“You know, I’m happy you’re Thom Rainier.” Blackwall looked up at her from where he was absently drawing patterns on her bare stomach, surprise written all over his face. “You are?”
“Thom feels better on the tongue than Gordon ever did.”
He couldn’t miss the sultry tone of her voice even if he tried. Maker, he’d never expected to hear those words—never expected anyone to be happy about Thom Rainier again, not after what he’d done, but she kept surprising him; all his lies had come undone…and yet, somehow she was still here with him. Ever since becoming Blackwall, he’d let his name be lost in the shuffle and then he’d finally shaken free of his past, only to turn around and own up to it, wanting to die rather than get caught further up in this lie—willing to lose everything, so she would still think well of him. But he’d been punished more by his own hand than anyone else could ever match, and she had not only forgiven his transgressions, but still wanted him—still loved him and now with no secrets between them he let himself love her—worship her and give her all of himself; when she’d unlocked his shackles, she’d also released him from his shame and his guilt.
He must have done something right to get so lucky as to find her.
He hadn’t expected a second chance, but he intended to make the most of it; to learn from his mistakes and to do his best to live up to the faith she'd placed in him, his heart swelling with gratefulness. Calloused fingers stroked the swell of her breasts and she gasped, his name no more than a sigh on her lips—just hearing it caused his heart to swell. It had been like a punch to the gut knowing that after they’d slept together she’d thought he’d left because that night meant nothing, when in truth, he’d left because it had meant everything; she’d had another’s name on her lips, his lies catching up to him when he allowed himself a moment of weakness. But he’d never give her cause to doubt his heart again.
Smiling at her, he drew himself up her body, fingers wandering south to tease her as he put his mouth by her ear, the whiskers of his beard tickling her.
“If that’s the case, then—” His fingers ghosted over her clit making her arch up and press her chest against his. “—I want you to moan it—scream it.”
She giggled as Blackwall gripped her hips and rolled them over, Briar shifting her position to slot his thigh between her legs, pink lips curling up into a smirk as she gazed down at him. He grinned up at her and stole a kiss as Briar hummed softly. She winked down at him as she braced her hands against the planes of his broad chest, fingers curling in his chest hair as she arched her hips, rubbing his thigh insistently against her clit and creating a delicious friction between them, her touch sending his heart careening against his ribcage. Blackwall’s fingertips traipsed up her calves and thighs, stopping on her hips and digging into her soft flesh, easing her rhythm faster and grinding her wet heat against his leg, the little moan she made sending all his blood rushing straight to his cock. He swore he saw stars. She’d chosen this position because she wanted to show him that she desired every inch of him, name be damned.
“Milady…” He groaned, the sound sending a jolt of heat straight to her core as she ground against his thigh.
She raked her nails teasingly through his chest hair, drawing a shudder from her lover as she bent down to capture his earlobe between her teeth. “Say my name, Thom. Say it and I’ll give you everything you want and more.”
She pushed herself back into a sitting position, her gaze raking across his form as she bit her lower lip, feeling the coil building inside her as her clit connected with his thigh at just the right angle as she rode him. Her hips rocked faster as her clit rubbed against him, lips parted and a sultry smile on her face as she gazed at him from under her lashes. She rubbed a hand down her chest and pinched a hardened nipple, feeling him tense up underneath her. Her hands slipped down his body as she hovered over him, skimming the contours of his muscles with her fingers and his grip on her hips tightened as she curled her fingers around his shaft, hips arching up to meet her and head falling against the pillows, a strangled sound escaping his lips.
“Briar…” He groaned, the feeling of her hand on his bare cock had him already near orgasm and unable to think straight.
She was grinning from ear to ear and glowing in smug satisfaction, Blackwall cursing under his breath as she pumped him slowly.
“That’s a good boy.” She purred, lifting herself off his thigh and shifting her body, her core poised in the air over where he needed her most.
As she lowered herself onto his throbbing erection he slipped his hands between them to cup her naked breasts, rough fingers drawing gentle circles around her nipples. Maker, she had the most perfect tits. She rolled her hips around his cock feeling the way his muscles tensed as she used her knees to push herself off him before she sank back onto him, her walls clamping tightly around his thick shaft. Blackwall’s strong hands glided down the planes of her body, taking her in and marveling at the feel of her soft skin under his calloused fingers as she glanced at him from under her long, blonde lashes, lips parted in a sultry smile, her eyes flicking to his. He gripped her hips again, fingertips digging into the flesh there and guiding her through his thrusts, hips jerking up off the cot as he brought her hips down to his. She glanced at him from under her lashes, a sultry smile on her face as she licked her lips, impaling herself on his cock, breasts bouncing with every movement. Thom took a moment to catch his breath, gazing up at her flushed skin, a thin sheen of sweat dappling both their bodies as she rode him; his body shaking with the need for release, but he wanted to commit this to memory. He took a deep breath and thrust into her as he sat up on his elbows and pulled her nipple into his mouth, Briar crying out in surprise and pleasure. Her back arched of its own accord, a wave of ecstasy plowing through her, muscles contracting and her body going rigid as she jerked and shivered, her orgasm racking her body with tremors.
