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

Sounds perfect Wahhhh, I don’t wanna

“Plasticity”
GIFTEE: @dragonflies-and-katydids

PROMPTS
: “modern AU!”, “office holiday parties” (ish), “D/s, especially switch!Bull or sub!Bull”, “totally fine with smut”.
TAGS:
adoribull, adoribull holiday exchange, nsfw, modern AU, implicitly negotiated kink.
@mater–tua , Jan 8th.

The Qun never pegged him for much of an artist. Then again, they never thought he would have turned either. No, not bright-eyed, stout-hearted Ashkaari. Not the devout, unyielding pillar that was Hissrad. But it turned out that the Qun was fallible, and once you caught a glimpse the first crack in the lattice of precariously balanced truths, you began to see them all.
Why not an artist? The Iron Bull was damned good with his hands. It was as good as anything else, and frankly, there were worse ways to eke out a living in the hazy, snow-capped mountains in Ferelden. (Pensions were things that awaited retired servants of the Qun. The Qun took care of its own. Nothing was set aside for someone discharged from service as he was—tal-vashoth—except a one-way plane ticket out of Seheron and a half-hearted assassination attempt on the other side.) No, Bull had spent enough time taking (people) things apart with his hands. Making something with them was a good change of pace.

In the following years, Bull made a life for himself with the assortment of pieces that came out of the little abandoned-studio-turned-workshop he rented on the edge of Haven University campus. The Iron Bull experimented. Paintings with heavy-handed strokes in reds and blacks and oranges depicted the smoke and ripening carnage under the fiery swell of the Seheron sun at high hour. More whimsical watercolours captured dragons in flight and their long, undulating forms and the twilight catching the glint of scales. Sometimes, it wasn’t even a painting, but a careful floral arrangement, or painstakingly etched leather mask in Orlesian style.

Whatever the subject matter, it would always catch the eye of some upper crust collector somewhere, even if just for the novelty of owning artwork crafted by a Qunari. Bull expected that might have been the case. If asked, he just shrugged. “It’s good to have references in Orlais.” What he didn’t expect was to make a family as he stumbled along head-first through life.

There were colourful scraps of textiles hanging from the workshop’s rafters (getting tangled in Bull’s horns) and mannequins draped in flattering cuts courtesy of the resident ex-military Tevinter. Stuffed beasts and clockwork oddities (definitely not magic) brought in by an inseparable pair of elven women. Charred walls, sparks of light, and the smell of not-quite-gaatlok that waft into the room whenever the dwarf dropped in. Grim’s make-shift recording booth. (Bull never heard anything coming out of there, but he was certain something was being produced… probably.) They were a rag-tag lot, so full of character that they nearly burst at the seams, and Bull considered it a work of art.

The Faculty of Science’s faculty-wide First Day party was rarely actually restricted to the faculty, not that the Iron Bull was aware of any way to prevent academics from infiltrating any function with alcohol of any quality once the word got out. He definitely saw the appeal of coming to this merry-making affair in particular, though it paled in comparison to the Chargers’ party for Satinalia (in his humble opinion). Adaar threw a good party, and Madame de Fer wasn’t about to be seen at any event that could possibly be deemed otherwise.


But whatever foaming, steaming, glittering concoctions the mages brewed up, nothing held a candle to Rocky’s improvised fireworks, or Skinner’s festive taxidermy nugs, and most importantly, none of Stitches’ anti-hangover fix. A necessity when Krem managed to procure spirits more suitable for stripping paint than consumption. Judging by the looks on some of the party-goers, they may desperately need it. Bull downed the rest of his purple, frothing drink and grimaced. Definitely going to need it. It was worth it though, just to watch Dorian charm half the room. Long gone were the days of suspicious, sideways looks and bristling sneers. A couple revolutionary publications in theoretical physics and magiphysical interactions more than vouched for Dorian’s belonging… And the funding that came with it didn’t hurt.

“Bull!” The mage must have been comfortable. The faint, swirling gold print of snakes across his dark vest was so blatantly Tevinter that he wouldn’t have been caught dead in it a year ago. (Or probably would have, which was the problem.) The empty glass—looking toy-like in Bull’s hand—was taken from him and replaced with a cheese-stuffed pastry from a near-by tray. “I do hope you are enjoying yourself. Vivienne spared no expense with the catering.”

“Figured as much. You’d need to eat a hundred of these fiddly things to be satisfied.” He would know—he probably did have a hundred. The pastry joined its brethren for a good cause. “You look good out there, kadan.”

It was something of a lie—Dorian absolutely glowed in the company, their merriment and laughter spurring on his confidence in some sympathetic manner. If he were on point before, Dorian was definitely giving even the Orlesian elite a run for their money now… even if he were steadily approaching a fascinating shade of red.

