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It never fails, Zevran thinks. If there is one guarantee in travelling with Mirek, it will be that whenever they go anywhere in an official capacity—or even, on occasion, in an unofficial capacity, if someone is perceptive enough to recognize the Hero of Ferelden in the tattooed, battle-scarred Carta dwarf at Zevran’s side—the Warden immediately gets spirited off into sensitive meetings. It doesn’t matter where they are or what the purpose of their visit is—everyone, it seems, needs Mirek Brosca’s help for something. Skyhold is no exception.
The vast majority of these meetings, over the years, have taken place behind closed and cleverly locked doors. Almost invariably Zevran is politely but firmly told not to step through them; often, he even listens. The whole thing is ridiculous, really—as if Mirek doesn’t simply tell him everything that transpired as soon as they are reunited.
He makes the observation in good humour, at least. It never hurts to let people underestimate you, and the fiction that Zevran is nothing more than Mirek’s bodyguard—or lover, or hired killer—is one they’ve made use of several times in the past. Zevran is hardly about to resent anyone for handing him an advantage, even if it is because they think he’s less impressive than his husband. Fair enough: he thinks Mirek is plenty impressive, too.
But he’s in no danger of being underestimated here—not with Leliana as the Inquisition’s spymaster. If he’d had any doubts that she’d briefed the Inner Circle on him as well as his husband the second Mirek had sent word they were coming, they are erased when Inquisitor Adaar turns to him and says, in her rich tenor lilt, “You’d be welcome to sit in on the meeting, if you’d like. I’m sure the Wardens’ fate is of concern to you as well.”
Years spent going back and forth between Antiva City and Vigil’s Keep, helping Mirek train the Warden order that he is rebuilding from the ground up; months of research and chasing down leads in their efforts to cure the worst effects of the darkspawn taint; weeks of watching his husband toss in his sleep and wrench himself awake as he fights the false Calling’s song: yes, the fate of the Wardens concerns him plenty—but.
But Mirek is safe now (has been safe for some time, since the darkspawn magister’s song had ended as abruptly as it began), and they’ve been a long time on the road, and it’s been weeks since Zevran has had a proper drink. Spending the afternoon cooped up in a stuffy council chamber is not what he wants to do with his first day back in civilization—even such meagre civilization as can be found this far up a Frostback mountainside. There will be time to catch up with Leliana and flirt with the pretty Antivan ambassador on another day. For now, he has no compelling reason to be there.
So he just smiles and says, “As much as I appreciate the thought, Inquisitor, I think I’ll leave the extended war council to the Warden-Commander and yourself. These meetings have a tendency to be excruciatingly dull.”
Mirek grimaces, and Adaar smothers a laugh behind a quickly raised hand. “You may be onto something there,” she says, and smiles. “In that case I do hope you’ll join us for dinner tonight. I believe Josie has arranged for something in the great hall.”
Zevran bows with a flourish. “My dear woman, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
She nods to him once, then starts down the corridor towards the council chamber. Mirek tugs him down into a quick kiss. “We’ll be a few hours—we need to go over what happened at Adamant, and what’s going to happen with the Wardens now. Go have fun, love,” he says. “I’ll tell you all about it tonight.”
Zevran raises an eyebrow; Mirek just grins and kisses him again before hurrying off to catch up with the Inquisitor. Zevran watches after him fondly until he disappears around the corner, then turns to make his own way out of the castle proper and onto the grounds. He has been left to himself, the freedom of the afternoon stretching out attractively before him—but at Mirek’s instruction, he won’t be alone for long. He knows what ‘go have fun’ means.
He pauses on the steps of Skyhold, considering his options. The tavern would make for a promising start—even this early in the afternoon, it seems to have plenty of custom—but it appears he could just as well go practically anywhere else. The fortress is bustling. Soldiers patrol the walls at regular intervals; merchants and craftspeople of all description ply their trades on the grounds and in the outbuildings; on the lawn nearby a group of mages are going through their forms, led by an imperious knight-enchanter in glorious Orlesian headdress. His options are so numerous that he fears he’ll be spoiled for choice.
“If only we’d had something like this during the Blight,” he says, and starts down the stairs.
Across the field from where the mages are practicing battle tactics, the Inquisition has set up a sparring ground for its warriors. Zevran slows as he passes, appreciating the view: there are a number of fine specimens of manhood leaning on the fence to watch the current fight, and some equally well-muscled women among them. They are a mismatched lot—a few wear the uniform of the Inquisition’s soldiers, but most sport a patchwork of armour, and not all of them have put the same work into its maintenance. A mercenary unit, then, he surmises, or volunteers to the cause.
