Piece of Kaffas

Nic | he/him | 22 | Adoribull! |  NO requests for excessive violence, rape/non-con/abuse, A/B/O |  Requests: CLOSED :< | 

[pieceofkaffas]

Hi I hope this isn’t an abuse of your ask box, but I read your adoribull fic where they are just soft and intimate and kissing each other and I just had to say thank you, it’s lovely and wonderful. And you are great! Never stop!! Thank you so much! Have a lovely day!

Not even a little bit!! Thank you so much for such sweet words :’)

[pieceofkaffas]

I just spent hours reading all your lovely adoribull fic when I should be sleeping before a big day, including driving, it's 4:30am. I love your writing, you write them so... Soft? Makes me feel a bit of that warm in my chest, maybe not quite the orgasm feeling that the Bull feels thinking of Dorian, but still kinda floaty. Thank you.

💖💖💖

[pieceofkaffas]

I know what you’re thinking

You’re thinking, “Dang, it’s been a hot minute since I read 45 smutty Adoribull ficlets! Where on Earth can I go to find 45 smutty Adoribull ficlets, uninterrupted, posted in approximately the chronological order in which they were written?”

Good news, my forlorn friend, I have the answer! You can head on over to pieceofkaffasfanfic.home.blog and view every single ficlet on this blog in one horrifying uninterrupted scroll!

The Tumblr purge is happening tomorrow and while written erotica is allegedly not being targeted, I don’t have my hopes up, so I wanted to make sure all this writing got archived somewhere. Go check my garbage WordPress if you ever find yourself needing a quick Adoribull pick-me-up (now sans asks, non-ficlet content, and Disc Horse!)

*Edit: You can now view ficlets on the WordPress in addition to delicious fillets.

[pieceofkaffas]

adoribull fan book?

Would anyone else like to see something like this happen for Adoribull? 

[deladoll]

Blackface in Cosplay is (Still) Not Ok 

Because I’ve been seeing the issue come up yet again, I feel I should reiterate my stance on it: Blackface, or any other racial variation of the practice, for cosplay is not ok with me. It’s not ok with many people.

It is insensitive. It is odd. And it is typically visually unappealing. 

Cosplay whoever you want without trying to mimic an actual race/ethnicities skin tone. Yes, fantasy skin tones are fine. Purple body paint is fine. Please don’t try to bring up perfectly acceptable forms of bodypaint to derail the issue. Additionally, contrary to popular belief, pretty much nobody seriously thinks that a white cosplayer is “whitewashing” when they cosplay a character of color. In fact, in the POC Cosplay group on facebook that I used to be a member of, several white cosplayers who cosplayed black and brown characters without blackfacing were met with praise and and approval. I don’t personally think people should be praised for doing the right thing, but that’s beside the point. 

As a black cosplayer, I have cosplayed characters of various colors, and people always know who I am. I’ve never once had to change my skin color to cosplay a white character, and have still been complimented on accuracy, execution, etc. Seriously. Look. These are all characters I’ve cosplayed who are nowhere near my skintone. They’re all still extremely recognizable as the intended characters.

With that in mind, it’s clear that accuracy isn’t an excuse to do something that is known to be unacceptable and offensive. It is particularly troublesome to see so many cosplayers come to the defense of those who knowingly engaged in blackfacing, and yet I see PoC cosplayers routinely bullied, turned into memes, and laughed at for cosplaying outside of their race with only a handful coming to their aid. People should absolutely cosplay whoever they like, regardless of skin tone, size, etc. “Racefacing” isn’t necessary to do that, especially when you know it is not something most of us are ok with for extremely valid reasons. 

In fact, con coordinators have reached out to me on how to implement policies that make sure to address this issue. They’re aware of the fact that when we allow things like blackface in the cosplay and convention community, it makes things less welcoming for all. We can’t pride ourselves on being an accepting community when we willfully allow things that offend, hurt, and cause discomfort to a large majority of our members. 

I’ve written at length about this several times before. It’s not something I want to have to keep address, because I’d like to see it become less of a common occurrence. If you’re a person of color who is unbothered by it, that’s fine. That doesn’t mean you get to dictate how others should feel about it, particularly not when the majority of us are, at the very least, put off by it. It’s a simple matter of decency and respect. For example, I’m not bothered by people cursing, but I’m not going to go out of my way to drop every “fuck”, “shit”, and “bitch” around people I know aren’t cool with it, and I’m not going to encourage other people to go ahead do it in a room full of people who are uncomfortable with it just because I don’t mind. 

With all that’s unfolding in the world, particularly with the increased racial turmoil and tensions going on in my home country of the USA, let’s not add fuel to the fire. I’m a human being. My skin is not a costume or a prop. The history behind the practice of blackfacing, and other forms of racefacing, is an ugly one. Intent does not matter. Ive seen the argument that cosplayers who decide to blackface are actually just fascinated by “black beauty.” If that is true, why do they never share, defend, or uplift actual black cosplayers? Why is it still such a novelty to be a black cosplayer? If you are blackfacing out of “admiration”, put down the 12 shades too dark foundation and simply show your support to actual black and POC cosplayers instead of trying to become one yourself. I am willing to be more understanding in rate cases of genuine ignorance, but once you’ve been informed, there’s really no excuse to continue unless you truly do not care. If you don’t care, don’t expect my support. 

