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Anaan esaam Qun
Bull hears about the Tevinter altus in captivity before he remembers how Dorian was captured. He can't stand the warring memories: ones from Orlais, and ones from the past year or so in Thedas. His body bears new scars, and he can't--
He can't block out his role in all of this.
Do you ever think about what would happen if the Qunari invaded?
No. Not at all.
The memories of the Dorian Pavus in this world are the worst. The pain upon realizing Bull's betrayal, the rage and fear and longing on his face when they finally confronted each other on a battlefield. Dorian nearly killed him and Bull bears deep scars from ice nearly going through his chest. He would have died had it not been for a saarebas in the field.
But he also remembers quiet, tender moments on the porch of the bungalow and on the beach.
It hurts to see Dorian in captivity, even if this man tried to kill him. He can't even blame him. Bull can't stay away, finding excuses to pass through the prison, to look at him while he's sleeping. It isn't until he hears that the prisoner has been taken to interrogation that cold fear strikes through him.
-*-
As far as Dorian can tell, this portal has landed him in some Qunari-occupied version of Thedas straight out of a Tevinter cautionary tale. It's clearly Ferelden; in fact, it looks very much like Redcliffe, from the glimpses he'd gotten at the outside world before being locked up, chained and collared in a very dark room by very indifferent-seeming Qunari. If the Qunari have gotten this far south, he can't help but think, then surely Tevinter must be--
No, but he can't dwell on that. He has to get out of here. Back to Zhautas, or at least to a Thedas that isn't so fucking dismal; the spread of the Qun to this point is a complete nightmare, would be so even to someone like Bull, who had followed the Qun throughout his life. Maker, Dorian hopes he's all right. He'd been nearby when the portal opened. Impossible to say whether or not he'd come through as well.
He's been given water occasionally, but it's laced with magebane. He knows the taste well, even subtle as it is. His father had dosed him with it for months. But he can't very well not drink at all, especially when he's not been given food for--as far as he can tell--several days. Difficult to measure the hours without sunlight. The heavy collar around his neck would prevent him from using magic anyway, even if he could access it. No magic, no food; he feels empty in every way, lightheaded and weak and devoid of purpose, of options. He's spent most of the time asleep, or at least trying to rest. He's been isolated, too; a few people have come by to view him, but all have spoken Qunlat, and none have spoken directly to him.
The first time he was acknowledged was when he was dragged from his cell for interrogation. They speak to him in Common, low and only lightly accented. He doesn't know anything of value, of course, about the state of this world, even if his counterpart here is apparently quite important to the resistance of Qunari occupation, which doesn't surprise him for a moment. But he's stubborn enough not to want to tell his interrogators anything anyway. And where is Bull? Surely he must exist in this Thedas, fighting alongside him?
Where is Bull?
Time passes. He doesn't give satisfactory answers. They tell him that if he does, he will be rewarded; perhaps he will be allowed to convert, and live out his life as a Viddathari. He laughs at this. He knows the Qunari don't bother to convert foreign mages. Dangerous things. For those like him, there is only qamek.
That must have been...yesterday?
Where is Bull?
He fears, at first, that qamek is exactly what they're giving him. But that doesn't seem to be so. It is some other poison, perhaps, as his free will doesn't suddenly dribble out his ears; it merely makes his mind increasingly fuzzy. He is left alone for some time. Now he really can't measure it, can barely keep hold of his own thoughts. They blur together in the dark, and after some indeterminable amount of time, it becomes difficult to tell whether there is anyone there with him or not. At one point, he's sure he hears Sera's voice, but opens his eyes to find himself alone. Felix sits with him for a while, silently, a Blight-ridden hand covering his; but he'd never looked that bad in life, the flesh melting from his beautiful dear face as though already decaying from the inside out. He wonders what has happened to Lavellan, and when he next opens his eyes, her head is laying at his feet, the stitches holding her lips sewn shut still bleeding sluggishly. He sobs, slams his eyes shut, and when he opens them again it's gone. He would say that he is dreaming, but whatever they've put in him keeps him awake, and uncomfortably aware of the weight of his collar, of his chains, of every cut and bruise and sore on his body. He is itching in his own skin, and and eventually he begins talking--begging, really, is what it is, for someone to come back, anyone, anyone who he can know is real.
Eventually, they return.
Where is Bull?
They ask him first about his family. He doesn't like to talk about his family, but he tells them. It's a relief just to have someone there and solid and decidedly alive to interact with, and he has no reason to defend Magister fucking Halward anyway. Then they talk about his friends, about Maevaris, Lavellan, Gereon--no, he really doesn't know anything about where Mae is now, have you tried her estate near Vyrantium? She likes to host her summer parties there, not quite as oppressively hot as Minrathous. No, he really doesn't know where she might be right now, and why should he? Known co-conspirator? Well, they've been known to be thick as thieves, but--
It occurs to him that this is still an interrogation, and not a friendly chat. It occurs to him that they want to find Mae to hurt her. Perhaps to do the very same thing to her as they have done to him. (Lavellan, her mouth sewn shut; he failed her, he must have, he can't fail Mae that way. Was that even real, or a figment of his mind? Does it matter?)
"Where is Bull?"
He nearly doesn't realize he's spoken aloud. There is silence for a moment after, and then a quiet murmuring, one interrogator to another. Dorian hears it, the whisper of a word--a name--he recognizes. Hissrad.
Dorian's stomach twists. "Is he dead?" He asks, frantic. The room seems to be closing in on him. "Is he dead?" But no one is listening to him now. One of the interrogators leaves. Dorian's throat feels dry, and he still can't reach his magic, this bloody collar is so heavy, he wants to just--just sleep, or burn everything, it doesn't matter which. He's surprised when he feels his eyes welling up, but can't stop the tears when they fall. He has to leave. He has to get back, back to a world that makes sense.
Where is Bull?
-*-
People are not hard to break. All it takes is loneliness, uncertainty, and fear. Even the strongest minds will eventually fall to one of these, especially if there is pain of some kind or another. It's a matter of time; it's a when, not an if.
Especially when the Ben-Hassrath are in charge.
Bull knows exactly what the prisoner is going through and there is nothing he can do to stop it that would not end in both their executions. He visits a tamassran every day and no one questions it: of course Hissrad seeks comfort and reassurance in the Qun. He has been on the front lines, they say. He has been away for so long. It is the least they can do to give him respite.
It is part of why they keep him from the interrogation, and he can find no good reason to insert himself into it. He knows Dorian, intimately, but the interrogation techniques of the Ben-Hassrath do not depend on things like that. Still, the interrogators report to him and to the Viddasala. In every report, he looks for-- something. There has to be a way to get Dorian out, to get him to the border.
