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Game II - Peace for the Soul

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Bull crouches down in front of him and puts his hands on Dorian's waist. It's a pleasant, heavy weight, and the gentle squeeze Dorian receives goes a long way to calming his racing heart.

"Good?" Bull asks.

"Perfect," Dorian breathes and Bull smiles and presses a kiss against his forehead and rises.

"When you're ready," he simply says and disappears from Dorian's view.

Dorian settles back against the bed and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. The moment's here, weeks of anticipation and preparation culminating in this exact moment. His nerves fade. A sense of serenity washes over him. Katoh, he tells himself, a reminder he doesn't really need.

He's ready.

His mouth is dry and tastes like something crawled in there and died and he grimaces, swallowing hard, tongue sticking against the roof. He shuts his eyes, feels for injuries. Nothing appears to be broken or bent in an odd shape. His hands are–

Well. That is a concern.

What has happened? Where is he?

Dorian makes himself open his eyes. A room. A touch on the chilly side despite the fire roaring on the other side. The windows are dirty and blocking most of the sunlight trying to fight its way in. Dorian's on the floor, half-sitting, half-leaning against... Against what? He cranes his neck. It's a big wooden board. A chest? A dresser? The foot of a bed? He's not sure. His hands are raised above his head, his wrists and fingers pinned against the board, intricately wound rope keeping them immobile.


Dorian takes a deep, shuddering breath and tries to move his hands. The ropes give, but only a little. It might be enough to get a spell off, if need be. It definitely seems like there's a need, even if he's alone for the moment. Is he? His heart thumps in his chest. Suddenly, he no longer feels alone. It's like there's someone watching him, waiting.

And that... was most definitely a sound. A creak of wood, followed by footsteps. Dorian looks around wildly, fingers twitching against the ropes, and he squirms awkwardly to sit up as much as possible. A shadow falls over him. A very large, very broad shadow.

Maker, it's a Qunari. Dorian's mouth goes dry. He has to be at least eight feet tall and twice Dorian's width as he stands before Dorian. His skin is gray and covered in marks and jagged scars and deep long lines. He is shirtless for some reason, a leather harness doing a terrible job of covering up a wide expanse of bare skin. A set of enormous horns sits atop his head; a black eye patch covers his left eye. The remaining eye is scrutinizing Dorian with a wicked gleam that Dorian entirely does not like.

The Qunari's voice, when he speaks, is a low rumble. "Magister Pavus," he says. "Glad you're with me now."

Dorian starts. The Qunari knows his name. How...? He scrapes together his dignity and raises his chin. "Who are you?" he demands.

"I'm the Iron Bull," the Qunari says with a little bow, a hand pressed to his massive chest. The motion makes a mockery of the custom and Dorian narrows his eyes. "I am an Arvaarad in the Antaam."

Dorian is reasonably well-versed in Qunlat and Qunari society and customs in general, but even if he wasn't, he knows those words. Every mage in Thedas knows what Arvaarad means – warden against evil. Against mages. His breath catches in his throat and he bites his lip.

"And you are," the Iron Bull says, crouching down in front of Dorian, hands on his thighs and surveying him with great interest, "Dorian Pavus. A wayward magister who went off the beaten path in a very dangerous place. A fucking mage."

Dorian shudders. "Release me," he says nonetheless, hoping the Qunari didn't notice it. "I have no quarrel with you or your people."

The Iron Bull laughs. "No quarrel? Good one. No. No, I don't think so. You're going to stay here with me for a little while, Dorian Pavus."

No, no, no—please, Maker, no– Dorian strains hard against the ropes and wills fire to burst from his fingertips – preferably without burning himself in the process – and allows himself the slightest, smug grin when the Iron Bull has to stumble back on his haunches to dodge the spray of red-hot flames. Dorian's halfway through burning the rest of the ropes restraining him when the Iron Bull recovers.

"But don't do anything crazy," Bull warns.

"Like what?" Dorian says.

"Like knocking me out." Bull comes up behind him and drapes his arms over Dorian's shoulders, leaning down to rub two days of not shaving against Dorian's smooth cheeks. Dorian groans and attempts to squirm away; Bull laughs softly and holds him still. "Or freezing me. No Qunari icicles, Dorian, I mean it."

"This is going to chafe," Dorian complains, rubbing his cheek once Bull lets him. "And yes, all right, fine, no icicles. Just a little bit of fire, then? I can't do much with my hands immobilized anyway."

"As long as you miss," Bull mumbles, pressing his lips against Dorian's neck again and again, making him shiver and tense.

"You'll be presenting a fairly big target, but I'm sure I'll manage somehow," Dorian says, somewhat breathlessly, tilting his head to give Bull better access.

"I thought you liked that I'm big," Bull says innocently and Dorian swats him on his arm. "I mean, I never heard you complaining about it. Just the opposite, in fact. Begging for more, more, more..."

"Oh, do shut up," says Dorian, groaning. "And don't concern yourself with getting burned too much. You know I have excellent aim."

"Just don't get too wrapped up in your role," Bull says. "Sometimes you're a little too good at pretending, kadan."

"Yes, well, I've had a lot of practice." Dorian turns his head and looks at him. His expression is a familiar mix of indignation and reluctant softness; Bull adores seeing it on him though he'd never say it out loud. "I'll keep it under control, Bull."

"Good. I like my eyebrow. I only have the one left, I'd hate to have it singed off."

Dorian runs his thumb over said eyebrow and says, voice all innocence, "It could actually do with a little controlled singe, if you ask me. I've got tweezers somewhere around here too—or maybe we should start the trimming process with an axe, first."

Bull snorts and catches Dorian's wrist, squeezing a little. "Dorian," he says and he knows he gets the tone right because Dorian looks at him steadily. "Controlled. One spell."

Dorian rises from his seat and Bull backs off a little, watching Dorian stretch with open admiration. Tall and broad-shouldered and strong, Dorian's everything Bull likes about human men. "… so let's practice," Dorian is saying and Bull tears himself away from his blatant ogling to meet Dorian's amused, knowing expression.

"Practice?" Bull echoes.

"I fling fireballs past you, you try not to cry," Dorian says, turning on his heel and smirking.

Bull glares at him and crosses his arms. "This sounds like far less fun than the time we practiced you having your hands tied on your back for hours."

To his credit, Dorian only flushes slightly. That had been fun practice. Bull had loved watching that, had loved watching Dorian struggle to last longer and longer every time. They had experimented with different kind of restraints – ropes and chains and leather cuffs and unyielding metal bonds – before settling on the chains. Fuck. Just the memory is getting Bull hard again and he drops a hand to his cock.

Dorian raises an eyebrow. "So, fire, eh? I can work with that."

"Shut up," Bull grouses. "You. With your hands on your back."

"In a minute," Dorian says, raising both of his hands and narrowing his eyes at Bull. "Now—stand still."


Dorian is too slow. He instinctively closes his eyes when the Iron Bull throws himself at him, one of his massive hands slamming down on Dorian's bound ones, the other closing itself around Dorian's throat.

Squeezing. His hand is wide and strong and nearly fits neatly around Dorian's neck. His grip is unforgiving and the panic that washes over Dorian is instantaneous.

Dorian gasps and arches up against his restraints, against the heavy hands on his throat and hands, furiously fighting to break free. It's futile and all it does is make him lightheaded and dizzy. He sags back down, his heart skipping a beat when the pressure on his throat doesn't relent. He raises pleading eyes to the Iron Bull and apparently that's all it takes, because the Iron Bull draws his hand down to Dorian's chest, smiling faintly as Dorian drags in huge, gulping, panicked breaths of air.

He closes his eyes and evens out his breathing. He has to regain control, has to fire off another spell, fight, do something—he can't just sit here and accept whatever this filthy Qunari decides to throw at him. The ropes around his hands are halfway burnt, but the Iron Bull's hand is still across his. He can't even twitch a finger without him knowing about it, kaffas.

"Well," the Iron Bull says with a sigh, "let's make sure you don't do that again."

"If you think I'm going to sit here and let you do... do whatever it is you're planning on doing, you must be out of your mind," Dorian snaps, his voice rougher than he would like and his eyes glued to the Iron Bull as the Qunari reaches over the top of the board to retrieve an item.

"I'm sure you'll fight me every step of the way, magister Pavus," the Iron Bull says and gives him a biting, all-teeth grin. "Makes it more fun, as far as I'm concerned."

"More fun...!" Dorian sputters. "Makes what, exactly, more fun? The torture you're undoubtedly going to inflict on me?"

"Something like that," the Iron Bull says, the fingers of the hand not pinning Dorian's against the wood now clutched around a thin strip of what appears to be leather. Dorian notes he's missing parts of some of the fingers of his left hand and briefly wonders what happened. The Iron Bull holds up the strip of leather for Dorian to see. There's lettering on it which resembles Qunlat a bit, but the words are incomprehensible. They're also glowing and sparking with some kind of magic. It makes Dorian shiver. The magic feels wrong, somehow.

The Iron Bull looks at him expectantly. There's a long moment where neither speaks. The Iron Bull's expression drops. "You don't know what this is, do you?"

"Am I supposed to?" Dorian says, putting as much airy non-concern in his voice as he can possibly manage. "Are you going to tie me up with that? It seems a little small for that. Or hit me with it?"

"Oh, you're going to hate what this does much more than either of those things," says the Iron Bull and one-handedly wraps the strip of leather around Dorian's neck, fingers deft even with the missing parts.

Dorian doesn't know what to expect, but there's a blinding light in his head and a sharp buzz that runs through his entire body and knocks his head back against the board. He shakes his head, blinking rapidly, and groans. The Iron Bull's hands, both of them now, are at Dorian's throat, fastening the strip somehow. Dorian grunts, flexes his fingers and—nothing.

Nothing happens.

Nothing happens.

His magic is gone. Dorian's breath stutters out of him and he feels the Iron Bull's hands on his knees. No, he thinks, and kicks out and tries to shake the hands off, but they remain there, moving with Dorian's squirming, and then the Iron Bull is leaning in until their faces are mere inches apart.