“Of course I do. Don’t be absurd, Bull. If I deign to grace the masses with my presence, I will give them no less than the best of me.” The haughty façade slipped for a second as he stood back and inspected the Iron Bull with the same analytical eye as Bull had seem him staring down chalkboards riddled with equations in the past. Bull stuffed another pastry in his mouth lest he give anything away. “But it goes without saying that the cream of the crop is reserved for… other settings.”

The unspoken question hung in the air there. ‘Do you want to go home?’ It wasn’t that parties made him anxious—not in the least—but on this scale in these windowless rooms with few exits? Habits were hard to break, and this was no Orlesian ballroom.  His size certainly didn’t help with the stifling feeling bearing down on him. He rolled his massive shoulders in a shrug, looking down at Dorian with his good eye. “Whatever you wan…”

“Amatus.”

The Iron Bull sighed. The particular Converstion that would ensue if he finished that sentence was not something he wanted to deal with on First Day. Dorian wasn’t about to offer things he wasn’t willing to give. “Yeah. Sure. I’d like that.”
The easy look was back on Dorian’s face as his moustache quirked with his smile. He snatched another drink—there was a distinct, hot pink layer and an opaque, white one—and stuffed another flaky snack in Bull’s palm. “One for the road.”

Somehow, the glass was emptied in the time it took for Dorian to turn his back to him, get his coat on with one hand, and hold the door open for him. On the trek back to their shared apartment, Bull had to wonder if time magic had truly been theoretical or if Dorian had simply been pulling their legs all along.

“Remember the word, and keep your hands down by your knees.” The wine-coloured rope had been a gift from Sera of all people, who had been gifted some dye in turn by some friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend. Though it hadn’t been suitable for beeswax, it made for a handsome set of rope, adding a vivid splash of colour as it cut across the Iron Bull’s dark skin. It coiled around his throat and chest, then spread further down to bind his thighs to his ankles—tight, but ultimately decorative. Both he and Dorian were well aware that he could rip through this with little issue. Rather, like his unbound hands, it was an exercise in control. “I want you to close your eye for me. Keep it shut until the ropes come off.”

He did. The creaking of the old wooden floor under Dorian’s feet as he prowled around him still gave his position away anyway. The sound of his own calm breathing joined in, a steady in and out of air despite his rushing pulse. Restlessly he shifted his weight from one knee to the other where he knelt on a thick cushion on the floor. The rug would have been fine. Dorian clearly didn’t think it was enough for his knees though, and a little twittering burst from his chest at the thought. That was just it. This whole thing had been for him, and Dorian could be very obliging.


There was a sharper whoosh, and it was not of his own breath. Strips of soft leather snapped through the air, landing across his shoulder. His breath hitched. It was not a hard blow, nor could it be. The flogger had been of his own making, one of his earlier projects from his experimental days. The nug skin was light, and so were the strips cut from it. If he had to guess, there wouldn’t have even been a welt left, just a faint blur of deepening pink where the warmth began to seep into his scarred skin. The flogger’s tails ticked down the length of his back, drawing a shiver from him and the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Let go, Bull.”

The strikes came down now faster, and faster. Bull was reminded then that Dorian was not a slight man. The pain came and went in short bursts, mellowing almost immediately before melting into liquid heat, indistinguishable from the previous strokes. He could hear Dorian’s own pitched breathing above his own. They came without rest, concentrating mostly along the tops of his shoulders and the meat of his ass—safe places for a beginner. Dorian was no beginner, but he was cautious. The Bull trusted him in this.

The Iron Bull flexed his arms with every blow, straining to keep the underside of his wrists pressed firmly to the inside of his knees. At first, it was to stop him from jerking against the blows. That had been the easier part; Seheron had seen to that much. The longer Dorian worked at him though, the more it had been so he didn’t simply grab his increasingly interested cock and just have his merry way. Dorian wasn’t making it easy. The lashes were interspersed with lazy drags of the tips of leather against his reddened skin. He pushed, and the Bull yielded, soft and pliable under his hands. Tease.

Keening, the Bull was about to complain—there were no rules about that—but then Dorian stopped entirely. The flogger’s weight settled along the small of his back, rising and falling with every short pant. The leather was just as warm as he was. Before he could give it any more though, Dorian’s palm pressed against the top of his head, pushing it back slightly. The brush of his lips against his sweat-damp forehead came a second before a more heated kiss to his lips. He still tasted of whatever fruity concoction he had at Adaar’s party. His eye was still closed, but he could practically hear the smile dripping from Dorian’s voice. “So good for me. You haven’t moved an inch, have you?”

