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In No Uncertain Terms


It’s a little predictable, perhaps, that changing the words seems to change the nature of the thing. The nature of the act, rather. The… thing, whatever it is, isn’t that different. It’s just Dorian’s own thoughts that have shifted.

The change is not wholly comfortable. Before this thought, they fucked. They screwed around, did, in Sera’s vaguely pointed terms, “the do.” They did not, never had, could not– Dorian, particularly, should not, and the Iron Bull, surely, would not– make love.

The idea had come to him, unbidden, like a thief in the night. Or the opposite. It had been a chill, sunny morning, and he’d shivered alone under his sheets, reluctant to get up and face the day. He’d wished for nothing more than a warm body beside his, hands on him, that one soft intelligent eye– he’d wanted Bull, for something far softer than their usual trysts.

The thought had been fleeting, barely waking, but the wish stayed with him all day. He and Bull were no strangers to each others’ bodies, explored through gentler touches than he’d once expected. They were friends, comrades, it hadn’t honestly occurred to him– no, there was a lie. It had, but he had quashed the thought every time. There was no future for them, not really. Even if they both lived through this, even if they and the world both survived an ancient magister trying his level best to destroy it, surely they would not be able to go on as they had been doing?

But suddenly Dorian’s able to admit that yes, he wishes that they could. This is everything he wanted, isn’t it? Stability, openness, kindness, exceptionally good sex. Yes, of course it is. That’s why it can’t possibly last.

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