#adoribull

fandom: dragon age

relationship(s): zevran/male mahariel, fenris/male hawke, solas/male lavellan, male lavellan/dorian/iron bull

rating: e

tags: if that looks like a lot of relationship tags…yeah, this is a veilguard fix it but like with some respect and love for the original, more like a veilguard hey wouldnt this be fun, canon divergence, pov alternating, lavellan's love life specifically is SOOOO MESSY so like be warned, zevran pov, inquisitor pov

summary: An aging Warden hears the song. A weary Champion tires of war. A mortal made Inquisitor reaps what his tumultuous heart has sown.

The veil is still thin a decade after the Breach, and elves the world over flock to northern Thedas. Change is on the horizon. The Dread Wolf, Fen'Harel, Solas, a not-quite-god who moves as a mortal but commands loyalty like a deity, has somber plans that even those who were closest to him can only guess. His army grows by the day for an unknown purpose, and it is quickly apparent that if Solas cannot be reasoned with, he must be stopped. Even if he is not the only one to go down.

*~*

It has never sufficed to place all the world upon a single person's shoulders; they were always going to arrive here, and they were always going to do so as one.

CHAPTER ELEVEN: capti populi

“You said you had contacts in the Shadow Dragons,” Theron says eventually. Even his soft voice carries, tumbling down the length of the tunnel. “We’re sure they are trustworthy?” “Definitely,” Krem says firmly. “Krem’s mercenary group joined up with them a while ago,” Lavellan explains. “Used to just help them out, but when they became an officially unofficial organization, they joined up properly.” “A mercenary group? I might have guessed,” Zevran says teasingly. “Explains your manners.” “Doesn’t it just?” Krem says, grinning at him over his shoulder. “It’s not my group, anyway, it’s my boss’s. But yeah. They’re good. Professional, discreet.”

There's thievery, there's burglary, and then there's what these two are doing!

Renata wishes they didn't stoop to stealing from her, but somehow this feels like rubbing salt in the wound.

Tied to Promise [M]

Dorian is curious about dar-saam, the Qunari arm ropes. The Iron Bull explains their hidden meaning.

For @aromanceforthedragonages exchange!

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“What about the Antaam?” the Bull asks, from where he’s filing away their newest contract, instead of thinking about that all too much.

“I was looking at their arms—”

“While they were trying to kill us? Oooh, kadan, you’ve got such a type.”

“Not like that!”

“No? Wasn’t a little part of you thinking about all that muscle not trying to kill you, but trying to grab you, ravish you instead?”

Dorian huffs but doesn’t deny it – when the Bull looks over, he’s abandoned his book and has his lip caught between his teeth.

“An incredibly fun line of thought I intend for us to circle back to,” he says. “But actually, I was looking at their arm ropes.”

Pairing: Dorian Pavus/The Iron Bull

Rating: Teen and Up

WC: 934

Magister Dorian Pavus is fighting an uphill battle in the Magisterium, and The Iron Bull is just... fighting, probably. But they still always manage to make time for a few stolen hours of bickering.

Multi-recipient treat for A Romance for the Dragon Ages 2026 exchange

"This is a rather interesting reversal of fortunes," Dorian says with amusement, watching the Bull teeter across the keep.

The Bull likes to drink, and is often drunk, but he's usually quite merry, and capable of walking in a staight line. It is Dorian who is more often the wobbly drunk - the Bull has walked him back to his room more times than he can count. He has fucked him into the matress afterwards absolutely zero times, which is both very sweet and entirely frustrating.

"Kadan!" the Bull says brightly. He looks positively woosy in the moonlight.

"What have you been drinking?"

"Mars. Maaras...lok. Qumari liquor."

The Bull wobbles on his feet, and Dorian can't help but to rush forward to try steady him. If the Bull were to fall, he'd have no way of stopping it truly, at least without magic.

"What were you drinking to without me, hmm?"

"Can't drink with you there."

"It's never stopped you before."

The Bull hums thoughtfully.

"Drinking about you, though."

"Even more reason for me to be there, I think," he says, as he tries to steer the Bull towards the steps. "What was it, drinking to the perfect curve of my arse? My charming smile?"

"You're going home," the Bull says, an uncharacteristically emotive smile across his face. It's sad.

"I-yes. When we stop the end of the world."

"You're gonna forgeddabout me."

"Hardly," he scoffs. "Your cock has made quite the impression. I will miss it."

"S'okay," the Bull slurs. "You're gonna do great. Y'dont need me."

Doesn't he? He will go back to Tevinter and cut the rot out of it. He doesn't need the Bull to do that. Having an association with the Bull while he tries to do that complicates it immensely.

But still, to have the Bull say it aches.

"Right. I'm putting you to bed."

"Oooh, dirty."

"Decidedly not. You're going to sleep it off and we will discuss the way you imagine I think you disposable in the morning over a very big breakfast."

The Bull looks happy about that at least, smiling a big, lazy smile.

[my fic on ao3] [my fic on tumblr] [bluesky] [prompt me]

Made It Nice [T]

The Iron Bull makes a joke; Dorian Pavus hopes to the Maker that he's misinterpreting it. Not graphic, but mind the tags for themed around rape/sexual trauma.

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“Ooh, that’s nice,” the Bull says, as he stretches out on the bedroll and blankets. “If I’d have known the benefits of bunking with a mage sooner…”

“Yes,” Dorian says, as he comes to lounge by him, propped on an elbow, still too warm to bear touching him yet, “I was rather under the impression that I was the first mage you’d taken to bed.”

“You are,” the Bull says, without opening his eye.

“Those blood mages enraptured by your ass didn’t precede me, then.”

It’s only to confirm that it was a joke. But saying it at all is asking the question true, and when the Bull doesn’t immediately riposte with something Dorian feels it colder in his belly than the ice rune cooling their tent. The silence stretches on, and the Bull’s breathing remains steady.

“Seheron was a nasty war, Dorian,” he says softly. His eye is still closed. It is confirmation of another kind.