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“You’re magnificent!” the Bull had shouted, as electricity lanced through the dragon’s wing bones and it hit the ground only moments later. He’d been running toward it, but spared a grin for Dorian as he passed, and that’s why he saw the look on Dorian’s face like all the air had gone from his lungs. But just for a moment, before the Bull had to look forward again. He put it from his mind, connecting wide swings with meaty thunks against the dragon’s forelegs, getting singed and then dusted with frost in turn.
Back at Suledin Keep Varric enlists him to recount the battle to everyone who’d missed out. They sit on crates and sacks of sand in the wine cellar, the easier to refill their cups, and the Bull describes in loving detail the way the dragon landed before them to spew freezing breath.
“Course, when she takes off the wind knocks us all down up front, but then Dorian times his spell perfectly, and CRACK! Right in the shoulders with this massive arc of lightning! And down she goes!” The Bull claps Dorian on the shoulder, so that he spills his drink. “I could’ve watched that for hours!”
“Keep it in your pants, come on,” says Varric, while the scout beside him cackles. But Dorian doesn’t have a self-congratulatory retort or even an outraged protest. He has, interestingly, gone just slightly red, taking a long swallow of appropriated wine as if to steady himself.
The crowd stays once the story’s told, plenty more left to drink, but Dorian excuses himself with the kind of hip check against the Bull’s side that means an invitation. There’s a couple catcalls and whistles when the Bull gets up to follow him. The Bull’s still grinning when they reach the room -- his, technically, but Dorian never actually bothered to claim another -- and Dorian can’t wipe it away by reaching up to kiss him.
“You’re enthusiastic today,” the Bull says, because Dorian’s hands are already wandering, and Dorian laughs. The first time he got Dorian to laugh during sex was sort of a revelation. A lifetime of quick and dangerous fucks probably makes it a serious topic, but in the Bull’s bed it doesn’t have to be either of those things, and Dorian could really use more fun in his life. Getting picked up and carried to bed, hoisted up on walls like a proper piece of art, or tangled up in their clothes so they both trip and fall, it’s all good for morale. “Careful,” the Bull adds, with this in mind, “or I’m gonna start thinking you’re as into dragons as I am.”
“As if anyone could reasonably make that claim,” Dorian replies, but the fingers of his right hand work the base of the Bull’s left horn like he’d make an attempt anyway. The Bull’s been meaning to ask him if he’d breathe fire sometime, but there’s something else he wants to try tonight. That expression from today’s battle is burned on the back of his eyes, and he wants to see it again, wants to see if he’s right about what caused it.
He crowds Dorian against the wall and the foot of the bed, pinning Dorian’s free wrist with one hand and cradling Dorian’s face with the other. “I like some things better than dragons,” the Bull says against Dorian’s jaw, for the hitch of breath against his cheek. “I like you better than dragons.”
Dorian twists his face to kiss him again, but the Bull restrains him with gentle force, drawing back to keep him in focus. “No dragon has your clever tongue,” he continues, and Dorian rolls his eyes, but he’s gone a little pink again.
He says, “Typically, flattery is employed to persuade someone into your bed, rather than once they’ve been there already.”
The statement gets punctuated by halfhearted struggling, but the Bull stills a moment to let him know he could escape, should he need to. Dorian mutters something foul, but he strains toward the Bull and not away. “You know what to say,” the Bull reminds him, and gets a second roll of Dorian’s eyes for his trouble. “Maybe I just like flattering you.”
“Also more than dragons?” There’s something delectable about Dorian’s upturned face, straining shoulders, how the Bull’s got him held just out of reach, and the way he’s electing to tease the Bull anyway. “You’re making bold claims tonight.”
The Bull makes sure he’s got eye contact before he says, “I’ll make bolder,” and Dorian bites his own lip. The Bull kisses him again just for the hell of it, lets his hand drop to fumble at Dorian’s collar, follows with his mouth lips-to-throat until Dorian’s breath goes ragged. “Yes, that’s good,” he murmurs, “that’s right,” and Dorian shivers. With teeth and fingers he loosens Dorian’s coat. Dorian’s hand at his horn wraps tight around it, a familiar preparation by now and a welcome weight.
Also an obstacle. “You’ll have to let go for me to get this off you,” the Bull says, tugging at Dorian’s opened jacket, and Dorian makes a disgruntled noise but releases him again. He doesn’t always have the patience to let the Bull undress him, but it’s happening more frequently these days. When the Bull releases his pinned arm, Dorian relaxes his arms and shoulders so that the Bull can manipulate them to ease the sleeves off. Sometimes the jacket stays on the ground. Sometimes it doesn’t exactly make it all the way off, a casual restraint. Tonight the Bull folds it loosely and tosses it on the lone chair -- a demonstration of something else entirely. “Yeah, that’s good,” he repeats, “catching on quick, as usual.”
