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"When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life, in each place and forever." - Bob Hicok
Dorian is hard in the Iron Bull's huge hand, straddling his thigh and using his shoulders as leverage to thrust into his purposefully loose grip. The Bull passes his other hand along Dorian's ribs to settle gentle at his waist.
“You sure about this, Dorian?”
He huffs a laugh, a thing positively bursting with affection; Bull knows it, if his answering grin is any indication.
“I asked for it, didn't I?”
“Never too late to change your mind.”
“I haven't.”
“Alright,” the Bull says, indicating his lap by taking his hand off Dorian's cock. “Lay here.”
Any argument would run counter to his intent, so he makes none. He wants this, and they have discussed leaving such bruises at length since it was first mentioned in the midst of another carnal moment. He settles on his front across the Bull's lap, adjusting his position under the Bull's guidance until his arse is canted up and he's resting relatively comfortably across his legs.
“That's it. Gonna make you feel so good, kadan. You're going to love it, I know it. But if you don't, what's the word?”
“Katoh.”
Dorian has, of course, been spanked before the Iron Bull came into his life. Most of the time, he's even wanted it. But there is nobody who understands the way he wants to be spanked as the Bull does.
“Good. You're so good, Dorian.”
Being spanked is not a punishment, and the Bull never uses it as such. He's known that since the first time, when Dorian had initiated it the way he was used to inspiring someone to spank him: acting the brattiest version of Altus that he could muster. The Bull had clearly had no interest in spanking him into line, and after some hesitance – Dorian was so unused to being read so easily – the Bull had spanked him simply because he wanted it.
Dorian wiggles his hips, and knows it an inviting gesture, would know even if he couldn't feel the confirmation of the Bull's cock twitching against him.
“How has the planning been on this? I know you do so love to plan.”
“Well, I still think this would be easier if I used something to hit you with.”
“But—”
“But,” the Bull continues, before Dorian can go on, “I know you want to feel my hand. It's going to hurt a lot.”
“That's part of the fun.”
“Worse than usual.”
“I am prepared for that, as I'm prepared to have shed a few tears by the end.”
“Alright. Remember your watchword.”
“Do stop fretting,” Dorian says, though the words have no conviction. He can no sooner stop the Bull caring for him than he can stop the dawn coming.
The Bull runs one hand up his back, to the nape of his neck where his knuckles rest for a moment before the arm braces across his shoulders, solid and unyielding, anticipating what is to come. Dorian shivers.
The other hand roams from the back of his knees to the tops of his thighs, first one, then the other, with the pace of a man with a purpose in mind. Dorian swallows down the urge to needle him to hurry up, because as much as he is excited to get to the thrill of the thing, he can't deny the Bull his need to do it right.
“Big ass, for a human,” the Bull says, as his huge hand glides over the swell of his backside.
Dorian gives a startled laugh, but it's only an observation, and one full of desire and reverence. It's a thrill that reaches his cock in double time.
“Why, thank you for finally noticing. You've spent enough time acquainted with it.”
One of the Bull's large fingers is running the cleft of his ass, teasing him with tiny increments of pressure each pass, though Dorian knows tonight they have no plans for that.
“I say nice things about your ass all the time.”
“Yes, all of them true and deserved. But you've given no commentary on the size, specifically. As if you thought I would take offence.”
“Hm,” the Bull sounds, and Dorian cranes his neck – the Bull eases the arm across his shoulder to allow it – to see him smiling fondly. “I'll have to make up for lost time. I love your great, big, round ass.”
The words coming from the Bull, whose catalogue of previous tumbles all around Skyhold has no disconcernable pattern with regards to race, gender, size, shape, colour, except for a clear weakness for red hair, are nothing Dorian could doubt the sincerity of.
“Love how small it still looks when I grab you with both hands. How strong your muscles are, and how soft your skin is. Love holding you open so I can taste you.”
Dorian wiggles his hips, and realises at the very last second that the Bull's arm has braced his shoulders again, and the other hand has left his ass.
The smack rings out in their room, and Dorian yelps with surprise. The Bull laughs.
“Love that little wobble.”
“No wonder,” Dorian says looking at but not really seeing the fireplace crackling away. His focus, if not his gaze, is entirely on the Bull. “If it's anything near as impressive as the way your belly wobbles when you're fucking me.”
The Bull laughs again, and spanks Dorian with the expanse of his hand on the other cheek. Dorian gasps and winces at the delicious sting.
“When you're riding my cock, I think you give my belly wobble fair competition. Seriously, Dorian, your ass is the only good thing Tevinter ever spat out.”
“That is entirely untrue! I can think of dozens of things I know you like about Tevinter.”
“Oh really?”
The Bull has picked up on the challenge straight away, and the idea within it. Even in the beginning, Dorian had never assumed him dim-witted.
“Krem.”
The Iron Bull spanks him. Dorian catches his moan in his mouth by biting his lip.
“True. What else you got?”
“Wine.”
“Be more specific.”
“That bottle of Sun Blonde Mae sent for Funalis. We got drunk and failed to perform despite our best efforts, and instead we hashed out the plot of an entire sequel to that dreadful play we saw when we were in Val Royeaux last.”
The Bull's hand cracks against Dorian's backside, lighting the skin up in pain. Dorian groans.
“Still think we could have sold that idea,” the Bull says, amused. “Would have made a better play than the one we saw. Something else?”
“Liquamen.”
The Bull delivers another smack, and Dorian gasps.
“How we take our cocoa.”
Another blow. Another gasp.