Learning how far the borders are send cold chills down his back. The Frostbacks, the Waking Sea. But he knows this land well. If he can just find a reason to be alone with Dorian--
"Hissrad, we need you."
He looks up from the campaign map spread across the table, then pushes away to follow the interrogator. Have they killed him? Is it worse? Bull steels himself for any number of possibilities.
Somehow the reality is worse.
Dorian sits, broken, in the middle of the room. Bull is told little, only that Dorian has asked after him. They encourage into the space and into the light. There is no mistaking him: he is too unique among his people. All he wants to do is drop to his knees, to lift Dorian up and hold him close. He wants to kill everyone else in the room, and anyone that gets between them and a true escape.
But he will not risk Dorian's life that way. He must be Hissrad or they will both die.
He moves closer and finally sinks to one knee in front of the mage.
"Dorian."
Kadan.
-*-
They bring him.
The relief Dorian feels at the sight of him, his huge and familiar presence taking up so much space in the small, quiet room, is enough to have him doubling over. He aches in every imaginable way, but seeing the Bull unharmed is worth everything.
"You're alive," he murmurs, and leans toward him instinctively as he sinks down nearby, seeking comfort in the size and strength of Bull's form. He can't quite reach him, and it sends a pang of desperation through him. There are new scars spanning the tough grey skin of Bull's chest, and his expression is impassive, but he is here.
"Bull, amatus, please--please, let's leave." It doesn't occur to him, in this state, to wonder whether he is another prisoner, or whether he is somehow in charge here, or if he even has the power to release him or not. The tears are hot on his cheeks, blurring his vision. He tries to blink them away. He wants to see Bull clearly. "I can't give them what they want, Bull, please, let's go--" He makes another attempt to reach him, but is stopped by the length of his chains. A low, pathetic noise wrenches its way from his throat. Just touch me, he thinks, just touch me please, and everything will be all right.
-*-
Bull doesn't dare offer too much comfort. He considers Dorian's state, knows well what they've likely given him to induce it. The bruises and chaffed skin make his stomach turn. He takes a breath and lets it go slowly.
Would the Dorian that tried to kill him call him amatus? Would he be so relieved to see him, even in these conditions.
He turns his head to address the interrogators.
"I'll take over from here. You've pushed too hard today."
It isn't a difficult argument to make. Dorian sounds nearly incoherent. The interrogators both murmur their apologies and leave to write up their reports. Bull breathes another quiet sigh and waits for a few agonizing minutes before he moves. He carefully unties Dorian and, as he gets to his feet again, he picks the mage up effortlessly.
"I'm here," he says very quietly. Even if this is the man that tried to kill him, Bull cannot stand to see him in pain.
-*-
Bull gives a directive, and the other two leave. The implications of that--this Bull isn't on his side at all, is he? Hissrad. Ben-Hassrath. Spy, agent, traitor.
But that can't be the case, can it? Surely it is a ruse, he thinks. Bull is releasing him, shackles falling to the floor, and then taking him in his arms. He's safe. Dorian buries his face in Bull's shoulder and lets himself weep. Bull would never want to hurt him. He'd even given him a word to say to stop him if he ever did. Katoh.
"Thank you," he says, watery, thick. He hates that he cries so easily, but he seems to have even less control over it now than usual. Logically, he knows he needs to rest. He needs to let the poison clear his system. But all he wants to do is get far away from here, let Bull carry him until this is nothing more than a bad dream.
"Don't leave me," he implores. That is the most important part.
-*-
Something in him breaks when he hears Dorian thank him. He adjusts his hold slightly, making sure to keep the mage against his chest. His mind is racing: he needs to think of a viable reason to keep Dorian with him.
A question burns in him and he hates himself for a moment. If he asks it now, there is no way that Dorian can lie to him. It's the easiest, fastest way to get the information he needs.
"Dorian," he murmurs his name again. "When do you last remember seeing me? What were we doing together?"
-*-
Gradually, he stops heaving, breathing slowly to a more sedate pace. Deep inhales and exhales, shaky still. He isn't exactly not crying, but it's near enough. He holds tight to Bull where he can, and breathes in the scent of his skin.
"Near the beach. You and I were walking together, looking at trees," he says, and hopes that makes some sense. "There was a portal. I only wanted to have a look--they're so fascinating--but I ended up here after all." Home and very much not home. He's longed to see Thedas for months, but not like this.
-*-
Bull can't breathe. Dorian-- this is his Dorian, the man he's loved for years, the man he's grown close to since they found each other again on Zhautas--
He's left him here all this time, not knowing, suffering. Bull closes his eye for a moment and squeezes Dorian as tightly as he dares.
"Forgive me," he whispers. "For not intervening sooner."
He walks past the prison, moving up through the castle. No one questions him. If someone does, he'll find an answer, but he cannot leave Dorian there a moment longer. Bull's mind is already racing to concoct a story, a reason for his taking possession of a Tevinter altus. He could tell them that his mind has broken. That he barely remembers who he is, never mind information of any use to the Qunari. But what is to keep them from deciding to simply kill Dorian?
Me, he thinks grimly.
-*-
Well, at least he understands. This is his Bull then, isn't it? Good. Then they can work together to find the portal that will get them out of here. Bull apologizes to him, and Dorian's breath hitches at the emotion in his voice. No, no. He doesn't want this. It isn't Bull's fault, is it?
...is it?
"It was a bit inconvenient," Dorian agrees weakly. Bull is carrying him through what Dorian recognizes to be the halls of Redcliffe Castle, without a doubt. Ironic, that; he'd seen Bull locked in a cell beneath this very castle in the dark future that hadn't come to pass. That was long before he'd ever considered Bull special to him. Indeed, it was before he knew him at all.
Or, well, it hadn't been before, exactly, since it had been the future, but timelines are funny like that.
"You couldn't have dropped by to pick me up yesterday?" His attempt at humor falls flat in the face of what he's experienced. He fears he'll lapse back into it the moment Bull lets him go. That he'll be gripped again by the isolation, the fear, the uncertainty of what is real and what isn't. And he's still got that collar on.
-*-
Bull wonders if he can get Dorian out of the castle. He has rooms here, but he hates the idea of staying. There are too many eyes and ears in the castle itself and it's too close to the local triumvirate. But Dorian is in no condition for that trip, and there will certainly be questions if he carries him all that way.
Bull avoids main thoroughfares in the castle, sticking to back stairs and quiet corridors. He doesn't know why he remembers his way around, but he does.
"I was afraid they would kill us both," he admits. "If I showed my hand, if I tried to place myself in the investigation without reason."
He had to wait. It's something he learned as a spy, but waiting meant letting Dorian suffer, and the knowledge eats at him. Bull aches to kiss Dorian.