“Not usual,” Dorian retorts, but the bite there isn’t for the Bull.
“Where it counts,” says the Bull, tugging the hem of Dorian’s undershirt free of his breeches. “When you need to.” He pulls the shirt over Dorian’s head. “The rest of the time, I’m happy to clue you in.”
Dorian, bare from the waist up, leans toward him, so the Bull brings an arm around to hold him from the cold stone wall, hand curling around the base of Dorian’s skull. The other hand hangs from Dorian’s remaining belt, skimming the skin with his thumb. Dorian shivers again anyway. “How kind of you,” he drawls. “Far more I deserve, I’m sure.”
He’s inviting the joke, carefully manicured nails at the softer flesh at the Bull’s sides that ripples without his say-so. But the Bull presses him, warm skin to cold. Dorian doesn’t ask to be overwhelmed, most nights, but protests when given space. Doesn’t request encouragement, but opens up to it. “Oh, you deserve kindness,” the Bull tells him, and Dorian’s eyes flick open to meet his again. “Way more than you’ve received, I’m guessing.”
“You’ve bought too much into my exaggerations,” says Dorian, but uncertainly, and he exhales sharply when the Bull dips the thumb under the leather and fabric at his waist. “Uncharacteristic of you,” he adds, but the rest gets swallowed in the Bull’s mouth.
“Can’t blame me for appreciating the better things in life,” he says when he’s drawn away again, fingers pulling back out of Dorian’s breeches and the noise Dorian makes doesn’t sound like words at all.
It’s a few more shaky breaths, as the Bull’s hand works this final buckle, before Dorian manages, “I can’t begin to guess what’s brought this on. But I--” another breath sucked in as his belt’s ends fall free to either side of the Bull’s thigh, and Dorian grasps at the Bull’s skin with growing urgency-- “had rather different plans for the evening.”
Last time they fought a dragon, they hadn’t made it all the way to a building, Dorian pressed against the side of a hill in the fens at Crestwood while the Bull fucked him into it still smelling like ash. He’d left bruises and bite marks at Dorian’s shoulders and down his spine, and more bruises at his waist besides. Dorian, for his part, had strained into it, loud enough that Leliana’s spies must have heard without seeking them out, barely needing a touch to get off.
There’s other ways to overwhelm someone.
“We’re getting there,” the Bull says, and Dorian might’ve tried to laugh but it comes out more like a groan. That’s the Bull’s fault, for the palm he slid beneath the fabric to squeeze Dorian’s ass, and he squeezes again for good measure. “You look so good when you’re losing your cool.”
Dorian turns his face away, leaving bare space for the Bull to sink his teeth. He learned over time that while Dorian likes to think he likes the pain of being bitten, he winces at small sharp nips. Wide mouth and suction, though, that turns him on, and leaves bigger marks anyway. Teeth either side the artery, and he doesn’t have to do anything else to get Dorian writhing against him. “You keep it together so well,” he croons, “it makes it so much better taking you apart.”
“That’s,” Dorian says, pausing for another nonverbal vocalisation when the Bull drags his teeth down toward Dorian’s collarbone, “hardly true.”
“I dunno,” and the Bull punctuates with another squeeze before drawing his free hand back up to Dorian’s side, “just because I can rile you up doesn’t mean you don’t work well under pressure anyway. Never seen you lose it in a fight.”
“Then you’re not looking hard enough.” That’s Dorian’s hands climbing up to the Bull’s shoulders, and he hangs on, shifting his hips forward like he thinks he’s being sneaky.
“Hard not to look,” says the Bull. “Like I said. You’re magnificent.”
Dorian’s still not looking back at him, though, eyes down even though he turned his face back, eyebrows pinched even as his breath comes quicker. There’s time later to insist. The Bull brings his hand up to cup Dorian’s jaw, smooth his thumb against the rough shadow there. “A fucking force of nature. You’re good enough with fire, but when you start casting lightning you look like something out of legend.”
That gets a real whine, and also Dorian’s nails digging into the Bull’s shoulders. “Must you taunt me so?” Dorian rocks left to right, even less subtly, which is the real taunt.
