’d mottling to his face that suggested fighting, and no sack to his back. The Bull considered the bandit operation the Chargers had only just laid waste to for the good of the countryside, and a substantial reward from the constabulary thirty miles up the road.
“Want I should call the stop?”
The Bull shook his head at Krem. “Nah. We’ll catch up. You can handle our guests?”
Krem sneered at the Bull. “Please, chief. The little lambs are sleeping.” His maul had done that.
“Keep ‘em dreaming,” the Bull said. He gestured to the footed company with him to follow. “Put your knives away, Skinner. He might be friendly.”
“He’s shem,” she said.
“She’s got a point,” said Stitches.
“She’s got twelve,” said the Bull, “and you’re shem, too.”
Stitches and Skinner exchanged a look.
“Watching you,” Skinner told him.
Dalish was whispering rapidly under her breath. Protective spell, mayhap. The Bull hadn’t much worked to learn the high pattering tongue she used for magic craft. The lines of power tucked between the words gave him the creepies under his skin.
The matted leaves and sticks that lined the forest’s floor crunched satisfyingly underfoot. The man’s sleeve had caught on a branch, and he swore again as the Bull drew up even with the tree. He tried for purchase on the trunk, but his boots, a fine leather worn thin, with soles meant for looks rather than work, skidded off the bark. He was very quick to plant the right foot heavily on the branch again.
“Looks like you’re stuck,” the Bull called.
The man gave up his struggling. He looked at the Bull. He’d dark skin and black tousled hair and a sluggishly oozing gouge over a fresh black eye.
“So it seems,” he said.
“Need a hand?”
The man considered this. “No,” he said, “I’ve two of my own. Why don’t you run along.” He fluttered his hand at the Bull.
Of all things, the Bull felt not amused, but charmed. “Got a hell of a shiner.”
“A what?”
Stitches stepped forward. “Your eye.”
The man’s confusion cleared. Lightly he touched two fingers to his cheek then winced.
“Yes, well. I’m doing rather better than–” He glanced at the Bull and then away. “This strapping fellow.”
The Bull laughed.
“Hm,” said Skinner. “I like him.”
“Don’t be deceived by my dashing, some might say rakish appearance,” said the man, one arm pinned above his head, and his legs bent at odd angles as he braced on the trunk and a branch. If he lost his balance and fell, the Bull saw, his arm would wrench from the socket. “My wits are sharp, and my charms, without number.”
“Think I’ll cut him out.” Skinner drew a boning knife from her bandolier.
“That won’t be necessary!” The man’s voice rose.
Dalish clapped her hands. “That’s the note!”
“How’s about I get you down,” said the Bull. He set his toe against the trunk and pushed up to grab the man’s steadying branch.
“Again, that won’t be necessary! I assure you, I’m more than content with my tree–”
“We’re not going to rob you,” the Bull said.
“As I have nothing else to donate,” the man said, or perhaps had not stopped saying, “but of course for the clothes on my back and the shoes on my feet–”
“They won’t fit me.”
“I can see <em>that</em>,” said the man. His eyes skimmed over the Bull’s shoulder, then again, he looked away.
The Bull grunted. “Dalish, get up there and free him.”
Humming to herself, Dalish bounded up the tree, using the Bull’s back as a spring-board up the trunk.
“How do you do,” she said by way of introduction, and she pulled her own knife from her belt and cut through the man’s sleeve without pause.
“That is linen!” the man protested, and Dalish said, “Oh, well, it’s gone now,” and pushed him off the branch.
The Bull caught the man easily in his waiting arms, and laughing, he let off the trunk and turned, carrying him without struggle. The man’s hands gripped at the Bull’s chest. He’d a look of absolute shock, perhaps even outrage, on his strong, fine-made features.
“How–”
“So, hey,” the Bull said, “there you go,” and he set the man gently to his feet.
“I–” The man’s palms were warm, callused at an angle from the space between thumb and finger to his wrist. His fingers spread wide upon the Bull’s breast. “That was hardly– I could have got myself down.”