“Thom!” She cried, slumping against his chest and huffing quietly.
The sound of his name—his real name–on her lips as she climaxed made him come undone and with one more thrust, he came right behind her on a groan of her name, head hitting the pillows.
Briar propped her chin in the back of one hand, smiling as she reached out with the other and pushed a lock of black hair behind his ear, bumping the small hoop with her fingers. Thom cupped her chin in his hand, his rough, calloused thumb stroking her cheek as she leaned into his touch and kissed his palm; at least he wasn’t holding back from touching her anymore. She drew her hand down his jaw, cupping his chin and stretching upwards to cover his mouth with her own, pouring every ounce of her love into that kiss, her lips hot and demanding as her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders and curtained their faces. His arms wrapped around her, bringing her body flush up against his, gentle fingers traipsing up and down her body, chasing a delighted shiver down her spine as he flipped them over so she was underneath him.
“Maker’s Breath, but I love you.” He breathed, as he gazed down at her.
Briar giggled, running her toes up the back of his calf as she rolled her hips where they were still attached. “Show me how much.”
“With pleasure.” He growled low in his throat as he claimed her lips, before thrusting his hips forward and burying his face in her neck, inhaling the unmistakable scent of her mixed with their lovemaking.
Sometimes I get sad when I think about how you can’t marry Blackwall in Trespasser. But then I remember that this is the man who you basically have to BEG to let you love him. There’s no way that man would EVER think himself worthy enough to propose, even with all his talk of getting a house and a dog and having eggs for breakfast every morning. The Inquisitor would ABSOLUTELY have to take the initiative and propose to him herself. And he would NEVER hear the end of it.
For @snakebitcat, Blackwall and Josephine at last see one another. Light Smut, rated M. Thank you! Read on AO3 Here!
An ambassador should always be seen. She is in many respects, the spokeswoman of the Inquisition. A steel hand covered in a silken glove. A little influence here, a little talk there, a little flattery there, a little gossip there. She knows all and see’s all.
She’s well aware she’s indisputable. Cullen is strong and powerful but could never charm his way through a dinner. Leliana, bless her, has preferred knives over niceness for quite some time. Josephine is the voice, the mast head of the Inquisition’s ship. More than an ornamental decoration often ascribed to her, she steers the Inquisition’s ship. Therefore, she must always be present.
Such a fete Josephine finds herself at tonight. The Inquisitor asked for her advice on the matter, and she suggested a grand fete with banners handing from the grand hall, and a band playing soft music. Everything is heightened in the way everything usually is during fetes, senses sharpened and loneliness more apparent here in a crowd of hundreds than it is in her quiet office. Her loneliness is a gaping, heavy weight, and in between shaking hands and introducing the Inquisitor to important nobles with deep pockets, Josephine’s gaze darts to find gaps in the crowd, gaps where a certain someone may perhaps be. He’s not there. He’s nowhere to be found. The weight on her shoulders is all the heavier without him.
An ambassador should always be seen. An ambassador still slips away, searching for Thom Rainier.
She doesn’t yet know if he prefers Blackwall still, or if he’ll take up his name of origin. She would like to ask, but they’ve been only speaking through silent glances since his judgement. Josephine remembers his furtive glances to her during his trial, the way he denounced the Inquisitor for asking Josephine to “tarnish her good name” to bargain his release into the Inquisition’s custody. Josephine however is used to gossip and knows how to quell it. One must merely divert attention elsewhere. So, the Inquisition asked for the release of Thom Rainier. Isn’t that not unlike Grand Duke Gaspard asking to punish the transgressions of his soldiers himself, something you, Lord Tyron agreed with? Talk must be diverted. Josephine diverts it. Sometimes she can be the same as Leliana.
Outside, knowing any gossip that emerges from her absence will be diverted by Leliana, Josephine spots him in the gazebo. He studies his hands. They are strong hands and good hands, so Josephine believes. She goes to him. She calls his name first, a gentle “Thom.” Thom knows her voice. He alights. Knights are susceptible to the call of their chosen women, and Thom Rainier has made Josephine his. Flowers of different colors and hues have graced her desk since they arrived at Skyhold, and he always exchanged them for new ones before they wilted. Always in the early morning when she was still dressing and pinning her hair up. He hasn’t exchanged the flowers since his trial, and she has kept the once purple violets on her desk though they have long wilted and greyed. She’d rather have them there than a barren desk.