"That's what that does," the Iron Bull says softly, his one eye searching Dorian's face intently – for any sign he wants to back out, Dorian thinks, and he gives Bull a slight head nod and a smile in response. The Iron Bull's hands spread Dorian's knees further apart and Dorian's heart speeds up. He knew, in the back of his mind, that the Iron Bull wanted something like this from him or else he'd be down in a dank dungeon on a pile of straw. But now he's faced with the undeniable reality of his predicament and he cannot use magic. The leather strip, the collar around his neck, is blocking it.

Dorian didn't even know this existed. That it was even possible to do this to a mage. To strip away all their – all his – defenses and reduce him to a mere powerless mortal. A soporati. His heart feels like it might burst out of his chest any second now, and the Iron Bull's proximity is not helping.


The first time Bull puts the collar on Dorian, Dorian freaks out.

Bull is still not entirely sure about this, but when he goes to take it off again, Dorian stops him, a hand clutching Bull's wrist. The panic is clear in his eyes, but it's Dorian, and when Dorian has his mind made up about something, he'll see it through to the end. So Bull backs off, crosses his arms, and watches Dorian pace the room for minutes, long fingers touching and rubbing at the thin strip of leather circling his throat.

"It's weird," Dorian says finally, after taking a few deep breaths and looking himself over in the mirror. He's entirely naked save for the collar and Bull has to admit it looks good. Really fucking great, in fact. Makes Bull want to reach over and hook his fingers in the collar and tug until Dorian's down on his knees, gasping for breath—okay, maybe Dorian's right, maybe this works for him, too.

"Bad weird or good weird?" Bull asks, crossing the room to stand behind him.

"Both," says Dorian, tilting his head from side to side. "My magic feels... oddly muted. Like I should be able to cast, but I can't." He stretches out a hand, flexes his fingers. Nothing happens. He shudders, but relaxes when Bull briefly rests his hands on his shoulders before sliding them down to his waist. "This is what soporati feel like every day of their lives," he mutters.

"It's how I feel every day of my life. It's not that bad, Dorian."

Dorian flushes a little and Bull watches it spread everywhere in the mirror. "I suppose," he says, by way of apology, dropping his arms to his side and meeting Bull's eye in the mirror. "It's very different for me, however. It's like a part of me is missing. It'd be like... taking away your strength. Imagine not being able to lift your axe or split a tree log in half with little effort."

Bull doesn't really want to consider that. Being unable to protect his people... He shakes his head to clear those thoughts and awkwardly leans down to rest his head on Dorian's shoulder, mindful of the horns. "You still wanna do this?"

"Yes," Dorian says firmly. "It'll allow me to have my hands free during the game. Do you not want me to have my hands free, Bull? Imagine the things I could do – the things you could do. You did say you missed that, the first time we did this."

Well. Dorian isn't wrong. He does have a few ideas and he does love grabbing Dorian's arms and pinning his hands against the wall, high above his head so he has to stand on tip-toes, flushed and breathless and writhing against Bull's hold—Bull clears his throat. "Fine," he says.

"Hmm," Dorian says, turning around and reaching up to grab one of Bull's horns. "Glad you see it my way." He pulls Bull down for a kiss, hot and wanting, and grabs Bull's hand to drag it up to his collar. "Shall we give this a trial run, then?"


"Please," Dorian chokes out. "Please, I shall do anything you desire of me, anything , as long as you take this... this thing off."

"I think we've already established you can't be trusted," the Iron Bull says, ducking his head to brush his lips across Dorian's cheek. Dorian closes his eyes and turns his head to the side, away from the savage's lips, pulling helplessly on the half-burnt ropes. They've got some give to them now and he thinks he's close to getting free, but what good is that going to do him now? With no magic, he doesn't stand a chance against this hulking brute. "You'll be a lot easier to handle with no magic to burn my face off."

"Please," Dorian repeats and the Iron Bull turns his head back and kisses him, so gently it actually takes Dorian a few seconds to register that it's real, that this is really happening to him. He wants to fight, wants to yank his head back, but the Iron Bull frames his face in two impossibly large hands and holds him still, wide mouth pressed over Dorian's, strong tongue slipping between Dorian's lips. The ropes holding Dorian's hands against the board over his head finally snap and Dorian pushes against the Iron Bull's wide chest even as his mouth falls open under the onslaught. Dorian's fingers scrabble uselessly against the Iron Bull's naked chest, finding no purchase, and, when pushing doesn't help, he resorts to beating at him with his fists.

That, at least, gets a reaction out of the Qunari.

It's a dark, rumbling laugh.

Dorian would be offended if he wasn't so simultaneously terrified and weak-kneed there's no room for offense; he considers himself a strong man and while he doesn't particularly care for getting into physical confrontations, he does know how to win them, even without the use of his magic. He grabs at the Iron Bull's shoulders, knowing full well he wouldn't be able to keep him back, but the illusion gives him hope for a few moments. He's panting and hates himself for it and attempts to squirm away from the Iron Bull's nearness now that he's free.

To his surprise, the Iron Bull lets him. He sits back, rests his hands on his thighs and watches with more than a little amusement as Dorian scrambles to his feet and backs away from him.

Dorian quickly takes stock of the room; the board he was sitting up against is indeed the foot of a wide four-poster bed. The door to freedom is on the other side of the room. He assumes it's locked, but still... A glance out the dirty windows windows tells him he's not on the ground floor, which means that's not a viable means of escape.

The Iron Bull is still just sitting there, watching him. Smiling. It's unsettling.

Dorian licks his lips, tastes him on his tongue, and shivers. He presses against the wall and wraps his arms around himself. "The door is locked, I assume."

The Iron Bull gives a half-shrug with one of his massive shoulders. "What do you think?" He stands up slowly and Dorian fights the trembling that threatens to overwhelm him. The collar around his throat is tight, but not restrictive and Dorian tracks his fingers over it, finds where it locks. He hooks a finger into the lock and tugs, to no avail.

The Iron Bull shakes his head. "It's not going to work, magister Pavus," he says, his voice not unkind. "It stays on until I take it off – if I take it off." He's not moving closer to Dorian, but it feels as though he is, his gaze weighty.

"What do you want," Dorian says, glancing at the desk. Maybe there's some kind of weapon there, something with which to defend himself. But the desk is empty. There's a chest next to the door, if he can get to that, maybe there's something in there that can help him.

Too many maybes. And would an Arvaarad leave weapons slinging about with a mage, even an incapacitated one, about? It didn't seem likely.

"Take off your clothes," the Iron Bull says.

Dorian stiffens. "No," he says flatly. He's not going to make this easy for the savage.

"Look around you, magister," the Iron Bull says, spreading his hands and taking a single step toward Dorian. It's enough to make Dorian press himself harder against the wall, curling his hands into fists to hide the shaking. "You think you have a choice?"

"You look," Dorian snaps with all the fire he can muster. "You cannot possibly believe I'll just... roll over for you, you great big beast."

"Oh, but I think you will," the Iron Bull says, ignoring the jibe. "There's two ways this can go. The easy way or the hard way. And believe me, the hard way is very, very hard." He grins. "Almost as hard as me."

Dorian flushes and refuses to follow the Iron Bull's hand as it slides down his body to cup his cock through his eye-gougingly terrible pants.

"I could snap you in half with no effort," the Iron Bull continues, stepping closer to Dorian again. "You understand that, right? You do have one choice here, magister Pavus. Do as I say and you'll be fine. Disobey me, fight me, and you'll suffer the consequences." He's now a mere three feet away from Dorian and Dorian imagines he can feel the Qunari's body heat. "That's going to be fun for me. Less so for you." Another step. He towers over Dorian and Dorian swallows hard as he looks up at him.


Bull leans against the wall next to the dresser and crosses his arms over his chest as he watches Dorian put the finishing touches on. It's a quick process; Dorian's got it down to a fine art and he doesn't wear that much makeup to begin with. And it's only for special occasions that he goes all out.

Occasions like this one.

A touch of kohl smudged under his eyes, gold dust shimmering on his eyelids and cheekbones. It looks good. Really fucking good. Bull shifts against the wall and Dorian flicks his eyes up to him for half a second before reaching for a clean rag and wiping off his fingers.

"You do realize it's never going to stay on, right?" Bull asks.

"I'm sure I won't mind all that much," Dorian replies, screwing the lids back on the small jars.

"Wasting your expensive shit on a night where it's bound to get ruined within the hour. Never thought I'd see the day," Bull says, shaking his head and hiding his grin.

Dorian scowls. "At least my clothes are something I could stand to lose."

"Who says I'm going to rip your clothes off tonight?"

Dorian rolls his eyes. "Prior experience," he says, reaching for a buckle. "Help me with these, will you?"

"Always," Bull says, moving to stand in front of him. "You know, I'm pretty sure this... thing you're wearing..." He tugs on the smooth material, runs a thumb across a line of tiny buttons he won't even try to fiddle with and don't seem to actually button anything, "… it'd stay on with half of these straps and zips and buckles. Maybe less than half."

"Most of them are decorative," Dorian says, holding on to Bull's wrist as Bull pulls a buckle tight. "Ahh that's... just tight enough, thank you." He wriggles a little and the garment settles on his body. "They complete the piece."

"Sure," Bull says, half turning Dorian to reach a line of small straps that runs from his waist to his shoulder. "I like my outfits better."

"You don't have outfits, you have terrible pants and no shirt," says Dorian. "You're not allowed to call that an outfit."

Just for that, Bull gives an extra hard yank on the last buckle and Dorian stumbles a little, swaying into him. "Oops," he says innocently. "Sorry 'bout that."

Dorian's narrowed eyes are a beautiful sight to behold and he sticks his wriggling fingers in Bull's face, his fingertips glowing eerily. "I can still do magic, you know."