“Free of charge,” the Bull told him. He winked.
The man’s grimy brow folded. “Do you have something in your eye?” Then he realized he’d his hands on the Bull’s chest, and he whipped them away as if the Bull were on fire.
“Yes,” said the man. “All right. Well. Thank you. That was your kind deed for the day. Well, I’m out of the tree now, so you colorful lot may be on your way.”
“Your staff’s over there,” said Dalish from the tree. “You want I should get it for you?”
“What staff?” said the man loudly. “Oh. My walking staff. Yes. If you would be so kind. But you must realize I can’t possibly repay you for such generosity.”
“Now what kind of assholes would we be,” said the Bull, “if we rescued you and then stole all the coin from your right boot?”
The man looked at him in horror.
“He’s going to shit himself, keep teasing him like that,” said Stitches. “Dalish, quit nancing. I need ice for his face.”
Dalish reemerged from the leaves. She swung a staff, rich, dark wood carved in thick swirls up to wrap about a raw green stone as big around as the Bull’s – fist, he thought. The man stood very close to the Bull, and he smelled tantalizingly of long nights in the woods. He had a gorgeous mouth, too.
“Ooh, good balance,” said Dalish. She thumped the focusing stone on her palm and gave it a squeeze. “Must have cost you a fortune. Rich 'vint shem.”
“My favorite,” said Skinner. She grinned.
“Thank you, yes,” said the man in a hurry. “My walking stick. You’ve found it.” He grabbed it from Dalish, who gave it up with a laugh.
The man’s hands slid naturally into place on the polished wood. The color of the wood was darkened along certain swirls. His hands fit to those trails.
Yep, thought the Bull, that gem was definitely as big around as his own clenched fist.
“So,” said the Bull. “'vint mage on the road. All your money in your boot. Thought you could take on all those bandits on your own, but they got a few swings on you. Grabbed your rucksack, too.”
The man swallowed. “What a fertile imagination your broad friend has,” he remarked to the group.
“Tip your head back,” Stitches said. He pulled a handkerchief from his sporran. “Ice, Dalish.”
The Bull was grinning, a slow thing. “Pretty fertile. Yeah. But don’t fret your pretty head about it. We took care of those bandits, didn’t we, Chargers?”
“Horns up,” said Dalish absently.
She pulled a small block of ice from the air, the air that dried in the Bull’s nose. Frost marked her fingertips. She handed the ice to Stitches.
Skinner crept near, silent on her toes. Magic fascinated her, made her youngish in a way nothing could. It was a clinical interest the man had showed, though, unblinking as he observed Dalish’s fingers pinch and tug through the air.
“Chargers?” said the man. He looked Dalish over. No flirtation to it, just an intrigue the Bull recognized as professional. Hm, hm, thought the Bull.
“Bull’s Chargers, you heard of us?” The Bull crossed his arms over his chest. The itching scratch on his arm pulled open. He let it. The man’s eyes darted to the Bull. His gaze caught on the Bull’s arms.
Stitches wrapped the ice in the handkerchief and pressed it firmly to the man’s eye. Though the man flinched, he stayed as he was under Stitches’ check-over.
“Let me guess.” The man’s voice dried too. “You’re the Bull. And they’re the Chargers.”
“Figured it out, huh.”
“Very clever,” the man said. “And you aren’t bandits, but, what? A traveling charity?”
“Mercenaries,” said the Bull, “licensed too. On the up and up. One hundred percent legit.” He scratched at his chin. “Well, outside the Free Marches.”
“I was under the impression the Free Marches didn’t much care for legitimacy.”
“Depends on the city,” said the Bull. “You don’t get out much do you.”
“And no one at all minds a Qunari running around Thedas, flexing his muscles at every stranded traveler he sees?”
“Stop flexing at the 'vint,” Stitches said to the Bull without turning.
“Who’s flexing?”
“You,” said Skinner.
Dalish said, “We ought to catch up.” The Bull turned his ear to her, listening. “Nightfall will be coming soon, and there’s wolves 'round here. The dead kind.”
