"You could stay...if you wanted." Sita looks up at Bull, finding his eye slide to study her.
"If I wanted?"
She shrugs, burrowing her naked skin under her covers. Bull sits next to her on the bed with one foot on the floor and the other outstretched in front of him. He remains gloriously naked with a sheen of sweat covering his skin.
She tells herself it doesn't matter if he stays. She will surely sleep as well with or without him. It'd be nice, for once, to not pass the night entirely alone, with only the winter wind and half-finished rafters for company.
With her finger she makes circles on the bed in the space between them. Waiting.
"I might poke you with one of my horns," he says, with a half smile.
Her stomach churns, something pleasant and anxious. That's been happening a lot lately. Months of being tied up, bitten (lightly), and smacked (not so lightly) and it's only now that her heart is catching up to her body and she wants him.
His advice, his time, his attention, his half grins and fully-voiced guffaws.
She smiles back at him--more of a smirk, really, since she’s trying to hide her true thoughts (a hopeless attempt when he can read her quite well otherwise). "I think I'll manage."
She, however, cannot fathom what it means when his eye softens, and his lips part--just a bit--before he takes a deep breath and says, “Alright, Boss, we can see how this goes."
Her heart hammers, and her eyes go wide with surprise--too fast for her to hide it. He “humphs” in response, like he’s won a tête-à-tête. It’s the same way he smiles when he orders her to come and she does.
He slips out of the bed, quiet and smooth--he lied when he said he has no finesse--checks the lock on the door, snuffs out the candles, and turns off the lantern.
In the darkness, she listens as his bare feet pad along the stone floor until his weight settles next to her again.
A slight rustle as the covers move, then she feels the warmth of him, smells his sweat and and the lubricant they used just a little while ago.
"You gonna make this a habit? Because your bed is too short." He settles onto his back, adjusting the blankets at his waist, and she wonders how far his feet are poking out at the end of the bed.
"They sell bigger ones in Val Royeaux," she manages, half a whisper. Why is she still timid? He's here. This is what she wanted.
"Oh, damn, you mean those gilded ones up on pedestals?"
He grunts, and the sound vibrates next to her, so that it's all she can do not to reach across the space between them--they still haven't touched since they finished--and start tracing those circles on his chest and belly, maybe rest her head on his shoulder.
She hums. “I was thinking of one with bedposts."
He grunts again. "Oh. Yeah, I like what you're thinking. You should get one of those. I have ideas already."
She blushes in the dark, and his voice makes her want to touch herself, despite the satisfying bedding he gave her not too long ago.
Before she can think of anything else, Bull’s large arm pulls her down on the bed. He gets her where he wants her: flushed against his side, her eyes level with his chest and her toes barely coming down to his knees. Her arm drapes around his torso with his large, warm hand holding it in place. His other arm moves her pillow so she can lie next him, a safe distance from the horns he warned her about.
“Is this what you wanted?” he whispers against the top of her head.
“Good,” he says. “Make sure you get that bed.”
He squeezes her rump, and she shivers against him.
“Yes, sir,” she squeaks.
Iron Bull wakes up when the morning sun shines mercilessly through Sita’s stained glass windows. Miraculously, she’s still sleeping curled next to him.
Well, this is…different.
They have slept next to each other before--she’s about the only person who’d fit in a tent with him--but this morning has a newness he cannot place.
Two weeks ago he called her Sita in front of the Chargers. A slip of the tongue (and besides there was a foggy rain, Vints, Cole, and Dorian summoning horrors left and right). Who could blame the Iron Bull for being a little on edge?
Oh, and Gat had been there too, expelling him from the Qun and severing an alliance.
Bull leaves the bed, but the memory follows him onto the balcony, which overlooks nothing save snowy cliffs as far as his eye can see.
He murmurs a litany from the Qun, words meant to settle unease, to bring focus. They don’t work. All he can find are broken pieces that will not fit together.
Tal Val-fucking-shoth. The Iron Bull. Bodyguard. Captain of the Chargers.
All him, and yet somehow…not.
He turns and leans against the railing, his gaze now on Sita’s room. Qunari don’t fuck their friends, he told her back at Haven. Yet, that’s what he’s doing. What they’re doing.
And he…likes it.
He’s big, and she’s little. He destroys with a war axe, and she slays with little blades. He’s loud, and she’s soft (like a swish of silk slipping through his fingers). He spies--spied--for the Ben Hassrath: trained and re-educated and stationed. She spied for the carta: hidden and silent and expendable (to hear her tell it).
He ties her up and makes her beg until his name is a quivering whisper on her lips.
She has him tied up too, somehow, and he has no patience to unravel the knot.
So why should he?
He leaves the balcony, strides into the room, and yanks the blankets off the bed. Sita wakes with a gasp. He wastes no time and climbs on to the mattress.
He traps her wrists above her head with one hand. With his other, he grabs her chin. “Do you regret asking me to stay, Sita?”
A moment of shock crosses her features, but it’s gone from her chestnut eyes just as quickly. At the same time, her body relaxes beneath his.
She breathes deeply, in and out, and he matches his breath with hers, watching her closely.
A short, muscly leg wraps around his thigh, drawing him closer. She smiles. “I never regret anything I do with you.”
He grunts, using the warmth that spreads in his chest to fuel his lust, and kisses her. This he can handle. All that other shit he can figure out later.