He catches Dorian's wrist and brings his fingers to his lips, sucking them into his mouth. Dorian's breath catches in his throat and his other hand comes up to clutch at the strap of Bull's harness. "Are you ready?" he asks when he's done, pressing his lips against Dorian's knuckles.

"What?" Dorian asks, distracted. Bull doesn't hold back a pleased smile. "Stop smiling. I mean, yes. I am. More than ready, in fact." He takes a deep breath and straightens up. "Shall we?"

They never use their own room for these games, out of deference for those who had rooms nearby. Picking one of Skyhold's many unused rooms in a part of the castle almost nobody ever visited meant that they could be loud without traumatizing the neighbors and nobody would care or even notice if furniture broke or burned in the heat of the moment.

It's a sunny but cool day and Dorian presses closer to him as they make their way over. They don't encounter anyone but soldiers on the way there, which is great because their explanations for why the two of them are sneaking off to a deserted part of the castle are not. Several stairs, dark hallways and winding corridors later, they're getting close to the room they picked. Bull halts in his steps long enough for Dorian to get ahead of him, then grabs him and pushes him up against the wall next to the door. The torch next to Dorian's head flares and Dorian puts up a perfunctory struggle before he goes pliant in Bull's grip.

Bull searches his face. "Watchword?"

"Katoh," Dorian says, meeting his eye unflinchingly. "Must we do this every time?"

"Yes," Bull says and kisses him, leaning down just far enough that Dorian has to struggle up on his toes to reach his mouth. It's been long weeks of preparation – finding the room, fixing or replacing broken furniture, finding clean bedding – and distraction – the Inquisitor dragging him or Dorian or both out on goodwill expeditions, killing dragons, getting lost in the Fallow Mire that one time – but the time is finally here now and Bull pours all his anticipation into the kiss, taking Dorian's mouth ruthlessly. And Dorian's responding just as fiercely, one of his hands curling around one of Bull's horns, trying to pull him down further.

He laughs softly and peels Dorian's fingers away from his horn, pinning the offending hand to the wall and relishing the sound Dorian makes at that. He rests his forehead against Dorian's, watches Dorian's eyes slip closed just like that. "You smell good," he says, dipping his face into Dorian's neck.

"Well, one of us ought to," Dorian says, a slight smile on his reddened lips.

He growls a little, more show than anything else, and squeezes Dorian's hand for a second before dropping it, reaching for the door. "After you."

He follows Dorian inside and closes the door behind them, not locking it. Dorian's not paying him any attention anyway, squatting down in front of the bed and inspecting the knotted rope that's going to restrain his hands. Bull ambles over and says, "Still to your liking?"

"They'll do," Dorian says and Bull notices his quickened breath and dilated pupils and grins.

Yes. They'll do just fine.


No magic, no weapon. No escape. Dorian blows out a breath and looks away from the Iron Bull as he starts to loosen the buckles and straps on his outfit. The Iron Bull takes a small step backwards, grins again, gives a low whistle of appreciation when Dorian's shirt falls open. The heat burns Dorian's cheeks, but he ignores it, sliding the shirt off his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor.

Dorian looks at the Iron Bull, hesitating. He's sure the almost painful thudding of his heart is visible to the naked eye.

"Boots and pants too, magister," the Iron Bull says, "and whatever you're wearing underneath." He raises a hand, the one with the missing finger parts, when Dorian opens his mouth. "No. Do it."

Dorian bends down to unlace his boots, startling and letting out an entirely undignified squawking noise when the Iron Bull's broad, warm hand lands on the curve of his spine. He's definitely shaking now, his fingers getting tangled in the laces of his boot. He chokes on his breath, straightens out the laces and kicks off the boot and sock before tackling the other one. Now barefoot, he stands up again, whimpering a little when the motion makes the Iron Bull's hand slide down to his lower back, where it comes to a halt.

Dorian scrapes together the last remaining dregs of his pride and meets the Iron Bull's one eye as he unbuckles his belt, undoes the buttons on his trousers and shoves them down, taking his smalls down with them. He steps out of the trousers pooled at his feet and wets his lips. The room is colder now and goosebumps rise up on his flesh. The Iron Bull's appraising gaze heats him up again, to Dorian's dismay, and his cock twitches a little.

"Very nice," the Iron Bull says, his hand rubbing small circles on Dorian's lower back. The sensation goes straight to his cock and Dorian fights desperately not to let it show. The Iron Bull turns away from him, toward the bed and Dorian takes the opportunity to step away from him, to get out of touching range. The Iron Bull, when he faces Dorian again, smirks knowingly. He holds something up – a small, corked bottle.

Dorian flinches as if struck. "Oil?" he asks, voice wobbling a little.

"Yeah," says the Iron Bull, sinking his teeth into the cork and pulling it free with a soft pop. "Give me your hand."

That's... not what Dorian was expecting. "Why?" he asks warily, lacing his fingers together in front of his stomach. Part of him wants to cover himself up as much as possible, but he will not allow the savage the satisfaction of seeing him cower like that. So he just stands, naked, head raised.

"Getting yourself off feels better with a little oil," the Iron Bull explains patiently. "Hand, magister." He moves closer and grabs one of Dorian's wrists when Dorian's body refuses to co-operate. He pours the warm, slick liquid onto Dorian's palm and massages it in, taking his time. Dorian is sure the brute can hear the erratic thumping of his heart as his fingers slide between Dorian's, but neither of them speak until the Iron Bull is satisfied.

He absently rubs the pulse point in Dorian's wrist, heedless of the effect it has on Dorian, and tilts Dorian's chin up with his other hand. "Show me," he says.

Dorian's ears start ringing. "Pardon me?" he manages after a few seconds.

"Touch yourself," the Iron Bull says, a lascivious grin spreading across his jagged features. "And please, take your time. No hurrying on my account."

He can't. He can't just... put on a show for this... this ox. Venhedis!

The Iron Bull raises his hand, puts his palm against Dorian's shoulder, and nudges him around before pulling him back against his massive chest. Dorian shudders at the impact, the straps of the harness pressing into the bare skin of his back. Dorian's not seen many Qunari in his life and when he had, it was usually from a – safe – distance. He never dreamed he'd ever be this close to one, especially not under these circumstances: naked and vulnerable and with no magic to even the odds.

Utterly powerless and feeling very, very small.

The Iron Bull slides his arms around Dorian and he encircles Dorian's wrists, dragging Dorian's slick right hand down to his cock and drawing the other up to the collar. Dorian resists, but he's no match for the savage's strength and he can only whimper when the Iron Bull tucks his fingers and Dorian's into the collar and pulls him harder against the Iron Bull's body. He can feel the brute's erection press against the small of his back and he shudders because that feels... sizable.

"Show me," the Iron Bull says again and a quiet, desperate, "Please," falls from Dorian's lips in response.

"You beg real prettily," the Iron Bull says in his ear. "Wanna see how much more I can make you beg." He tugs on the collar and presses the fingers of his other hand between Dorian's and closes them around Dorian's dick.

Dorian gasps, his head snapping back against the Iron Bull's chest. His own grip is lax, but the Iron Bull's is firm and warm and his fingers are strong and calloused, the roughness adding to the bright hot burst of want and need spiking through Dorian. His cock is still mostly soft, but between his own slick fingers and the Iron Bull's tight grip, it's an embarrassingly short amount of time before he feels himself growing hard.

Vasta fass!

The Iron Bull lets out a pleased little noise behind him and says, "Beautiful, magister." He glides their hands over Dorian's growing erection, rubbing his thumb over the head, wet with Dorian's need, making Dorian choke on his next breath, hips twisting helplessly. "So fucking gorgeous you are. That's it, keep going, keep stroking yourself. Tighter. Slower. The way you like it, the way you do it when you're alone at night."

Dorian closes his eyes and obeys, working his dick through his fist and biting down on the moans threatening to spill over his lips. He's not going to be crass and loud, he is not going to give the barbarian the satisfaction. The Iron Bull moves behind him, idly grinding his dick against Dorian, and the hand that was in the collar around Dorian's neck moves down to his nipples.

"Don't," Dorian manages.

"Sensitive?" the Iron Bull murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow, idle circle around a nipple. "Keep moving your hips, magister, I didn't say you could stop. Fuck your hand."

Maker help him. The brash words hit him like a physical kick to the chest and his hips jerk forward when the Iron Bull tightens his... tightens their grip on his dick. Dorian's head falls back against the Iron Bull's collarbone, his eyes roll up into the back of his head and he meets the savage's eye briefly before he forces himself to look away. He hears him laugh, feels his lips brush his forehead and exhales sharply when the brute's hand drops away from his dick to cradle his balls.

"Don't stop, little mage," the Iron Bull says, gently stroking and fondling him. His touch is certain, direct, and serves no other purpose than to turn Dorian's legs to water.

"W-when I get free," Dorian begins, the words coming out haltingly, his breathing a ragged mess.

"When you get free, hm?" the Iron Bull repeats, sounding almost fond. "You'll do what, magister?"

"Oh, oh," Dorian moans, still stroking himself because he can't stop, he should stop, he can't–

The Iron Bull twists his nipple and Dorian cries out, his voice reverberating against the wall, and he tries to squirm away from him, from the strong hand on his dick and balls and the vicious hand rubbing and pulling on his nipples. But the Iron Bull holds him firmly, his head dipping low to bite at the top of Dorian's ear. Not hard enough to draw blood, but a painful enough bite that Dorian winces and jerks his head away from him.

"Go on," the Iron Bull rumbles. "You were threatening me." His hand drags through the coarse hair at the base of Dorian's cock and Dorian whines at the sensation, wanting so badly to feel those fingers on his dick again. "Oh, you like that, don't you?"

Dorian shakes his head, his hand moving on its own accord.

The Iron Bull's laugh is a huff in his ear. "Liar. I've heard so many tales about you magisters, how you're all sophisticated liars and so smart, and so ready to poison each other the second the wind turns while smiling at each other over your fancy wines. But you, you're an open book." He grips the base of Dorian's dick and Dorian rises up on his toes, grabbing the Iron Bull's arm with his free hand. The noise that falls from his mouth is not something he cares to repeat. "I figured I'd have some fun with you, but I had no idea just how entertaining you'd turn out to be. And so fucking stunning."