“Nevarran shem,” said Skinner darkly. She drew her boning knife along her leather trousers then sheathed it.
The Bull grunted agreement. “So. You want to come with us, or make your own way?”
The man eyed the Bull around Stitches’ wrist. “You’re awfully trusting,” he said, as if disbelieving, “of a strange Tevinter mage. Don’t your people bind and gag their mages?”
The Bull made a show of looking around the trees, the road, the darkening sky.
“This look like Par Vollen to you?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said the man. “I’ve never been.”
“You wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“I’ll trust you on that.”
“He hasn’t tied me up, for what it’s worth,” Dalish offered.
The man made a noise in his throat. “Yes, but what’s to say you won’t tie me up anyway? Strip my boots from me?”
“Hey, if feet’s what you’re into,” said the Bull. “But I’d buy you dinner first.”
His eyes widened. The man looked dartingly about, but Skinner only grumbled and Dalish rolled her eyes. Stitches, the Bull wagered, feigned deafness.
The Bull changed tack. “You got a name? Or you want we should call you 'vint?”
“Dorian,” said the man. He sounded awful young. Without that frazzled mustache, the Bull thought, he’d look it too. “Dorian Pavus. I suppose I should thank you for plucking me out of that tree.”
“You could,” said the Bull. “But we didn’t do it for a reward.”
“Shem,” said Skinner with ancient disgust.
“She keeps saying that,” said Dorian Pavus to the world, “but what does it mean?”
“Don’t fuss, shem,” Dalish told him. She patted his head. “You’ll learn.”
“I hope not,” Dorian said.
The Bull shrugged.
<center>*</center>
Town, in the morning. Dorian, who’d spent the night in one of the wagons, looked horrendous. The bruises had settled and swelled, and his hair was a wild tangle.
“How does anyone sleep like that?” he complained to the Bull.
The Bull hadn’t forgot him precisely, but put thoughts of the man aside as he’d worked through the business of a mercenary company. Dorian had sought him out on foot outside the town’s walls, after the company pitched morning camp. Checking the line of captive bandits, and reviewing the paperwork for the turn in, the Bull was surprised to find Dorian pegging his heels.
“Morning,” said the Bull.
“Good morning and good day,” said Dorian. “The dwarf next to me broke wind all night long.”
“That’s Rocky for you,” said the Bull.
Dorian looked narrowly at him. “You had a man watching me, didn’t you?”
“What, me?” said the Bull. “I’m awfully trusting.”
“No, it’s a relief,” Dorian said. “I was wondering if you were a simpleton.”
“My boys can handle themselves,” said the Bull. “Rocky never farts in his sleep.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
The Bull only shrugged, then shouted for Skinner to stop poking at the prisoners with her knives. By the time he had that all sorted out, Dorian had gone.
A shame, the Bull thought. They could always use another able body. Thinking a little too much about his able body, thought the Bull. Ah, well.
“I know that look,” said Krem, breaking away from conference with some of the greener recruits. “Just check that they’re married before you fuck 'em this time. Or that their spouse is into cuckolding. I like this town. I don’t want soldiers with long pikes chasing us out.”
“One time, Krem,” said the Bull, injured. “And hey. How was I to know what married meant?”
“You thought it was a food, didn’t you?”
“Well,” the Bull said, “he sure as shitting gave me a lot to eat.”
“I hope Andraste smites you,” said Krem. “I’m set to inherit the company, aye?”
“Keep your mouth flapping, and I’ll start looking at Stitches,” said the Bull. “All right, let’s round 'em up. Daddy feels like getting paid.”
“Don’t call yourself daddy,” said Krem. “That’s not what daddy means.”
“Start reeling in the line,” the Bull shouted, and they went to town.
<center>*</center>
A week of leave sounded a fair reward for a simple job with a high bounty. The constabulary had proved so grateful they’d added three nights free lodging and free drinks at the town’s two taverns, at the behest of the tavern’s keepers. The Bull figured they’d yank the last two nights from the tab once they saw the damage the Chargers could do to a keg, but you took what you could get.