As always, thanks for reading! If you like this review and want to see more in the future, please be sure to subscribe to my blog! You can also check me out in these places!

~DeLa Doll 

Blackface in Cosplay is (Still) Not Ok  was originally published on Cosplay & Commentary

[pieceofkaffas]

I've brought this up before but now ft. A genuine authority

[pieceofkaffas]

This is just a casual reminder that you can always message me about particular identities (marginalized) ((especially intersecting marginalizations!!)) that don’t get enough positive (and non-problematic) representation in media and narrative, and there’s a 100% I’ll go bury myself in research and discourse and work out a character that provides that representation for the novel I’m working on. bc it’s really important and all creators have a moral and social imperative to just do their best by people, dang it. ((1000 thank-yous to those of you who have, even if I didn’t reply [anxiety] I read your message and I’ve taken it into account.))

In the words of W. E. B du Bois, “I don’t give a damn for art that is not propaganda.”

[plenoptic07]

Call to aid Water Protectors

The Two Spirit Nation Water Protectors are in need of some help disembarking from camp. These folks have been lovingly accepting resisters at their camp and have endured a lot of trauma. Below is the link to their PayPal, please pitch in a few bucks if you can!! 

https://www.paypal.me/TwoSpiritNation

Donate to the legal defense fund for those arrested!

[pieceofkaffas]

If you donate to either fund, screen cap the transaction page and send it to me and I’ll drabble you whatever you want. A little goes a really long way.

[pieceofkaffas]

for @zerosgirl02 :) I’m trying very very hard to get through all of my requests this weekend! Feel free to keep sending them.

Cake

**NSFW**

Keep reading

[pieceofkaffas]

This is a very belated birthday drabble for @lonicera-caprifolium. It really doesn’t measure up to what they gave me...

Thank you for all of your kindness and creative energy, darling dearest.

ft. cameos from our problem children Trevelyans (disclaimer: i have a very poor sense of Daniel

To Share Beds and Walls

All too early, Bull feels his bedmate turning into a restless little weasel beside him. The moment Dorian sits up, Bull itches to reach for him, to tug him back into the dark warm space between bodies and blankets. The mage yawns hugely, and Bull marvels at the degree of trust expressed in something that simple, in releasing a noise entirely too inelegant for anywhere outside the bedroom. 

He pretends to be asleep, because he likes what comes next, and Dorian doesn’t let him down. Knuckles ghost over his cheek, a thumb rubs along the near-permanent indent in his skin left by his eyepatch. Dorian hums a considering little noise and shifts down to press his lips carefully to Bull’s closed eyelid. He reveals these sweet little pieces of himself only when he thinks the Bull sleeps. (And if he knows, in fact, that Bull is awake, he seems to delight in playing along.) Bull tries to keep his breathing even when Dorian’s mouth brushes across his. 

There follows a weighted moment where Bull thinks perhaps Dorian is going to call his bluff—and then, with a low cacophony of creaking joints and displeased grumbles, Dorian shimmies out of bed and gets to his feet. Bull slits his eye open, only just, to watch the mage’s naked rear saunter to the other end of the room. Dorian bends over the basin of water at the window and splashes his face, jolting awake, and spends a moment combing his wet fingers through his hair. Bull opens himself up to the shiver that crawls through him at the sight, inching him closer into that deliciously liminal space between the domestic and the erotic.

“Morning,” he says, lets his voice be hoarse, as if he’d only just woken. As if he hasn’t just spent the last hour learning and relearning every blemish and scar on Dorian’s (admittedly almost perfect) skin.

Dorian looks over his shoulder, and half a smile tilts his lips upward. “Good morning. I rather thought you’d sleep all day.”

Like he hasn’t only gotten up a minute ago himself. Ass. A cute one, though. Bull lets it slide. “What time is it?”

Dorian runs a damp hand along the back of his neck and nods toward the window. At that angle, watery sunlight falls prettily on the nipped pink marks and dark bruises that decorate his back and ribs. “Nearly noon.”

“Mm.” Bull drops his head back against the pillows. “Why don’t you come back to bed?” 

Dorian’s smile widens, indulgent. “Daniel’s expecting me in an hour.”

“That gives you a whole hour to come back to bed.”

The mage’s laugh is light and tittering. He bends down, giving Bull a full and glorious view of his backside, and scoops up his trousers, abandoned the night before. Bull tries not to actually vocalize his disappointment when Dorian steps into them.

“Well, you know how it is with us. One hour becomes two, two becomes three, three becomes eleven…”

“Just that one time,” Bull protests. He croons his delight when Dorian rejoins him, sinking onto the edge of the bed and running his fingertips down Bull’s chest. Bull catches his hand and brings it to his mouth, nipping at the finely manicured fingers.

