aban_aqun | Skyhold

Dorian submits to that kiss without so much as a hint of protest, which is highly unusual. Then again, Bull has not dared to display affection publicly like this since they fell out over it in the Exalted Plains some months ago. Dorian had said something that day that he still regrets, though his apologies have long been made. Bull must only be doing it, Dorian concludes, because of the environment they find themselves in. While he may not have the initiative to return the gestures tonight, Dorian appreciates them.

"Doesn't it?" he beams. "I miss the public baths constantly. This one can't quite compare, naturally, but it does serve a purpose. Beyond a good soak, even."

That certainly wasn't all he'd gotten the last time he was there.

With an exaggerated tilt of his cup, Dorian demonstrates how empty it is, glancing up at the Bull sidelong, with a smirk to match. "Ah, but it seems I've run dry. Won't you get me another drink, Iron Bull?"

Edited 2020-01-27 03:32 (UTC)

Bull huffs a laugh and forces himself up with a quiet grunt. "You just want to watch me walk away," he teases as he leaves the table. The benefit of making Bull get the drinks is that there's no chance they'll get spilled as he crosses the room again.

He slides their tankards onto the table before he sinks down again, taking his place at Dorian's side and draping his arm behind the mage as he settles. He rather likes this, and he finds he might be looking forward to escorting a drunk Dorian back to their room.

Drunk Dorian is very opinionated.

Bull catches Dorian's chin and guides him into a kiss with a quiet hum of approval. "For the drink," he rumbles.

Dorian neither confirms nor denies that playful accusation, merely smiling coyly as Bull makes his way back across the bar. He certainly doesn't mind the excuse, watching the low light in the room play over the powerful muscles of the Bull's back. He isn't the only one looking, he notices, but he feels a sense of smug satisfaction about that. And why shouldn't he? Bull is returning to him, after all.

When he settles back down, a heavy hand resting again on his hip, Dorian has ample opportunity to pull back or refuse the kiss that Bull leads him into. But he doesn't refuse. He allows it, feeling a distinct rush of warmth and satisfaction that has nothing at all to do with the alcohol. Bull has never been shy about what's between them, and it feels good to not be shy about it either, for once. He's never kissed anyone openly like this; had never thought he'd be able to so casually. When they separate, Dorian is smiling. "I suppose you're owed that, at least," he says, and then clinks his glass against Bull's.

They continue to talk and laugh and drink, and by the time Bull returns with their next round, Dorian is pleasantly tipsy enough that he lays a hand against the back of Bull's neck and tips his head down to bestow a kiss himself. "For the drink," he echoes, and can't keep the satisfied smile from his lips.

Bull hums quietly against Dorian's mouth and resists the urge to just haul the mange into his lap. Maybe later. But he does kiss Dorian again, and one more time, before he finally lets them really part.

Then he sinks back with his drink, looking as pleased with himself as Dorian does. He thinks it's becoming exceedingly clear to some of their admirers that both of them might be spoken for, at least tonight. Though Bull wouldn't put it past someone to try to be a third all the same.

"We're out here as late as you like," he murmurs. "Though we probably shouldn't be hung over tomorrow."

He doesn't want to imagine what Vivienne would put him through if he shows up hung over to the fitting.

All the kissing makes Dorian's heart race, nervous but giddy. He shifts a little further into Bull with each one, and doesn't move away again when Bull finally leans back. Instead, he lets himself nestle comfortably between Bull's arm and his side, thigh to thigh, the back of his head against Bull's shoulder. He knows they're being watched, but defiantly looks at no one but Bull. His heart is full of pride and affection, and he's feeling not only safe, but daring.

"You're right, of course," Dorian laughs--practically giggles, though he'd never admit it--as he imagines Vivienne's face if they turned up at her precious tailor's still clearly feeling the after-effects of tonight's venture. It would almost be worth it. "She would blame me," he continues lightly, before his voice drops conspiratorially. "I'm a terrible influence."

With the taste of beer still on his tongue, he reaches for Bull again boldly to initiate another kiss, parting his lips to deepen it as he hasn't yet dared to.

"Terrible influence," Bull agrees, his voice just a low rumble right before their lips meet again. The touch of Dorian's tongue earns a quiet growl of approval.

Alright, it earns more than that. Leaning over is becoming tiresome, and without much warning, Bull just pulls Dorian into his lap, gaining some height for the mage. That's better - less straining his neck with turning and bending.

And it gives Bull the perfect excuse to slide his hands over Dorian's thighs.