He lingers long enough, ogling the handsome profile and military-sharp haircut of one of the mercenaries—Tevinter by the look of him, perhaps Antivan—that a shout goes up from the crowd, followed by a smattering of applause. Through a gap in the circle of warriors he can see a burly human soldier pinned on his face in the dirt, his greatsword out of reach; the woman kneeling on his back is shorter, though no less broad, and bears a heavy shield on her arm and a wicked scar across her cheek.
She waits until the soldier has tapped the ground in surrender before she rises—accepting the whoops and cheers of the mercenary company with a faintly embarrassed smile—and offers her opponent a hand up. He accepts with good grace and a mildly awed expression, limping slightly as he retrieves his weapon and moves to lean on the fence; at the centre of the ring, the woman shakes out her shield arm and settles into a relaxed guard.
One voice rises over the congratulatory hubbub—a man’s, deep and rumbling, with an accent Zevran can’t quite place. He can’t see him, either—the speaker is on the other side of the ring, concealed behind the warriors that circle it.
“You up for another round, Seeker?”
The woman—the Seeker—laughs easily in response. Her accent is distinctly Nevarran. “Certainly, Bull,” she says, and sets her stance. “If you think you are up for it.”
Bull, Zevran thinks. He drifts closer, intrigued. What kind of man has a name like ‘Bull?’ It’s a nickname, it must be—and a promising one.
Bull chuckles. “Hey, three fights in a row has to have worn you down a little,” he says. “I might even stand a chance.”
The Seeker snorts impressively. “You should be so lucky,” she says.
There is the creak of a wooden bench and the thud of someone heavy planting their feet, and Bull stands. Zevran hasn’t drawn up to the fence yet, but it makes no difference to his view: the man is qunari, rises head and shoulders above the assembled warriors, and was plainly out of sight before only because he was seated. He wears an eyepatch and a pauldron—both worked with intricate designs, both on his left side—and has an improbably enormous battleaxe balanced easily across his equally improbable shoulders. The ridiculous breadth of his horns makes the source of his nickname plain.
Zevran has seen qunari before—Tal-Vashoth in Antiva and in Kirkwall, the occasional company of mercenaries in Ferelden and the Free Marches, and Sten himself, of course, who kept company with Mirek for nearly a year. Bull is easily the biggest man he’s ever seen.
Quite suddenly he finds himself far more invested in seeing this match play out.
He finds a break in the circle and swings himself up onto the fence, propping his elbow on the post beside him. From here he can see the sparring ring clearly, the packed earth and scuffed ground as well as the fighters who stand on it. The Seeker is in full armour, the emblem of the Inquisition emblazoned across her chest, but it is Bull’s form that Zevran lingers on: he wears no armour at all, aside from the shoulder piece, and his broad chest is mapped with scars that shift over his impressive musculature. Something jingles with his every other step, and Zevran’s eyes skip down past the unfortunately coloured pants—Maker, he could fit his entire body into those—to the metal worked into one of his boots. The left side again, he notes. It must be challenging to fight with one eye blind.
The audience’s focus sharpens perceptibly as the two warriors square off. The knot of mercenaries just to Zevran’s left holler and clap, and one of them—the probably-Tevinter with the military haircut—bellows, “Horns up, Chief!” Bull salutes him with his axe, grinning, then grips it with both hands and charges straight at the Seeker with a shout.
They’ve obviously fought many times before, and she doesn’t flinch as she takes his first blow on her shield and shunts it aside, twisting neatly out of the path of his swing. She’s on him before he has a chance to recover, the lighter weight of her blade making for swifter strokes. But Bull is fast, especially for someone so large, and he leaps back before her sword hits its mark; grimly she pursues, her shield braced solidly before her. A cheer goes up from the Inquisition soldiers, momentarily drowning out the whoops of the mercenaries.
They range across the training ground, battering at each other mercilessly, the clash of steel on steel punctuated by shouts and groans from both sides’ supporters. The Seeker is immovable, and her shield as much a weapon as it is a defence; Bull is relentless, using the stunning weight of his strikes to make her work for every inch of ground she gains. It’s a bit like it was watching Alistair and Sten sparring all those years ago, Zevran reflects—in general form, if not in precise technique. Alistair is taller than the Seeker, but she must have nearly two decades of experience on the young ex-templar Zevran fought alongside, and it shows: she shoulders Bull’s blows without breaking her stride, deflecting them with her armour and shield as she hammers at him with her sword. Bull, in turn, is lighter on his feet than Sten, but also more reckless, and he throws himself into the fight with such enthusiasm that the sheer size of his weapon sometimes works against him.