It went straight to his cock which chose that very moment to twitch against his leg, already rock hard from their ‘games’. The Iron Bull only let out a low, rumbling moan. There was a soft rustle of cloth (Dorian was still clothed, and the thought of it was hot, to say the least), then the click of a tube lid being flipped open. He leaned forward unprompted and pushed his ass back, sheepishly batting away the embarrassed flutter in his stomach when Dorian laughed.

“Cheeky.”

A swift slap to his ass after, and the ‘pun’ was enough that not even the Bull could hold back a chuckle. Not that it was much of an admonishment. Wet fingers groped behind him indulgingly, one of them finally sinking into him up to the last knuckle. Every part of the Iron Bull was large, and a single finger shouldn’t have driven him up a wall as much as it did. Except that it did, and Bull was left rocking his hip down against the intrusion as much as the ropes would allow, biting his lip a as a rough cry threatened to roll off his tongue.

“If I wanted you to be quiet, I would have gagged you.” The thought prompted a husky ‘kadan’ from him, more of a whine than anything else. Dorian was clearly satisfied as a second finger joined the first and started pumping roughly in and out of him. The slick sound of first two then three digits stretching him open was accompanied by his own sharp gasps and whole body jerks. Funny that—hundreds of pounds of muscle, and he felt like he was collapsing in on himself from a Dorian’s effortless ministrations. Dorian chipped away at him so easily, and the Bull felt himself letting him.

“Dorian. Dorian—” He pleaded for more, the last remnants of an accent from his years in the north hitting his vowels hard. His lover’s fingers found the sweet spot inside him and worked him mercilessly until he came with a shout and his voice ringing in his ears. He felt Dorian’s fingers leaving him, empty and vaguely disappointed, before it was replaced with the blunt head of a toy. Oh. It was going to be one of those nights. Orgasm forgotten, his body started to pay attention again at the new offering. “Dorian.”

“Sit back on it.” The toy must have been one with a large enough base to stand on its own because both of Dorian’s hands were then on his shoulders, pulling him back upright from where he had slouched forward. Gravity and the restored position pushed him down onto the toy and the toy into him. His mouth was open in a voiceless gasp as every raised ridge—wider and wider toward the base—along the dildo pushed through the ring of muscle. When at last he was seated back, speared open by the toy, he noticed the weight from the small of his back was also gone. “Now then… I think at least once more. Why don’t you fuck yourself on this, amatus? We can’t have me doing all the work tonight—perfect. So perfect.”

And then the stroke of leather fell again against his ass, and he struggled to keep his hands in place.

By the end of the night, the Iron Bull had been edged and allowed to climax twice more, the last of which involved him laughing breathlessly as Dorian swore creatively and furiously tore the ropes from him so that they could tumble into bed. The wait was worth it. It was still burned into his mind, the stretch of his lips around Dorian’s cock while the other man reached down and pumped the dildo still in him with one hand, and his dick with the other.

The Bull felt looser, lighter, and had commented as such and received a lewd comment in return about his copious spend before silencing his lover with a kiss.  Dumbass.

(His lovable dumbass with multiple degrees.)

Dorian was sprawled on top of him, his weight pushing his back against the mattress. It still stung, but by now, all that remained was mostly colour and the warmth of his skin. The superficial pain would fade in hours, likely. The lingering ache anchored the pliable, light feeling in his limbs as Dorian drew idly glyphs and possibly rude doodles on his chest with his fingertips.

Outside, the bell tower struck midnight. First Day was upon them. He looked down, watching Dorian press a ticklish kiss and smile against the broad expanse of a pectoral. This was what he had made—of himself, of them—and let Dorian make in return. The Bull was suddenly reminded of an Avaar folktale on Seheron, of a sculptor who so loved the woman he carved from marble that their gods took pity on him and gave her breath. He wasn’t so self-depreciating that he thought himself as the tabla rasa for Dorian’s designs, nor would the other want it to be as such.

“Hey. Kadan.” They were each flawed materials, with their scars and scratches and imperfections, and loved what they created regardless—loved what they created because of it. Dorian raised his head slightly, peering up at him past his now disheveled hair.

“Wh—” Before he could get a word in, the Iron Bull claimed a kiss with a lazy smile. Dorian matched the amusement with a grin of his own, slinging his arms around his neck to deepen the kiss. Yeah. He was proud of this, yet another thing that he would have never been given the chance to make under the Qun, and now, his opus magnum. “… And a happy First Day to you too, you great fool.”

“May it be another fruitful year, kadan.”

Adoribull Adoribull Holiday Exchange NSFW Modern AU implicitly negotiated kink