He was on his fourth tankard of good ale when Dorian found him again. A hand touched his arm briefly, beneath the scratch, and the Bull turned as Dorian, no longer touching him, sat at the bar.
“Hey, there you are,” said the Bull. “And in new leathers, too.”
These were better suited for the road, tough rather than fine. Dorian said, “It seemed the appropriate choice. For the time being. How do I look?”
“Like shit,” the Bull said, and Dorian snorted. “But I bet under all those bruises you look something sweet.”
“Sweet, I’ve not heard,” Dorian said, “and I’m not sure I care for the taste of it,” but he sounded pleased.
“I never did thank you for helping me.”
The Bull demurred. “Wasn’t just me.”
The tavern’s light was dim and smoky. Long shadows moved through the air, silhouettes that walked laughingly across the bar, across the thick bones of Dorian’s face. Even with the bruises he looked like something the Bull wanted on his tongue.
Dorian blinked slowly, his lashes falling then rising half-mast. It was a calculated move, only slightly hampered by the swelling of his blackened eye. The Bull found he admired him for the calculation.
“So,” said Dorian.
“So,” the Bull agreed.
Dorian ran his fingertips along the bar’s edge. He had worn lines at the bases of his fingers, spots where he would have worn rings till the bandits had taken them, or he’d sold them for coin.
“What do you charge for escorting a poor traveler to safe harbor?”
“Told you, it’s on the house,” said the Bull. “Besides, it probably cost you some sovereigns, taking out a room with my boys claiming most of 'em.”
A cunning smile like silver darted across Dorian’s bruised mouth. “Oh, but I’m one of your boys. So far as the town is concerned.”
“That so.” Again, he charmed the Bull.
“Only for the night, of course,” said Dorian. “I must be on my way in the morning.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” the Bull said. “You look like you could hold on your own.”
He slid his tankard to Dorian, who took it in hand to drink from it. The ale left a sheen on his lips. Dorian licked them. His fingers were thick, long, artfully curved about the mug.
He looked at the Bull.
“Why did you help me?”
“You needed helping,” said the Bull.
“And that’s all,” said Dorian.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” the Bull said. “Nobody’s ever been kind to you before?”
Dorian looked at him. He licked his lips again. He touched the tankard; he drew his hand away. He stood from the stool. His shadow fell along the Bull, to touch his chest, his throat, his face as he looked up at Dorian.
“I think,” said Dorian, “that I’d like to be kind to you.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” said the Bull.
“No,” said Dorian, who had fled Tevinter only recently, for his own reasons the Bull would not ask. A smile curved the corner of his mouth. He’d groomed his mustache to a wicked twist. Now his smile mirrored it. “But I’d like to take it anyway.”
How could the Bull say no to that?
<center>*</center>
Sex was easy when you knew what to do, and you had a sturdy bed to do it on. He asked Dorian and Dorian asked for the Bull’s cock rubbed between his ass cheeks. The Bull obliged. Cock in had never been a necessity, and oh, shit, the view. The Bull squeezed a cheek in each hand and rocked his hips forward.
Dorian said, “For god’s sake, harder,” and the Bull let go of one side of his ass to slap it. Dorian swore.
“Hard, that’s how you like it?”
“Obviously!” said Dorian, ass up, a hand between his legs to fondle his own balls. “Or else I wouldn’t have said so!”
“Can’t go too hard,” said the Bull. Idly he smacked Dorian’s ass again. Dorian jumped. His back undulated a moment. “Don’t want to break you, big guy.”
Some people liked that, the thought of breaking. Dorian flared hotter.
“You could certainly try,” he snapped. “But I don’t think you’re trying at all.”
“You always smart off this much when a guy’s fucking you?”
“Oh, but you aren’t fucking me,” said Dorian. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled, lean and crafty. “But you wish you were.”
“That your game?”