“My pride is still recovering from Sera’s taunting,” Dorian says. His voice is low, dulcet, stormy eyes tracking the flickering movement of Bull’s tongue. He leans down with the softest intake of breath, and Bull guides him by the chin into a kiss. Bull pulls him closer, rakes his fingers through the damp waves of dark hair.

He feels Dorian withdrawing. “Been thinking,” he says, catching the mage quickly around the waist. 

Dorian looks down at him, one eyebrow lifting. “About what?”

Oh. Shit. Bull fumbles for a moment. “Uh. Was wondering if you’d paint my nails. You know, the way you do yours.”

The other eyebrow quirks up. How does he control them one at a time? Wild. “Black is so utterly not your color, sweetheart.”

“Pink, then.”

Dorian chuckles. The corners of his eyes crinkle up when he smiles like that. A smile is a good look on him, Bull thinks. “You do look handsome in pastels. But I sense you’re trying to distract me.”

Bull places a hand over his heart and does his very best to flutter his eyelashes. Probably not as effective as when Dorian does it. “Me? That hurts, kadan.”

“Oh, no. My deepest apologies. I would never, of course, set out to offend.”  

“Nah, not you,” Bull says, laughing as Dorian slips a thigh over broad hips to straddle Bull’s lap. The Bull sits up against the wall a little, resting his palms on Dorian’s thighs. He feels the mage’s hips and ass flexing, and notes a bit of sleepy interest between his own legs. It’s never taken a lot to get him going, but damn, the way his body aches for Dorian is something else.

Dorian’s eyes are molten, wanting. He leans down while Bull shifts up, arms slipping around the Bull’s shoulders. They kiss and it’s biting at first, eager. There are moments like this, suspended in time, where the world seems to spin out of place and they might as well be back against Bull’s door that first time, kissing and touching and laughing into one another’s mouths. Bull hadn’t realized just how much he’d wanted Dorian until the moment he got his hands on him. And he hasn’t stopped wanting him since.

“You are,” Dorian murmurs, in between kisses that have become softer, but no less heated, “a very bad man. And a distracting man. Distractingly bad.”

“But good at distracting.”

Dorian chuckles. He breaks a kiss to nuzzle his nose to Bull’s and then kisses him again, hurriedly, with a good deal more tongue, like he can make up for his sweetness with debauchery. “Much to my everlasting chagrin.”

“But at least I got cha’grinnin’.”

“Oh no,” Dorian groans, biting sharply at Bull’s lower lip. “That was dreadful.”

“I thought it was smart. I should tell it to Varric.”

“Don’t you dare.” Dorian’s hands are prodding, insistent. He pushes Bull onto his back and pins Bull’s wrists to either side of his horns. Bull grins up at him. 

“What, are you gonna pun-ish me now?” 

“Please don’t reuse your own jokes.” Dorian leans down, kisses him firmly. There is clear intent to be found in the eager pressure of his mouth, in the way his hips can’t seem to keep still.

“Guess you better stay and teach me a lesson,” Bull murmurs. He lifts his head to mouth along Dorian’s jaw, bites at his earlobe. 

“You are wicked,” Dorian replies, in that tone that absolutely oozes delight. “A very bad man indeed.”

Counterpoint to his words, his hands release Bull’s wrists to frame Bull’s face instead, thumbs sweeping along broad cheekbones. There’s something nervous in the line of his mouth, something helpless in his eyes when they’re so close. Bull pushes himself up onto his elbows, murmurs some nonsense mix of Qunlat and Common as he guides Dorian’s mouth back to his. Dorian settles against him, pliant and warm, and doesn’t resist when Bull wraps an arm around his waist to flip them over.

“Didn’t you have something you needed to do?” Bull asks, mouthing at the side of Dorian’s neck, tasting his fluttering pulse.

“I’m afraid I’ve quite forgotten,” Dorian breathes, tilting his chin back. “Oh, wait—I remember.” Bull draws back, disappointed, but Dorian beams up at him. “I said I’d paint your nails for you.”

Bull grins. He dives back into his mage, head first, growling and running his mouth across the bruises he bit into Dorian’s collarbones the night before. Dorian laughs, tugging on Bull’s horns to draw him closer, back up into a kiss, his body arching up as if to welcome the Bull home.

 Nic glances up from the worst hand he’s ever been dealt when he hears the tell-tale stomp of Daniel’s boots coming up the stairs. He and Ammelie share a look; with a shrug, she raises his bet a copper.

“Three hours,” Daniel announces as he crests the stairs. “Three hours he kept me waiting, and—listen, don’t you two have your own rooms?”

“Yes.” Nic drops a few coppers into the growing pile in the middle of Daniel’s bed. 

The Inquisitor sighs, planting his fists on his hips. “Then why are you in mine?” 

“I share a wall with Bull,” Ammelie quips. She puts down her cards. “I fold.” 