"I won't let anyone take you from me again," he murmurs, his voice low and harsh. When they reach his small apartments, Bull settles Dorian on the bed.
-*-
"I understand," he says, as only someone whose trust is certain could. "I know you wouldn't leave me to--to that," a moment to swallow, trying not to think, now that he is in Bull's arms, about what had come before. "Not if there was any other way." He appreciates these quieter halls, back passageways, lesser-used stairs. The last thing he wants now is too many eyes on him. He wants the Bull, and the Bull alone.
"Perhaps I should have asked after you sooner. I worried that they had done something to you." He'd assumed incorrectly, he now realizes. It's a sobering thought, and one he still can't force his mind to examine beyond a surface level, murky as his thoughts still are. "But you aren't Tal-Vashoth here, are you?"
You are part of this, is what is implied. You made this happen.
He doesn't want to believe that the Bull--any version of him--is capable of this. But here they are. In a room, now. Small, but much more comfortable than the castle dungeon, at least. He reluctantly allows Bull to put him down, but reaches for his hand instead, more than a little terrified to lose contact completely.
-*-
"No," he answers quietly. "I am not Tal-Vashoth."
The words hold more weight than he ever thought they would, and so much goes with them now. He knows he has something to do with all of this: how could he not, given his extensive experience in this part of the world? The information he would have been sending back to his people like clockwork? The intimate details of weaknesses, points for exploitation?
Bull squeezes Dorian's hand before he moves away from the bed. He wants to draw a bath, certain that Dorian will want one; he makes sure to stay in the mage's line of sight at all times. There's a stone tub in the room and he know it will hold heat well. That will let Dorian soak for as long as he wants.
He's wearing the ropes of his station: they wrap around his chest and shoulders, down his arms. He doesn't have his eye patch. He's wearing vitaar.
-*-
Dorian's jaw sets. There it is, then. He has to wonder just what had led to this. What had to change to make Bull behave this way? To remain loyal to the Qun rather than to...to him. Or had they not been together here? Or is he simply letting his vanity give him an inflated idea of his own importance? Of course, in a choice between him and the Qun, Bull's people--
Thankfully, his Bull had not been presented with that ultimatum. Or if he had, he had chosen differently.
The sight of the bathtub is a welcome one. He'd been about to ask, but as usual, Bull anticipates his needs. He still draws in an unsteady breath when they part. Though he isn't so far away, he misses the contact immediately. It isn't enough just to see him. Dorian pushes himself up. His legs are shaky, but he manages the few steps it takes him to reach Bull again. He presses himself flush against his back, leaning his forehead against his spine, arms circling as far around his waist as he can reach. His hands rest against the curve of his stomach. The Bull is so solid, sturdy, present. Touching him is grounding. Bull is in many ways the only real thing here. What would he do without him, in this world or any other?
"I love you," he says, the hoarse words half-buried against Bull's skin.
-*-
Bull almost tells Dorian to get back into bed, but it's futile. Soon enough the mage is pressed against his back, and, selfishly, Bull is grateful to feel him there. One hand moves to cover Dorian's.
His fingers brush over the fresh scars. Deep, killing wounds. He remembers the pain.
He doesn't say anything, only reaches with his free hand to check the temperature of the water as it fills the tub. The words go straight through him, fill him, and his hand tightens over Dorian's.
"I love you," he answers, and with Dorian's head against his back, the man can probably feel the words as much as hear them. "I'm here, kadan."
-*-
He loves this. He loves when he is pressed so close to Bull that his words are tangible. He can feel them, and that makes him edge all the closer, though it's barely possible. A hand covers his entirely, and he centers himself. This is real. And this is real, what they have between them. He has never been loved like this. He has never trusted anyone to love him like this and mean it, but he thinks that Bull does. He thinks that Bull will stay with him, if he asks. Will go to Tevinter with him, will travel to another bloody planet for him, and want nothing in return.
Dorian wants to give him everything.
"Bathe with me?" he asks, and for once it isn't even an implication that Bull needs a bath. At the moment, there is nothing he'd like more than to lay in the warm water in Bull's arms. He won't be able to sleep, he thinks, while the poison is still in his body, but with Bull there to ground him in reality, he can at the very least relax without fear of what he might see.
-*-
"Of course."
Bull had considered offering, but he's uncertain of how much space Dorian needs or wants. Little, seems to be the answer, but he wants to be sure. The invitation soothes some of his frayed nerves but ignites other worries.
"I'm going to take your collar off. I know they've been dosing with you magebane..." Bull trails off, hating the words inside his mouth. But he speaks them - he needs to. "Don't use your magic, kadan. Whatever your ability or the temptation. They'll find out."
He isn't sure that he can protect either of them if anyone thinks that Dorian is capable of his usual expertise, or even anything near that. Ashamed, Bull can't quite bring himself to look at Dorian after asking that and instead focuses on getting the collar off.
He can't block out his role in all of this.
Do you ever think about what would happen if the Qunari invaded?
No. Not at all.
The memories of the Dorian Pavus in this world are the worst. The pain upon realizing Bull's betrayal, the rage and fear and longing on his face when they finally confronted each other on a battlefield. Dorian nearly killed him and Bull bears deep scars from ice nearly going through his chest. He would have died had it not been for a saarebas in the field.
But he also remembers quiet, tender moments on the porch of the bungalow and on the beach.
It hurts to see Dorian in captivity, even if this man tried to kill him. He can't even blame him. Bull can't stay away, finding excuses to pass through the prison, to look at him while he's sleeping. It isn't until he hears that the prisoner has been taken to interrogation that cold fear strikes through him.
-*-
As far as Dorian can tell, this portal has landed him in some Qunari-occupied version of Thedas straight out of a Tevinter cautionary tale. It's clearly Ferelden; in fact, it looks very much like Redcliffe, from the glimpses he'd gotten at the outside world before being locked up, chained and collared in a very dark room by very indifferent-seeming Qunari. If the Qunari have gotten this far south, he can't help but think, then surely Tevinter must be--
No, but he can't dwell on that. He has to get out of here. Back to Zhautas, or at least to a Thedas that isn't so fucking dismal; the spread of the Qun to this point is a complete nightmare, would be so even to someone like Bull, who had followed the Qun throughout his life. Maker, Dorian hopes he's all right. He'd been nearby when the portal opened. Impossible to say whether or not he'd come through as well.
He's been given water occasionally, but it's laced with magebane. He knows the taste well, even subtle as it is. His father had dosed him with it for months. But he can't very well not drink at all, especially when he's not been given food for--as far as he can tell--several days. Difficult to measure the hours without sunlight. The heavy collar around his neck would prevent him from using magic anyway, even if he could access it. No magic, no food; he feels empty in every way, lightheaded and weak and devoid of purpose, of options. He's spent most of the time asleep, or at least trying to rest. He's been isolated, too; a few people have come by to view him, but all have spoken Qunlat, and none have spoken directly to him.