The unwanted, undesired praise sends shivers down his spine, a reaction he can't hide from the brute, who groans and strokes him harder. Dorian writhes, the hard body behind him huge and unyielding and hot to the touch, and he arches his back, teetering on the brink of an orgasm before he good and well realizes it.

And the Iron Bull stops and pulls their hands off Dorian's dick. The shock of it nearly drives Dorian to his knees, his cock twitching and bouncing, and he lets out a bitten-off moan when the Iron Bull slides an arm around his waist and presses a kiss against the back of his neck, just above the collar.

"Not happening, magister," he says, grinning against Dorian's skin when Dorian tries to reach for his dick again.

Dorian swears and swears again when the Iron Bull bodily lifts him up and tosses him onto the bed as though he weighs nothing. Dorian ruts against the mattress, so close, so close, and kicks out a leg when the Iron Bull climbs onto the bed behind him and raises his hips up and away from the mattress, settling in between his legs. Dorian's cock throbs and twitches between his legs and it aches, but the friction is gone, and Dorian is not going to come.

Good, Dorian tells himself, panting wetly into the sheets. He didn't want to come in front of this Qunari barbarian anyway, did he. Dorian should not give the Iron Bull the satisfaction of watching him unravel, watching him break.

"I love that fighting spirit," the Iron Bull says, squeezing Dorian's hips to the point of bruising. Dorian's still held aloft and no amount of squirming dislodges the Iron Bull's firm grip. "But you're not going to come, 'Vint. Not until I tell you so."

Dorian doesn't know what's worse. Being denied his release or having the savage drag his orgasm out of him. Right now, the former is winning out, embarrassing as it is. "So that's your game?" he asks, hating how thin and reedy his voice sounds.

"You're here for my pleasure, not your own," the Iron Bull says, lowering Dorian's hips to the bed again and giving his arse an admonishing smack. It hurts a little, but the pain blooms in a way that makes Dorian clench up everywhere and he hears the Iron Bull chortle softly behind him. Bastard Qunari. "Don't move," he says.

"And if I do?" he asks, chancing a glance over his shoulder. the Iron Bull is still fully dressed, but his thick fingers are making short work of the buckles of his harness. The loose folds of his pants hide much, but the outline of his – Dorian swallows hard – apparently very impressive cock is plainly visible.

The Iron Bull narrows his one eye at Dorian and he stops unbuckling his harness to rise up on his knees and loom over Dorian. It's very effective; Dorian hates to admit it. He tries to make himself smaller, attempts to sink into the bedding. The Iron Bull plants one hand between Dorian's bare shoulders and pushes down – hard. His other hand finds its way back to the damnable collar and Dorian's vision whites out when it gets pulled harshly against his throat. He struggles to rise up with the pull on the back of his neck, but the Iron Bull easily keeps him down; the leather digs into his skin and Dorian lets out incoherent noises, broken pleas, flailing his arms, hips twisting from side to side, giving his cock much-needed and disallowed friction in the meantime. This shouldn't go straight to his dick, he thinks desperately over the roaring in his ears, and yet it is.

The Iron Bull leans in close, one of his knees on the small of Dorian's back, stilling his hips, and he says, "Consider how much you like breathing, magister Pavus. I can pull this collar much, much tighter. I don't need you to be conscious to fuck you."

Dorian would have whined if he were capable of making a sound. As it is, his mouth just falls open and he grabs at the sheets, nails catching on the rough material, and he writhes underneath the Iron Bull, the shock of his words running through him like electric fire. His heart pounds madly in his chest and in his throat, beating a rapid staccato against the leather cutting off his airflow. For two wild, long seconds, Dorian thinks he might actually pass out, and he knows with horrifying certainty that the Iron Bull is not lying, that it would not stop him, that whatever the Iron Bull plans on doing with him is going to happen regardless of the state Dorian is in.


Bull first catches wind of what Dorian wants purely by accident. He's gone looking for him in his usual haunts, starting with the library. But while he sees where Dorian's been working – a table near the window, covered in stacks of books and paper – he doesn't find Dorian himself. Bull scratches his chin, shrugs. Probably went to take a piss or get something to drink; there's a few empty cups on the right hand side of the table because Dorian forgets to bring the empty ones down when he gets a new one.

He bends over the book open on the table and raises his eyebrow. It's about Arvaarad and the Antaam and mages in Par Vollen. Not exactly light reading, and not exactly Dorian's favorite subject either.

"There's no pictures in that book," Dorian says behind him, voice teasing. "I could draw them for you, though, if you'd like."

"Ha ha," Bull deadpans, turning around. "You're hilarious."

"So I've been informed," Dorian says. "Were you looking for me?"

"Yeah," Bull says and points out the window. "It's dark."

Dorian follows his outstretched finger and blinks. "So it would appear. And?"

"Food, Dorian," Bull says and as if on cue, Dorian's stomach grumbles.

"Hm," Dorian says, rounding the table and putting in bookmarks before closing the books. "I suppose time did kind of get away from me."

"Like yesterday. And the day before, and the day before that, and all those other times had to come get you."

Dorian looks up, flashes him one of his genuine smiles. Dorian has a lot of smiles and Bull is slowly learning to categorize them all. It's a challenge, but one he's up for. "I ought to thank you, then, don't I? For not letting me starve."

"Thank me later," Bull says. "Dinner first."

Weeks later, Bull is reminded of that book again. Bull's sharpening his greatsword when Dorian comes in, carrying a package under his arm. His expression is a weird mix of nervous and determined. Dorian sets the package on the dresser against the far wall and leans his hip against it, crossing his arms over his chest, watching Bull work for a minute.

He puts his back into it, aware of Dorian's eyes lingering on his shoulders and biceps, and grins to himself. It's hard work but he likes it, keeping his weapons in the best condition possible, ready for combat whenever he needs them. Dorian's uncharacteristically quiet while he works, just watching him, and Bull is too focused on getting the job done to break the silence.

When he's done, Bull carefully runs a thumb along the glittering edge of the blade and winces when blood starts welling up immediately. He sucks his thumb into his mouth and sticks the other one up in the air.

Dorian crosses the room toward him, shaking his head exasperatedly, and pulls Bull's hand away from his mouth to cast a quick healing spell. "Honestly," he says. "I didn't think I needed to tell you it'd be sharp."

"Best way to test it," Bull says, grinning, carefully laying the sword aside. He jerks his head toward the dresser. "What's in the package?"

"Ah, yes," Dorian says slowly, turning toward the dresser. "Something for... the game. If you like, I mean, if you don't, I'll go without, but–"

"Dorian," Bull says, to stop him talking. "Show me." But he is getting a little bit nervous, to be fair. Dorian's usually fairly straightforward with his desires, even if Bull occasionally needs to coax his needs out of him.

Dorian cuts open the package with one of Bull's knives and pulls the flaps aside before stepping back and letting Bull look at the contents. Well, the content. It's a strip of dark leather, about two inches wide, and Bull recognizes it almost immediately. He picks it up, feels it hum in his hand.

"An asala-kost ?" Bull says, running it through his fingers, looking at the ancient Qunlat inscribed on it. A magical device used to block magic. Never let it be said the Qunari weren't inventive and capable of bending magic to their needs, even while despising and fearing it.

"Peace for the soul," Dorian mutters. "Ironic."

"Where did you even get this?" Bull asks.

Dorian relaxes slightly. "Dagna has her ways," he says. "I don't think there's anything she wouldn't be able to procure for us. She didn't even ask me why I wanted it. She just got this manic gleam in her eyes and started jotting down notes. She sort of scares me."

"Ah," Bull says. "And you want me to put this on you." He catches the fine tremor that runs through Dorian at his words and considers. "Are you sure?"

Dorian raises his chin and Bull's already smirking at his determined affirmative when he says, "No. But I want to try."

"I'm not going to do anything with this if you're not sure," Bull says, gripping the collar tighter.

Dorian crosses his arms. "I'm sure I want to try, Bull." He licks his lips. "Are you? I mean, you did mention it before, which was what inspired me to do my research, but if you don't want to this, for whatever reason, then we... won't."

Dorian tries very hard not to sound disappointed, but Bull doesn't take these things lightly. He thumbs the leather of the collar and thinks about how it'd look around Dorian's neck, tight on his skin. No magic. None at all. Scenarios where Dorian wasn't a mage at all had been fun to explore, but the fact Dorian was dangerous if left unchecked added an element to their games that they both wanted to keep. He looks at Dorian, sees his somewhat nervous stance contrary to the the defiant tilt of his head. "You'd look good in this."

Dorian's smile blossoms radiantly and he steps closer to Bull, pressing a firm hand against Bull's chest. "I would look fantastic in that."


The Iron Bull gives another firm tug on the collar before finally letting go and Dorian collapses face down into the pillow, not even resisting when the Iron Bull spreads his thighs apart to the point of straining. Dorian is distantly aware of the Iron Bull undressing behind him – the harness clattering to the floor, the rustling of cloth, the sound of a belt unbuckling and getting pulled through the loops, the rocking of the mattress every time that massive body shifts – but he's too lightheaded to do anything but lie there and focus on breathing.

He slowly, haltingly touches his fingers to the collar around his neck and winces. Oh yes, that does indeed hurt; the skin feels hot and the leather is warm. He traces his fingertips across the slight indentations of the words, wishing he knew what they meant.

"It's an ancient incantation," the Iron Bull says behind him and Dorian abruptly pulls his hand away. "Our scholars believe it might actually be Tevinter in origin. Ironic, huh?"

That cannot be true. Dorian shakes his head. The mattress shifts again when the Iron Bull leans over him once more, wide hands landing on Dorian's wrists, pinning them against the bedding. Dorian's heart skips a beat and he squirms helplessly when the Iron Bull moves down and presses his lips against Dorian's temple.