“Excellent, my hand was shit.”

“I don’t understand why that means you have to—” Daniel stops, brow furrowing. “Wait.” 

“Yes, cousin dearest, Dorian’s absence and Ammelie’s dislike of being Bull’s neighbor are, in fact, correlated events,” Nic drawls, shuffling the deck. 

“Causal, I’d say,” Ammelie adds. 

“Oh, quite! Yes, causal, even.” Nic waves the deck. “Daniel, are you in? Or would you like to resume waiting for Dorian?”

Daniel sighs and drops his hands. “It’s a lost cause, isn’t it.”

“Oh, almost certainly. The last time they were at it for eleven hours.”

“I heard sixteen from Sera.”

“I’m inclined to disbelieve that. Split the difference, call it thirteen and a half. Daniel, in or out?” 

Daniel considers, tongue in cheek.

“Danno, my wall had scorch marks,” Ammelie says seriously.

Her brother sighs and steps out of his boots, joining them on the bed. “Fine. Deal me in.”

[pieceofkaffas]

I’m going to grad school

so I got one of those “Buy me a coffee” things.

[pieceofkaffas]

It's Valentines Day and I don't have any Adoribull ready and I feel like that demands a public apology.

[pieceofkaffas]

The novel itself is very much a part of the post-apocalyptic tradition. Nuclear fallout, mutated monsters, humanity pushed to the brink of extinction, etc. It’s one of those “write what I want to read” books. As of now, it lacks an overall moral theme to guide it, so it’s about 75% nonsense. ((Its protags under the cut!!))

Sol. 

-he’s panromantic and asexual

-excruciatingly clumsy

-another character identifies him as having mixed European and Arabic (Palestinian, probably) heritage

-loves kids but has no idea how to interact with them

-dislikes violence but 50/10 would definitely punch a Nazi

Esther.

-only protag with even an ounce of common sense

-adores sour foods (the post-apocalyptic lemon shortage is a travesty)

-bisexual and of Puerto Rican descent

-cannot dance. at all.

-450,000/10 would definitely punch a Nazi with no reservations

Max. (Esther’s twin)

-queer, lets others identify him as he/him but frankly doesn’t “get” gender (it’s a construct best reserved for a world that didn’t suffer nuclear annihilation)

-snark master 6000

-pretends to be level-headed but is quick to fight

-hates heights

-10/10 would definitely punch a Nazi, he can’t stand the willfully ignorant

[pieceofkaffas]

Your writing is nice and I love it.

You’re nice and I love you!

[pieceofkaffas]

Definitely still following the blog! I re-read your stories all the time. Thank you so much for filling my prompt during what sounds like a super busy time in your life. I appreciate you sharing your talent with me and with others who love these muffins. P.S. Thank you for small does of Krem, I loooove how you write Krem.

Thank you so much for this unsolicited kindness, it made my day. 

[pieceofkaffas]

hi hello i just need you to know that i loooove love your writing oh my gooooosh it's so good i dont know how you do it man but fuck you capture dorian and bull so well in your writing!

Hi hello, thank you so much!!!

[pieceofkaffas]

I moved this one up the queue a little because I got really excited about it. References events and conversations from my last ficlet, but absolutely stands alone.  Hope you enjoy~ 

Wearing Down My Edges

His belt doesn’t fit.

Keep reading

[pieceofkaffas]

Classic needless drama is still fluffy in the end, installation 45,620 of ??? ((Thanks for the prompt, anon--I hope you still follow this blog.)

Romance According to Varric

Dorian may never get used to it—to the sight of the Iron Bull propped against a bookshelf, that warm grin on his face, one hand outstretched. Waiting. For him.

“Hey, kadan. You ready?”

Dorian nods—knows, knows, that his cheeks must be furiously red—and slips his hand into Bull’s, nearly loses his breath when Bull’s fingers close around his. His hand is engulfed, swallowed. Bull tugs him closer and leans down, an invitation, and Dorian goes to his tiptoes to meet it. They kiss, ridiculous and saccharine, and Dorian’s heart flutters.

“Hi,” Bull murmurs, and Dorian laughs, smiles up at him.

“Hello, Bull.”

Bull straightens and tugs Dorian’s hand, and the mage lets his lover lead him down the stairs. “Had an alright day? You were cooped up for most of it.”

“Yes. I was merely absorbed in something interesting. I don’t suppose you’d like to know about the origins of arcane shielding magic?”

“You can tell me about it, if you want.” 

Dorian smiles, lets himself fall a step or so behind so that Bull’s head is beneath his. He catches the Tal-Vashoth by the shoulders and tugs him back, gently, to press a kiss between Bull’s horns.

“Perhaps some other time. I missed you today.”

“Oh yeah?” Bull turns, grins up at him, his arms encircling Dorian’s thighs. Dorian drapes his own luxuriously around Bull’s neck, returning his wide smile. “Need to get your fill, huh?”

 “Of food, yes. Now. Of you?” Dorian leans down, brushes their noses. “In a little while. If you’d like.”