“I can if you want,” the Bull promises, and if Dorian is going to use gravity to his advantage he’s just got to be moved around so he can’t. The Bull’s already holding up most of Dorian’s weight, so it’s easy enough to pick him up completely to deposit him on the bed. Straddling him, the Bull can hold down Dorian’s legs with his shins, keep himself out of grinding zone, and grin down at Dorian’s string of Tevene curses. “You spit better fire than any dragon I’ve fought.”
“Now who has a fetish,” Dorian breathes, all in a rush like that’s the only way he can get it out. That’s good, that’s right, even when the Bull isn’t saying it out loud he lays hands to Dorian’s throat or face to convey it anyway. Not a touch below the shoulders, and the anticipation does all the heavy lifting for him. Making Dorian squirm just by holding him down, that’s one of the best things the Bull ever figured out how to do.
When Dorian reaches up for him, he lets himself be tugged down for the kiss. “Does it count when I’m just into everything about you?” the Bull says against his mouth, and Dorian sucks all his breath in.
He can’t free his legs, but Dorian never let that stop him before. He finds the Bull’s horns again and yanks them over his head, and goes for the throat. The Bull never had a problem with small, sharp teeth, and Dorian leaves tiny dark dotted lines that could almost be intentional designs sometimes. Tonight he’s biting harder, more irregularly, and the Bull concedes this battle won when Dorian surprises a sole grunt from him. He’s lowering his hips before he realises what he’s doing, and when Dorian relinquishes his horns it’s with a savage smile.
“Don’t patronise me,” he spits, while his nails turn sharp down the Bull’s neck.
“I can’t help the things I love about you,” the Bull says, but Dorian won’t let the moment turn sweet, arching up for a better angle to leave scratch marks all down his back.
“Don’t give me that,” Dorian tells him, “give me something else,” and all right, that’s funny, innuendos when they’re halfway to naked on the bed already. But Dorian glares when he laughs, just as fiercely as he glared when the Bull was sincere.
So the Bull lifts his legs off Dorian’s to get him out of all that clinging leather and the silk beneath. Freed from that bondage -- and isn’t this funny too, how he manages to get off on being held down and tied back when he runs around in restraints all day anyway -- Dorian’s as hard as the noises he’d been making suggested. Tempting, for the Bull to just take that into his mouth and be done with it, but he wants to keep talking, and Dorian seems to want a good fucking. There’s always time to suck him off later. And Dorian’s already taking advantage of his brief freedom to unbuckle the Bull’s harness, and while the Bull pulls it off all the way Dorian attends to his one and only belt. Then it’s just shoes, shucked off with the pants, and the Bull bears Dorian back down against the mattress, only skin against skin now.
Even the slight friction of dick against dick is enough to growl about, and it tips Dorian’s head back. “You look so good like this,” the Bull says, “still all put together. You did yourself all up for me, even though you’re gonna look even better wrecked.”
“Thought I had too big an ego to inflate further,” Dorian replies shortly, looking back up at the Bull. Ah, but there’s a difference between ego and self-worth, and Dorian knows he’s pretty but doesn’t know he’s still pretty fucked to an inch of his life. It’s written all over the way he rises from the bed after each session, as soon as he can manage, to fix his face. Even now, he’s straightening his mustache, pushing his hair back.
That’s not exactly sexy conversation though. The Bull settles for a simpler truth. “I like your big ego.”
He claims Dorian’s hand before it can perform any more nervous tics, lacing their fingers together out of reach of Dorian’s hair. Then he gathers the other one up for good measure. A slow roll of his hips, just to keep Dorian agitated, and with his free hand the Bull hunts around on the bedside table for the vial of oil he left there, thoughtfully, this morning.
“You like putting on this show,” he goes on, while the vial keeps rolling out of the way of his hand, “with everything you do, but especially when you’re fighting, and damn right I’m gonna enjoy it. Good thing for you you’re here, ‘cause I’d be getting off on it tonight either way.”
“Oh, yes,” Dorian deadpans, finally meeting the Bull’s eyes again. “Keeping everyone alive, a true act of sexual depravity.”
The Bull’s fingers close on the vial at last. “Nah,” he says, “just deserving of one.” He pulls his prize back so Dorian can see it, and then makes a show of pulling out the stopper with his teeth, since Dorian’s already watching anyway. Since his other hand’s still busy, he pours the oil onto himself, and then leans the vial against a crease in the blankets so he can spread it evenly. Taking the vial up again, he spills more oil onto his already slick hand, and works that between Dorian’s legs, to appreciative noises. “Been thinking about you all day,” the Bull says, as Dorian gasps, as he pushes one oily finger in. “How much I wanted give you a worthy congratulations. Besting another dragon.”