“The dancers in Minrathos.”
Another blow, and it smarts enough for Dorian to release his bottom lip from between his teeth, groan and shift in the Bull's lap.
“Our coffee.”
He spanks him again, and then smooths his hand over the tender flesh of Dorian's backside. Dorian looks back, enough to see the skin is already red.
“Good call listing the food separately,” the Bull admits, hand soothing and gentle. “Keep going?”
Dorian grins, and manages to list off a dozen more food items from Tevinter he knows the Bull enjoys, from spiced sweets, to fragrant breads, to curries. He earns a strong smack for each of them, and even with the distraction of coming up with new things for the list, Dorian begins to lose track. He mentions cocoa twice more before the Bull calls him on it and refuses to deliver a slap. Dorian whimpers unhappily.
“You're all good, kadan,” the Bull soothes. “Your ass is so red, we're getting to the meat of it now.”
The Bull chuckles to himself, and Dorian humps his hips uselessly against him. He's so hard, backside stinging enough that he can feel the prickle of tears forming.
“Bull,” he prompts.
The Bull slaps him with his massive hand, and it hurts worse than anything he can remember in that moment. Which is ridiculous, really, because he's had some pretty impressive battle injuries. A small sob is startled out of him regardless.
The Bull doesn't stop, and continues to rain hard, fast slaps down against his backside until Dorian's face is wet with tears, sobbing freely and somehow still painfully hard.
When the round does stop, it's as fast as it began, and Dorian flinches when the Bull next lays his hand carefully against his ass.
“Hey, you're okay, sweetheart. Your skin is so hot. You want to see?”
Dorian sniffles and nods, and the Bull helps him to look back, so he can see the state of himself. His skin is bright red all over his backside, and it must be seeing it that makes it so he can feel how hot his skin is, heat pouring off him, hotter than the Bull's usually warm hand.
“A few more?” The Bull asks, gently, like he's trying not to spook Dorian. “Or is that enough?”
“More. Until I can't stand it. Until I call 'katoh'.”
There's a moment when the Bull is quiet, rubbing his hand gently over Dorian's cheeks, which is a gentle counter to the spanking, but it still aches. Dorian knows he's being considered, that the Bull is weighing options. Eventually he moves to continue under Dorian's insistence, like he knew he would. The Bull trusts his judgement for his own limits, even if he is prone to worry. It's overwhelming, really.
Four more slaps, each earning a cry from him and fresh tears, blurring his vision and leaving things hazy and unfocused, and Dorian almost calls for an end. It hurts terribly, but he wanted it to, because it is rather the point. He bites back the watchword and gasps for breath, trying to bear through the pain. He wants to bruise all over, to feel what the Bull has done, what Dorian has been given; a desire for his own body fulfilled without shame by someone who he loves with every piece of himself.
The Bull begins to hesitate between blows, and Dorian knows that each time he's listening for the word that will bring an end to it. He lasts half a dozen more, each one ringing out in the room and the last two making Dorian actually scream out in pain.
“Katoh!”
The hand on his ass next is soft, gentle again. He wonders if another slap had already been incoming, and just thinking about what that means about how quickly the Bull reacts to his use of the watchword is so overwhelming, that he starts to sob again.
“I've got you, kadan.”
The Bull gives him a handkerchief, and Dorian blows his nose loudly. He does not cry prettily, and the Bull has always been kind about the fact.
“My arse is on fire,” he moans, as the Bull's hand passes over him again.
“Such a pretty red colour, too. We should get curtains this colour.”
“Amatus, please, I’m going to explode.”
“Hmm? Oh, of course,” he says, as if he hasn't been aware of Dorian's erection the whole time. “I've got you.”
He moves Dorian, who is pliant in his hands, even when his body tenses with the pain, until he's the other way up in the Bull's lap. His backside aches, but against the soft bedding it's not so bad. He knows it will be worse tomorrow, when the bruising forms.
The Bull wraps his fist around Dorian's cock, and it takes barely a dozen slow, twisting strokes before Dorian is coming with a yell and a small sob all over the Bull's hand.
“You did so good, Dorian,” the Bull says, and Dorian sniffles despite his best efforts at collecting himself.
“That was... well, I can't lie, it hurt a lot more than I anticipated.”
“You don't bruise easily, I had to hit you pretty hard. You doing okay?”
“I'm wonderful. You're wonderful.”
“Aw, you're sweet, you know.”
“Let's keep that between us, shall we? I have a reputation to think about, and while I'm happy to be the 'Good Tevinter', I'm not sure sweetness would do me any favours.”
He's still shaking with the tail end of his sobs, and there's not much conviction in his voice, but the Bull only hums a noise that Dorian knows is understanding if not agreement. He smooths a hand over Dorian's forehead, pushing his damp hair back. His hands are impossibly large, and the Bull is impossibly gentle.
“I believe it's your turn, amatus.”
He can feel the Bull's cock against his hip, hard and heavy.
“I'm good.”
“Let me,” Dorian says, and shifts slightly – his arse aching – so he can reach between the Bull's legs and take the length of him in hand. He's so huge, so pleasing to hold, fingers and thumb barely able to overlap around his girth. There's something about the size of him in general that gives Dorian an anchor better than anything else in the world.
He thumbs at the slit and uses the precome gathered to offer some way to ease his strokes, as the Bull presses his lips against the top of Dorian's head and murmurs sweet things to him.
“You're so good, kadan, all tired out and still thinking about me. Your hands are so clever, I got so hard with you squirming in my lap, now you're looking after me. You're so good to me.”