There’s a city elf among the mercenaries, watching the fight with a critical eye and picking her nails with a dagger. She lets out a snort of disgust as Bull aims an overhand swing at the Seeker. “You are getting too close,” she calls acidly. “She’s not a dragon!”
“Don’t you tell me how to fight!” Bull says, deflecting a slash from the Seeker’s sword with the haft of his axe.
The Tevinter folds his arms over his chest, grinning wryly. “Skinner’s right, Chief,” he says. “You’re leaving yourself open.”
“Come on, Krem, not you too!”
“When she knocks you on your ass, I’m not patching you up,” Krem returns.
“Eat shit!” Bull yells cheerfully. “What happened to ‘horns up?’”
At which point the Seeker takes advantage of his distraction to backhand him across the face with her shield.
A gasp goes up from the soldiers as Bull staggers back a couple paces, but he just shakes his head out and lifts a hand to rub his jaw. “Nice,” he says.
“Pay attention, Bull,” the Seeker snaps, but there’s something fond in her tone.
He grins and rushes her again.
Once more, she’s ready for him, but this time she doesn’t take the hit and shrug it off. Instead she steps into his charge, slamming her shield into his sternum and bringing him up short. The force of the blow and the momentum of his arrested swing overbalances him, and he staggers again. She presses her advantage mercilessly, raining strikes on him too fast to block.
The fight is over quickly after that, and the end result—true to Krem’s prediction—is Bull knocked flat on his back with the Seeker’s sword pointed at his throat. “Yield,” she says.
“Yield,” Bull agrees. He’s dripping sweat into the dust, his breath coming in gasps—from the exertion, possibly, though from the way he’s grinning up at her Zevran thinks it’s more likely the adrenaline. He declines her offered hand, heaving himself to his feet and leaning on his axe. “Good fight, Seeker. I don’t suppose you want to go again?”
The Seeker snorts. “I think I have had quite enough for one day,” she says. She gestures at the mercenary company, who have given up all pretence of cheering on their boss and are instead cackling and jeering. “Fight one of your Chargers if you’re that eager for another round. I’m sure they would be happy to oblige you.”
“Of course they would,” Bull says. “Knock it off, you assholes!”
“No can do, Chief!” says the Dalish elf sitting on the fence nearest to Zevran, before dissolving into giggles once more.
“I told you so,” Krem adds.
The Seeker huffs a laugh and shakes her head, then makes her way out of the ring. A few of the soldiers peel off in her wake, but most remain, waiting to see what happens next—and Zevran makes his decision.
“If your offer is still open,” he says, hopping down from the fence, “I think I might take you up on it, if you don’t mind.”
Bull blinks and gives him a quick once over, gaze lingering briefly on his face before taking in his armour—beautifully made, if worn and a bit dusty—and the exquisite quality of his blades. “You’re not one of the Inquisition’s people.”
Zevran doesn’t ask how he knows that (does Bull know everyone here by sight, he wonders, or was it just a deduction based on his gear? He tucks that question away to ponder later). “I am not,” he says instead, and makes an elaborate bow. “Zevran Arainai, at your service.”
Bull’s eye narrows faintly, but whatever his thoughts, they remain in reserve. “The Iron Bull,” he says.
“Wait, you mean that’s actually your name?” Zevran says with a delighted laugh. “I assumed it was a nickname.” He casts an appreciative look up Bull’s frame—even more impressive at close range—and takes half a step closer. “Quite an appropriate one, at that.”
For a moment Bull doesn’t react, then he lets out a hearty chuckle. “That so?” he says. “Alright, Zevran Arainai, I guess I could go a round with you.”
Zevran hoods his eyes. “Perhaps even several rounds,” he says.
“Oh, great,” he hears Krem groan from somewhere behind him. “He’s found another one.”
Bull’s gaze is locked on Zevran as he advances to the centre of the sparring ring, and his skin prickles hotly across his collar. He rolls his shoulders back and draws his daggers; Bull hefts his axe. On the other side of the ring, some of the soldiers and mercenaries are placing bets.
Not that it matters. Regardless of whether he wins this fight, Zevran isn’t planning to lose.
“You ready?” Bull says.
“Please,” Zevran says, “after you.”
He’s prepared for the charge when it comes. Unlike the Seeker, he doesn’t have a shield to bear it on—not that he could if he did—and his armour is too light to take that kind of blow. Instead he leaps to the side, darting into Bull’s blind spot and sweeping his daggers out in a light arc. Bull pivots out of the way, bringing Zevran back into view and carrying the momentum into a second swing of his axe. Zevran skips back, then rushes in again. His speed, he knows, will be his greatest asset in this fight.