“That wasn’t--” but Dorian has to stop at the smooth introduction of a second finger, dissolving into a low moan that turns ragged when the Bull pulses both fingers, deeper and then shallow. “You’re telling it like--” and the Bull twists his hand before pulling out for more oil-- “like it was just me, but--”
Whatever else he was going to add against his defense gets lost in another moan as the Bull presses in again, following muscle memory now to that spot where Dorian loses it. He knows when he finds it because Dorian shouts. For all his care for privacy, Dorian has always been terrible at keeping quiet -- though the Bull hasn’t ever done anything to help. “Yeah, let it out,” the Bull says, leaning in to deliver it soft in Dorian’s ear. “You’re doing great.”
“Stop dragging it out,” Dorian snaps, “or I will not be doing well at all.”
The Bull raises his head again to smile where Dorian can see it. “Tell me what you want me to hurry up and do, and I’d be happy to do it.”
Dorian arches his back and groans, nudging the Bull in the gut with his erection, and he’s all the louder when the Bull pulls him back down with those two fingers still inside him. “Impossible,” gasps Dorian, “you’re simply--”
“That’s not very clear instruction,” says the Bull. Dorian glares at him but the effect gets spoiled when the Bull’s fingers drag across his prostate again, and his eyes clench almost shut as he bites his own lip. “Try again,” the Bull suggests. “I want to give you what you need.”
“What I need!” Dorian’s chest heaves, his breath unsteady, and he digs his fingers into the Bull’s hand that holds them. “I need you to stop teasing me, finish oiling yourself up, and then fuck me. With force, please and thank you.”
“I’d love to,” the Bull says, smiling, and Dorian manages to scowl at him. He hisses a breath in when the Bulls withdraws his fingers, spreading and twisting them on the way out for one final stretch. One last pool of oil for the Bull’s hand, and that’s almost the whole vial gone; he strokes his own dick again to ensure it’s coated, and so Dorian can watch.
Gently the Bull drops his head so Dorian can prop his legs on the Bull’s horns, and gently still he leans in to line them up for the movement. He’s gentle right up until the first push in, and then thrusts forward with all the leverage he has. Dorian shouts again, lifting his face, and the Bull obliges by taking his mouth to muffle him.
“You feel good,” the Bull says, the second push forward, and the gasp this elicits is barely even vocalised. “You feel so good around me,” he says, and Dorian’s whole body twitches with it, constricting around the Bull’s dick, a shock of pleasure that travels straight up his spine. He wipes his free hand off against the bedding and then grabs Dorian by the waist to keep him from being shoved up the bed, and he holds hard enough that he’ll leave bruises.
He’s aroused but not frenzied, mission kept in mind; as difficult as it is to keep focus while balls-deep in a frantic, enthusiastic Dorian, the reactions to his words sustains it. Take Dorian apart first, and then give him the satisfaction of the Bull’s own orgasm. To that end--
“I did good,” he says, “going after you.”
Dorian jerks his body down, taking just that much more length, pulling with his ankles hooked on the Bull’s horns. “And I,” he says, sharply, “have somehow yet to come to my senses.” Is that desperation in his voice? “I will not -- be outdone.”
“That’s another thing I love about you,” the Bull adds, driving home and pulling back achingly slow, “giving as good as you get.”
“Don’t -- please.” Dorian’s eyes shut again, hands closing into fists. “These things you’re saying -- why you thought to start with this tonight, I don’t understand--”
“Dorian.” The Bull stills himself, poised for another thrust, and Dorian makes another noise of protest. His voice, now, has gone even sharper, angry.
But he won’t let the Bull cut in, and deprived of the Bull’s dick, he settles for yanking at his own wrists. The Bull, without resistance, lets him go. “This isn’t supposed to be some heart-to-heart, I want you to fuck me, not hold my hand and tell me I’m worthwhile--”
“Say the word, and I’ll stop.”
Dorian opens his eyes and stares at him, as if he hadn’t considered this was part of the exchange. His throat works. But the watchword stays unspoken, Dorian only releasing another shaky exhale, his fingers grasping at the blanket beneath him and then loosening their grip. He reaches a hand up, and the Bull tips Dorian’s legs free of his horns and lowers himself carefully to lie mostly upon Dorian, enough weight on the mattress to let him breathe. Dorian in turn presses his face into the Bull’s shoulder. “Tell me -- just tell me I’m filthy this once,” he all but whimpers, “it’s all right, it’s part of the game--”
“You’re beautiful,” says the Bull, “and it isn’t,” and Dorian shudders violently beneath him. Carefully the Bull takes one of his hands, lacing their fingers together once more, and adds, “You’re a good guy, and I could take you in the most fucked up ways either of us could think of and that wouldn’t change.”
