Birthday Month Fic - #15
Aug. 31st, 2020 05:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
galadriel1010Prompt: BDSM
Fandom: Dragon Age
Pairing: Dorian/Bull
Rating: All talk and no trousers
Dorian is in the Bull's bed, but can he stop snarking for long enough to make the most of it? Turns out, nope.
Another day, another tavern in another town too small for a name but big enough for trouble. That wasn’t strictly true, of course. It had a name, but Dorian hadn’t bothered learning it. The Inquisitor was off doing something that looked grand and heroic whilst trying not to crumple with exhaustion, Blackwall was brooding in a corner, Sera was drinking someone under the table or into bed or possibly both, and Dorian, with a similar sense of inevitability, had wound up outside The Iron Bulls’ room. And then inside it, tied to his bed.
That part was less inevitable. Or at least he thought it was less inevitable.
“I can hear you thinking. The whole point of this is that you shouldn’t be thinking.”
“I happen to enjoy thinking,” he said airily. “About things other than how many pieces I can chop a man into with a single swipe.”
The Bull grunted. “If you’re gonna keep yapping, I can leave you here and go back to the bar.”
“No, no, you carry on. I hope you don’t mind if I keep thinking, though. At least until you manage to distract me.”
He grumbled some more and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I can untie you if it makes you feel more comfortable. If you’re not on board with this 100%, we don’t do it, okay?”
Dorian smiled weakly. “Is it that obvious?” He tested his bonds and found them restrictive but flammable, and did his best to settle down. “I’m not not on board. Just… a touch seasick, to overuse the metaphor. But I’m certainly not averse to either the destination or the voyage.”
Next to him, the Bull groaned into his hand. “Vints,” he grumbled. “Worse than Orlesians. Are you done yet?”
The Bull’s hand landed on his chest, warm and heavy and huge, and Dorian sucked in a breath. “Yes,” he said simply. “I’m done.”
Fandom: Dragon Age
Pairing: Dorian/Bull
Rating: All talk and no trousers
Dorian is in the Bull's bed, but can he stop snarking for long enough to make the most of it? Turns out, nope.
Another day, another tavern in another town too small for a name but big enough for trouble. That wasn’t strictly true, of course. It had a name, but Dorian hadn’t bothered learning it. The Inquisitor was off doing something that looked grand and heroic whilst trying not to crumple with exhaustion, Blackwall was brooding in a corner, Sera was drinking someone under the table or into bed or possibly both, and Dorian, with a similar sense of inevitability, had wound up outside The Iron Bulls’ room. And then inside it, tied to his bed.
That part was less inevitable. Or at least he thought it was less inevitable.
“I can hear you thinking. The whole point of this is that you shouldn’t be thinking.”
“I happen to enjoy thinking,” he said airily. “About things other than how many pieces I can chop a man into with a single swipe.”
The Bull grunted. “If you’re gonna keep yapping, I can leave you here and go back to the bar.”
“No, no, you carry on. I hope you don’t mind if I keep thinking, though. At least until you manage to distract me.”
He grumbled some more and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I can untie you if it makes you feel more comfortable. If you’re not on board with this 100%, we don’t do it, okay?”
Dorian smiled weakly. “Is it that obvious?” He tested his bonds and found them restrictive but flammable, and did his best to settle down. “I’m not not on board. Just… a touch seasick, to overuse the metaphor. But I’m certainly not averse to either the destination or the voyage.”
Next to him, the Bull groaned into his hand. “Vints,” he grumbled. “Worse than Orlesians. Are you done yet?”
The Bull’s hand landed on his chest, warm and heavy and huge, and Dorian sucked in a breath. “Yes,” he said simply. “I’m done.”
