come on, get up, let me see your bruises

[shok_ebasit_hissra]

Fight club was good. Dorian hadn't come - work, maybe, or he just hadn't been feeling in the mood for it. Bull hadn't pressed and had promised he'd be home before it got too late.

Dorian had seen him through a few fight clubs now, but none of them had ever been like this one. At some point toward the end of the evening, Dorian had gotten a picture on his phone: a selfie of Bull and Krem with a giant carcass in the background. Bull's eyepatch was long gone and the pair of them had been a bloody mess.

Not terribly long after that, Bull arrived back to his apartment. Even if Dorian's was very nice, it was more practical for them to sleep in his: Bull's bed was bigger and more sturdy.

He looked like he'd come out of a fight in Thedas, scored with fresh lacerations and incisions, bruises blossoming across his gray skin. He'd cleaned off the worst of the blood - especially the wyvern blood - before leaving the fairgrounds. Thankfully there had been a working hose there.

Comments

[propertool]

Dorian met Bull at the door to his apartment, with a look of mock horror on his face. He'd seen Bull in a worse state, and he was reasonably certain there was no chance that Bull would have died doing whatever he did that night, and so he was not actually angry, or upset. But it seemed to still deserve an over-the-top reaction, and so, Dorian supplied one, in the interest of dramaturgical structure.

Dorian clutched his cheeks.

"What in the name of every old god have you done to yourself, Iron Bull?"