 “Hell yeah,” Bull replies, and Dorian laughs again, light and easy, draws him into a kiss, soft and brief. Tender little things, like this. Bull’s hands linger on his hips, Dorian’s on his face. For a moment they share air, a breath. Bull kisses him again, differently, a swipe of his tongue into Dorian’s mouth. Dorian’s body responds too quickly, too readily; he feels the curve of Bull’s grin against his lips.

 “I said later,” he sighs, in faux exasperation, and pushes Bull away. The Bull chuckles and takes Dorian’s hand once more, and they bicker light-heartedly all the way to the tavern.

 Dorian isn’t surprised, of course, to see the Chargers already there, sharing huge plates of food and drinking bad ale, laughing and loud. His stomach sinks a little nonetheless. He’s sure that—yes, there. A narrowing of Dalish’s eyes, a sharpness to the way Skinner looks at him. Krem glances back, his gaze sliding over Dorian’s face and down to his hand in Bull’s, and then away. Indifferent. There is a question in Grim’s face, too, that Dorian isn’t ready to answer.

 He balks near the door, halting, and Bull turns back to him with raised brows. “What’s wrong?”

 “I—ah. I think—I’m a touch more tired than I thought. I think I might just retire for the night.”

 Bull tilts his head to the side. His hand tightens just a little, and suddenly the grip feels smothering, too hot. Dorian squirms. “You sure you’re okay? Thought you were hungry.”

 He is, desperately, but the tavern doesn’t have enough air. Is Rocky glaring at him? “I’m fine, Bull.” He pulls his hand back, and Bull lets him. Of course he does. It only makes Dorian feel worse. “I’ll—see you tomorrow?”

 “Sure.” The curve of Bull’s mouth is decidedly unhappy, his eye searching, and Dorian swallows and waves before turning on his heel and hurrying out of the tavern.

 His lungs open up again the moment the door closes behind him, and he only makes it twenty paces before sinking straight to the ground, dizzy and shaking. He rakes his hands through his hair, as if he can scratch away the looks they gave him. What do they say when he’s not there?

 That Pavus bloke, not good enough for the Chief. What’s the altus want with him? Probably thinks he’s exotic. Probably can’t wait to go home and tell all his magister friends about how he whipped and tamed a savage Qunari.

 “Hey. Dorian?”

 Dorian jumps and turns—ridiculously, he might add, given that he’s sitting in the grass with his legs splayed directly out in front of him—and looks up at the Bull. “Oh. Um.” And because he doesn’t have a better explanation for his current state beyond “Oh. Um,” he leaves it at that.

 Bull, frowning, sits down beside him. Because of course he does. “Hey. What happened in there?”

 Dorian swallows and looks away. What is he meant to say? He has the sneaking suspicion that the Chargers dislike him? Or, at the very least, don’t trust him? “I’d rather not talk about it.”

 “I don’t want to push you,” Bull says, gently, “but it kinda seems like we need to discuss something.”

 “There’s nothing to talk about,” Dorian retorts, too sharply. “I’m just tired.”

 “Dorian,” Bull says, much too gently, damn him, and nudges Dorian’s shoulder.

 Dorian flinches away from him, scrambling to his feet and brushing grass from his robes. “Will you drop it?” Don’t.

 “Hey,” Bull grunts, following Dorian to his feet, frowning. “If you’re upset about something, that’s fine. You can be upset. But I don’t deserve a cold shoulder without knowing why.”

 Dorian’s stomach turns over. No, of course he doesn’t. Bull doesn’t deserve this petulance. But what is he supposed to say? The Chargers don’t see him as worthy, and suppose Bull goes to investigate, and suppose—suppose he finds he agrees with them?

 “I don’t like them,” Dorian Pavus—an idiot, you see—blurts instead. “The Chargers.”

Bull draws back. Physically, visibly, takes a step backward, and blinks. “Oh,” he says. And then his brows knit. “Well. I don’t know what to tell you, big guy. We’re kind of a package deal.” 

Dorian is taken aback, as well. Both because he said that, and because—well, because, in all honesty, he expected a little more hedging on Bull’s part. At least an attempt at reconciliation. But Bull just stands there frowning at him, and doesn’t speak again.

“Well,” Dorian says, a little weakly, and clears his throat. “Fine, then.” 

“Dorian,” Bull sighs. Reaches for him.

Dorian Pavus—a coward—turns on his heel, and runs.

 And just like that, it’s over. Dorian Pavus—a fool—is alone again.

He dodges the Bull for three days. After three days, Bull stops trying to catch him. It is both a relief and a disappointment. Part of him wishes Bull would chase him forever. Part of him is glad Bull gave up before Dorian could ruin him, as he’s ruined so many others.

(He wonders if Rilienus ever found a way to be happy.)

The library is his sanctum again. At night, he returns to his own room. He doesn’t creep down to the tavern until well after midnight, when most everyone has retired with friends or lovers (or both). 