He ducks and weaves around Bull’s blows, moving in and out of his reach—forcing him to follow when he jumps back too far, forcing him to pivot and retreat when he presses too close for an effective swing. They range back and forth across the training ground under the fascinated eyes of their audience; Zevran thinks the Chargers might cheer for him as often as they do their boss. He harries at Bull with slashing strokes and pinprick thrusts, focusing his attacks on the qunari’s exposed torso; Bull grunts the first time one of his strikes connects, but barely flinches, letting the blood trickle down his chest unchecked.
Frankly, it’s unfair how sexy that is; it might do more to distract Zevran than it does him.
They’re both breathing hard and Zevran can feel the sweat trickling along his hairline when Bull says, “You’ve had good training.”
Indisputably true, Zevran thinks as he spins out of the way of another strike, but this was hardly the style of fighting he was taught. It’s been the Blight and his years with Mirek that have seen him able to hold his own. “Good training,” he says, darting back in, “and years of experience.”
“I can see that,” Bull says. “Arainai is one of the Crow houses. What interest do the Antivan Crows have in the Inquisition?”
His next blow is too quick to avoid, and it catches Zevran across the side; his armour bears the brunt of it, but it leaves him momentarily winded and he beats a hasty retreat. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he says, trying not to gasp. “I’ve been free of the Crows for some ten years now.”
“I thought the Crows didn’t let their people go,” Bull says, bearing down on him.
Zevran chuckles weakly, dancing out of the way of another powerful swing. “Of course not,” he says, “just as no one ever survives leaving the Qun.”
For a moment Bull doesn’t respond, but then he snorts; when Zevran spares a glance at his face, he’s grinning, though there’s a trace of tension around his eye. “Alright,” he says, “you got me there.” He takes a cut on his bicep, dismisses it, carries on his relentless advance—at this rate he’s going to have Zevran pinned against the fence. “So you’re not with the Crows. What are you doing here, then?”
Zevran bats his eyelashes. “I thought I was sparring with you.”
Bull’s gaze goes dark and heavy. “Oh, is that the way you want to do this,” he says.
With no more warning than that, he lunges. Zevran barely spins aside in time. The axe misses him by a hair’s breadth and cleaves heavily into the earth; he feels the tremor in his very bones. Quickly, before Bull can pick up speed again, he darts forward and lashes out not with his blades but with his boot. His foot connects solidly with the side of Bull’s knee, and there’s a collective groan from the Chargers almost before Bull grunts and slams the ground, dropping his axe.
“You fucking shit!” someone yells. It’s one of the mercenaries—Zevran’s not sure which.
“I’m an assassin,” he reminds them. “We don’t fight fair.”
Bull is watching him impassively, still down on one knee. Aside from the brief sound he made as he fell, he’s shown no sign of the pain he must be feeling, and for a moment Zevran almost feels bad—but there’s a flicker of something in the qunari’s eye, an assessment of sorts. He looks nearly pleased.
“We’re not done yet,” he says.
Zevran’s eyes flick to the battleaxe, still within Bull’s reach. He doesn’t know if he can move fast enough to end the fight before Bull grabs it, but he likes his chances.
“Indeed not,” he says, and leaps.
Too late, he realizes that Bull isn’t going for the axe. Instead he surges forward, and in the space of an instant Zevran experiences a stunning slam, a whirlwind tumble, and a sudden crushing weight on his torso. Before he has time to register what happened, he finds himself flat on his back on the ground, solidly pinned by an immovable mountain of a qunari who weighs at least four times what he does. He tries to move his arms, but they are just as well-restrained as the rest of him. Not that it matters: somewhere between the blow to his chest and his ignominious landing in the dirt, he lost his daggers. He looks up directly into Bull’s scarred, smirking face and finds himself quite breathless.
“Oh, well done,” he says. “I suppose I deserved that. One shouldn’t make assumptions about one’s opponent.”
Bull laughs. “Does that mean you yield?”
“I don’t know about that,” Zevran says. He arches his back; pinned so firmly beneath the qunari’s bulk, the movement is all but indistinguishable to any other eyes. “If I admit defeat you’ll let me go, and then where would I be? You would leave me positively bereft.”
Bull looks both amused and knowing as he squeezes his wrist, and his voice is pitched so low that Zevran feels more than hears it. “I could always pin you down again later.”
Elation tastes sweet on Zevran’s tongue. “Is that so?” he says, and pretends to consider it. “Well, if you’re certain—then yes, I suppose I will yield.”
And just like that, he can breathe again. Bull stands, nearly stumbling once before he gets his feet under him, leaning his weight on his right leg. He is immediately swarmed by the Chargers, many of them shooting dirty looks in Zevran’s direction as he hauls himself upright.