The Bull shudders as he comes, spilling over Dorian's hand and between them, excessively as always. Dorian still gets a thrill of delight at the sheer amount of it, and he thinks part of his pleasure comes from knowing that he's doing something his homeland would have destroyed him for, with a man who does such things excessively. Fucks him so, loves him so.
He takes the handkerchief from Dorian and cleans them up, and then returns them to Dorian cradled against him, sobs now only evident in the occasional hitched breath.
“Pass me my book, would you?”
The Bull does so, and Dorian settles against him, angling the book so the Bull can make an attempt to read with him. After a few minutes Dorian knows he'll give up straining his eye with the small text and either rest, or ask Dorian to read aloud. Even if he doesn't ask, Dorian has taken to doing so, if only to watch the way the Bull seems to relax at the sound of his voice. It it incredible, in a way he's unable to articulate, to have that effect on someone.
On cue, after a few moments, the Bull nuzzles at Dorian's temple.
“Can't see any of that tiny writing. Will you read it?”
“Ought to get you a monocle. I'm rather bored of watching you strain over your accounts of a night.”
The Bull laughs, and Dorian's body aches, and it is a perfect moment as he begins to read.
---
The next morning the bruises are red-blue-purple, spreading all over Dorian's backside, and they look awful. Dorian is delighted as he stands in front of the mirror, while the Bull watches him with a cautious smile from where he's putting on his leg brace.
He didn't notice them for most of the night, sleeping curled up at the Bull's side as he was, but as soon a he began to move he felt them. The ache, throbbing and uncomfortable, and sort of wonderful.
“Don't look so worried, Bull,” he says, and begins selecting his outfit for the day. “I'm quite alright.”
“They came up faster than normal. I hit you too hard.”
“They've come up lovely!” Dorian says, smiling at him. His smile falters as his pulls his underthings on over his backside.
“Lovely, huh?”
“I expected pain,” Dorian says, bracing himself, and not for a second ready to admit this is quite a bit more pain than he expected. He has to stop himself shifting his weight, giving it away as he settles his leggings over the underthings.
“I know you like to feel bruises, but I've hurt you pretty badly.”
The Bull is liable to be morose when their activities occasionally veer towards the more violent, but Dorian has learned that seeing that at all is a big step forward. A year ago, the Bull would not have let him see it to such an extent. Care and concern, of course, but not the way his shoulders hunch, not how unsure he looks sitting at his work table, hand slowly assembling his brace and eye on Dorian. He doubts himself, Dorian think; he was the one to suggest the activity, knowing Dorian would respond.
He crosses the room and takes the Bull's face in his hands, kisses between his horns.
“You have never hurt me, amatus. Not once since I've known you.”
“Dorian.”
“This is an injury, not a hurt, that came of something we agreed upon. I won't have you feeling bad for giving me something I wanted.”
The Bull tips his head up, lifts his hands to his waist, and Dorian smooths his thumbs along his jaw, bends to kiss him.
“You are the best man I've ever known, and I promise that I am okay.”
The Bull smiles, and Dorian believes it. He has to; they are honest with their hearts.
He bids him farewell a short time later, making for the library. He has research to finish, preparations to make as the date of their departure from Skyhold nears. They'll go together, even if they have to part ways at the Tevinter border.
He may even still be bearing the bruises by the time they leave.
The library is busier now than it once was. Skyhold has become a sanctuary for mages now that the circles are all disbanded. There are teachers and safety, and the library itself has seen much improvement in its catalogue in the years it's been functioning. Dorian thinks he will rather miss it.
He finds out soon enough that he cannot sit. His backside aches too much, and he almost groans aloud the first time he makes to take up his usual chair. Thankfully he doesn't think anyone hears him, but he makes a show of stretching up to a high shelf for a book anyway.
He's leaving most of the tomes he's acquired for the library. Cadash has already assured him he can send for any he needs when he reaches Tevinter, or have Maevaris do so while be travels with the Chargers. The ones he is taking have already been moved to the room he shares with the Bull, and not for the first time he's thankful to have the acquaintance of the Chargers, with their wagon space.
The trouble with not sitting down, he finds, is not that standing for long periods is usually taxing, but that apparently with a severely bruised backside, it is. He still aches, and his usual posture of a hip jutting out, weight shifted between sides occassional hurts. After some experimenting, he finds setting his feet wide apart is as comfortable as he's going to get. He also looks ridiculous. He tries not to concern himself, and continues with his research. There are several notes on necromancy he's long-promised to give to Fiona, a few notes on Venatori wards that need to be completed, and other odds and ends. Mundane work, really – Skyhold is not longer the dramatic centre it once was. He's trying to enjoy that while he has the chance, as he doubts returning to Tevinter is going to be anything but a nightmare.
He still has no time line set out, only that his final destination is Qarinus, where Mae can host him. He has no title, no standing, and without that, he's still unsure how he can make an impact.
Being in motion seems the least painful option he has, short of lying down on his front. That would probably gain him even more attention than his random outbursts of swearing have, though the long-serving librarians are hardly surprised by such things. He sorts books into piles, shelves most, and keeps only a few aside. Some he'll take, and some he'll distribute to where they need to be.
As days became weeks, and weeks became months since Corypheus was defeated, he's been so comfortable. Moving on from that, from a place that he's called home for several years weighs heavy on him, when he has nothing to keep the thoughts away. Sorting books and finishing basic research notes is hardly taxing on his brain, and gives him plenty of time to think.