"Don't," Dorian says, voice hoarse, to both the kiss and the words.

"Do you think my people would admit to using Tevinter magic if it wasn't true, magister?" the Iron Bull asks softly, his breath wafting across Dorian's cheek. "I mean, we still won't admit to it out loud, but the Arvaarad all know it." He kisses Dorian again, on his cheekbone. Dorian turns his head the other way, ignoring the Iron Bull's laughter. "Of course we refined it. Magic is dangerous and must be controlled, as do mages, but it's still a tool, and tools must be used."

The Iron Bull moves his hands to Dorian's shoulders, a light drag over Dorian's arms. Dorian can't suppress the tremor that runs through him or the goosebumps that rise up at the touch. the Iron Bull keeps touching him lightly, gently, on his shoulders, upper arms, his back, waist and... Dorian bites his lip hard when the Iron Bull's hands squeeze his arse, bordering on rough, thick calloused fingers touching him everywhere he doesn't want to be touched.

"Gorgeous," the Iron Bull mutters and Dorian bites at the sheets. "They breed mages real pretty where you're from, magister Pavus."

Dorian's teeth ache. The sheets dry out his tongue. He doesn't want to speak anyway.

The Iron Bull's hand slides under his right thigh, angling it up, spreading him open. Maker, Dorian thinks, his stomach curling with trepidation. His breath is coming in light and fast, the collar pulling with every intake.

"Like this," the Iron Bull says, shifting on the bed, and he lets out a groan.

Dorian chances a glance over his shoulder and immediately regrets it. The Iron Bull is just tossing the oil bottle aside and he meets Dorian's eyes with a filthy grin as he slowly strokes himself. His cock is—Dorian's sudden breathlessness has nothing to do with a too-tight collar around his neck. It's huge and thick and slick and the Iron Bull is working it with both of his hands, sighing and moaning quietly.

"Like what you see?" the Iron Bull asks, his one eyebrow raised, a smirk on his lips.

He can't just lie here passively and let this beast do—this to him. But there's just an empty void where his magic used to be and Dorian lets out a small sob, curling his hands into fists. Behind him, there's a brief hesitation, he can feel it, but the moment passes when Dorian doesn't speak, and then the Iron Bull is bearing down on him. Dorian trembles when the Iron Bull's thick cock slides across his arse, leaving an oily trail, and he gasps when the Iron Bull grips his hip with one hand.

The thick, blunt head of the Iron Bull's cock nudges at him. The Iron Bull's hand at his hip moves to his thigh, holding him wide and open. Dorian can't help the choked off cry when the Iron Bull pushes in; with no fingers to open him up first, it's an immense stretch that borders on the painful. The Iron Bull stops and Dorian knows he's not even halfway in just yet. He jerks when the Iron Bull's other hand clamps down on his neck, pinning him against the mattress. Dorian's nails dig half-moons into his palms.

"Relax," Bull murmurs above him. "Breathe, Dorian."

The Iron Bull eases off his grip of Dorian's neck, allowing him more air.

"You animal!" Dorian struggles to spit the words out. "You filthy, depraved ox—ahh!"

The Iron Bull squeezes Dorian's neck, slipping two fingers under the collar to pull it taut enough to remind Dorian he's wearing it. As if he could forget. The Iron Bull sinks his dick in deeper and deeper and Dorian struggles to take it all and not let the savage know how wrecked and debauched he feels. His dick is still throbbing persistently where it's trapped between the mattress and his stomach and every little shift and twitch he's allowed sends a hot spike of need through him.

"So tight, magister," the Iron Bull grits out and Maker, there's still more. "So good."

"Stop," he gasps out, "please , stop, it's... it's too much, I can't " There is yet more. Dorian buries his face in the sheets to stop himself pleading as best he can with the Iron Bull's hand on his neck.

"Taking it so beautifully," the Iron Bull pants. "Just like that, yes... Very good." He bottoms out, his balls snug against Dorian's arse, and Dorian feels like wailing. It's – he's – too much. Dorian's been with well-endowed men before, but none of them came even close to this. He moans piteously, pressing his fists into the mattress, trying to adjust to how full and taken he feels. The Iron Bull doesn't do anything. He's just there, fingers hooked in the collar, his other hand gently squeezing and patting his thigh. He's letting him get used to the feeling, Dorian realizes, and the thought is a punch to the gut.

He'd rather the Iron Bull was cruel about it.

The Iron Bull grunts, grinding down into Dorian, pressing against his walls. "You're doing so well, magister Pavus," he says, sounding almost conversational save for the way his voice is pitched lower. Almost growling. Dorian shudders. "Almost like this isn't your first Qunari cock." The last few words are delivered in a groan and Dorian can't help but twitch in response, clenching down on the length inside of him. "But I can't imagine I'm not your first Qunari. As if an arrogant little magister like yourself would ever lower yourself to this, hm? Shit, 'Vint, I'm going to make this feel so good you'll never be able to get fucked again without thinking of me."

Dorian cries out when the Iron Bull pulls out almost completely, just keeping the head of his dick inside, then slides back in at an agonizingly slow pace, a hot drag pressing against everywhere Dorian needs to feel it. He shakes, gripping at the sheets, and wills himself not to make a sound. The Iron Bull's fingers feel like claws on his thigh as he grips Dorian and pulls back again.

Dorian squeezes his eyes shut and waits. The next thrust doesn't come and Dorian draws in a shivery breath when the Iron Bull, instead, bends over him, tugging on the collar until Dorian reluctantly meets his eye.

"Ask," the Iron Bull says, twisting his hips from side to side slowly, letting Dorian feel the few inches of his considerable dick that are still inside of him.

"W-what?" Dorian says, his voice thready.

The Iron Bull bends down further, his lips on Dorian's ear. "Ask me to fuck you, magister. Beg me."

The words rock through Dorian, their meaning unclear at first, but sharpening in an instant, and he goes still as his blood runs cold and his fingers lose their death grip on the sheet. His breath catches in his throat and his refusal spills out of him before he can fully think it through.

"I will not," he says and cringes in anticipation of a slap or the collar around his throat choking him or whatever else this savage wild beast will come up with.

A string of Tevene swearing unstoppably rolls off Dorian's tongue, but all it does is make the Iron Bull hike Dorian's leg up higher and move his other hand from the collar to Dorian's hair. He breathes loudly, obnoxiously, and works his dick in deeper, keeping Dorian from squirming with twin painful grips on Dorian's thigh and hair. Dorian can't do anything; he tries bucking up, pushing himself up on his elbows, but the Iron Bull's weight is heavy and solid over him and the moment his bare back comes in contact with the Iron Bull's sweat covered chest, Dorian shudders and drops back down.

For a moment, they remain like that, Dorian trembling uncontrollably, the Iron Bull bent over his bare back, dick halfway in.

Again and again Dorian tries to reach his magic, his mana, anything familiar and comforting and a weapon, and again and again he bumps up against that strange, walled numbness. He clutches at the sheets again and swallows his dignity. "Please," he says and grunts when the Iron Bull's dick shifts inside of him.

Dorian can feel the shudder that runs through the Iron Bull's body at his words and his stomach clenches up. The savage is truly getting off to Dorian pleading.

"Please what," the Iron Bull says, the last word clipped. His fingers tangle in Dorian's hair and he gives it a gentle tug. "Be specific, magister."

Dorian wets his dry lips and closes his eyes. He hopes the Iron Bull won't notice. "Fuck me," he says, surprised when his voice doesn't break.

"All at once now," the Iron Bull says, rocking his hips forwards once, giving Dorian another inch. His hand draws down to the collar again, rubbing across the leather.

"Please fuck me," Dorian says, trying to keep his voice steady and free of inflection. He's not sure he succeeds because the Iron Bull moans and presses all the way in again, his balls slapping heavily against Dorian's arse.

"Again," the Iron Bull says, panting, "and louder."

Dorian wants to deny him this, wants to spell his lips shut and just get through this, but the Iron Bull is steadily fucking him now, easy and slow, measured strokes, and it's making Dorian's toes curl and his dick impossibly harder. "Fuck me," he says roughly, and adds, much more desperate than he intends, " please." The next thrust rocks him across the mattress and he groans as his dick gets the friction it needs. It's not enough, it's never enough, but Maker, it feels good and Dorian turns his face into the pillow to hide it and the noises threatening to spill forth from his mouth.

He is not allowed this small mercy. The Iron Bull taps his cheek and grabs his chin when he doesn't turn back quickly enough.

"Wanna hear you," he says, "you feel amazing, little mage. Hot and tight, just like I thought."

Dorian's sob sticks in his throat, thank the Maker, and all he can do is go lax and let the Iron Bull take him as he wants, one large hand wrapped around Dorian's thigh still, the other dragging restlessly over the collar, tugging with no real rhyme or reason and with seemingly no other goal than to make Dorian tense up. Sparks dance in front of his eyes at the pounding he takes, the Iron Bull's ridiculously oversized cock fucking into him at increasing speed. Dorian's breath is coming out in short, harsh gasps, and he's distantly aware of the low noises of wanton lust and need he cannot keep in check. His body is one big raw, sparking nerve, set on fire by a Qunari of all things, an Arvaarad at that, and every touch and stroke and squeeze burns him.

"Fuck," the Iron Bull grinds out and the next thing Dorian knows, he's being hauled up to his knees and elbows, thighs parted, his cock slapping wetly against his belly with every one of the Iron Bull's deep, strong thrusts. "No rutting against the mattress, 'Vint. Don't want you coming just yet."

Dorian hangs his head between his arms and bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Both of the Iron Bull's hands are on his hips now, holding him still. He can reach for his cock and Maker , he wants to; two, maybe three pulls and he'd come, possibly harder than he's ever come in his life (and he'll never share that with a soul), but he doesn't know what the Iron Bull's response would be. He just knows it wouldn't be good and so he doesn't. He lets the Iron Bull manhandle him into the desired position and groans when the angle changes slightly and the Iron Bull starts hitting that spot with some regularity.