Bull notices, of course; his one eye is remarkably sharp. “Easy,” he says. “I’m fine. No harm done.”
The bulk of his attention seems centred on the city elf—Skinner, Zevran recalls—who has nearly as many knives on her person as Zevran, but Krem is the one who responds. “We’ll see what Stitches thinks about that,” he says tightly. He gives Zevran another look, making it abundantly clear what he intends if this Stitches makes an unfavourable pronouncement.
“Relax, Krem puff,” Bull says, to Zevran’s great delight. “You’re acting like I don’t take worse every day I’m in the field.”
“Yes, and I check you over every time you come back from a fight,” says a faintly exasperated human man who can only be Stitches. “That’s what you hired me for. Let me do my job.” He points imperiously at the bench. “Sit.”
Bull sighs, but bears the fussing with fond good grace as he does what he’s told. Zevran makes himself comfortable against the fence while Stitches conducts his examination, pulling out one of his own knives to neaten up his fingernails. He makes perhaps a bit more of a show of it than he usually would, but Skinner is still glaring proverbial daggers at him, and she looks only a moment from making them literal.
“It’ll be fine,” Stitches says at last. “It’s not damaged—”
“Any more than it already was,” says Krem.
“But you’ll have to stay off of it as much as possible,” Stitches continues. “And no more sparring until I give my say-so. Or other vigorous activities that will strain it,” he adds. He spares a significant look at Zevran; Zevran contrives to look very innocent.
“I would never suggest such a thing,” he says.
Bull bites back a laugh. “I’m fine,” he says again. “It just needs a good soak, and I’ll be back on my feet by tomorrow.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” says Stitches, but lets him go.
In the absence of a show, some of the soldiers have partnered off and started on their combat drills; now, Bull waves the Chargers towards them. “Go on, boys, just because I’m laid up doesn’t mean you get to slack on your training,” he says. He heaves himself to his feet, keeping his weight on his right leg under Stitches’—and Krem’s—watchful eyes. “I’ll meet you in the tavern later. Get to it.”
Krem glances at Zevran and huffs a resigned sigh. “How do you keep finding these people?” he mutters.
“You have problems, Chief,” says a broadly moustached dwarf.
“No vigorous activities!” Stitches repeats.
“Yeah, yeah,” Bull says, and limps out of the ring.
Zevran straightens casually and ambles after him, ignoring the disapproving looks the mercenaries direct his way. He catches Bull up just before the qunari reaches the steps of the main keep, falling in with him as he turns towards an unassuming door set into the wall near the stairs.
“So where are we going?” Zevran says.
Bull glances down at him, his lips curving into a smile. “Are we going somewhere?” he asks.
He pulls the door open, and Zevran follows him through it. He looks around. “Well, we certainly seem to be,” he says.
The space he find himself in is unlike anywhere he has yet seen in Skyhold. Though the walls and ceiling are built from the same carved blocks as the rest of the fortress, the floor is not: instead it seems cut from the mountain itself, what Mirek would call the living Stone. The flickering torches that light the doorway reveal a short hall, giving way to a staircase that descends into what looks like it was once a natural cave before patient hands shaped it into part of this fortress. Zevran would have expected it to be cool, but the air is warm and humid.
Bull starts down the stairs, carefully, his left hand braced on the wall for support, his head ducked to avoid knocking his horns on the intermittent torches. “I know where I’m going,” he says. “I’m going to soak my leg in the baths. I don’t know where you’re going. It obviously can’t be with me, because my healer says I’m not allowed to strain my leg since some asshole kicked me in the bum knee in my last sparring match.”
“Hoisted by my own petard,” Zevran says tragically, before finding himself abruptly distracted from their banter. “Wait, did you say ‘baths?’ There are baths here?”
Bull nods, looking amused. “Natural hot spring. Skyhold is built over it.”
“Well, that explains the temperature,” Zevran says. He picks up his pace slightly, trotting down the last few steps ahead of Bull. There’s an old wooden door at the bottom of the stairs, and a wave of heat washes over him when he pushes it open. The room is dim, but there’s enough light to see by, and what he can see has him nearly melting with pleasure. “Maker, yes,” he groans. “It has been far too long since I had a proper bath.”
“Been on the road a long time, huh?”
“You could certainly say that, yes,” Zevran says.
The room is low but long, with a natural ceiling and rough walls. The floor is smooth and sloped in irregular curves; most of it is taken up by the hot spring, which stretches away into the depths of the cave. There are broad steps cut into the edge of the pool, and a low stone shelf runs along one side of it; on the other is a bench carved into the wall and, incongruously, a little wooden cabinet, slightly wobbly on the uneven floor of the cave.