The Bull pulled back, smacked Dorian’s ass hard to see him jiggle and then the muscles clench, and shoved forward harder now, his fat cock pushing between those fat cheeks.
“You want to make me mad so I’ll take it.”
Dorian’s breath caught. His shoulder rocked with the movement of his hand, now squeezing and tugging at his own prick.
“But I’m not going to do it,” said the Bull. “Not unless you ask me for it. You want to ask me, Dorian? Ask me.” He punctuated it with light slaps to his ass, alternating sides then squeezing gently as he continued to rock. Dorian’s skin was soft around his cock, and hot, and the muscles tensed then eased then tensed again.
Mutinously Dorian turned his face to the sheets. His hips were beginning to twist now, drawing tight circles in the air as he fucked his hand. Yeah, that hand, thought the Bull. He remembered the calluses, the particular lines they followed. Strong and rough on the Bull’s chest.
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.”
“Talk all night?”
“I’m going to fuck you like this,” said the Bull, “till I come on your ass. And then I’m going to lick it off you–” Dorian’s breath was catching. “–turn you over, suck your cock down–”
Dorian’s hips jerked, and the Bull left off his ass to grab his hips and hold him still to slide his dick over that tight asshole.
“You’d do that, would you?” Dorian managed. “Suck my cock? On your knees?”
The Bull hummed, pleased by the thought. “I bet you taste good, Dorian. Bet you scream when I get my tongue under your skin.”
“Do you have–any concept how filthy–”
“Oh, babe,” said the Bull, “I wanna eat you out,” and Dorian said, “Andraste, holy above others–why don’t I fuck you?”
“Why don’t you?” the Bull countered, and he reached to squeeze his own tightened balls so he spilled white and thick over Dorian’s asshole.
Dorian’s cock, it proved, was as delicious as the Bull hoped. He tongued the foreskin down the shaft, swallowed the fat, dark head. It felt even better in his ass, Dorian’s balls slapping against the Bull as he fucked him.
“C'mon, big guy, that’s it,” said the Bull. “Fuck me. Yeah. You wanted it hard so do it harder. Come on!”
Sweat, clinging to the black hair curled across Dorian’s chest. His throat arched. His head fell back. Boots, set neatly by the door, clothes dropped along the floor. Bruises marked Dorian’s arms where he’d taken a few blows. The Bull thought of the fair few bandits they’d found already dead, skin burnt.
Dorian fucked deep inside the Bull, the crook of his dick rubbing sweetly against the Bull’s gland. The Bull groaned.
“Oh, yes,” groaned Dorian too; that was all he said.
In this act, it seemed, he could not speak. He bit his lip. His throat worked, muscles dragging beneath the skin. The Bull wanted to pin Dorian’s legs up over his horns and suck his cock again. Heat moved in the Bull’s belly. His cock ached. He imagined Dorian, bound in rope. How he’d flutter his eyelashes and smirk at the Bull, as if the Bull were bound and not he.
At the very last Dorian came, ticking hotly within the Bull. The Bull pushed Dorian, gasping, sweated, beautiful in his breathing, to his back and bent to clean his cock.
“Oh, don’t,” said Dorian, “that was–just inside–” and he sighed deeply as the Bull stroked his hands up Dorian’s chest.
“You’re hard again.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said the Bull.
“Mm,” said Dorian. His eyes had closed. His arms stretched, fingers curling against the wall. “Do you know? What I’d like most?”
The Bull, hard and throbbing, licked gently at Dorian’s balls. “Tell me.”
Dorian was smiling beatifically at the ceiling. “On my face. All over my face.”
“Got it,” said the Bull. He rose to give him it. Dorian was still smiling as the Bull grunted and came across his darkened lips, his nose, the battered lines of his brow. Dorian licked at his lips. Come smeared his tongue. The Bull managed a final weak line of it, white upon Dorian’s teeth then mustache.