He is not surprised, in the least, to find Nic waiting for him in his library nook four days after what Dorian has ceremoniously begun to think of as The End, in the privacy of his own head. He side-steps the Inquisitor and heads for his chair, ignoring Nic’s footsteps plodding along after him.

“Well?” Trevelyan says, as soon as Dorian is seated.

“You have a question?” Dorian replies, as mildly as possible.

“My question is what the hell?”

“What the hell what?” Dorian parrots, irritable.

Nic folds his arms over his chest, his marked hand flexing open before tightening again. Dorian knows it is painful, at times. “You and Bull.” 

Dorian sighs and pointedly opens the tome on arcane shielding spells. “For someone so well versed in diplomacy, you remarkably lack tact.” 

“Not all situations call for a diplomatic approach.” Nic sits down at Dorian’s feet, nudging a shoulder into Dorian’s knee. “Did you two quarrel about something ridiculous?”

“Define ridiculous.” 

“Not actually worth worrying about?”

Dorian shifts in his seat, frowning, and shrugs one shoulder. “It’s over. That’s all I know.”

Nic swivels to look up at him, eyebrows lifting. “Wait. What? It’s over?”

“I—yes?” It hurts, this. Twisting the knife in the wound. Dorian swallows and looks down at his book, tries to ignore the way the back of his throat burns so terribly. “If you’ll excuse me, Inquisitor.”

“Dorian—”

“Nic,” Dorian interrupts, well aware that his voice is strained. “Please.”

A pause, too weighted—and then the Inquisitor nods, slowly, and gets to his feet. “Alright.” His hand clasps Dorian’s shoulder, and Dorian really does nearly cry then. Nearly. “We can talk later. Let me know if you need anything. 

Infuriating man that he is, he ruffles Dorian’s hair before he leaves. The touch is too much like Bull’s. Dorian draws his knees to his chest and hides his face behind the book. It won’t do to have the Tranquil see him cry. 

 When Bull tells him, Krem spits out his ale. Everywhere. And then coughs and hacks, waving a hand, while Bull sits there sputtering, bad Fereldan swill dripping down his chest.

“You what?!”

“Aw, Krempuff. Look what you did.”

“What did you say?”

“I said we’re a package deal,” Bull says, affronted, wiping uselessly at his chest. “Ugh. Someone got a handkerchief?”

“A package—” Krem rubs his hands down his face, shaking his head. “Chief. Chief. You can’t end a conversation like that.” 

“He wanted to go,” Bull replies, nodding his thanks when Cabot tosses him the rag he uses to wipe down the bar. “Wasn’t gonna keep him there against his will.” 

“You didn’t have to, you know, sit on him,” Krem says gruffly, backhanding Bull’s arm, “but you at least need to not end it on that note.”

“Don’t see what good that is now, Krem.” Bull lifts his mug to his mouth, considering the dark contents before knocking it back. Maybe one more drink will dull the sharp ache behind his sternum. “It’s done.” 

“What is ‘done’?”

 Bull turns and grins. “Hey, Cass. What brings you to these parts?”

Cassandra shrugs, looking decidedly awkward, and sinks into the seat on Bull’s other side, ignoring Krem’s ogling. “Leliana says it may improve morale to see the leaders of the Inquisition engaging in such mundane…” Behind her, someone belches loudly, and her nose wrinkles. “…Pleasantries.”

 “To pleasantries,” Krem says somewhat faintly, and drains the last of his mug.

 “May I ask what you’re talking about? If it’s personal, I understand, of course.”

 “Nah. I mean, it is. Don’t mind talking about it.” Bull scratches his chest. He missed some of the spilled (spat) ale, and it’s beginning to itch. “Dorian and I. We’re. Uh. I guess we’re—through.”

 (Fuck, that hurts something fierce, putting words to it like that.)

 Cassandra blinks at him. “I’m sorry?”

 “Don’t be. It’s not—”

 “No, I—I mean, I beg your pardon? I thought—excuse me if this is presumptuous, but I thought you two seemed very happy.”

 Bull’s throat closes. He’s happy, I’m happy. He has to take a deep breath through his nose, jaw clenched, before it relaxes again. “We were. Happy. I mean.”

 “Then why put an end to it?” Cassandra asks, brows drawing together.

 “They had a spat,” Krem snorts, shrugging.

 “Over what?”

 “Altus didn’t think we’d play nice.”

Cassandra stares at Bull, glances at Krem. Looks back at Bull. Her brows furrow more deeply. Bull wonders if she’s ever given a man a heart attack just by looking at him. Seems possible. “I’m—confused. You had one argument, and now you are—finished.”

 Bull shrugs. “Innit enough?”

 “Isn’t that—” Her expression shifts to incredulity. “No?”

 Krem and Bull look at each other, then back at her. “What?” they ask, in synchronicity.

 Cassandra’s eyebrows are heavy—thunderclouds, Bull thinks. Woman carries damn thunderclouds above her eyes. She abruptly gets to her feet and grasps Bull’s wrist, yanking him out of his chair apparently through sheer force of will.