The first time he was acknowledged was when he was dragged from his cell for interrogation. They speak to him in Common, low and only lightly accented. He doesn't know anything of value, of course, about the state of this world, even if his counterpart here is apparently quite important to the resistance of Qunari occupation, which doesn't surprise him for a moment. But he's stubborn enough not to want to tell his interrogators anything anyway. And where is Bull? Surely he must exist in this Thedas, fighting alongside him?
Where is Bull?
Time passes. He doesn't give satisfactory answers. They tell him that if he does, he will be rewarded; perhaps he will be allowed to convert, and live out his life as a Viddathari. He laughs at this. He knows the Qunari don't bother to convert foreign mages. Dangerous things. For those like him, there is only qamek.
That must have been...yesterday?
Where is Bull?
He fears, at first, that qamek is exactly what they're giving him. But that doesn't seem to be so. It is some other poison, perhaps, as his free will doesn't suddenly dribble out his ears; it merely makes his mind increasingly fuzzy. He is left alone for some time. Now he really can't measure it, can barely keep hold of his own thoughts. They blur together in the dark, and after some indeterminable amount of time, it becomes difficult to tell whether there is anyone there with him or not. At one point, he's sure he hears Sera's voice, but opens his eyes to find himself alone. Felix sits with him for a while, silently, a Blight-ridden hand covering his; but he'd never looked that bad in life, the flesh melting from his beautiful dear face as though already decaying from the inside out. He wonders what has happened to Lavellan, and when he next opens his eyes, her head is laying at his feet, the stitches holding her lips sewn shut still bleeding sluggishly. He sobs, slams his eyes shut, and when he opens them again it's gone. He would say that he is dreaming, but whatever they've put in him keeps him awake, and uncomfortably aware of the weight of his collar, of his chains, of every cut and bruise and sore on his body. He is itching in his own skin, and and eventually he begins talking--begging, really, is what it is, for someone to come back, anyone, anyone who he can know is real.
Eventually, they return.
Where is Bull?
They ask him first about his family. He doesn't like to talk about his family, but he tells them. It's a relief just to have someone there and solid and decidedly alive to interact with, and he has no reason to defend Magister fucking Halward anyway. Then they talk about his friends, about Maevaris, Lavellan, Gereon--no, he really doesn't know anything about where Mae is now, have you tried her estate near Vyrantium? She likes to host her summer parties there, not quite as oppressively hot as Minrathous. No, he really doesn't know where she might be right now, and why should he? Known co-conspirator? Well, they've been known to be thick as thieves, but--
It occurs to him that this is still an interrogation, and not a friendly chat. It occurs to him that they want to find Mae to hurt her. Perhaps to do the very same thing to her as they have done to him. (Lavellan, her mouth sewn shut; he failed her, he must have, he can't fail Mae that way. Was that even real, or a figment of his mind? Does it matter?)
"Where is Bull?"
He nearly doesn't realize he's spoken aloud. There is silence for a moment after, and then a quiet murmuring, one interrogator to another. Dorian hears it, the whisper of a word--a name--he recognizes. Hissrad.
Dorian's stomach twists. "Is he dead?" He asks, frantic. The room seems to be closing in on him. "Is he dead?" But no one is listening to him now. One of the interrogators leaves. Dorian's throat feels dry, and he still can't reach his magic, this bloody collar is so heavy, he wants to just--just sleep, or burn everything, it doesn't matter which. He's surprised when he feels his eyes welling up, but can't stop the tears when they fall. He has to leave. He has to get back, back to a world that makes sense.
Where is Bull?
-*-
People are not hard to break. All it takes is loneliness, uncertainty, and fear. Even the strongest minds will eventually fall to one of these, especially if there is pain of some kind or another. It's a matter of time; it's a when, not an if.
Especially when the Ben-Hassrath are in charge.
Bull knows exactly what the prisoner is going through and there is nothing he can do to stop it that would not end in both their executions. He visits a tamassran every day and no one questions it: of course Hissrad seeks comfort and reassurance in the Qun. He has been on the front lines, they say. He has been away for so long. It is the least they can do to give him respite.
It is part of why they keep him from the interrogation, and he can find no good reason to insert himself into it. He knows Dorian, intimately, but the interrogation techniques of the Ben-Hassrath do not depend on things like that. Still, the interrogators report to him and to the Viddasala. In every report, he looks for-- something. There has to be a way to get Dorian out, to get him to the border.
Learning how far the borders are send cold chills down his back. The Frostbacks, the Waking Sea. But he knows this land well. If he can just find a reason to be alone with Dorian--
"Hissrad, we need you."
He looks up from the campaign map spread across the table, then pushes away to follow the interrogator. Have they killed him? Is it worse? Bull steels himself for any number of possibilities.
Somehow the reality is worse.
Dorian sits, broken, in the middle of the room. Bull is told little, only that Dorian has asked after him. They encourage into the space and into the light. There is no mistaking him: he is too unique among his people. All he wants to do is drop to his knees, to lift Dorian up and hold him close. He wants to kill everyone else in the room, and anyone that gets between them and a true escape.
But he will not risk Dorian's life that way. He must be Hissrad or they will both die.
He moves closer and finally sinks to one knee in front of the mage.
"Dorian."
Kadan.
-*-
They bring him.
The relief Dorian feels at the sight of him, his huge and familiar presence taking up so much space in the small, quiet room, is enough to have him doubling over. He aches in every imaginable way, but seeing the Bull unharmed is worth everything.
"You're alive," he murmurs, and leans toward him instinctively as he sinks down nearby, seeking comfort in the size and strength of Bull's form. He can't quite reach him, and it sends a pang of desperation through him. There are new scars spanning the tough grey skin of Bull's chest, and his expression is impassive, but he is here.
"Bull, amatus, please--please, let's leave." It doesn't occur to him, in this state, to wonder whether he is another prisoner, or whether he is somehow in charge here, or if he even has the power to release him or not. The tears are hot on his cheeks, blurring his vision. He tries to blink them away. He wants to see Bull clearly. "I can't give them what they want, Bull, please, let's go--" He makes another attempt to reach him, but is stopped by the length of his chains. A low, pathetic noise wrenches its way from his throat. Just touch me, he thinks, just touch me please, and everything will be all right.
-*-
Bull doesn't dare offer too much comfort. He considers Dorian's state, knows well what they've likely given him to induce it. The bruises and chaffed skin make his stomach turn. He takes a breath and lets it go slowly.