As much as he hadn't been expecting to be pulled into Bull's lap, Dorian finds that he quite appreciates it once he's there. Rather than pulling away, he redoubles his efforts, encircling Bull's neck with his arms as he leans into him, letting their kiss continue with a bold press of his tongue. He makes a distinctly longing noise against Bull's mouth as his hands cover his thighs, and this is--Maker, entirely inappropriate for a public venue of any sort. He waits to feel shame, discomfort, paranoia--but it never comes. Their lips part wetly, but Dorian doesn't move. He breathes, deliberately slow, and assesses this newfound sense of freedom, and the excitement he feels because of it.

Are others still watching? They must be.

"I don't think we can stay much longer, Bull," he murmurs, a distinctively suggestive warmth in the way he drops his voice. His lips just barely brush the pointed tip of Bull's ear. "If I have another drink, I might let you bend me over the table."

He wouldn't, of course, even if he were far more inebriated than he actually is. But the fantasy of it sends a hot spike of desire through him, and he distinctly remembers, soon after their relationship became physical, Bull confessing to thinking about fucking him over his study table in the library for all to see. How much the thought of that had appealed to him too, impossible as it is. But even this, an overt but harmless display that he has seen and glanced past in any number of taverns over the course of his life, is brand new and exciting.

"I don't think it would take another drink if I made my argument just right," he purrs against Dorian's ear. He says it just to get a rise out of the mage. He knows Dorian's boundaries well enough that something so obvious, something that would make him so vulnerable in public, is out of the question. But he likes seeing Dorian flustered, likes the way he looks when he's somewhere between scandalized and aroused.

And he can nurture the idea all the same.

He catches Dorian's chin to guide him into another kiss. He rumbles his pleasure and gently bites Dorian's lip before they part again.

"I should have gotten you something to eat," he teases.

Dorian's breath catches and a shiver courses through his body, hot and dizzying, at the rumble of the Bull's voice in his ear. And indeed, when he pulls back enough to look at Bull's face, his pupils are blown and lips parted with interest, bronze skin warming with a light flush, but his brow furrows in reproach. Scandalized and aroused. The Bull so often has that effect on him.

Yet he's led into another kiss before he can protest, and he is't going to refuse. Bull's teeth drag over his full lower lip, stinging in the most delightful way, and Dorian has to take a long moment to collect himself, to stop himself from simply kissing him again, becoming gradually more involved. The freedom he feels to sit here in the Bull's lap and do this is at least as intoxicating as what he's been drinking.

Speaking of which--

"I'm not so drunk as that," he huffs, frowning. "It's not as if I'd let--" Let what? Let Bull lay him out, pull his leggings down, and lick into him with that absurdly large tongue? Or work three or four fingers inside until he's so slick and open that Bull can slide his cock in easily, holding his hips down against the table? "--let them see me ruined by that ridiculous Qunari cock of yours."

Maker, they might as well be doing just that, with how turned on he's becoming. "Kaffas," he curses under his breath. They have to go, before his treacherous mind can run with this any further.

Bull shivers and heat sinks through him as Dorian talks. He swears he can feel the warmth rolling off the mage and he hears the way Dorian's breath catches.

"Tab's taken care of," he purrs. "C'mon. I'll bend you over the desk in the room. Or the balcony balustrade."

A grin creeps across the Bull's face and he gives Dorian's ass a light smack before he coaxes him back to his feet. He doesn't want to stand and send Dorian sprawling, and he thinks it might be better for Dorian's dignity if he lets the mage walk rather than carrying him. As soon as they're both standing, however, Bull gathers Dorian up into a more heated embrace, a more intense kiss.

The pros to carrying on with a spy; the Bull seems to anticipate everything. It's a relief to know that their tab is already paid, and they can leave right away--especially when Bull begins murmuring alternative suggestions into his ear. Dorian barely restrains a moan. It comes out as a whimper, choked off.

What he can't restrain is an offended gasp as Bull's wide palm connects sharply with his backside, causing him to slide from Bull's lap quickly and entirely under his own power. "Vishante kaffas, you bar--"

He doesn't quite get to finish that insult, as he's cut off by another kiss, and his ire all but evaporates when he's pulled flush with the Bull's huge, warm body. Maker, he thinks, he's so weak for this man--had always been, in a way, but it's become so much more evident lately. Who else would he allow this from? Who else would he enjoy this with? Who else could make him feel safe enough to even permit it?