"Stretch out your arms," the Iron Bull says, his voice rough, hitching Dorian's hips up higher.

The order takes some time to process in Dorian's foggy brain. "What...?"

The roughness of his voice isn't any less when he repeats his order, viciously thrusting into Dorian when he isn't obeyed quickly enough. Dorian lets a small whine escapes when he realizes what, exactly, the Iron Bull wants. With his arms stretched out over the pillows, the tips of his fingers skimming the headboard, his shoulders move down and his arse raises up even higher. The altered position is–

Fury and humiliation war for victory. Humiliation wins. Dorian's eyes slip closed again, and he tries not to care his moans grow louder and louder.

"Face down, ass up, that's how you mages need to be treated," the Iron Bull laughs. "That's how you like it, don't you, magister?"

The answering heat curls up in Dorian's belly, but he refuses to answer the – mostly rhetorical, he hopes – question. Instead, he says, the words coming out in a stutter, "I'm going to burn your foul tongue an-and scatter the ashes to the wind when I get free."

The Iron Bull laughs uproariously and smacks Dorian's flank for that, fucking in harder, meaner. "I like that fire, magister! When you get free, huh? Might just keep you here, then. Keep you shackled against the wall, legs spread, always ready for me. Gag between those pretty lips – or maybe not 'cause I like hearing you scream."

Dorian gives a full-body shudder and jams his fingertips against the headboard until they're white. He doesn't speak, can't speak, his vocabulary has abandoned him. All that's left is the Iron Bull's cock and his hands ruthlessly pushing and pulling Dorian's hips back and forth. He's close, Dorian can tell from the way his breathing picks up. Dorian'll have bruises in the shape of his fingers come morning and—oh, Maker.

The Iron Bull jerks forward, pressing in deep and hard, grinding into Dorian with enough force to make Dorian's knees slide apart even further, and he comes. He lets out a growling, shuddering moan as he does, spilling deep inside Dorian, cock twitching and jerking, his balls snug against Dorian's overheated skin.

"No," Dorian moans, feeling the savage's come starting to slide out of him as the Iron Bull weakly keeps moving his hips, breathing out hard and fast. "Venhedis, no."

The Iron Bull laughs and exhales as he eases out of Dorian. The mattress rocks as he lets go of Dorian's hips and they both collapse. Dorian buries a groan into the pillow as he gets to rub his dick against the sheets; it feels wondrous and the urge to just come and damn the consequences is overruling the part of him that wants to obey in order to get through this with the minimal amount of pain and humiliation.

"Stay still, magister," the Iron Bull says behind him. "Stop. Turn over." He sounds wrecked and his orders come out somewhat breathless. But it's an order nonetheless and one Dorian does not want to follow. The Iron Bull mutters something under his breath and then Dorian is making entirely undignified, shocked noises when two (three?) of the Iron Bull's fingers slide into his arse, gentle but insistent. His cheeks burn at the appreciative sound the Iron Bull lets out as he twists and crooks his fingers inside of Dorian. "Turn over," he repeats.

"Can't," Dorian gasps out. "Your... your fingers–"

"Will stay where they are, you can manage. You're flexible enough."

Dorian can hear the smug grin in his voice and he's never hated the Qunari more. Nothing but savage beasts, the lot of them. He braces himself and attempts to turn over. It's clumsy and degrading and it involves a graceless flinging of one leg over the Iron Bull's head and dangerous horns; he drags his calf across the tips of one horn hard enough to leave a long, red mark, but eventually he ends up on his back, forcing himself to breathe evenly.

It's worse this way, spread out and open, the Iron Bull's gaze heavy and wanting, his fingers pressing and sliding around inside Dorian with no particular rhythm or intention. It's just to keep reminding Dorian who's in charge. Dorian lays an arm across his eyes and clenches his jaw. He's still hard and his dick twitches when the Iron Bull trails his other hand across Dorian's hipbone, his thumb rubbing idle circles into Dorian's skin. The gentle touch is maddening and Dorian finds himself idly pressing up into it – and down onto his fingers – before he stops himself and scowls at him.

"That feels good, doesn't it?" the Iron Bull asks. "Me coming inside you, also felt great, yeah?"

"Fuck you," Dorian spits bitterly.

"Look at me," the Iron Bull says, leaning in, and lowering Dorian's arm from his eyes with his free hand. He bends down and kisses Dorian, a soft press that turns demanding in the span of a heartbeat, his tongue slipping between Dorian's lips, sliding against Dorian's. Dorian whines into his mouth and strains up when the Iron Bull drags his fingers all the way out and instead rubs around his sensitive hole, making Dorian buck up. He feels shockingly empty and grimaces when come and oil start sliding out, making a mess on the sheets under him.

The Iron Bull cleans his hand on the sheet between Dorian's legs and sits up. Dorian's eyes are drawn to his cock, mostly flaccid between his legs. He can't truly believe that was inside him a moment ago; even in its softened state, it's bigger than any cock Dorian's ever seen. "Well," the Iron Bull says, his eyebrow raised, "I did tell you to look at me. Go ahead." He spreads his legs wider and takes himself in hand. "Get an eyeful. Satisfy your curiosity, magister. I know it was kind of hard to see when it was up your ass."

Dorian draws in a sharp breath and looks away.

The Iron Bull lets out a low laugh and leans over the side of the bed to rummage through a chest. Dorian determinedly does not look at him, not even when he starts cleaning his cock with slow, deliberate movements accompanied by pleased noises. He takes the opportunity to look around the room again, but it's still as much of a prison as it was before things got decidedly worse. There's a hook on the ceiling right above the bed that used to hold a lamp, the bookcase in the far corner is empty save for a few empty candle holders – none of them heavy enough to be any kind of weapon, unfortunately – and the sun is still trying to fight its way through in the muck on the windows, letting him know it's still day. How much time has passed?

"Ow," he says, when the Iron Bull pinches his thigh and he glances down in time to see something draped over his legs. A strip of leather, thinner than the collar and several feet longer. Confusion reigns, but his heart also speeds up because this... Is this...? He takes a deep breath and meets the Iron Bull's eye. "Dare I ask?"


Bull picks up his gift in a shitty store in a small village they pass on their way back to Skyhold. He sees it, sees what it's being used for, and immediately thinks of a much better use for it, in conjuncture with the asala-kost Dorian got them. It's cheap and looks it, but it'll do for now. If Dorian likes it – and Bull is willing to bet he does – he'll look into getting something nicer. Classier, high-end. Something fit for the 'Vint.

Whistling off-key to himself, he tucks it into one of his large pockets and makes his way back to where the boss is haggling with a shopkeep over the price of plaidweave. Dorian's going to kill her, Bull thinks, laughing.

Once they're back at Skyhold, Bull first has a meeting with Krem and the rest of his Chargers, then he makes his way up to his rooms. Dorian's there already, still alphabetizing his personal book collection on the shelves they put up shortly before Bull left. He hasn't made much progress then, probably distracted by all the interesting books and texts he has to sort.

"You're back," Dorian says and Bull catches the brief smile that flits across his face. "I didn't expect you for another few hours."

"We made good time, fresh horses," Bull says, crossing the room to where he is and sliding an arm around his waist. He presses a kiss to Dorian's dark hair and says, "Got a question for you."

"Yes?" Dorian says, reaching for the next book to be shelved and checking the author's name, settling his hip against Bull's thigh.

"About the game," Bull says and that gets him Dorian's undivided attention.

Dorian looks up at him, eyes narrowed. "It's still the day after tomorrow, correct?"

"What? Yeah, yeah, I don't wanna cancel that. I'm..." Bull takes a breath, wills his growing arousal to go away for now. "I'm ready for that. More than ready. Really looking forward to it." It's been all he can think about while they were out slaying monsters and stray Venatori on the Storm Coast – although the slaying monsters part wasn't half bad either.

Dorian clears his throat and Bull grins at the slight flush on his cheeks. "Yes, me too." He adjusts the collar of his jacket and touches his throat in an unconscious gesture. "So what's your question?"

"I had an idea," Bull says slowly. "But I don't want to tell you what it is."

Dorian tilts his head. "Why not?"

"I want to surprise you," Bull says.

"Will I like this... surprise?"

"Yes," Bull says immediately. "But if you don't, you can tell me."

Dorian crosses his arms. "You certainly seem sure I'll enjoy this... whatever you have planned."

"I know you," Bull says, grin widening at Dorian's scowl. "I know what you like."

Dorian harrumphs and asks, "I'll still have my hands free?"

"You'll still have your hands free." Bull grabs one of said hands and kisses one of the rings adorning his fingers. Dorian always goes very still when he does that and Bull always enjoys silencing him, though there are more fun ways to accomplish that.

Dorian shudders out a breath and says, "You usually tell me in advance what you plan on doing when we do these intense plays."

Bull turns Dorian's hand over and kisses his palm, shrugging. "If you really want to know, I'll tell you right now." He glances at him, kisses the pulse point on his wrist. Dorian bites his lip. "Trust me."

"I do," Dorian says. "Or else I wouldn't be doing this at all. Very well, I'll let you surprise me."

"Awesome," Bull says. "I'm gonna take a bath now. Wanna join me?" He recently got a bigger tub installed to accommodate his larger size and he's been taking full advantage of that rather than going to the communal Skyhold bathhouse behind the stables.

"I know it fits you, but it still doesn't fit both of us," says Dorian, but his hands are already at the hundreds of buttons of his jacket.

Bull grins. "You can sit on my lap."

"How generous you are," Dorian says, and follows Bull to the bathing room.


The Iron Bull picks up the long strip and runs it through his hand until he gets to the end, where a silver clasp glints in the light. Dorian struggles to push himself upright, but the Iron Bull's broad hand lands in the center of his chest and pushes him back down, keeping him flat. Dorian stares at the ceiling, curling his hands into fists at his side, until the Iron Bull's face hovers over him. The eye patch has shifted a little and Dorian catches a glimpse of deep, ugly scarring. His good eye focuses on Dorian and Dorian can only look at him for a second before he has to look away.