Would the Dorian that tried to kill him call him amatus? Would he be so relieved to see him, even in these conditions.
He turns his head to address the interrogators.
"I'll take over from here. You've pushed too hard today."
It isn't a difficult argument to make. Dorian sounds nearly incoherent. The interrogators both murmur their apologies and leave to write up their reports. Bull breathes another quiet sigh and waits for a few agonizing minutes before he moves. He carefully unties Dorian and, as he gets to his feet again, he picks the mage up effortlessly.
"I'm here," he says very quietly. Even if this is the man that tried to kill him, Bull cannot stand to see him in pain.
-*-
Bull gives a directive, and the other two leave. The implications of that--this Bull isn't on his side at all, is he? Hissrad. Ben-Hassrath. Spy, agent, traitor.
But that can't be the case, can it? Surely it is a ruse, he thinks. Bull is releasing him, shackles falling to the floor, and then taking him in his arms. He's safe. Dorian buries his face in Bull's shoulder and lets himself weep. Bull would never want to hurt him. He'd even given him a word to say to stop him if he ever did. Katoh.
"Thank you," he says, watery, thick. He hates that he cries so easily, but he seems to have even less control over it now than usual. Logically, he knows he needs to rest. He needs to let the poison clear his system. But all he wants to do is get far away from here, let Bull carry him until this is nothing more than a bad dream.
"Don't leave me," he implores. That is the most important part.
-*-
Something in him breaks when he hears Dorian thank him. He adjusts his hold slightly, making sure to keep the mage against his chest. His mind is racing: he needs to think of a viable reason to keep Dorian with him.
A question burns in him and he hates himself for a moment. If he asks it now, there is no way that Dorian can lie to him. It's the easiest, fastest way to get the information he needs.
"Dorian," he murmurs his name again. "When do you last remember seeing me? What were we doing together?"
-*-
Gradually, he stops heaving, breathing slowly to a more sedate pace. Deep inhales and exhales, shaky still. He isn't exactly not crying, but it's near enough. He holds tight to Bull where he can, and breathes in the scent of his skin.
"Near the beach. You and I were walking together, looking at trees," he says, and hopes that makes some sense. "There was a portal. I only wanted to have a look--they're so fascinating--but I ended up here after all." Home and very much not home. He's longed to see Thedas for months, but not like this.
-*-
Bull can't breathe. Dorian-- this is his Dorian, the man he's loved for years, the man he's grown close to since they found each other again on Zhautas--
He's left him here all this time, not knowing, suffering. Bull closes his eye for a moment and squeezes Dorian as tightly as he dares.
"Forgive me," he whispers. "For not intervening sooner."
He walks past the prison, moving up through the castle. No one questions him. If someone does, he'll find an answer, but he cannot leave Dorian there a moment longer. Bull's mind is already racing to concoct a story, a reason for his taking possession of a Tevinter altus. He could tell them that his mind has broken. That he barely remembers who he is, never mind information of any use to the Qunari. But what is to keep them from deciding to simply kill Dorian?
Me, he thinks grimly.
-*-
Well, at least he understands. This is his Bull then, isn't it? Good. Then they can work together to find the portal that will get them out of here. Bull apologizes to him, and Dorian's breath hitches at the emotion in his voice. No, no. He doesn't want this. It isn't Bull's fault, is it?
...is it?
"It was a bit inconvenient," Dorian agrees weakly. Bull is carrying him through what Dorian recognizes to be the halls of Redcliffe Castle, without a doubt. Ironic, that; he'd seen Bull locked in a cell beneath this very castle in the dark future that hadn't come to pass. That was long before he'd ever considered Bull special to him. Indeed, it was before he knew him at all.
Or, well, it hadn't been before, exactly, since it had been the future, but timelines are funny like that.
"You couldn't have dropped by to pick me up yesterday?" His attempt at humor falls flat in the face of what he's experienced. He fears he'll lapse back into it the moment Bull lets him go. That he'll be gripped again by the isolation, the fear, the uncertainty of what is real and what isn't. And he's still got that collar on.
-*-
Bull wonders if he can get Dorian out of the castle. He has rooms here, but he hates the idea of staying. There are too many eyes and ears in the castle itself and it's too close to the local triumvirate. But Dorian is in no condition for that trip, and there will certainly be questions if he carries him all that way.
Bull avoids main thoroughfares in the castle, sticking to back stairs and quiet corridors. He doesn't know why he remembers his way around, but he does.
"I was afraid they would kill us both," he admits. "If I showed my hand, if I tried to place myself in the investigation without reason."
He had to wait. It's something he learned as a spy, but waiting meant letting Dorian suffer, and the knowledge eats at him. Bull aches to kiss Dorian.
"I won't let anyone take you from me again," he murmurs, his voice low and harsh. When they reach his small apartments, Bull settles Dorian on the bed.
-*-
"I understand," he says, as only someone whose trust is certain could. "I know you wouldn't leave me to--to that," a moment to swallow, trying not to think, now that he is in Bull's arms, about what had come before. "Not if there was any other way." He appreciates these quieter halls, back passageways, lesser-used stairs. The last thing he wants now is too many eyes on him. He wants the Bull, and the Bull alone.
"Perhaps I should have asked after you sooner. I worried that they had done something to you." He'd assumed incorrectly, he now realizes. It's a sobering thought, and one he still can't force his mind to examine beyond a surface level, murky as his thoughts still are. "But you aren't Tal-Vashoth here, are you?"
You are part of this, is what is implied. You made this happen.
He doesn't want to believe that the Bull--any version of him--is capable of this. But here they are. In a room, now. Small, but much more comfortable than the castle dungeon, at least. He reluctantly allows Bull to put him down, but reaches for his hand instead, more than a little terrified to lose contact completely.
-*-
"No," he answers quietly. "I am not Tal-Vashoth."
The words hold more weight than he ever thought they would, and so much goes with them now. He knows he has something to do with all of this: how could he not, given his extensive experience in this part of the world? The information he would have been sending back to his people like clockwork? The intimate details of weaknesses, points for exploitation?
Bull squeezes Dorian's hand before he moves away from the bed. He wants to draw a bath, certain that Dorian will want one; he makes sure to stay in the mage's line of sight at all times. There's a stone tub in the room and he know it will hold heat well. That will let Dorian soak for as long as he wants.
He's wearing the ropes of his station: they wrap around his chest and shoulders, down his arms. He doesn't have his eye patch. He's wearing vitaar.
-*-
Dorian's jaw sets. There it is, then. He has to wonder just what had led to this. What had to change to make Bull behave this way? To remain loyal to the Qun rather than to...to him. Or had they not been together here? Or is he simply letting his vanity give him an inflated idea of his own importance? Of course, in a choice between him and the Qun, Bull's people--
Thankfully, his Bull had not been presented with that ultimatum. Or if he had, he had chosen differently.