Bull sits down beside it with a quiet sigh, and Zevran watches with undisguised interest as he eases his boots off, unbuckles his pauldron and girdle, and loosens the waistband of his pants. He’s still looking when Bull lifts his head, catching his eye and smirking faintly. “I hope you weren’t planning on wearing your armour in the bath,” he says. “I get the feeling the boss might disapprove.”
“And deny you the chance to see me with my clothes off? Please,” Zevran says. “I would never do such a thing.”
“You’ll kick me in the knee, but at least you won’t deprive me of your nudity. Got it.”
Zevran laughs carelessly, unbuckling his sword belt and shucking off his armour. The shirt underneath is simple cotton, damp with sweat and still faintly gritty with the dust of the road. He makes a face and pulls it over his head, and when he drops it to the floor Bull is looking at him, eye lingering on his chest and tracing down the elegant lines that decorate his torso and disappear into his waistband. Zevran is no stranger to being looked at, and he arches his back, showing himself to his best advantage as he toes his boots and socks off and then, shameless, strips his leggings from his hips.
Bull’s gaze is heavy on him as he steps into the bath, a palpable weight that sends heat flaring through his belly as his dick tightens in anticipation. The water is perfect, just this side of too hot; he moans out loud as he relaxes into it and feels rather than sees Bull’s focus sharpen.
For a moment he just floats, a quiet contentment settling into his bones. Then he ducks his head underwater and combs his fingers through his hair, his eyes drifting up to Bull as he begins picking his braids apart. He smiles. “Well?” he says. “I seem to recall you saying something about soaking your leg. Were you planning on joining me, or are you content to merely watch?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Bull says, his voice slow and appreciative. “You put on a pretty good show.”
Zevran thinks of all the times he’s done just that for Mirek, tilting his hips and locking eyes with his husband as someone else fucks him, and feels a laugh bubble up in his throat. “Of course I do,” he says, “and I’ve no objection to being watched, certainly, if that’s what interests you—but I get the feeling that you would prefer to participate in this particular performance.”
The pleased rumble that Bull lets out then is very nearly a growl, and despite the heat of the water Zevran shivers. He watches eagerly as Bull gets to his feet, letting his pants slide from his legs, and the sight that meets his eyes, oh—
“My, my,” he purrs, “that is quite the impressive package, isn’t it?”
Bull laughs, pleased, smug, full-throated. “Direct, aren’t you?”
“I don’t waste time with subtlety unless I’d gain something from it,” Zevran says. “Surely you, of all people, can appreciate that.”
“What gave it away?” Bull says, grinning. He steps into the bath, cautious on the stairs without anything to brace himself on, and hisses out a relieved breath when the water covers his left knee. He takes his seat there, stretching his leg out in front of him and kneading absently at the muscle; on the steps, his hips are only just under water, and nothing is hidden to the eye. Zevran drifts closer, far closer than could be considered innocent; he is drawn almost magnetically, his gaze pulled as much by the scar tissue that runs up Bull’s leg as by his magnificent cock.
He reaches out, tracing a finger across his knee. “I suppose I should apologize for that,” he says.
Bull grunts. “Nah,” he says easily. “It was smart. Take whatever advantage you can find, right?” He stretches, rolling his shoulders back; up close once more, his sheer size is no less overwhelming, or enticing. “Most people don’t notice the leg, even with the brace,” he says. “Distracted by everything else, I suppose.”
“I can see why,” Zevran says, flattening his hand against his leg. “You are very distracting.”
Bull lets out a chuckle, his eye hooded and warm. “Not distracting enough to keep you from spotting it,” he says.
“I was trained to spot such things.”
“So was I,” Bull says. “And there are plenty of others like us. I’ve fought assassins before.” For a moment there’s a flicker of—something—in his eye, but it’s gone before Zevran can catalogue it, and then Bull smiles again, relaxing into his touch. “Just because my boys won’t hit me in the knee doesn’t mean one of them would do me the same courtesy.”
“Certainly not,” Zevran agrees. “All the same—with your permission, I would like to make it up to you.”
Bull raises his eyebrow; he looks like he’s barely containing laughter. “That so?” he says, his voice impressively neutral. His hand settles on Zevran’s hip, palming the breadth of it with ease. “What did you have in mind?”
Rather than answer, Zevran runs his fingers up Bull’s thigh, wrapping them loosely around his dick. Bull exhales a low breath, hips twitching as his cock stirs with interest. “Alright,” he says. “I think I can work with this.”
“I should certainly hope so,” Zevran says. “You’d be a dreadful tease otherwise, and I would be very put out.” He crowds in close, tilts his head up, spreads his free hand against Bull’s broad chest; Bull is looking back at him, his head tipped down, his full lips and all their scars a mere breath away—all Zevran would have to do to claim them is push himself up onto his knees. He doesn’t, yet: the anticipation is better.