"We prefer our mages bound," the Iron Bull says, "and leashed."

No, no, no, Dorian thinks wildly, squirming. That's not—he's not—Maker save him. He kicks at the Iron Bull, hits him on his hip, but the savage doesn't even seem to notice it. He just fiddles with the... the leash and smiles without looking at him when Dorian makes a small noise. He reaches over, pulls the collar away from Dorian's neck, and quietly meets Dorian's eyes.

Dorian nods and slips his eyes shut.

The Iron Bull hooks the leash onto the collar, fiddling with it to lock it securely. His fingers at Dorian's throat make him shiver and the soft click of the clasp is loud in the silence that's descended over them.

Dorian's heart hammers in his chest. He exhales loudly and grunts in surprise when there's sudden tension and he's pulled upright into a sitting position. His hands fly to the leash, wrapping his fingers around it, futilely trying to scramble back as the Iron Bull reels him in. He distantly notices the leash lacks detailing and decorations, it's a cheap little thing that doesn't match his collar at all, but those thoughts vanish in an instant when the Iron Bull hauls him close and kisses him. The Iron Bull catches him around his waist and pulls him in even further; Dorian ends up straddling the savage's lap, his cock rubbing against the beast's stomach as the kiss steals all the air from his lungs. He grabs the Iron Bull's shoulders just to have something to hold on to, his muscles turning to jelly under the burning pressure.

He feels faint and shivery when the Iron Bull pulls back and he drops his head to his wide shoulder, shockingly aware of the leash wound tightly around the Iron Bull's fist, giving him little room to move.

"Take it you like the surprise," Bull mutters into his ear.

"Shut up," Dorian says, biting at his shoulder, since it's conveniently there. "Maker–I cannot believe–" He cuts himself off with a groan and takes a breath and says, "And now, ox? A mask over my head, some needle and thread to sew my lips shut?"

The Iron Bull's eye glitters. "And miss out on that pretty face and talented tongue? Speaking of..." He slacks the leash a little, uncoils it from his fist. Dorian breathes easy for a second, even though he's still in the savage's lap and his hands are still–

Flushing brightly despite his best efforts not to, Dorian yanks his hands off the Iron Bull's shoulders and ignores the husky laugh it elicits. He doesn't know what to do with them so he rests them on his thighs, ignoring his cock, still hard and aching between his legs. The Iron Bull looks down between them and licks his lips; Dorian's cock twitches in response, the traitor.

"Maybe in a bit," the Iron Bull says absently, apparently to himself. "For now..." He gives the leash a tug, dragging Dorian down. "Hands and mouth, magister. Get me hard again."

He'd known, theoretically, that the savage was not done with him yet. But hearing it is something else entirely and Dorian forgets to breathe for a moment. Fight! part of him screams. The more sensible part of him know it won't get him anywhere. He breathes again, feels the Iron Bull give a couple of impatient tugs on the leash, and shifts backward on his knees to make the angle less awkward. The collar digs into his skin until the Iron Bull slackens the leash, then all he can focus on, has to focus on, is the Iron Bull's dick. This close, it's even bigger than he thought and it seems impossible that it was inside of him without splitting him apart. It's half-hard again, which makes Dorian's current predicament slightly easier, but it's still got a way to go. Quite a way.

Dorian swallows hard and reaches out to wrap his fingers around the base of the Iron Bull's dick. It's thick and huge and warm in his hand and it's almost like he can feel the blood flow. A little bit of magic, and it would be so tremendously easy to cause incineration from within...

"No touching yourself," the Iron Bull says, leaning back on his elbows. "Just me. No teeth, either." He yanks on the leash to prove a point and grins when Dorian almost topples over. "And no rushing. Just take it nice and slow. Spoil me."

Dorian glares at him. "Any more wishes?"

"Plenty," the Iron Bull says with a shrug. "But this a pretty decent start." He fumbles around in the sheets and comes up with the bottle of oil. "Catch."

Dorian catches it one-handed and pull the cork out with his teeth. The Iron Bull lets out an appreciative little groan at that and Dorian feels his cheeks warm up. A mistake. He studiously avoids looking at him and concentrates on pouring out the oil over his dick, immediately slicking the path for Dorian's hand. The Iron Bull hisses and shifts, pushing up into Dorian's fist. The sight is most definitely not a turn-on.

"Both hands," the Iron Bull says, his massive chest rising and falling with each slow, deliberate breath he takes.

Kaffas . Dorian hesitates only a moment, mindful of the way the Iron Bull's hand toys with the end of the leash. The groan he draws out of the savage when he wraps his other hand around his rapidly swelling dick would be extremely satisfying under any other circumstances; as it is, he grits his teeth and tries to figure out what gets the Iron Bull hard the fastest without making it look like he is fucking rushing. He finds an easy rhythm, working his hands up and down the Iron Bull's dick, hot and throbbing under the fine layer of slick oil.

"Mouth," the Iron Bull orders and despite Dorian knowing it was coming, a spasm of fear runs through him, his heart thudding in his chest.

His hesitation is longer now, long enough that the leash gets pulled taut as a warning. Dorian swears under his breath and bends down and swipes his tongue over the heated head of the Iron Bull's dick. The Iron Bull groans loudly, hips jerking up erratically before he gets them under control. Dorian allows himself a momentary smug grin in Bull's direction – he gets a delightful smirk in answer – and then he sinks his mouth down over the Iron Bull's cock. He can't translate the ensuing Qunlat swearing and thus he ignores it, concentrating on breathing while sliding his tongue and lips over the heated skin and veins underneath, his hands rubbing and stroking at the base.

There is no way he'll be able to take all of it – not without a lot of practice, and Maker , he doesn't want to be here long enough for that – and he hopes that's not part of the plan.

"Good, good," the Iron Bull says in a low voice, hips moving in tandem with Dorian's head bobbing. "You're doing so well, magister, feel so good. Knew that tongue of yours would feel amazing on my cock." He sighs and folds his arms under his head, stretching himself, getting comfortable. "Don't forget the balls, 'Vint."

Dorian closes his eyes and pulls off his dick with a lingering suck. "Please," he says, surprised at how even his voice sounds. "I don't–" The harsh pull on the leash is instantaneous and Dorian chokes when the collar digs in, panic washing over him. "No, please, stop, I'll do it." He bends down again when there's enough give in the leash, keeping one hand moving smoothly and up and down the Iron Bull's now fully erect cock, and drags his tongue over his balls. A rumbling moan is his answer and Dorian's palms itch with magic he cannot reach.

The Iron Bull keeps directing him – kiss here, lick there, suck harder, more tongue, really taste it – every instance of even mild disobedience or hesitation instantly punished with a stern tug on the leash. Dorian's jaw start to ache, but he is not allowed a moment of rest, of reprieve from this particular torture, and his own long-neglected cock is screaming for attention by the time the Iron Bull tilts Dorian's face away from his groin. Dorian pants helplessly, his chin resting in the Iron Bull's warm, broad palm. Shame rolls over him in waves when the barbarian studies him for a long moment. He knows he's flushed from exertion, mouth wet with saliva and oil, some of it even sliding down his chin, his hair and mustache wild messes, his makeup smeared. The Iron Bull reaches out to wipe the mix of saliva and oil away with his thumb, raises it to his own mouth before changing his mind and sliding it between Dorian's lips. Dorian whines in protest but sucks it clean since Maker, it's not like he has any choice in the matter.

"Good," the Iron Bull rumbles, his one eye bright, idly stroking his cock.

'Did you not want to come?' nearly spills of Dorian's tongue, but he holds it. He watches on his knees as the Iron Bull swings his legs over the edge of the bed and gets up, tugging on the leash until Dorian follows.

Like a common pet.

Heat spreads through Dorian's body as the Iron Bull leads him to the wall, twisting the leash around and around his fist until his hand is at Dorian's throat and Dorian's forced up against him. The Iron Bull easily moves him around until his back hits the cool wall. Dorian hisses, arches away from it, into the savage, huffing out a breath when his cock slides against thick gray skin.

The Iron Bull loosens the leash and gathers Dorian's wrists in his hands, raising them above Dorian's head to the wall.

"No," Dorian begs, trying to break free from the steel grip. "I'll do whatever you ask of me, please don't... don't do this."

His pleas fall on deaf ears. The savage loops the leash around Dorian's wrists, binding them tightly together, and then ties the remaining end of the leash to a hook close to the ceiling. Dorian's forced up onto his toes, the leash pulling harshly on the collar and his wrists. A common swear escapes him and he pulls desperately on his new bindings, to no avail.

The Iron Bull steps back to admire his handiwork, watching Dorian twist and squirm for far too long, not moving until Dorian subsides against the wall, closing his eyes. "I'm surprised you Arvaarad are this good at tying knots," he says, the tremor in his voice audible to hopefully only him. "Don't you usually just use chains?"

"Don't tempt me, magister," the Iron Bull says, moving back into Dorian's space, his hands easily parting Dorian's thighs, knuckles brushing along his cock. Dorian thumps his head back against the wall at the unexpected light contact; he's so on edge he could come easily if the beast just were to wrap his fingers around his dick. He hides his face against his arm at the thought and lets out a quaking noise when the Iron Bull grips his thighs and lifts.

"What do you think you're—Maker ," Dorian grits out, twisting in his grip. He's momentarily grateful for the savage taking his weight off his wrists, but then his thighs are spread and wrapped around the Iron Bull's waist and Dorian moans. "No, no—mmpf!"

The Iron Bull kisses him, his hands sliding from Dorian's upper thighs to his ass, fully supporting his weight. Dorian can't do anything but accept his new position, tightening his legs around the savage's waist for support and groaning into his mouth. Sweat slides down his chest and into the hair at the base of his cock and he feels the Iron Bull's cock nudge at his hole again. He's still slick and open from the first time and his own dick is twitching against the Iron Bull's stomach, but it's not enough friction to get him off.