“I have to go back,” he'd said, in the sex-soaked quiet a few weeks after they saved the world. Bull had kissed the top of his head.
“I know.”
“Not yet. Not quite... yet.”
“You could come with me and the boys,” he'd said, as if it was the simplest thing. “Just for a while, until you're ready. It'll be good for you, being on the road. Toughen you up so Tevinter doesn't swallow you whole.”
That had become the plan, after that. When the Chargers began moving further afield again, he would go with them. Tevinter beckoned, but he knew he had to be ready, and a few more months with – well, a few more months. He deserved that.
---
“Shit, sweetheart,” the Bull says, as Dorian lays face down on the bed, naked and groaning in an entirely not-fun way. He is sore, absolutely tired out from a day spent hardly doing anything.
The Bull examines the bruising, the mottling so dark now, almost black in places, purple mostly in others, with a little lighter blue around the edges. It's an impressive thing, hot to the touch.
“Did you manage to sit at all?”
“No,” he groans. “I even had to squat awkwardly over the privy. That was the most acrobatic shit I've ever had.”
The Bull laughs, and kisses the back of one of Dorian's thighs.
“You sure you don't want me to rub a poultice on it?”
“I'm sure. I'd rather just lie here and die, thank you very much.”
“Aw, kadan. I thought it might be a tough day, so I fixed us dinner.”
“You did?”
Dorian hadn't taken any notice, but now that the Bull mentions it it, there is a notably spicy aroma in the air. Spices that he knows means the Bull had been bribing various kitchen staff.
“You want to try and sit up for me? Maybe on your side.”
Dorian swears, but moves all the same. His arse throbs, but it's not as bad as actually sitting on it, to prop himself up on his side.
“What is it?”
The Bull brings Dorian a steaming bowl of something in a thick sauce, then diverts to drag one of the room's chairs over to the side of the bed before he gets one for himself. His brace clicks as he puts his legs up on the bed and leans back. Thank the Maker for sturdy chairs.
“Lamb curry,” Bull says, as he settles.
“What curry?”
“Nothing special. Just threw some things together.”
“What things?”
“You tell me.”
Dorian smiles at the challenge of that, and inhales the smell of the food. No cream, he knows right away from the look of it, and nothing too harsh in the smell. He stabs a piece with a fork and takes it into his mouth, very aware that the Bull is watching him as he chews it slowly. The gaze is fond, and intimately familiar.
The meat is soft and tender, and it's really delicious, rich and spicy, and he can't help the little appreciative sound that he makes. The Bull chuckles.
“The obvious ones: onion, garlic, ginger, jeera.”
“They go in every good curry,” the Bull says. Dorian laughs, this time.
“Yes. You cooked this?”
“Yeah. Had it sitting over a big fire all day.”
The thought of the Bull cooking for him makes him swell with affection. He quickly eats more, before he can turn soft on the whole situation, and tries to concentrate on the flavours.
“Dhania.”
“Yup.”
“Dalchini.”
“In Rivain, maybe,” the Bull says, fork halfway to his mouth.
Dorian rolls his eyes. “Cinnamon, then. Rivaini names for a Rivain dish.”
“I don't know if it's Rivaini, we eat this in Par Vollen.”
“Really? I know you like spicy food, but I wouldn't have thought the Qun would waste resources on taste.”
“You think Qunari eat gruel?” The Bull teases. Months before, he might have said 'we'. “The Qun doesn't waste food, but the people who make it still want to make nice things, that taste good and people want to eat.”
“But they don't eat sugar. You said it was hard to come by sweets.”
“Not like other places do. Par Vollen grows a shitload of it, though. That's the largest part of the Qun's sanctioned trading goods. There's strict regulations on it, it's rationed out. Breweries and bakeries get a share, that sort of thing. But there's no flour to spare for cookies, making bread for every mouth.”
Dorian hums, considering. It's not surprising, given what he knows of the Qun, that they spare nothing for indulgence. They eat in the quiet a while, and Dorian is comfortable, if he doesn't move too much. The curry is warming, delicious, and he finally places an ingredient.
“Elaichi,” Dorian says, impressed. It's obvious, when he allows himself to consider it, but it's extremely hard to get hold of. “Surely not, this far south?”
“One of the merchants gave me a sample.”
“I miss tasting it.” He takes another bite. “You make a good curry, Bull.”
“So I’m told.”
“You cook for the Chargers?”
“Sometimes.” He nods towards the small iron cauldron, hanging close enough the stove to stay warm. “Did a huge pot of this, gave most to them. Didn't want to waste any.”
Dorian smiles to himself. He's almost cleared his bowl of meat. “Enough for seconds?”
“Of course, kadan.”
Dorian has a second helping, and drinks the leftover sauce straight from the bowl without shame. The Bull eats two more bowls, as he is wont to do with a body so large to fuel. There's still more left, and Dorian knows it means the Bull will make his way through it later, used to more meals over a day than Dorian needs. It also means that the amount the Bull took from the main pot was in consideration of staying with Dorian in the room, as early as it is.
He lays on his front and reads, body bared and bruises on show, as the Bull works on his axe, his armour, the Charger's reports.
“You ever fucked a man who hit you?”
The question comes from nowhere – except no, he's lying there with his backside bruised black by the Bull's hand, so it not that surprising.
“Plenty of men will smack your arse in the throes of fucking you,” he says, not looking up from his book. “I didn't mind it.”