 “Uh. Cass?”

 “Come.”

 “Where are we—”

 “To find Dorian,” she snaps over her shoulder. Bull looks over his shoulder at Krem, who shrugs helplessly. At a loss, Bull waves good-bye and lets Cassandra drag him from the tavern.

In hindsight, it’s probably a good thing he fell in with Dorian, instead of all that flirting with the Seeker going anywhere. He might not have survived a romance with Cassandra Pentaghast.

 Every once and a while—comforted by wine and blankets and a nice fire—Dorian likes to curl up in bed and have a cry.

Not for long, and not hard. Just a little. Just for a while. Just enough to reach some kind of catharsis. There’s a messy jumble of nonsense constantly living behind his heart, building edifices in his ribs, and letting it out feels akin to coughing out the last of the phlegm after a bad bout of a summer cold. Let it out.

Tonight, he has half a bottle of wine, stokes the fire, and crawls beneath the blankets. The blankets that smell like Bull. In the bed where Bull’s body has left a permanent indentation. Dorian lays down and almost falls into it. He realizes, very suddenly, that if he starts to cry, he might not be able to stop.

Knowing full well he’ll regret it, he curls into Bull’s favorite pillow and runs his fingers along the space that is usually full of Bull’s warmth. Everything tightens, aches. His vision blurs.

Fool. He was such a fool. To think he could have a—a companion, a lover. Amatus.

Bull. He wants Bull here, with him. Wants Bull’s mouth on his, Bull’s hands on his skin. Bull’s voice in his ear. Bull’s smile, his laugh, his awful jokes, his horrendous pants strewn across the floor. Dorian wants, and wants, and wants, and it hurts like nothing he has felt before.

He is just drawing in a great breath, the prelude to a sob, when someone pounds on his door.

He bolts upright, heart skipping, and sucks in several shaky breaths before rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes, fighting back tears. “Just a moment,” he calls out, winces at the way his voice croaks. He certainly sounds like he was about to break down.

Blinking back tears, he pads across the room, very conscious of his clean face and mussed hair, opens the door—

And finds himself face to face with a fuming Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, with the Iron Bull hovering meekly behind her. Dorian knows his eyes linger on Bull too long. His—what are they, now? What is Bull to him?— former paramour winces and inclines his head.

“Er. Hey, Dorian.”

“Hello,” Dorian says, a touch faintly, and swallows as he pulls his eyes away from Bull. “Lady Pentaghast. What can I—”

“May we come in?” she asks, abrupt as ever. “I believe we all need to talk.”

“Do we?” But he steps back all the same, and she troops in. Bull shuffles in after her.

“Pardon the intrusion.”

Dorian can’t help but smile. It’s the most uniquely un-Bull thing the Bull has ever said. “It’s no trouble. I was just enjoying a drink.”

“Anything good?”

“Please. As if Cabot would put aside anything remotely palatable for the likes of me.”

“I could have gotten you something decent,” Bull says. “You should have just asked.”

That is—too much, somehow. Too kind. It abrades Dorian’s broken heart, and he drops his gaze. He feels the tension coming off of Bull in waves.

“You two,” Cassandra says, and they both look up to see her seated at Dorian’s rickety table. She removes a book from some hidden compartment in her leathers and places it in front of her. “Please sit.”

“What is this?” Dorian snorts, joining her and taking a seat. “An intervention? Are we—” He freezes. The book on the table is Swords and Shields. “What the…”

“Uh,” Bull says, hovering by the table, brows raised. “Cass…”

“Bull, sit,” she says, more firmly than before, and without another protest he plops down. He makes a point of not touching Dorian, and oh, doesn’t that hurt. Bull usually sprawls. It is strange to sit beside him without their legs brushing, without Bull’s hand on his knee, Bull’s arm sneaking around his shoulders or caressing his hip. Strange to feel the urge to lean into him and be unable to do so. 

“To be frank,” she begins, and to Dorian’s everlasting horror, opens Swords and Shields, “I know very little of romance. But what little I do know comes from a reliable source.” 

Bull and Dorian both look pointedly at the open book, and her cheeks turn a brilliant scarlet.

“Say what you will of the—the—the respectability of its contents. But its author, at least, knows something of love.”

“True. Wouldn’t dream of getting between that guy and his crossbow,” Bull says solemnly. Dorian has to bite his lip to keep from smiling. He doesn’t want to find Bull funny anymore, not if it’s going to hurt this much.

Cassandra’s sharp look quiets them both. “If nothing else, this work has taught me that a single disagreement is not worth sacrificing all that you have built together. Varric’s books would be short indeed if each ended with the conflict of the first chapter.”

“This isn’t a book,” Dorian says, very weakly. He can feel Bull frowning and can’t even bear the thought of looking at him. “Not a story.” 

“Is it not?” she retorts, and he winces a little under her gaze. “I believe it was our own Inquisitor who once told us both that life and literature are a continuum.”