The Iron Bull braces Dorian against the wall, pinning him there with his mouth still covering Dorian's, and guides his cock into Dorian with one hand. Dorian struggles up and away from the invasive pressure, but he gets no room to move, and he manages to break the kiss to let out a broken sob and a helpless string of, "Stop. Please, please, please..."

Of course he doesn't stop and it's another long, smooth slide of the Iron Bull's cock into him, his hands on Dorian's ass guiding him further down, impaling him in a way he wasn't before. Dorian arches his back as best he can, twisting his hands in the restraints, tightening his legs around the Iron Bull's waist. He's so deep now and the angle is perfectly terrible, embarrassingly delicious, and every small thrust and jerk of the Iron Bull's hip makes Dorian's cock spasm and twitch, noises spilling from his lips.

"Let it all out, magister," the Iron Bull says encouragingly, his hands squeezing Dorian's arse roughly and his tongue snaking out to blaze a wet trail from Dorian's jaw down to the collar in his neck, biting at the leather and pulling it taut. He fucks into Dorian relentlessly, making Dorian's toes curl and his breath come out in broken puffs. "Be as loud as you want."

Pure pleasure rolls over Dorian in waves and he gives up on trying to stifle the sounds he so desperately wants to let out. He cries out, his shuddering moans seemingly only spurring the Iron Bull on to go faster, harder. His voice breaks against the walls, the leather of the collar and the leash creaking and straining as he pulls on his restraints. The sound of skin wetly slapping against skin is loud and obscene and coils through him, heating him up from the inside.

"That's it," the Iron Bull pants, his breath hot in Dorian's neck. "Scream. Let me hear you."

He wants to deny him this, wants to cling to the last vestige of his self-esteem, but he's wrung out and trembling and the will to fight back has abandoned him. He grips the Iron Bull's hips harder with his thighs and lets his head fall back against the wall, mouth falling open, baring his throat to the savage. The Iron Bull takes the invitation and sinks his teeth into the skin above the collar; Dorian howls, struggling to take his cock deeper, working his hips up and down as the Iron Bull allows it. He's bent nearly in half now, the Iron Bull showing no signs of having any trouble with holding him up. Fasta vass, his strength is unbelievable.

Dorian's world narrows to getting fucked, his back slamming against the wall over and over again; he doesn't feel the pain, only feels the Iron Bull's thick cock pounding into him, the Iron Bull kissing him, hot and open-mouthed and with no finesse, the Iron Bull's claw-like fingers bruising his arse where they're holding him up and open. He's loud whenever his mouth isn't being taken, the game lost to the overwhelming sensations coursing through him. He can feel Bull moan into his neck, one of his horns pressing up against Dorian's cheek, his hot breath slicking Dorian's skin.

He's murmuring things Dorian can only barely hear over the roaring in his head and the sound of his own voice screaming, filthy things, telling Dorian how good he is, how well he's taking it, how beautiful he looks trapped between Bull and the wall, how amazing his arse feels, how fucking good the collar looks 'round his neck.

"Come on, Dorian," Bull pants out, his voice as broken as Dorian's. "You can come, do it, come for me, come on me, so good , fuck fuck fuck–"

Dorian's not sure which one of them comes first because his orgasm robs him of all remaining coherent thought, ripping all the air from his lungs, leaving him incapable of doing anything but shudder and tremble and go limp, trusting Bull to keep him – keep them both – from falling. He's shaking and sweating all over, his cock twitching with the aftershocks and his come trailing down Bull's belly. Some of it's splattered in the hollow of Bull's throat and Dorian groans at the sight, the urge to lick it clean overwhelming. Blearily, he realizes Bull is still fucking in and out of him, weakly, still coming down, and he feels his come slick inside of him when Bull eventually eases out of him.

Dorian is very distantly aware of Bull yanking the leash from its hook and untying his wrists. He equally distantly notices when Bull tips his head back and takes his collar off, keeping him upright with an arm around his shoulder. The return of his magic flares through him, his limbs stiffening and relaxing when the magic pours back in, settling warm and comforting in his chest and mind. He sighs and leans his face against Bull's chest, letting out a contented noise when Bull's hand comes up to cup the back of his head, fingers carding through Dorian's wrecked hair. Bull's chest rises and falls faster than normal and his heartbeat is a rapid, familiar thumping that echoes through Dorian.

"Can you walk?" Bull murmurs.

Dorian seriously considers the question and expectantly puts his weight on his legs. His knees immediately give way and Bull chuckles and catches him, easily lifting him up despite the fact he must be worn out from holding Dorian up against the wall. His strength never ceases to amaze Dorian.

"That's a no, then," he says, carrying Dorian to the bed and wrapping a blanket around him. He settles Dorian against the pillows and crawls in next to him. The bed is a terrible fright, but Dorian finds himself unable to care, the pleasant heat and his magic still singing through him. All he can manage is a hand wave at the fireplace to stoke the fire a touch higher and then he melts into the pillow.

Bull shuffles closer to him and pulls Dorian against him, and for a long time, there's no sound in the room aside from their heavy breathing and the fire crackling. Dorian feels weightless, a sensation he relishes and treasures, and so thoroughly fucked out he can barely see straight.

"How are you feeling?" Bull asks after a while, yawning on the last word.

"I think you broke me," Dorian informs him, burying his face in the pillow. To his horror, his voice comes out a squeaky, scratchy mess. With a great deal of effort – since his limbs don't seem to want to co-operate – he raises himself up and glares at Bull. "You broke my voice!" The latter half of the sentence comes out a ragged whisper and Bull starts snickering.

Infuriating ass.

"Hey, I didn't force you to scream," Bull says, folding his arms under his head and making himself comfortable in the pillows next to Dorian. At Dorian's glare, he clears his throat and adds, "Okay, so maybe I'm a little responsible. I pushed you pretty hard."

"You think?" Dorian snaps, coughing. It does not improve his voice one whit.

"You were loud," Bull says, sounding pleased, a devious light in his eye. "Don't think I've ever made you scream like that before. Vashedan, Dorian," he says suddenly, propping himself up on his elbow and reaching out to run his fingers lightly over Dorian's throat. "Well."

"What?" Dorian says, pressing his fingers against his throat and wincing. "Ah. I see. I assume it looks as bad as it feels?"

"It may be worse," Bull says, cringing a little. "The Inquisitor will have some questions if she sees you like this."

Dorian narrows his eyes at him and slides off the bed, avoiding his collar and leash tangled up on the floor. He's not proud of the way his knees buckle when he hits the ground, but he manages to keep upright and stumbles over to the large standing mirror. "Maker!" he says, when he sees the damage. "Kaffas, Bull!" His throat is covered in deep red and purple marks, lines and bites. It looks like he's had the life choked out of him, which is... astoundingly close to the truth, he supposes. There is not going to be a good explanation for these bruises. "I'm going to have to wear scarves," he says, resigned. "For at least a week."

Bull looks a little bit guilty when Dorian returns to the bed. "We have something for that."

"Oh, do stop it, amatus," Dorian says firmly, sliding under the covers. "I am not mad. I wanted this as much as you did. In fact..." He takes a deep, shuddering breath and drags his fingertips over the bruises again, pressing down lightly. The pain blooms and he feels goosebumps rise on his bare shoulders. "It feels... good."

Bull stares at him, his gaze hot, and he shifts on the bed. "Don't say things like that," he says.

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me want to pin you down and start all over again," Bull says, the words coming out in a low growl that goes straight to Dorian's dick.

Dorian laughs, then groans. "I'm flattered, Bull, but I don't think I could go again even if you paid me." He puts his hand to his throat again and watches Bull watch him. Swallowing is going to be painful for a while, but it was entirely worth it.

"I hate to admit it, but me neither," Bull says, not taking his eye off Dorian as he leans over to rummage through the chest next to the bed. "Here." It's the clunky jar of elfroot salve. Bull remembered to take it with him. Dorian reaches for it but Bull shakes his head and tugs him closer. "Let me," he says.

Dorian acquiesces and settles into Bull's side. The thick salve is cool on the bruises and markings and Bull is taking care with applying it. Having Bull's hands and fingers on his throat is making Dorian shiver again, a part of him wishing for his collar back even though the magic running through him again is supremely comforting. Bull tilts his chin up for better access and Dorian watches him through half-lidded eyes.

"There," Bull says softly, screwing the lid back on the jar and tossing it in the chest. "That should feel a lot better by morning."

"And then scarves for a week," says Dorian. "Or high collars."

Bull snickers. "Yeah. Unless you'd like to explain why your throat looks like somebody took a sledgehammer to it."

"I'd make you do it, you arse," Dorian says.

Bull shrugs, a small smile on his lips.

Dorian sighs. "Of course I forgot you feel no shame."

"Nothing to be ashamed about, Dorian," Bull says, laying back down.

"Nevertheless, there are some things that ought to remain private." He leans down and kisses Bull firmly. "And this is one of them."

Bull grins and nods, reaching up to pull Dorian down for another kiss. Slow and easy and warm and Dorian feels himself grow tired, breaking off the kiss when he can no longer suppress the yawn.

"Apologies," he says, clapping a hand over his mouth. "You've quite tired me out."

"'s All right," Bull says. "Sleep sounds like a great idea to me. But you're sure you wanna sleep in this mess?"

Dorian wrinkles his nose. Bull's not wrong, the bed is a frightful disaster, but the idea of putting on clean sheets or going back to their own room is even less appealing. "We will bathe when we wake up," he promises. "Then we'll burn these sheets. They're a lost cause. Possibly the bed too."

Bull grunts, already halfway to sleep. "No hot water up here."

"You'll get the water, I'll heat it up." Dorian curls up on his side, wrapping an arm around Bull's ridiculous chest and throwing a leg over his thigh.

Bull sleepily pats his head. "Sounds like a fair division of labor to me."