The Bull hums an acknowledgement, but he's letting the silence hang between them. It's not evasion, but even without saying anything, the Bull is waiting for more. Dorian finishes the page he's reading, and sets his hand on the book so he doesn't lose his place.
“After,” he says. “I've been hit, after. Twice. As if beating me would make what they'd just done less shameful.” He laughs, a little humourless thing, and stares at the words in his book without focusing on them.
“I've turned down men who were too rough, slipped away from a drunk fumble at a party when a fellow seemed like he might try to manhandle me in a way I didn't want. A first impression can't be correct all of the time, I suppose. Some people have no appreciation for my wit and charm, if you'd believe it.”
“Vashedan.”
“Indeed.” Dorian smiles to himself, apparently Qunlat is the only way the Bull can think of something harsh enough. Swearing always does sound so impressive in the tongue.
“Bruises then,” the Bull says, voice gentle again. “Why d'you like me marking you up?”
He could simply answer, it's not a complex thing. But in these walls, this place they've made a home for themselves, there is the comfort of privacy. He can indulge a more theatrical whim.
He turns his book over and gets up, groaning as his backside aches. The Bull has put aside whatever he's doing by the time Dorian reaches him, stands between his knees and hooks his arms around his neck. The Bull cups his huge hands very gently against the swell of his arse, cradling the bruised, heated skin.
“Because when we're apart, even only by a stone's throw and only separated by hours, I need to remember that you have been upon me.” He kisses the Bull's forehead. “Beside me.” He kisses the bridge of his nose. “Around me.” He kisses his scarred cheek. “Inside me.”
He kisses the Bull on the mouth, sweeps his tongue past his lips and on to meet its partner, and the Bull melts into it. He's been carrying the tension all day, with the worry that Dorian might come to regret what they did.
“The pain reminds me you were there, and we were together. I like to remember you fucking me.”
“You gonna forget without the bruises?” The Bull says, but the teasing is half-hearted.
“No, but they're something real. Something more than a memory. An anchor, I suppose.”
The Bull hums again, and Dorian cups his neck, pulls him back for another kiss.
“They're what link me to you, amatus. Don't you feel the same?”
“I do, kadan.”
“Then we're in agreement.” Dorian grins at him. “Sex bruises both needed and appreciated, and a lot of fun.”
The Bull laughs, and Dorian kisses that kind, gentle man again.
---
Several days later, the bruises have settled into purpleness, and Dorian can sit on them, even if it aches to do so. It's not quite a blessing, when it becomes hard to mask his discomfort constantly.
“You got the shits?” Sera asks, seating herself on the table in the tavern Dorian is sitting at with a tankard of ale. “Bull been swording you too much?”
“Considering your own interests,” Dorian says, glaring and making her widen her eyes and smirk at him, “I'm constantly amazed how much you like to know about my sex life.”
“We're the same, innit?” She shrugs, swinging her legs over the edge of the table. “Except the parts are different. Usually. If you got with Krem, or I got with Asaara, it'd be less different, I guess.”
“Is that one of the Valo-Kas?”
“Yeah. She's whatsit, Aqun-Alot. Like Krem, but the way I like, her being she, not he being him.”
The Valo-Kas left that morning, summoned by a letter from Varric regarding work in Kirkwall. He wasn't sure what Sera was going to do with half her time now, without the women of the company to flirt outrageously with. Probably double the time she spent in the undercroft feeling up Dagna, he supposed.
“I guess,” he agrees, both because he is in no mood to argue, and she does have a point.
“So, sex, yeah? Bull worn your arse out?”
“No, he has not.”
“You couldn't even sit the other day. Last time I couldn't sit was when I got an arrow there. Once when Lady Emmald walloped my arse for— can't remember. Bitch. Wait-”
Sera's grin is absolutely ecstatic, and her legs have stopped swinging. Kaffas.
“Bull's tanned yer bum, ain’t he?”
“Of course not,” he says, but he can already feel the heat rising in his cheeks.
“Andraste's frilly tits! Should have known you'd be into that. He put you over his knee when you're a naughty mage?”
“You are much too pleased about this, Sera,” he groans, directly into his tankard. She shrugs.
“I am pleased. Too many men for me, two too many, but I'm pleased you're getting yours. Even if it makes you sit like you're sore from the shits.”
“Thank you,” he says, because there's really nothing else for it. It's disarming, how casually Sera can talk about it. He'll never admit it, but it's given him something of an aspiration.
“Let me see, then.”
He gives her a look over his ale. “What?”
“Let me see what's done.”
“Absolutely not.”
She flaps her lips and rolls her eyes, and her voice is sing-song.
“I knew it! It's not even a biggun, is it? Some poxy little bruise on your bum, you pretending you're so brave and branded.”
“It's huge, actually,” he says. He knows exactly what she's trying to do, and he takes another drink, because it's working; he wants to show her and make her regret asking just out of spite.
“It's not. You're a big wuss, poor ickle baby with a bump on his arse.”
He pushes himself up from his chair, which scrapes loudly and has Cabot glancing over. Sera is grinning, sure of her victory already.
“Fine. Privy.”
“Oo-er. Let's go, Fussybritches.”
The privy isn't as terrible as Tevinter has made facilities in the south sound, but there's a distinct lack of polished stone and runes, despite Dagna's admirable efforts with fire runes in the bathhouse. Sera checks the stalls, and then turns to look expectantly at Dorian.
Heaving a put-upon sigh that is mainly for show, he begins to unbuckle his belts so he can drop his trousers. It's not as hard as it looks to an outside observer, he does need to shit from time to time, after all, and he's soon got his trousers by the waist.