“Nic is an idealist. It would be lovely if every snag and snare in a man’s life could be resolved with a happy ending, but—oh, please don’t,” Dorian groans, as Cassandra begins flipping through the book. “No, really—”

“In chapter four,” she says briskly, “Catallus and his estranged wife Rebecca are forced to confront the reality of what first drove them apart. They find that the initial conflict paled in comparison to the challenges they would go on to face, and had to come to terms with the fact that their love suffered because neither was willing to be honest with the other, for reasons deeply embedded in the hurts of the past.” 

Dorian’s retort catches somewhere in his throat. He finds he can’t quite look her in the eye, and settles for examining a knot in the wooden tabletop. Bull’s leg is bouncing.

“I’m aware that I am overstepping my bounds,” Cassandra says, more quietly. “But—Bull, I would say we are friends.”

“Yeah,” Bull replies, matching her volume. “I’d say so.” 

“As your friend, it pleased me to see you happy. And am I misled in thinking that you were happy because of Dorian?”

A pause—a heavy one, so massive it pulls the air out of Dorian’s lungs and into its gravity. 

“Nah,” Bull goes on, haltingly. “Nah, you wouldn’t be misled in thinking that.”

Dorian has to close his eyes. Has to. If they remain open he’s going to cry.

“I would like to see you that happy again.” Funny, he has never heard Cassandra sound gentle. He wouldn’t have thought gentleness existed in this woman. And yet. “I can hardly force you two to make amends, but—if I could persuade to talk, at least.”

“I get it,” Bull says. Dorian keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Could you…?”

“Yes. I will give you some privacy. I do hope you’ll excuse my presumptuousness, both of you.”

She gets up from the table; Dorian listens to the heavy fall of her boots across his floor, to the door, out into the hallway. He opens one eye, the one Bull can’t see, just enough to confirm that she’s left Swords and Shields behind. 

“Hey,” Bull says lowly. His hand moves, cautiously, and his fingertips brush Dorian’s arm. The touch is electric, more powerful than any lightning magic Dorian has ever wielded, and suppressing the shiver that follows is an act of extreme willpower. “I guess, in the interest of talking—I just want you to know that I’m not happy with the way we left… things. If you need us to leave ‘em that way, well, then. That’s that.” A moment, a breath. Hesitation, perhaps. “But I miss you.”

Dorian swallows, so thickly he’s sure Bull will hear. There is a film of fire burning between his eyes and eyelids, and he doesn’t dare look up. 

“Dorian,” the Bull says, and damn it all, his own name has never sounded so very much like an endearment. Dorian lifts his head and his gaze and meets Bull’s eye. Bull looks tired. The hand he raises to touch Dorian’s cheek is a wavering thing. “I don’t get what happened, but—but I’m not ready for this to be over. Are you?”

He’s going to cry, he really is. Dorian Pavus—an idiot, a fool, and a coward all—has been waiting his entire life for someone to try and stop him walking away.

“No,” he chokes out, and Bull’s face blurs. “I’m sorry. I am a tremendous ass. I—”

“Aw,” Bull murmurs, and he chuckles, chuckles, when Dorian begins to cry. “Aw, shit. Hey, c’mere, kadan, you’re alright.”

“I most certainly am not,” Dorian whines, and it feels so good when Bull’s arms fold around him that he begins crying harder, in earnest. “I only—I lied, of course, you know that, don’t you? About not liking the Chargers, I—”

“Krem and the guys were being dicks,” Bull says firmly, and Dorian, through sniffles, bleats out a warbling little laugh. “They were doing it because they care, but they were being dicks. Not surprised you didn’t feel welcome. I’m sorry I didn’t pick up on it sooner.”

“I may very well hold it against you forever,” Dorian mumbles, voice nearly lost against the leather of Bull’s harness. He feels Bull’s chuckle waft across his hair. “I am sorry, though. For lashing out as I did. It was rather petulant, even for me.”

“Rather,” Bull says, pompously, mocking, but not cruel. Never cruel, this man. Dorian sniffles for the drama of it and smiles when Bull’s arms tighten. “Damn. Missed this.” 

“As did I.” His fingertips still know the scars on the Bull’s chest, though. Such a relief. “I feel that I should explain myself.”

“You can if you want. I think I get it, though.”

“Then perhaps I’ll just spare us both my soliloquizing.”

“Suits me.” Bull’s fingers find the line of his jaw; a rough thumb slips under his chin, tilts it up, and Bull’s mouth is on his even as broad arms tug him closer. Dorian kisses him earnestly, clumsily; speaking is not the only way to apologize with one’s lips. And he knows all too well the way Bull leans into him, hears easily the things Bull’s body is trying to say.

“Last we spoke,” Dorian murmurs, pauses just a moment to accept a kiss that makes his head spin, “I do believe there was some mention of me getting my fill of you.”

“Dirty,” Bull replies, but he takes Dorian’s face in both hands and trails kisses up to his brow. 

On their way to the bed, Dorian snags Swords and Shields. For further instruction on romance.