Dorian’s lashes rose. The bruised eye glimmered.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
The Bull bent to kiss him. The tips of his horns scraped along the wall. Dorian turned his hands so his fingers curled instead up the Bull’s horns. Downstairs the Chargers were singing the anthem. The Bull pulled Dorian closer. Dorian said, “I,” and the Bull kissed him again, and that was the last of it.
Easy, yes, if you knew what to do.
<center>*</center>
In the morning the Bull woke alone. He’d expected that. He stretched and got out of bed to piss, and on his way from the pot to the bowl of washwater, he stepped on a square of cloth. A handkerchief, linen. Someone had embroidered the initials DLLP in each corner, in a steady, elegant hand that leaned left.
The Bull considered it. In the end he folded it in quarters and pocketed it. As a joke he thought if he should meet Dorian on the road, he’d return the token and thank him for the thought. Then he put Dorian from his mind and went downstairs to see about breakfast.
A small group of the Chargers had risen early, too. They applauded him in his descent of the stairs.
“Congratulations on the sex,” said Grugg.
“Aw, you shouldn’t have,” said the Bull.
“Hope they weren’t married.”
“I didn’t ask,” the Bull said. He scratched absently at his arm. He thought of the handkerchief in his pocket and of wrapping it about his arm, but he imagined Dorian would complain about the blood.
“It was the shem wasn’t it,” said Skinner. Dalish, face-down on the table beside her, began to sing in a high, sweet voice.
“Not the 'vint,” said Rocky. “He farted all night!”
“What can I say,” the Bull said as he took Dalish’s plate of cooling pancakes as his own. “I’m all about bringing people together. What’s she singing?”
“Don’t look at me,” said Rocky. The Bull looked at Skinner.
“Shems in trees,” said Skinner. She shrugged.
Dalish broke off to say, “My mother used to sing it.”
“Your mother used to sing about shems in trees?”
“No, I think they were birds,” said Dalish. “But the chief didn’t lie down with a bird.”
“He sang like one,” said the Bull.
“Ugh,” said Grugg, “I’m done eating. Here’s the sausages, chief.”
“You’re all right, Grugg,” said the Bull, and he ate his breakfast.
He didn’t forget Dorian, precisely, but he was only a traveler that Bull had met on the road. He did use the handkerchief after a while, to staunch a shallow gouge in his thigh, then when he had that cold in Antiva. The handkerchief, folded neatly in his pocket, was somewhat the worse for wear that night in Redcliffe when Aginas pulled open a door to the chantry.
The mage standing before the rift said, “Iron Bull!” in surprise.
“Aw,” said the Bull, “you remember me.”
Adoribull Holiday Gift Exchange for @kidvoodoo from @eugenideswalksintoabar
prompts were NSFW, snowy kisses, and cuddling by the fire
It has long since stopped being a matter of life and death for Dorian, and Bull is glad. Instead, “don’t get caught” has become their favorite game. Not with sex, oh, probably it would be with sex in the summer, when the grass will be soft and green and bared skin will risk only humiliation instead of frostbite when it touches the stones of the buildings in Skyhold’s courtyard. For now, though, Bull sticks to kissing.
He tugs Dorian by the gloved wrist into a corner on the battlements. They’re not ten steps from the privacy of their own room but this is more fun somehow. Colder, certainly. “Patrol will come by in about forty seconds, kadan,” he whispers, encroaching on Dorian’s space. “What are you gonna do about it?”
Dorian’s huff of a laugh is betrayed by the frigid air. It comes out like a plume of white smoke and Bull would never tell Dorian but part of the reason he puts up with Skyhold’s cold is to see physical evidence of his lover’s happiness. It makes up for the snow coming down and the icicles on the rooves and the fact that yesterday Cole somehow got his tongue stuck to the metal gates. Dorian gives him a coy smirk. “I suppose you’re expecting me to kiss you for thirty-nine seconds.”
Bull shrugs. “I definitely wouldn’t hate it.”
“I suppose neither would I.” Here in the snow, Dorian’s mouth feels warmer than any hot chocolate they could have had (which, come to think of it, Bull has a bit of stashed away in their room for a day just like this) and his arms, wrapped around Bull’s neck like a second scarf, are a delightful contrast to the gentle prickle of snowflakes settling on Bull’s head.