“You charmer,” Dorian says, voice dry, but the crease in his brow relaxes to something more vulnerable, his eyes a little bit wide, his mouth a little bit open.
It seems like the right time for the Bull to play his final card. “Besides,” and now he smiles, lopsided, “don’t think I didn’t catch that face you made when I called you magnificent during the fight. I was hoping you’d respond to more, and I think--” and now he draws a hand down to where Dorian’s still plenty hard, for the bitten-off moan that follows, “it’s been working.”
“So it all has been a game,” Dorian groans -- impatient, rather than aroused. This time. “Embarrass Dorian into the biggest orgasm of his short, tragic life. Well, how could I deprive you of your carefully planned debauchery?”
“Not exactly.” The Bull leaves off palming Dorian to retrieve the last of the vial of oil, re-coating himself, then nudging Dorian open again. “Thought maybe you’d like to get off on being appreciated for once.”
Dorian makes a noise that still doesn’t sound like desire, but he swats the Bull’s questioning hand away. “I don’t… object, per se,” he says, pausing to inhale sharply as the Bull lifts his legs anew, presses in again with more care than before. “But -- ahh! -- I don’t understand, either.”
“Don’t understand getting off on praise, or don’t understand why I want you to?” It comes out more of a rumble than he meant, getting closer than he realised. At least Dorian is also well on his way to losing his cool again, breathing heavy all over again. The Bull gives him another stroke, grabbing harder than he meant with the thrust forward, and Dorian gasps, hard.
He manages, “Either,” and then bites down on his lower lip, shuts his eyes.
The Bull brushes his thumb across Dorian’s sculpted cheekbone, leaving a thin streak of oil behind. “Can’t tell you for sure what’s going on in your head, but if I’m--” a pause of his own, shoving in again and sharply exhaling-- “guessing right, probably has something to do with, uff, all that sex you were having before being this big shameful secret.” He pulses the hand on Dorian’s dick for another moan, still one of his favourite sounds these days, no matter how many times he’s caused it. “Kinda nice, hearing someone telling you it’s something to be proud of.”
Dorian doesn’t confirm or deny, just turns his face into the Bull’s hand. “And you want this because?” comes out more breath than voice.
Now the Bull slows the roll of his hips, loosens the hand around Dorian’s dick just to cup it. The frustration is worth the tenor sigh it pulls from Dorian’s throat. Not just yet, the Bull doesn’t say. “Because I like being the one who gets to tell you this shit,” he does say.
He gets no response but Dorian’s desperate straining against him, trying to bring up the pace, and the Bull slows further and grins just as slow. “Because you’re a great guy and I don’t think you know it as well as you like to pretend.”
Another moan, another jerk of his hips, and Dorian opens his mouth to whisper please, and the Bull runs the hand on Dorian’s cheek down his neck, gentle just a little bit more. “Because you took everything the world had to throw at you and still have the nerve to make it better,” he says, and then at last builds the pace back up, three quick thrusts and a tightening of his fingers on Dorian’s dick.
“And because you’re worth caring about,” the Bull says, and with a choke or a sob Dorian comes into his hand and onto his stomach. Dorian grabs his horns, hands against ankles, and shoves in time with the Bull’s thrusts forward until the Bull spends, his own voice breaking beyond his control, half falling forward before he catches himself to let down Dorian’s legs and pull himself free.
They sag against each other, on the mattress, oily hands and waists, sweat and skin. Dorian breathes deep against the Bull’s throat, eyes open but shuttering closed. His hands against the Bull’s chest pull too hard to be accidental.
“I can’t,” Dorian begins, and then huffs a breath instead of finishing.
“Can’t?” the Bull prompts, when it becomes clear the sentence has died where it began.
Dorian presses his face further against the Bull. “Can’t do that for you.” He’s fitting himself against the whole of the Bull now, but that’s nothing new for a man as sensitive to cold as Dorian when presented with a furnace like the Bull. No, it’s still that grip he’s holding that gives him away.
“Good thing you don’t need to,” the Bull tells him, bringing his free arm up and around to hold Dorian to him. “Gonna let me do it again?”
That gets a laugh, which is a good sign. Dorian shoves his nose into the hollow of the Bull’s throat, which is kind of uncomfortable, but he adds, “I suppose I could be persuaded,” which is definitely worth anything else.