Dorian kisses with fervor, reaching up to grab onto the Bull's horns to steady himself, and to keep Bull from pulling away too soon. His toes just barely scrape the floor. He feels elated. He wants more. He wants to feel the night air on his skin and the Bull's hands covering his hips, the stone balustrade against his arms, the hot, steady friction of the Bull's cock inside him. He wants to be adored, wants to be worshiped and cared for. He wants Bull, and he doesn't want to hide.

The words are nearly out of his mouth: Let's go, amatus.

He swears he feels his heart stutter.

"Come on," he says instead, a hoarse whisper, as they break apart. The tavern seems a blur of people as they leave, and the city, too, dark now, lanterns hanging from high Orlesian arches and the stars overhead. There are other people, other voices, other things to pay attention to, but in his mind there is only the Bull.

"Mmhm."

Bull lets Dorian pull away and keeps the mage ahead of him as they leave the tavern. Anyone that sees Bull coming moves to make way, and so they part before Dorian easily. When they're out in the cool night air, Bull's hand slides down between Dorian's shoulders to the small of his back, intent on keeping their bodies close even as they walk.

They aren't in an entirely safe place anymore, but it'll be easy to drop his hand if he needs to.

Val Royaeux is impressively quiet at night, save for the occasional passing city guard or small gaggle of revelers going from one party to another. It isn't hard to avoid people on the way back to the inn. Bull is intensely aware of how warm Dorian feels beneath his hand, of the soft scent of his pomade and oils and lotions.

Dorian doesn't stray from Bull on their return trip, or even attempt to dislodge his hand. He's content to feel it there as they walk--no, more than that. He wants it there. He smiles up at him, certain that there must be the most embarrassing sort of naked adoration in his expression, but unable to conceal it. The Bull has given him something wonderful tonight. And Dorian has realized something--about himself, about them--that he can never forget, whether for good or ill.

When they reach their inn, Dorian continues to lead the way up the stairs to their own room. It's just as lovely after dark, and he leaves Bull only to light the lamps and throw open the balcony doors to let the fresh night air in. Quickly as he can, he rids himself of the outermost layer of his robes before returning to Bull, reaching as far up as he can to settle his hands on his shoulders and draw him down for a kiss.

"I hope you were quite serious," he murmurs, "about the balustrade."

"I was," he answers, voice low and full of promise as Dorian pulls him close. Bull slides his arms around Dorian's back; there's still too much fabric between them, but he knows exactly the face Dorian will make if he rips anything. So his hands move more deliberately than that, finding the familiar fastenings of Dorian's inner layers. He grins.

"Should I leave you somewhat dressed? Just in case someone walking by looks up?"

He shouldn't tease Dorian, but it's a real concern, isn't it? How exposed does he want to be? Even as he waits for an answer, Bull steers them in the general direction of their balcony.

The Bull's smile is a dazzling thing, somewhere between sweet and filthy. Dorian likes that smile very much. Seeing it makes his heart lighter, and he can't look away even as Bull fastidiously undoes the fastenings that hold his leathers together.

"Obviously," Dorian scoffs, a little affronted. "I shouldn't want to be left entirely bare. I'm not certain the citizens of Val Royeaux could properly appreciate such a gift." His lips twitch up, mischievous in the way it reaches his eyes. "But I have an idea. Help me out of this first."

And so it happens that Dorian winds up digging through his pack wearing only his smalls--a dark burgundy color today, which compliments his skin quite well--until he finds what he's looking for with a triumphant exclamation. He's brought with him the well-loved--and well-worn--robe he wears around his room (or, lately, the Bull's room) on chillier nights in Skyhold, plum-colored quilted cotton with soft velvet lining around the sleeves and collar. It's nearly long enough to reach his ankles, and when he does up the tie around his waist, it seems reasonably respectable, even while he's wearing very little underneath.

"This should be enough to keep most of my dignity in tact," Dorian decides. And easy for Bull to work around--or beneath?--as well. His heart pounds in his chest, adoration and excitement and arousal, as he leans up to press a kiss to the Bull's neck, the nearest he can reach without making him duck his head. "Find what you'll need and join me," he instructs, and steps out onto the balcony with a knowing smirk over his shoulder.

The stone is cold beneath his bare feet, but the air isn't so bad. It's the beginning of summer, and while it's hardly as warm as it would be in Tevinter this time of year, the breeze feels refreshing. The square below is all but deserted now, with the market having closed up hours ago. There's some activity around the taverns and other inns dotting the street, but Dorian doesn't feel apprehensive or concerned with being seen. In fact, as the fantasy they'd entertained earlier lingers in his mind, it feels exhilarating.