They kiss for a good forty-two seconds by Bull’s count. Long enough that they both hear the crunching of armored boots in virgin snow when Bull pulls away and the two of them rush, giggling, to their room and close the door.
“We have hot chocolate,” Bull offers.
“Mmm, I’d rather have you,” Dorian answers. “Chocolate after.”
for @labarkour
Rating: T
Summary: In which Dorian experiences two semi-polite awakenings within only minutes of each other, which he probably deserves.[link to AO3 will go here]
-
A long day, a bad night. Dorian had found himself outside the Bull’s door, which has ever had been left unlocked, and had opened it without much input from his thoughts. At the desk by the hearth sat the Bull, head resting on his left hand, quill dangling uselessly from his right. He’d looked up, and sighed.
Dorian…
Not – not that. Will you allow, that is, may I…
A grey morning. Dorian wakes slowly to warmth to his front, cold to his back, and identifies the warmth eventually as the Bull, still slumbering beneath him. A pang, then. Last night he’d been an intruder, creeping into the Bull’s bed for some kind of comfort – and whenever had he begun to find comfort there? Dorian had woken just briefly as the Bull settled in beside him, just long enough to press closer until the Bull wrapped a hand around his back to hold him there.
“I should go,” Dorian says, all but silently, a test of the words. His voice rasps in his throat.
The Bull stirs then, and Dorian stills. Warmth against his left shoulderblade, then, as the Bull wraps an arm around him once again. “Mmm. Morning.” In a slow movement the Bull drags his hand a short way up and down Dorian’s back, soothing until Dorian recognizes the nature of the act. He doesn’t stiffen, but his heart sets to pounding. The Bull must feel it, pressed together as they are.
It’s too much, after the frustration and despair of the night before. Sequestered from morning to evening in the forge with Dagna, delicately prodding at Calpernia’s crystal, and not a thing to show for it. Another snide letter from the Head Librarian of the Minrathian Circle refusing his requests in the most insulting means possible without directly condemning him. The perpetual distaste and distrust of a keep full of southerners who manage never to notice his commitment to the cause. A cold night, and a dragging sorrow, until there’d been nothing for it but to give in, and—
“I should go,” Dorian says, and his voice is rough, and he says it with his face pressed into the Bull’s shoulder.
The Bull says nothing. He’d said little the night before. Dorian, and sure, and that had been it. Something despondent in the curve of his back, and Dorian hadn’t thought to ask—no, that isn’t it. Had not wanted to ask, in the expectation of being rebuffed. And the Bull had held him all night, is holding him now, despite whatever it is that weighs on him.
Selfish, to have come; selfish yet, to linger. Selfish once more, to angle his face up to say, “Unless…”
“Go,” says the Bull, and something sharp stabs through Dorian’s chest even as the Bull continues, “or stay. It’s your call.”
This is my gift for @lildevilbutt. I wrote them a Pirate AU from @elthadriel
“Oi! Krem, it’s flipping Fancy-Pants again!”
Dorian had always been rather on the fence as to if there was a god or not. He was now convinced that there was, and, more importantly, that this god hated him.
Krem appeared next to Sera and his laugh echoed across the deck of the ship. It was enough to gather the attention of the rest of the infamous Iron Bull’s pirate crew.
“Are you people following me?” Dorian asked. He folded his arms over his chest. The first time he had encountered the chargers they had bound his hands behind him and kept him locked in a cabin until the captain had decided he had stewed long enough to ask him about who to ransom to.
This was the third time his ship had been raided by them, and his treatment was slightly different.
“Nah,” Krem said. He wasn’t grinning as widely as Sera, but he did cross over the ship to clap Dorian on the back. “I guess we just have terrible luck.”
Krem waved his hand at Dorian and went off to find Bull. Very wearily, Dorian followed behind.
