#therevoltion

It’s the reason he doesn’t want the man he’s been fucking to see him crying. Terribly off-putting, to see someone who has put a damn good effort into riding one’s cock, blubbering and snotty. 

Which is, in turn, is precisely the reason, combined with a Maker with a terrible sense of humour, that he starts crying in the Iron Bull’s room. He’s drunk, which he’s been with more frequency since returning from Redcliffe, not usually this sloppy of a drunk but it has been a long time since he’s actively drunk to forget. 

It’s all going well, being led to Bull’s room, the man’s eyes lingering on him, kisses sweet like the wine he’s been imbibing, and then it’s not.

“Fuck me. Fuck Tevinter, but fuck me.”

Bull leans back, leaving Dorian held up between his thigh and the door at his back. 

“I’m not going to fuck you, you’re very drunk.”

“You’ve fucked me drunk before.”

“Not this drunk.”

“Katoh. I remember, see? Let’s proceed.”

“I’m saying no, Dorian.”

Dorian bursts into tears.

Bull winces, but doesn’t startle, as if he’s expecting something as ludicrous. He moves Dorian over to the bed and sits him on the edge, where he sniffles and presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, already leaking tears. It’s ridiculous, to cry now, over what is undoubtedly a sensible call, but it hurts to be rejected.

Bull runs a hand down his back but Dorian shrugs away, wiping at his nose as he frees his eyes to glare at him.

“Why did you bring me here if you weren’t going to use me?”

He almost misses the way Bull’s lips press thin, but it’s gone in an instant as he cants his eyebrows up.

“You’re probably going to need someone to clean sick out of your moustache.”

“I’m fine,” he chokes out. “I’m fine.” He’s still sobbing. Brilliant.

“I’ve seen you look finer.”

Hideous, he knows it. The sobs come afresh when Bull hands him a huge handkerchief, and he blows his nose noisily.

“I should leave, if you won’t have me.”

“How about you stay here?”

Dorian whines, because even The Iron Bull won’t want him after this wretched display. He expected their last night to at least contain a round of goodbye sex. He blows his nose loudly again, as the bed dips and Bull sits beside him.

“Maybe I’ll fuck you in the morning, when you’re sober.”

He must be drunk, because the offer seems almost sweet. Drunk is usually good enough, and certainly none of his past lays had ever offered to clean vomit from his face. He’d left his homeland out of wanting to expect more, and here he was years later surprised by the concept.