After helping the mage out of his layers, Bull watches intently as Dorian changes into something more... accessible. The robe is familiar, of course, and immediately conjures memories of Dorian in his room.

The brush of Dorian's lips against his neck earns a quiet hum of approval.

He waits, letting the moment draw out as Dorian walks away from him to so casually lean against the balustrade. Bull finally moves; it doesn't take him very long to find their oil and, soon enough, he joins Dorian out on the balcony.

"It's a nice night, at least," he murmurs as he presses against Dorian's back. He nuzzles the mage's neck and murmurs something low in Qunlat as his hands start gathering up the robe. He's careful to make sure the whole thing doesn't hike up as he works. "Will I have to cover your mouth?"

As expected, it doesn't take long for Bull to follow. Dorian casts a glance up over his shoulder as Bull steps up behind him. Warmth radiates from his body, and Dorian allows himself to lean back against him even as Bull crowds him. His hands are braced on the cool stone in front of him, and he casts another look around the square below with an affected disinterest, even as Bull--oh, damn it, fine--as Bull hikes up his skirts.

Feeling the brush of Bull's fingers and the drag of his blunted claws against the sensitive skin of his hips and thighs is exhilarating even normally. Tonight, when coupled with the upward drag of his robe to reveal his mostly bare body to the night air, it's enough to make his head spin with heady anticipation and arousal. Bull's stubble scrapes at his neck, but his lips are soft. Dorian can feel the rumble of his voice down to his toes.

"That depends entirely on your performance," he quips in return. So far, the Bull is doing remarkably well without even really trying, but it's not as if Dorian is going to admit as much.

Bull slides his hands beneath the robe to push Dorian's smalls out of his way. He lingers, letting his fingers drift over Dorian's hips and thighs. He lets his lips drift over the back of Dorian's neck and he eventually retrieves the oil he brought with him. Bull deftly slicks his fingers before he teases them between Dorian's cheeks. He isn't in a terrible hurry and for a moment all he does is rub and tease the outside of his hole, intent on working the mage up a little.

What's the fun if he doesn't test that resolve?

"Hm, I'll endeavor to earn it," he quips warmly. Just a breath later, Bull carefully eases the first finger in.

Bull is very good at teasing, when he wants to be. Dorian leans forward a little more, sighing at the feeling of Bull's oiled finger rubbing gently at his hole. He lets him do it without protest, enjoying the sensation itself and knowing that a demand for more might only cause Bull to want to tease him further, if he's in that sort of playful mood. He gets that finger inside him soon enough in a slow, careful press, just as it always is to start. Dorian hums softly, pleased, and cants his hips back. Even one of Bull's fingers is a stretch, but he's become accustomed to it--eager for it.

It's impossible not to think back to how it had felt to kiss Bull in the tavern, to sit in his lap with arms around him and devour his mouth knowing that the whole room could watch. The idea had turned him on enough that they're now here doing this--risky, thrilling, and just short of entirely shameless.

"How would you have fucked me?" He asks, slightly breathless. "If we'd done it right there?"

Bull grins against Dorian's ear as he carefully works him up to a second finger. "I would've had you in my lap," he murmurs. "It wouldn't be difficult with these robes you wear."

His fingers move slowly in and out, teasing Dorian as much as he works him open.

"I'd have you facing the tavern, I think." Cruel, making Dorian try to hide his arousal, his pleasure. But Bull thinks the angle might, ultimately, be easier. "Then again, if I have you facing me, it'll be easier to touch you without everyone seeing everything."

He tips his head so he can brush his lips over Dorian's neck.

"And you could ride me, just like that."

Is there anything that gets him hard faster, really, than when Bull indulges him in dirty talk? When he tells him exactly what he'd do to him in that low, gravelly voice of his, when he praises Dorian's body, tells him how good he is--no, there's nothing better. Bull's thick fingers stretch his hole, a wonderfully familiar ache, and his cock swells between his thighs without a touch.

"Fuck, Bull," he curses under his breath, half a whine. He can barely hide his arousal now. Maker. He knows--he just knows--that he wouldn't have been able to conceal it in his expression if they'd done this right there.