The sight of the bathtub is a welcome one. He'd been about to ask, but as usual, Bull anticipates his needs. He still draws in an unsteady breath when they part. Though he isn't so far away, he misses the contact immediately. It isn't enough just to see him. Dorian pushes himself up. His legs are shaky, but he manages the few steps it takes him to reach Bull again. He presses himself flush against his back, leaning his forehead against his spine, arms circling as far around his waist as he can reach. His hands rest against the curve of his stomach. The Bull is so solid, sturdy, present. Touching him is grounding. Bull is in many ways the only real thing here. What would he do without him, in this world or any other?
"I love you," he says, the hoarse words half-buried against Bull's skin.
-*-
Bull almost tells Dorian to get back into bed, but it's futile. Soon enough the mage is pressed against his back, and, selfishly, Bull is grateful to feel him there. One hand moves to cover Dorian's.
His fingers brush over the fresh scars. Deep, killing wounds. He remembers the pain.
He doesn't say anything, only reaches with his free hand to check the temperature of the water as it fills the tub. The words go straight through him, fill him, and his hand tightens over Dorian's.
"I love you," he answers, and with Dorian's head against his back, the man can probably feel the words as much as hear them. "I'm here, kadan."
-*-
He loves this. He loves when he is pressed so close to Bull that his words are tangible. He can feel them, and that makes him edge all the closer, though it's barely possible. A hand covers his entirely, and he centers himself. This is real. And this is real, what they have between them. He has never been loved like this. He has never trusted anyone to love him like this and mean it, but he thinks that Bull does. He thinks that Bull will stay with him, if he asks. Will go to Tevinter with him, will travel to another bloody planet for him, and want nothing in return.
Dorian wants to give him everything.
"Bathe with me?" he asks, and for once it isn't even an implication that Bull needs a bath. At the moment, there is nothing he'd like more than to lay in the warm water in Bull's arms. He won't be able to sleep, he thinks, while the poison is still in his body, but with Bull there to ground him in reality, he can at the very least relax without fear of what he might see.
-*-
"Of course."
Bull had considered offering, but he's uncertain of how much space Dorian needs or wants. Little, seems to be the answer, but he wants to be sure. The invitation soothes some of his frayed nerves but ignites other worries.
"I'm going to take your collar off. I know they've been dosing with you magebane..." Bull trails off, hating the words inside his mouth. But he speaks them - he needs to. "Don't use your magic, kadan. Whatever your ability or the temptation. They'll find out."
He isn't sure that he can protect either of them if anyone thinks that Dorian is capable of his usual expertise, or even anything near that. Ashamed, Bull can't quite bring himself to look at Dorian after asking that and instead focuses on getting the collar off.
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"It isn't something that can be," he points out quietly. Bull doesn't think Qunari are capable of crossing with humans or anyone else - at least, he's never heard of a half-Qunari child, and the tamassrans don't attempt to cross Viddathari with Qunari. He can't have children with Dorian for other reasons. And he can't think about having a family here, under the Qun.
Still, it is nice to hear that Dorian thinks he could do it.
"But you would be good at it, too," he adds with a small smile. Bull knows well Dorian's anxieties about family, about fathers in particular. But Bull knows he's a better person than Halward, to start, and watching him with the children just now gave more insight.
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He's arranged comfortably over Bull's lap now--as comfortable as he can be, anyway, with his legs stretched across the width of Bull's--and his thumb strokes softly over his face, even as he chuckles at Bull's suggestion. "Me? Hardly. It's been rather the point to avoid having children."
More that it's been the point to avoid living a lie, and children in an obligatory sense was very much a part of that. He never wants to force on anyone what his father did him; the Pavus legacy and the cage that it becomes. But perhaps if that weren't a factor, and if it was with someone he loves--and someone who loves the idea, like Bull--
Impossible, anyway. Dorian leans in to press a gentle kiss to Bull's cheek, softening the sharp, dismissive edge of his words. Just because it is impossible, of course, doesn't mean that they can't play at it, or entertain the idea.
"I only want to make you happy," he says, looking Bull in the eye. "And at the moment, I rather hope what will make you happy is a nice, rough fuck. The way you've been looking at me--" Dorian's lips curl, amusement and encouragement. "I know there's something going through that great horned head of yours."
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But that's hardly anything they need to think about now.
He can't help the laugh that escapes him when Dorian steers the conversation back to what brought them this far in the first place. How could Bull have forgotten, especially now that Dorian's thighs are pressed against him? He gently squeezes the back of the mage's neck and kisses him again.
"How did you know?" he teases, his good eye bright as he starts working Dorian's clothes off. Stripping him from his Ferelden gear is a far cry from getting him out of the clothes he prefers to wear when he has a choice - fewer straps and buckles, for one - but Bull takes just as much pleasure in it. He's managed to find a few things that seem more suited to Dorian's taste, at least.
"I thought I was being subtle."
Bull strokes his fingers along the elegant curve of Dorian's neck, pushing fabric away once he had buttons undone.
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As Bull undresses him, opens the laces on his leggings and gradually devests him of his shirt--slowly, lovingly undoing buttons to reveal dark golden skin by inches--he trails his rough fingers along the line of his neck, just as the other still cradles the back of his head. Dorian's eyes fall closed and he leans into it, still smiling. Such a simple touch, but it makes him ache for something more definite. His hands slide along the length of Bull's horns until he feels them curve upward. His fingertips follow the rest of the way until they trace lightly--carefully--over the sharp points. Strange how familiar the sensation has become. Unexpected, mad. Perfect. His beloved.
He's overcome by a swell of affection so strong that he can't help but lean in to press a warm kiss to Bull's brow. Beneath his lips, deep furrows in the mess of scarred skin above his ruined eye.
"I never should have doubted you," he murmurs. "Bull--"
His thighs squeeze around Bull's with some effort, and he shifts to better settle in his lap. His eyes slide open, grey darkened by the way his pupils gradually expand. "I need you to fuck me," he says, no uncertain terms. "Leave marks. I want everyone to know how well you love me."
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The way Dorian touches him sends desire pooling through him like liquid fire. After that first encounter, Dorian never hesitated again. He reached for what he wanted, touched Bull wherever he pleased - everywhere that Bull let him. And how could he deny Dorian's touch anywhere when he ached for the intimacy it brought? His clever, elegant fingers never hesitated over the deep gouges of scars on his face or the lines of them elsewhere on his body, nor against the stubble of his beard and his hair, both kept shorn. Dorian never balked at the injuries that made him less whole, and in doing so, filled them.