“Captain, look who we found,” Krem said. Bull was talking to his men who were busy dealing with Dorian’s.
Bull turned, framed by the light behind him, silhouetted against the sky. He was shirtless, as always, and wearing ludicrous trousers, that wouldn’t even have been allowed in Tevinter as a warning against bad fashion, never mind being worn.
“Dorian!” Bull bounded across the deck of his ship and gathered Dorian up into arms.
—
This is a gift for @littlexabyss. Merry Christmas and a happy new year!The prompts I went with were:
• Something inspired by my favourite song
My favourite song is “The Bends” by Doomtree.
• Anything to do with AUs, bookshops and music stores.
—
Hoping I don’t float away
By @tikaon for @littlexabyss
Dorian had known, like everybody knew, that the conclave was scheduled to begin the very day he arrived in Redcliffe. It had been on the news for months now, the uneasy truce, the tense negotiations, the faces of all the important people with long titles speaking on the evening talk shows. Going on and on about Kirkwall and mages and fear upon panic upon hysteria.
He had ignored most of it though, too preoccupied with his own little escape project to take much interest in politics anymore. And thus it was that he was almost completely surprised to arrive in a city on high alert. The police were everywhere, and they were conducting “random” searches that were about as predictable as the sun rising in the morning. Dorian had already been forced to abandon his staff on the train when it pulled into the station. At least he could use the ruckus it caused when it was found unattended to duck through the gathered people into the relative safety of the station hall.
It was a tiny station all in all, befitting such a small town, and woefully unsuited to the veritable throng of visitors that were now trying to push through it. Dorian went with the flow as best he could until at last he was pushed out into the freezing open air.
It was
late Umbralis with Satinalia fast approaching, and the weather showed
it. Thick fog pressed down low on the houses, threading through the
streets with icy fingers, half obscuring the lights in the windows and
the neon signs over shops. Dorian walked down the street slowly, trying
to get his bearings. Walking without his staff felt strange and awkward,
and the cold would not stop biting into his skin. He thrust his hands
into his coat pockets instead, and with his right he fiddled with the
key he had been given. It was a small and innocuous copper key, supposed
to open a room in the peacock inn. The seediest place in town, Dorian
was certain, but it had been chosen to be his safe-house. For now.
If he managed to get there.
He heard the templar patrol before he could see them, and that might very well be what saved him. The sound they made was unmistakable. Lock-stepping steel on stone, coming from behind. Even for him, it was an effort not to quicken his steps, keep his head down while he looked for the nearest possible escape. He hadn’t been paying attention. That didn’t mean he was stupid.
For: Nessa_T (on AO3)Prompts: semi non-con sex / angst with happy ending / Dorian in collar
From: @birdscameflying
Words: 2597
Warnings: BDSM, Dom/sub, gags, bondage, humiliation, spanking, name calling, hurt/comfort
“Would you do something for me?” Dorian asks, his voice conversational, but his face is shadowed by emotion he can’t hide from the Iron Bull.
They’re having dinner at Skyhold main hall and the Bull looks up at him from his soup.
“Anything,” he says.
“You don’t even know what I am going to ask,” Dorian says, his upper lip twitching a little out of irritation.
“The answer would still be the same,” the Bull says. ”I would do anything for you.”
Dorian looks away, pushing his bowl aside having hardly touched it.
“You know I’m always right,” the mage says feigning perfect superiority. “But this time… I may have done something in haste.”
The way Dorian is sitting against the light makes it hard for the Bull to see him properly.
“I’m in a mood for a… distraction,” Dorian adds finally when the Bull has let the silence lay between them for long enough that it’s clear he isn’t going to ask.
The Bull touches Dorian’s knee under the table where no one else can see it. Sex is easy for them and Dorian has never been shy to ask for it, so this is unusual.
“Would you stop being so fucking considerate for a moment,” Dorian sneers. “I want—“ he takes a deep breath. “—you are going to make me say it, aren’t you.”
“You know the rules,” the Bull says. “I need to hear you say it.”
Dorian does.