“Come on,” Sera prompts, “show us the slap from the slap and tickle.”
He turns, hikes up the top half of his outfit, and lets his trousers and underthings drop to his knees.
“Nice knickers,” she says. They're blue silk, not overly ornate, but soothing on his sore arse. The arse which Sera is now staring at with her mouth open.
“Shit, Fancypants. He smacked you raw!” She frowns then. “You wanted this, yeah? To get messed up like this?”
“Yes, yes, it's all mutually agreeable and enthusiastic.” He rolls his eyes, but he does note her concern with some fondness.
“Frigging shit. Bull got you good.”
That's when she pokes him very hard with a very bony finger on his very tender ass.
“Vishante kaffas!”
Dorian scrambles forward awkwardly, shuffling with his pants around his knees and Sera cackling behind him.
“No wonder you can't sit. Not even on a fat cushion like that, when its bruised as a ripe peach. Ugh, put it away now.”
He rolls his eyes again – Maker knows he's seen Sera's bony backside enough times, since the woman is willing to drop her pants and moon at any given opportunity. He pulls up his trousers before Sera can prod at him again.
There's a few more people in the tavern when they go back, but Dorian's table is still free, and his empty mug still on the table. Sera slides herself into the seat next to him this time, and waves down the barmaid for drinks.
“Why d'you want to get your arse beat all blue, anyway?”
“It's much too complicated for me to explain my motivations to you, Sera,” he sniffs, doing his best attempt at haughty, even if she's likely to get at him with sharp elbows for it.
“What, you really think we sex that different? Sex is about having fun, right? I know you and Bull have fun, because I frigging hear you so much. You think I won't understand why you want to get slapped because I'm not some Tevinter gobshite?”
It's said like she's annoyed, but Dorian worries he's hurt her feelings. Truly, Sera is his friend, and they do have much in common.
“Well,” he starts, putting his chin on his hand, considering her. “It's like having a giant kiss mark on your arse. You feel good because someone you like put it there, and it reminds you of the time it happened.”
She laughs.
“And because you're you, you just had to go and make it something big and special, yeah?”
“I am, as you say, me.”
“Well, I like Widdles giving me marks, too. Not on my arse, but she's got a wicked mouth on her when she goes for the neck. Gets blood and everything sometimes! And one time she sucked my clit so hard I thought it was falling off.”
Dorian, taking a drink of ale, splutters a laugh into his pint.
---
Dorian groans. He's managed to sit on his bruised arse during the day, and now he's paying for it. He's sore beyond belief despite the respite a hot bath provided not long before, and the only comfortable position is naked on the bed with his arse in the air. That's how the Bull finds him, when he comes in through the door from the tavern.
“Shit, kadan, that bad?”
He lets out a pathetic noise. His legs ache. His lower back aches. His arse aches worst of all.
“I could get a salve from stitches—” the Bull begins, but Dorian just groans.
“I'm fine. I don't need to go telling the Chargers about this!”
“We'd only be telling Stitches, he's good at keeping things private. I could say it was for me.”
“I'll think about it,” he mutters.
He hears the familiar sound of The Bull undressing; the heavy thumb of his harness over a chair, the clank of his outer brace, his boots, belt, trousers, then the rest of the brace that can't be seen most of the time. Eventually he comes to stand somewhere beside him, at the side of the bed. Dorian aches too much to move.
“What can I do, Dorian?”
“Just don't judge me right now.”
“When have you ever known me to judge you?”
“Never,” he admits.
The bed dips, and Dorian feels the Bull arranging himself behind him. He braces himself for the ache of contact against his sore skin, but instead the Bull touches his thighs, and runs his hands soothingly over them.
“How do you feel about me eating your ass, sweetheart?”
“Maker, I'd love that,” he sighs. “But I don't think I'm up for it. My arse is particularly delicate right now.”
“Do you want me to try? We can stop if it's uncomfortable.”
“Yes. Do try.”
The Bull gently, ever so gently, slides his hands up Dorian's thighs and over the curve of his backside. It aches, but it's so soft that Dorian only takes a long breath in through his nose, and tries to settle his torso amongst the pillows.
The Bull parts his cheeks, the pressure needed to do it increasing the ache of the sore skin, and Dorian lets out a little huff of air. The Bull leans forward and kisses his hole chastely, and Dorian can't help but laugh.
“I'll be gentle, kadan,” the Bull says, voice a close rumble of rolling thunder. Dorian doesn't doubt that for a second. His backside still aches under the Bull's huge hands, but the sensation now sends signals to his cock, growing hard between his legs.
The Bull licks up from Dorian's balls to his hole, swirls his tongue around the edge, without touching the sensitive skin. Dorian groans, trying to focus on each sensation separately; the hot, wet tongue, the pressure of his hands, the feel of his stubble on his sensitive skin.
He makes another pass with his tongue, over Dorian's hole this time. He's as gentle as he promised, teasing Dorian with light, slow touches, licking at his crinkled hole like he has all the time in the world to spend on the task.
“You taste so good, Dorian,” he mutters, breath hot against Dorian's wet hole. “Fucking delicious.”
Dorian groans and tries to push back against the Bull's tongue. He laps at him, and Dorian does try and relax, and it must work, because on the next pass the Bull pushes his tongue inside and laps at him there.