Oh, he wants it. It will never happen, of course, but he wants it. But this, here and now, is close enough that looking down, watching the people weaving in and out of open doors across the square, clouds his head and makes arousal sink deep through his body, an all-encompassing, radiating heat. He thinks of facing Bull, too, burying his face against his thick neck to hide his wanton expression and his sounds of pleasure. He thinks of rolling his hips slowly in Bull's lap, fucking himself subtly as he could on the Bull's cock.

Shivering outright at the touch of the Bull's lips against the back of his neck, Dorian's fingers curl against the stone beneath his hands. "It would still be too obvious," he says, like that's somehow a problem--like part of the fantasy isn't having eyes on them, being watched.

Bull grins when he hears the quiet desperation in Dorian's voice.

"Mm, you're right," he murmurs. Bull slides his fingers free so he can slick his cock. His breath catches as he carefully guides himself in. "But I think you'd like that. I think you want people to see what you have, what they don't. You want them to see you indulging in all the pleasure they could never allow themselves."

His breath escapes in a heavy sigh as he pushes deep. One hand grips the balustrade next to Dorian's and the other strokes over the mage's thigh.

"I'd fuck you on the floor of the Magisterium if I thought you wanted it. Let everyone gasp behind their fans, clutch their gold and pearls. Let them see how free you are. How wanted."

Dorian's head drops lower between his shoulders as he feels the Bull's fingers withdraw. He takes a deep, quivering breath, relaxing his body so that when the thick head of Bull's cock begins to press inside him, he opens for it easily. Yes, there it is--the stretch he craves so much, the way Bull fills him inch by inch in a perfect steady slide, a pleasure that goes straight to his cock, then suffuses through the rest of his body. Bull always feels right, feels exactly how Dorian wants him to, and tonight is no different. Heightened, perhaps, by the real risk of being seen, and the filth he continues to speak into his ear, voice grown even rougher with arousal. Maker, Dorian graves it--the sound of it, the way he can feel it.

"Venhedis," he curses under his breath, picturing the scene Bull paints for him. He groans, soft but encouraging, and his cock throbs between his legs.

Bull is right, of course, even if this is something Dorian hadn't fully understood about himself until now. He doesn't want to hide. He wants to be seen and envied for his freedom, for indulging in the pleasures others deny themselves for the sake of fitting a mold. He wants to be adored openly, wanted by someone who wants to show the world what they have. What they have together.

"Bull," he whimpers again, shifting to press the curve of his ass back against the Bull's hips when he's finally seated entirely inside him, huge and heavy and hot. "You--I'd let you fuck me anywhere," he says, low and breathless. It isn't true, of course, but in the moment he feels like it is. "Just you."

Bull huffs a heavy breath when their bodies finally meet. For a moment, Bull stays right where he is. He lets Dorian adjust to being so full. He growls quietly when Dorian whispers that he'd let Bull fuck him anywhere. He can imagine it, clear as anything. It feels like a memory more than a fantasy. Dorian in all his altus splendor, laid out in ecstasy and fucked by the biggest Qunari anyone present has ever seen. Because Pavus would find the biggest, most brutal of the forbidden to enjoy. Not just a man, but a Qunari. Not just a Qunari, but one of the Ben-Hassrath spies. Hissrad absolutely taking apart Halward's scion before the entire Magisterium, with Dorian deliriously enjoying every second of it for all to see.

Bull growls and bites Dorian's shoulder to keep himself from going for his neck. Fabric and flesh catches between his teeth and he gives a harder thrust as he builds a rhythm.

"Dorian," he groans low and urgent. He feels good, he's all Bull wants.

"I would," he rumbles. "If you said the word, I would."

Quickly, Bull begins fucking him with steady, deliberate thrusts. Dorian's body adjusts faster than most, but then, he's probably--and oh, what an idle thought to have--he's certainly fucked Bull more than anyone else has. And by a significant margin. It's the same for Dorian; he's never been with anyone like he has Bull. His body doesn't react like this for anyone else. He's never felt as desired, as acknowledged, as fulfilled with anyone else. They have something--something--

They have something. Perhaps no modifier is needed.

Bull's growl vibrates against his back, and he feels half the bright, welcome pain of his teeth against his shoulder. He breathes in harshly, and removes one supporting hand from the balustrade just to hurriedly tug at the neck of his robe, exposing his throat in a deliberate offer. "Please," is all he says, hoping that it conveys his willingness and his desperation enough. He shudders at the sensation of Bull's cock grinding against his prostate--deliberately or otherwise--and he whispers, warm and urgent, "I want it. I want you, Bull, always. Show them how good you make me feel. How good I make you feel."

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