Bull lifts his head to kiss Dorian soundly, fiercely, like he means to erase the apology from his lips and tongue. Dorian owes him nothing, least of all that. He is the one to be faulted for his doubt, not Dorian. Bull holds him closer and, in an surprisingly fluid turn, twists them to pin Dorian to the bed that dominates this part of their small home. A bed fit for a Qunari of Bull's size.
"Kadan," he whispers, sounding reverent. The Qunari have no gods, but Bull would worship this man until the end of his days. He could deny him nothing, not when Dorian spoke his own desire to him.
Bull pulls back only so that he can finish undressing Dorian and himself. He pauses, though, his eye bright.
"Should I keep the ropes on?"
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The way Bull looks at him, the way he breathes kadan like he is something to be revered, adored--
Dorian's fingers have already curled around the ropes crossing Bull's chest before he asks. "Yes, leave them," he urges. "I want to feel them against my skin while you fuck me." And with that, he uses his grip on them to tug Bull forcefully down--not that he's be able to move Bull himself unless Bull let him--for another hungry, desperate kiss.
"What was it," he says afterward, soft and coy, "that's made you so eager? You picked me up as soon as we were through the door."
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He leans in to meet the kiss, loving the yank on the harness around his chest. Of course, then the mage insists on talking after kissing half the sense out of him. It takes Bull a moment to respond, to remember, and he's suddenly grateful that he is not prone to any kind of blushing.
Bull sinks down against Dorian, pushing between his thighs to get their bodies closer. "I liked watching you with the children," he admits. "And it was the way you looked at me after. The way you pressed up against me."
Maybe Dorian hadn't even been aware he was doing it, but Bull noticed.
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His legs spread accommodatingly wide on either side of Bull's waist as he edges closer. Dorian is bare and clearly well on his way to aroused, his cock gradually filling where it rests in the crease between his stomach and thigh. But Bull's honesty with what exactly gave him the urge to drag him to bed has Dorian's expression softening. "I thought that must be it," he says, quiet and tender, but also somewhat curious as he continues, fingers rubbing at Bull's chest beneath the ropes. "I wanted to be closer to you. To kiss you. Watching you, I couldn't help but think that--" he cuts himself off before he finishes the thought, then amends with a chuckle, "well, I've already told you what I think, haven't I?"
A hand trails from Bull's chest down his stomach, lightly-tracing fingertips exploring in a winding pattern until they finally pass lightly along the length of his cock. He loves to feel Bull harden in his hand, or his mouth, or between his thighs; but for now he teases, thumb and the pads of his fingers only, mapping the shape of him but not quite caressing.
"The last time we discussed something similar, I spent the next several days trapped happily on your knot," he points out, somewhat cheeky. Two fingers circle feather-light around the base of Bull's shaft, stroking softly where his knot might swell. "Do you feel like you want to fill me like that today, Bull?"
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He remembers that vividly: the faint distress that he might knot with Dorian, the urgency and relief when he finally did (at Dorian's insistence). He growls quietly and grips Dorian's thigh to drag their bodies together, seeking more friction than the light touch at the base of his cock offers.
"Yes," he confesses in a heavy exhale. Bull doesn't know if he'll knot, but he wouldn't put it beyond the realm of possibility. Not with Dorian talking like that. Bull normally takes a certain amount of pride in his self-control, in his ability to maintain control no matter what. Dorian's way with words is a weakness he never anticipated.
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"I thought so," says Dorian, a bit smugly. This is already so very good--he loves when he can encourage Bull to tell him what he wants, when he can show him that it's all right to take what he wants from him--especially when it tends to align so well with Dorian's own desires. "I want it too," he both encourages and reassures. "I've never felt anything like it. The way you fucked me like you were claiming me, the bruises you left, how full I felt when we tied, how much you spilled inside me--"
His breath hitches as he makes himself moan, simply recalling the sensation. "I'm yours, Bull, so have me."
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Still, as his fingers work, pushing deep, he leans over the mage and bites him, choosing a spot on his shoulder to bruise. Dorian wants them and Bull is eager to give.
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Dorian's head is tilted back against the pillow beneath him at the perfect angle to expose his shoulders and throat, and he takes a pleased, gasping breath when Bull's teeth sink into his skin. The pain is sharp and immediate, and he can't help but squirm beneath Bull as it radiates from his shoulder, though the last thing he wants is to get away. He wants to know how dark that bruise will be, whether he'll be able to make out the shape of the Bull's teeth. "Amatus," he sighs, nearly whimpers, as he manages to continue to stroke Bull's cock with slow, gentle pressure.
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Eventually, Bull lifts his head: he loves watching Dorian fall apart beneath him. There have been nights that it was nothing more than this, but he knows that won't satisfy Dorian now; he doesn't think he could end there, either.
His free hand slides over Dorian's throat, down the center of his body. Bull tries to find some thread of patience, even as Dorian strokes his cock. "Almost," he assures, quietly breathless.
When he's satisfied that he won't hurt Dorian, Bull slips his fingers free. He gently pushes Dorian's hands away from him so he can slick his cock. He's careful when he finally pushes in, not as slow as he usually is but also not quick.
"Dorian--"
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When he does, Dorian takes it deep on that first steady push, and he clutches at Bull's harness and moans. The size of him is something Dorian will never be entirely used to, which only serves to make him crave it that much more. Bull fills him perfectly, and Dorian relaxes beneath him, eager but pliant.
"Oh, Bull," he sighs, thumb rubbing over a rope beneath his hand, "I love the way you fit inside me." The reward for careful preparation is the feeling of Bull huge and heavy inside him, stretching him wide but causing no pain. Not that Dorian minds a little pain at times, but the seamlessness of this, the easy, uncomplicated pleasure, is just what he wants now.
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He murmurs a soft, heavy curse as Dorian's sweet words wash through him. "Kadan," he whispers, all praise and need. Then he moves: smooth, steady thrusts that get him deep each time. It's hard to ignore the flicker of instinct in the back of his mind, the biological urgency that Dorian has figured out how to trigger as deftly as any tamassran. If Bull has to choose, he prefers Dorian's methods. It won't get them anywhere but his body doesn't know the difference and his mind doesn't care. Dorian wants it, enjoys it, and Bull--
Bull knows that it means something.
He grips Dorian's thigh, intent on leaving bruises in the shapes of his fingertips. Dorian was his.
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Kadan has become, perhaps, Dorian's favorite word in any language. It tugs at his heart every time he hears it, especially when spoken so tenderly, and with so much plain desire. It warms him, reassures him, to know that the love he feels is reflected in Bull. He leans up far enough to brush his lips against Bull's, brief and sweet as Bull rocks steadily into him. His thrusts are long and deep, and they drag pleasure from Dorian in waves.