“Fuck,” he groans, and the Bull doesn't relent, laps at his hole and pushes inside every few passes over and around. Dorian has always enjoyed obscenity, but as unfamiliar as this had been to him, the Bull had never treated putting his mouth near his ass as anything particularly sordid. The Bull had no shame about it, no complex about it being deviant or shameful. It was hard to think a thing obscene when the Bull made everything they did feel like it was something Dorian had a Maker-given right to experience.
The Bull adjusts his hands, making Dorian's arse ache again, and fucks his tongue into him in short, sharp strokes.
“Bull!” he groans, pulls an arm under his head so his mouth won't be muffled in the pillows. The Bull likes to hear him, and Dorian has found a something like liberation in being heard.
Dorian has only ever had one man's mouth on him there, and that was a few licks diverted from a blowjob; nobody has ever fucked him open on their tongue, making him push back and clench around a strong, strange muscle.
So he has no idea how the Bull's tongue compares to a human's in his ass, except that everything about the Bull is bigger, and from kissing him he knows that tongue follows suit. Not unmanageably so, but almost overwhelmingly, sometimes.
The Bull's tongue is twisting with purpose, and all Dorian can do is moan at the thick feel of it. The Bull has his face pressed right against him, can feel his lips pulled back and his teeth resting against Dorian's flesh, then a slide and a crackle of pleasure that has actual lightning crackling over his knuckles.
“Fuck, is that—?”
No, it can't. It can't possibly be, but the Bull's tongue curves down again, wiggles, and – Andraste's frilly smalls – he can feel the Bull barely brushing his prostate with the tip of his tongue.
The Bull pulls back and Dorian groans for the loss.
“I get you?” he asks, kissing the skin around his hole, laps there, teasing his throbbing ring of muscle. “Can't really tell if I hit the spot, my tongue's not as accurate as fingers.”
“Bull, kaffas, put your tongue back in my arse!”
With a chuckle the Bull does, dives in with no preamble and tries to reach his prostate again. He manages, and Dorian whines against the new sensation. It's not as direct a pressure as the Bull can manage with his fingers, but the Bull has his tongue that deep, that curved, flicking against the very centre of things, and Dorian is going to go fucking mad with that knowledge.
The Bull moves a hand, shifting it around his ass, keeping him spread, teeth resting against him again with the depth he's getting with his tongue. Then he presses a thumb to Dorian's perineum, firm pressure on that same spot from the outside.
Dorian yells, and it takes him only a moment of that assault, tongue on the inside and pressure on the outside and knowing how completely the Bull has him, and he's done, coming in sticky ropes across his thighs and the bed below. Every press of the Bull's thumb milks a spurt of come from him, until all his body can manage is a messy dribble as Dorian sags.
“Shit, Dorian,” the Bull says, kissing over Dorian's hole and up his cleft, gently releasing his cheeks and smoothing his hands down his thighs once again. “My tongue almost cramped.”
Dorian laughs, and lets his knees slip wider on the bed. It opens him up again, and his severely bruised ass aches for it. It's pleasant, combined with the climb down from his orgasm.
“Are you hard, Bull?”
“You just came on my tongue, of course I am.”
“Inside me, then. Come inside.”
The Bull hums, and the bed dips as he sits back on his knees. One hand is still stroking gently on Dorian's thigh, sometimes up over his ass.
“You want me to stretch you out, fuck you?”
“No, I'm not sure I could take the movement, amatus,” he admits. “Press your cock against me, just enough, and spend inside me.”
“Shit, yeah.” The Bull moves, and Dorian just turns his head so he can peer back at him. The Bull meets his gaze, eye dark with desire, but expression so fond. “You know how hot it is, that you like having my come inside you?”
The Bull presses the fat head of his cock to Dorian's hole, and presses forward, stretching his guarding ring of muscle. He's loose from the tongue fucking; not enough to let the Bull's girth in, but enough to accommodate the very tip. He still thinks of it as fucking, when the Bull pumps his cock in tiny motions, the small stretch the wonderful side of too much.
He strokes himself off, and when he comes he presses forward, not breeching Dorian's body, but stretching him out enough to empty himself inside him. He groans, fingers on his ass pressing in just enough to make his bruises ache, and Dorian watches his eye close and his mouth fall open, body shuddering with his climax, filling him.
“Yeah,” the Bull says, tracing a thumb around Dorian's hole, cock still presses to him as he throbs with the ebb of his release. “I love thinking about you with my seed inside you, Dorian. About how much you want it. Thinking about whether your gorgeous body can keep it inside, or if it'll be coating your thighs the next time I see you.”
He pulls away, and Dorian tries to cant his hips up so he doesn't loose too much of his love's come right away. The Bull meets Dorian's eyes then, grins happily at him, and rolls his shoulders.
“You feeling better, kadan?”
Dorian hums, wiggling his hips experimentally. He's still so sore, but there's none of the edge that a day's constant aching had him suffering under earlier.
“Better. I'm going to sleep on top of you tonight, I don't think I'll get any sleep unless my arse is facing up.”
The Bull laughs, and leans down to kiss his bruised ass.
“Anything you need.”
---
His bruises aren't completely faded by the time things are set into motion, and the wheels of the world turn them onto new paths.
Dorian has only seen Cadash cry once before: the first days at Skyhold, still bruised and battered from Corypheus and almost lost to the weight of her responsibility. They had been frustrated tears then. The tears now are just sadness, even though she's smiling.
Vivienne left within two days of their task being complete. Varric left after a month, heading for Kirkwall, and he writes. Blackwall, who left with him, doesn't, but Charter keeps them updated on sightings of him. Cole is around much less, having found new ways to help in the field. Cassandra left a few weeks after Varric, to find what remained of the Seekers. Sera, Dorian and the Bull and his Chargers are leaving today.