Bull lets out another breath and curves his hand around Zevran’s hip, squeezing his ass and pulling him closer. “I suppose I did imply some things,” he rumbles.
“You said you could pin me down,” Zevran says promptly. He arches against Bull’s grip, working lazily at his dick as it swells into hardness. “I would very much like you to make good on that suggestion. Though I understand if your current obligation to non-vigorous activities makes the particulars somewhat more difficult. As ever, I have only myself to blame for that.”
“Nah,” Bull chuckles, “just means we have to get creative.”
He slides his other hand around Zevran’s waist, lifting him bodily onto his lap with a light splash. Zevran gasps, forgetting himself for a moment as his stiffening cock presses against Bull’s, but Bull keeps a grip on his ass and stops him from bucking into it. He settles Zevran’s knees on either side of his hips, forcing his thighs apart; perched like this, he is very nearly out of the water entirely, and the air prickles warmly on his sensitive skin.
“There we go,” Bull says, circling a hand around Zevran’s dick. “This should work just fine.”
There is nothing coy or idle about that touch. Zevran is soon achingly hard, squeezing out beads of precum onto Bull’s fingers. He drops his head against Bull’s collar, pressing his hands to his chest and looking down into the space between their bodies—admiring the contrast in their skintones, watching his dick work in Bull’s fist. Bull is just as hard as he is, the wide flat head of his cock flushed to nearly purple against the silver of his skin, and Zevran wants desperately to feel it drag inside him.
“I hope you’re planning on doing something with that marvellous cock of yours,” he says, lifting his head so Bull can see his face.
The qunari grins at him. “Did you have something specific in mind?”
“Oh, very well, since you asked so nicely,” Zevran says, and surges up to kiss him. Bull returns it eagerly, biting down on his lip and easing his tongue into his mouth, and Zevran moans against it before he breaks away. “Fuck me, Bull,” he says. “If you would be so kind. I am at your disposal.”
Bull chuckles at that, but there’s a raw edge to it that says he’s not nearly as unaffected as he pretends to be. “I could do that,” he agrees. “Can you reach the cabinet from here? There should be some bath oils in there.”
Zevran steals another kiss, then shifts to his knees and stretches to reach; Bull obligingly assists by lifting his ass with a bruising grip, making Zevran squirm against his hands even as he’s grasping the cabinet door. “Why is this even here?” he says, pulling it open; inside is a stack of undyed cotton towels, and, yes, the promised bath oils. He catches one of the bottles and passes it over, sinking eagerly back into Bull’s lap. “It seems a tad out of place.”
Bull snorts. “Cole,” he says. “He likes to help. And people have started storing their things in it, so I guess it’s working.” He uncorks the bottle and the scent of sandalwood fills the air; for the barest moment there’s something soft in his smile, and then he pours the oil out over his hand and reaches down between them, pressing at Zevran’s entrance with one thick finger, and Zevran has no more time to think on it.
“Somehow, I suspect,” he gasps, grinding down on Bull’s hand, “that they would not approve of our misappropriating their bathing supplies in such a way.”
Bull hums, pumping into him with a precision that has Zevran bucking in his arms. “I don’t know about that,” he says. “Dorian’s biggest complaint might be that I didn’t invite him.”
“For shame,” Zevran says. His hips jerk. “You’ll just have to bring him along next time.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Bull says, and slides a second finger into his ass.
By the time Bull has worked him open enough to take him, Zevran is so on edge that he’s not convinced he won’t come as soon as Bull fills him up. The qunari is breathing hard, his untouched cock straining heavily against Zevran’s thigh, and when he pours another handful of oil over his palm and coats himself with it he groans outright at the relief of finally taking himself in hand. Zevran presses down on him impatiently, worrying at the skin over his collarbone; he doubts he’ll be able to leave a mark, but the way Bull huffs a breath and lets his head drop back is very satisfying.
Finally, finally, Bull presses against his entrance, guiding him down onto his cock, and Zevran has to muffle a cry against his throat. He’s fucked qunari before—men and women both, though the latter are less readily found outside qunari lands—as well as a number of humans with improbably sized anatomy and a handful of ladies with artificial equivalents that deny all sense of proportion. For all that, he’s still not sure he’s ever felt a stretch quite like this; when he at last bottoms out, it steals all the air from his lungs.
“Oh,” he gasps, “oh fuck—Bull—fuck!”
Bull’s breath is harsh against his ear. “Still want me to pin you down?” he says.
Zevran shudders. “Andraste’s pyre, yes.”
