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See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

Sounds perfect Wahhhh, I don’t wanna

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.

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NSFW Adoribull Adoribull Holiday Exchange roleplaying

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?

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Adoribull Adoribull Holiday Exchange kidfic

The Space Between

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.”

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Adoribull Adoribull Holiday Exchange submission

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-drake

Prompts 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.

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Adoribull Adoribull Holiday Exchange yogurt-gun inked-drake Trespassers Trespassers spoilers

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.

Adoribull Adoribull Holiday Exchange

Believe

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.

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Adoribull Adoribull Holiday Exchange chicaaago justjasper

Adoribull Fic | January 6 | On the Road Again

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 Adoribull Holiday Exchange AU submission

To Face Unafraid

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.”

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NSFW Adoribull Adoribull Holiday Exchange KidVooDoo Eugenideswalksintoabar