“It's like pulling out an arrow, yeah?” Sera says, giving Cadash a hug that's sincere, but looks to be all elbows. “Quick and clean, not shifty and splinters.”
“Don't worry about me,” Cadash says, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hands. “I'm certain it won't be the last I''ll see of you.”
“Yes,” Dorian says, as he makes sure his staff is secured at his back. “Sera is rather like a recurring infection, that way.”
He dodges Sera's fist, thrown without much weight behind it. She's only going with them as far as Val Royeaux, where she's meeting Dagna, when her business at Montsimmard is concluded.
“I'm counting on it,” Cadash says. Sera smiles.
“You can keep in touch by Friends, Herald.”
“Oh?”
“They'll know when to find you.”
“Good. I'll be here.” She gestures at Skyhold, eyes lingering over the towers and the walls.
Sera heads for where the most senior Chargers are stood beside their waiting caravan, and hops up on Krem's back, draping her arms around him. He doesn't even falter, just wraps his arms around her legs and hups her into a more stable position, and keeps on talking to Stitches. The Bull looks impossibly fond.
“You'll write?” Cadash says, and Dorian turns back to her.
“Of course. The friendship of the Inquisitor seems worthwhile to maintain.”
She smiles knowingly, and doesn't needle him about it. That is why she is the finest friend he's ever had.
“Try to keep out of trouble, Dorian.”
“My dear Inquisitor, when have you ever known me to court controversy?”
“Oh, never ever.”
He is going to miss her something terrible.
“You'll be alright?”
“Yes. I'm sure me, Josephine and Cullen can come up with plenty to keep up entertained.”
“Good.”
He wants to stay, if only for her. But he wants to go home more than avoid his responsibility, and he wants the months he's planned to spend with the Bull before he heads to Tevinter even more.
She turns towards the Bull then, puts her hands on her hips and leans back to take in the size of him.
“Suppose it'll be a while until I see you, too.”
The Bull nods. “Yeah, Boss. The Chargers are still a part of the Inquisition, though. You tell me if you need us.”
“I will.”
Dorian doesn't think that's true. The Chargers have leave to venture further afield, and the Bull has told him about the fights Cadash and Cullen have got into over the allocation of resources for troops. Allowing the Chargers the freedom to take contracts unrelated to the Inquisition is a logical end.
“You could always come to Val Royeaux with us, Boss,” he says, sounding hopeful. “I'm sure you can think of a good Inquisition reason.”
“If only. I'm receiving Fereldan dignitaries next week. The Inquisitor's work...”
She doesn't finish the sentiment. She doesn't need to; they know that they're leaving their friend with a burden on her shoulders, but they also have their own to deal with, now the sky isn't falling. Cadash has never been a resentful woman.
“I'm sure the Chargers who're staying behind can tell you some stories if you miss me, Boss.”
“None of the one's you're taking know the good stories about me,” she teases.
By the gates, other goodbyes are happening. A handful of Chargers intend to stay, with new ties or purposes keeping them at Skyhold. A few former Inquisition members will leave with them, accepted by the Bull and promised a test of their suitability on the way to Val-Royeaux.
“I'll hear them next time,” the Bull says, and Dorian knows it's a promise even if there's no way he can really make it.
“Good. Make sure Dorian doesn't get into trouble, won't you?”
“Of course, Boss.”
Dorian scoffs, and tips his chin up in a display of mock hautiness, and Cadash laughs. He is really going to miss her.
“Chief!” Krem calls, and Sera, still on his back, beckons them over. Cadash sighs, and although she's not crying anymore, Dorian thinks she probably will after they've gone. He may too, when he has a moment to himself.
“You need to go, if you're going to make good time.”
“We should,” the Bull says. “See you soon, Boss.” He turns towards his Chargers, signalling for them to begin moving out. The clattering of cart wheels, horse shoes and stomping boots begins, as Dorian turns back to Cadash.
“Thank you for everything, my friend.”
“Thank you, Dorian,” she says. “I wouldn't have been the same without you all, you know.”
The Bull presses the reigns of Dorian's horse into his hand, giving him a reason to turn away from the Inquisitor and busy himself with that. He doesn't dare to look back until he's mounted and moving with the caravan out of the gates. Cadash stands in the keep amongst the small group of well-wishers, and waves at their retreating party.
Sadness, Dorian finds, only serves as a distraction for so long. The constant motion of the horse leaves him aching soon enough, and he realises it's showing on his face as the sun begins to dip in the sky and they get nearer to the last Inquisition camp in the Frostbacks before they are beyond the Inquisition's influence. Maybe after that, it'll feel like they're really leaving.
They have time. Months before Dorian has to start thinking about Tevinter proper, months where the only business is whatever contract the Chargers have. He has earned the right to savour them without guilt about his delayed intent.
The Bull brings his mount into step beside Dorian's, eyeing him up without shame.
“You doing alright, Dorian?”
“Never better,” he says on reflex, wincing again at the repetitive motion against his sore backside.
“We'll be setting up camp soon. I'll make your ass feel better.”
“I'd like it less sore, thank you very much,” he says, without much heat. The Bull smiles at him, tilting his head.
“You know I'll take care of you, kadan.”
Dorian smiles back, sidestepping the urge to make a joke, and allowing himself rare directness. New paths, and all.
“Of that I have no doubt, amatus.”
“A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.” - John A Shedd