Before he has a chance to process what’s happening, Bull has caught both his wrists in one massive hand, twisting his arms up behind his back. He clamps the other hand down on Zevran’s hips, forcing him tightly onto his cock, making sparks go off behind his eyes as he presses against his prostate. For a moment Zevran is robbed of all sound, clenching desperately around him as he nearly comes right there, and then he drops his head with a groan and buries his face in Bull’s collar.
“You good?” Bull says as his hips start to move, and Zevran gasps out a laugh at the absurdity of the question.
“Fantastic,” he says against the skin of Bull’s throat. “Oh—oh yes—fuck, keep doing that—”
“You got it,” Bull murmurs, and fucks up into him.
They don’t have much use for talking after that, and Zevran is too overwhelmed by sensation to put thoughts to words in any case. Their pace is slow, but so deep that it more than makes up for it, and he’s pressed so firmly down that every shift of their hips drags his cock against Bull’s stomach. He ruts into him with a shameless need, straining against his hold, demanding more, more, more as Bull fucks him so thoroughly that he thinks he’ll feel it for the rest of his life.
A sudden tension in Bull’s movements is the only warning he has before the qunari buries his teeth in his shoulder with a low growl and spills himself in his ass. Zevran moans with it, tightening around him, and drives himself down as hard and deep as he can with his limited range of motion. He can feel Bull jerking beneath him, oversensitive and trembling still with the aftershocks of his orgasm, sending ripples across the surface of the pool. Zevran bows his back, feeling the pull in his arms at the way Bull grips him, and lets himself go.
He comes all over Bull’s stomach, painting broad stripes against grey skin as he shakes himself apart. Bull releases his arms, and Zevran collapses against him, boneless, floating pleasantly in a post-coital haze. For a long moment his mind is blissfully blank, his senses a gentle afterthought; then gradually he begins to drift back to himself, becoming aware of Bull rubbing circles into the base of his spine, the hold that has gone from restraining to supporting, the delicious feeling of his cock—softening now—still filling Zevran’s ass.
He becomes aware, also, of the sticky mess filling the space between them. His eyes flutter open, and he looks up into Bull’s face to find the qunari already watching him, his expression suffused with a completely unselfish pleasure.
“Good?” he says.
“Magnificent,” Zevran assures him. “I seem to have made quite the mess of you. Please, do me the honour of letting me clean you off.”
“Shit, yes,” Bull says.
With his help Zevran is able to lift himself, his ass clenching around nothing when Bull slides free of him. He splashes back down into the spring, settling on the steps between Bull’s knees and taking his cock in hand. He washes it under the water, taking his time, then leans up to press his lips to his stomach, licking him meticulously clean. All the while Bull watches appreciatively, winding his fingers through Zevran’s damp hair, content to relax under his mouth and hands.
“You want help washing up?” he says when Zevran has finished, and of course he would not dream of refusing.
He still smells faintly of sex when he dresses himself—sandalwood, a touch of sweat, the musky scent of Bull’s skin. He will drive Mirek wild with it before the night is through. He settles his sword belt on his hips, turning to Bull with an entirely genuine smile. The qunari has submerged himself fully in the pool now, relaxing back with his shoulders propped against the lip, and he returns Zevran’s smile with an easy grin.
“My thanks,” Zevran says, “for an absolutely delightful afternoon.”
“Hey, anytime,” Bull says. “You come by the tavern tonight, I’ll be there with my boys.”
Zevran thinks of how Mirek will react to this story, and has to bite down a laugh. “Regrettably I believe I will be otherwise engaged this evening,” he says. “But tomorrow, as they say, is another day. If your offer is still open, you may just see me then.”
Bull chuckles. “Oh, I may?” he says.
“I make no promises,” Zevran says impishly. “But do feel free to invite that friend of yours along. Or anyone else you’ve a mind to.”
“Can do,” Bull says, his eye gone dark with interest.
Zevran flutters his fingers in farewell, turning towards the door. “And perhaps I’ll bring my husband,” he says over his shoulder. “He does so like to watch me.”
Bull lets out a short bark of laughter. “I can see why,” he says. “You sure are something, aren’t you?”
Zevran just laughs in reply, leaving Bull to his bath and ascending the stairs to the main level of Skyhold. It must be nearly time to meet Mirek for dinner, he thinks as he emerges into the late afternoon sun. No doubt his husband will be driven to distraction all through the meal, anticipating the story Zevran will tell him. And what a story! Even the barest details will tantalize.
And, even better: the promise of more, if he should just go to meet Bull at some later point. Coming to Skyhold has certainly been worthwhile.
Humming to himself, he trots up the steps to the main fortress, already pondering how long he can convince Mirek to stay.