It's good. He loves when Bull fucks him like this, a slow build to start. Not to say that he doesn't enjoy being taken fast and rough just as much, but for the moment, he's delighted to be able to feel every inch of Bull's length. A hand wraps around his thigh with a strong and unyielding grip, holding Dorian just where he needs to be. Bull's hand is huge, spanning enough of his thigh that there's sure to be an impressive bruise where his fingers dig into the thick muscle. Dorian gasps, some Tevene curse, and then, "I want to wear your marks everywhere." It's somewhere between a plea and a demand. "I want to look at them and see how you've claimed me, touch them tomorrow and feel proud to belong to you. I love you, Bull, I--"
He's cut off by a thrust that steals his breath, pleasure defusing through his body like heat, reflected in the warmth of his eyes.
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Bull imagines, briefly, Dorian in deep purple rope, wearing his knots all the time, for all to see--
He growls something in Qunlat and grips Dorian closer to him. He whispers his love against Dorian's skin and bites him again, higher on his neck, a mark that would take an exceptionally high collar to hide. There's a brief rush of uncertainty when he feels the knot near base of his cock start to swell.
"Dorian-- are you sure..?" He has to ask. After the last time this happened, the intensity of it, he has to be sure.
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He's wanted this--wanted to belong to someone--for so long. But only the Bull has wanted him like this, and frankly, that's just fine. It matters very little if anyone else ever did, or ever would. Bull is who he's chosen. Who else could he possibly love as much, or as completely?
And can he be blamed for wanting evidence? Is it strange that he should want to press his fingers into still-dark bruises days from now and remember how lovingly they were given, how good it feels when Bull grips his hips and fucks him? Yes, he wants them to know. He wants it known. By wearing Bull's marks, he is staking a claim as surely as Bull himself.
Dorian sighs, moans high and keening as Bull's teeth rake over his neck. He has nothing to hide that one, even if he were so inclined. The dark purple-red stands out so well against his golden skin; perfect ornaments, each a testament to Bull's desire. Much like the Qunlat words he growls into his hair, much like the way he pulls him with increasing urgency onto his cock.
He feels it before Bull says anything at all, feels the way he begins to grow thicker around the base, and eagerly rolls his hips as well as he can while on his back like this. "Entirely sure," he says breathlessly, pleased to have gotten the reaction he expected. He remembers full well how Bull's knot had made his body hum with pleasure, how he'd come again and again while still tied. He remembers the effect that knotting him had on Bull, how wild he'd been when Dorian whispered nonsensical and desperate words like your child in his ear, yet how tender. How he murmured sweetly in Dorian's ear even as he spilled inside him in long, hot pulses, how his big, warm hands roamed gentle and possessive over his ass and thighs and stomach, how he kissed him and told him for the first time the meaning of kadan.
"I want it, Bull," he confirms. "Fuck me until you come inside me, please--fill me."
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His breath catches when he feels it and Bull pushes deep one last time as their bodies lock together. He bites Dorian again, not even thinking this time as he comes. It's relief and an urgent sort of pleasure all at once. He isn't finished, not entirely, but he's tied with Dorian (his mate, his animal brain supplies) and there is nothing else they need to worry about.
Bull shifts his weight carefully, slowly pushing up so that he can actually see Dorian's face. He braces his weight against one arm, leaving the other hand free to stroke his fingers along Dorian's cheek and his neck, admiring the dark, blooming bruises on his golden skin.
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There are several slightly frenzied minutes of this, wherein the rhythm of Bull's thrusts and the drag of his growing knot inside him kindles Dorian's pleasure to a bright, hot blaze. Dorian clings to Bull like he can't imagine letting go, occasionally peppering open-mouthed kisses along the stubble-rough line of the qunari's jaw.
The moment Bull comes is hardly sudden; Dorian had felt it building as surely as he'd felt his knot swelling. Bull's cock pulses and he sinks his teeth back into his shoulder as he spills deep inside him. It's a gesture that Dorian is certain is instinctive rather than intentional, which makes him gasp ("yes, yes") at least as much as the sudden pain. Bull's release is warm and his knot feels like it's stretching him to his limit, and his body aches where Bull has bitten and bruised him, and his cock is hard and dripping where it rests against his stomach, and he feels so damn satisfied that he can't help but grin, nuzzling into Bull's hand.
His grey eyes are half-lidded when he looks up at him. Bull looks terribly handsome like this, a certain intensity still in his expression, and the only reason that Dorian doesn't move to loop his arms around Bull's neck is that he can tell he's admiring him. And so he doesn't move, and says nothing, simply lets himself be admired, laying pliant and aroused and bruised and deeply pleased.
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"I love you," he murmurs quietly in the space between them. There are no words that mean the same thing in Qunlat, no phrases or idioms that he could think of. Kadan is as close as he'll ever get. So he speaks the words in a language not his own, and, after a moment of considering, he says them again in Tevene. Dorian deserves to hear the sentiment in a language he's known all his life. He deserves a lot of things; Bull wants to give him as much as he can.
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It's--physically, it already feels like so much, Bull massive over him, inside him, the hand around him--but the love he expresses, the determined dedication in the softened edge of his voice, makes everything feel that much bigger. Fills it with meaning. His thighs tremble where they're hitched above Bull's hips. Bull speaks the words again in Tevene, and--and Dorian hadn't known, until now, how much he'd wanted to hear that. How he'd expected that he never would.
"Oh, Bull," he sighs, whimpers. "Amatus." He repeats the words back to him in Tevene, and his throat feels raw after he says them. The truth of it burns, he thinks, somewhat absurdly--burns right up from his heart and into his mouth.
When Dorian comes he seizes up, body clenching around Bull's knot. With an almost relieved gasp, he spills hotly into Bull's hand, and the trembling moves from his thighs through his whole body. He tries not to close his eyes, and succeeds, keeping Bull's face in sight if not entirely in focus. Breathing hard, he tilts his chin up far enough to brush his lips against Bull's jaw again, and then the scarred corner of his lips.
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He lifts his head when he feels a tell-tale tremble in Dorian's thighs. He doesn't want to miss a second and Bull can't help the groan that escapes him as Dorian's body tightens around him, squeezes the knot trapped inside him. He murmurs something in heavy Qunlat, something like praise, as Dorian spills over his hand.
"That's it," he murmurs, encouraging as he strokes Dorian through his orgasm. Bull doesn't stop until he's certain the mage has nothing left to give. He smiles at the touch of lips against his scarred mouth ad he turns his head to kiss Dorian full on. He doesn't hold to it long this time, drawing back so that they both have room to breathe.
"Kadan."
Bull knows it will take a while for his knot to subside, so he tries to make sure Dorian is comfortable: adjusting the pillow beneath his hips, finding another for his head to rest on.