“Hello Thom,” she says, sitting across from him. The commander’s chest board is still set up between them, a reminder of early flirtations with the Inquisitor. Last Josephine saw them, the Inquisitor managed to have Cullen dance with her. Josephine would like to dance. She’d like to do so many things.
“Ambassador.”
His voice is cold. Clipped. But she knows how to feign an unwounded pride. “I must ask,” she says, graceful as ever. “Is it Thom now?”
“Whatever pleases you, my lady.”
My lady. There’s that at least. “It would please me to see you stand proud and be seen.”
What for, he asks. So he could be judged? They all know what he’s done. It’s better to have all eyes on the Inquisitor rather than Thom Rainier.
“But do you not stand by the Inquisitor’s side?” Josephine asks. “You are part of her inner circle. She wanted you back. She wanted you safe. To not see you there…”
He laughs, bitter. “She doesn’t care about me in that way.”
“And you don’t think there are others who do.”
She spoke quietly, almost a whisper. Yet the silence that passes is unbearable. She wishes he would see. He doesn’t see her. Not now. Perhaps she was mistaken.
She must go back inside. She must remain unseen by thousands rather than be unseen by one. It’s the truth of being the ambassador, the mast head of the ship. You are seen but not truly. No one looks deeper than the surface. Not even Thom.
The weight is heavy on her shoulders, the weight of wasted time. Unable to move after rising, trying to get as far away from him as possible, Josephine stands in the Inquisitor’s beautiful garden, halfway to what she’s made her reality and halfway to a dream who’s abandoned her. The Inquisitor’s rose garden is well-tended. It’s her act of love, to nurture blooms for others to enjoy. Flowers however, fall and scatter to the grass to be returned back to the soil. The most beautiful things are always temporary. Spotting one of the fallen blooms, Josephine picks it up.
He is near her. He has followed. He doesn’t say anything. He lets them breathe. It’s small confirmation, but what she needs. She came to him when she had a crowd of hundreds, wanted his eyes over all of them. The ambassador plays games. He’s always known that. Never with him.
She shows the rose to him, and he silently accepts the small gift when she places it on the lapel of his jacket. “For all the flowers you gave me,” she says. “Though, I do miss having them.”
“I didn’t dare hope they were more to you.” He must admit it. He must be sure.
She sighs. “Las splendeur des coeurs perdus.”
(Even as she utters the term, he knows. They always were more. Even with that first exchange of blooms upon her desk after he caught her gazing at him as he played outside with the children, letting them climb on him and wrestle with him. She was caught then. She’s still caught.)
“The splendor of lost hearts,” Thom mutters, making the unspoken his reality.
“I’m afraid by mentioning it I’ve broken the power.” Indeed las splendeur des coeurs perdus has only power when there is magnetism between shared gazes and looks. The power of love withers when both parties know it. Such a game, like many things in their world.
But it’s never been a game.
“You have broken nothing my lady,” he says.
“Have I? You hurt me, when you say there is no one that cares.”
He touches her cheek. His hand is warm like he is warm. “Maker why did you ever save me? Why must you have ruined—”
“Don’t you dare ever suggest it,” she orders. She has never ruined herself for anyone. She does what she must. “I asked Empress Celene to release you to us. I have ruined nothing.”
“They will judge you if the two of us continue—”
There’s no turning back. “I don’t care. I never have.”
“But you judge me. They all do.”
“What good does is do to judge?” She wonders, acutely aware of how warm he is and how he inhabits every story she’d ever read of knights. “I have seen you here,” she says. “I know you here. I know you now.”
“But did I hurt you? If I ever hurt you…”
“You only hurt me now, when you look at me without seeing. Just like all the rest.”
He pulls himself closer still. With anyone else it would have been too much. With Thom it isn’t enough.
“I am not like all the rest,” he vows. “I see.”
“Prove it then, my lord.”
He doesn’t scoff at “my lord,” as she may have suspected. Instead, he places his lips upon hers. Earth and him, earth and herbs. More.
Time passes, an hour, a minute, a moment. Josephine turns time to honey. They don’t return to the fete, but rather they dance to the soft music that carries outside. He can’t live in the splendor of silence anymore. He tells her so. “We are dancing,” she says, and dancing is bold. Dancing is deliberate, even when dancing is only a soft sway together. Dancing is everything, until it is some time later, until they want more.
In that some time later in Josephine’s room, both replete but still fogged in a world of skin and silks, Thom asks again. Are you sure, my lady?
“More than anything,” she replies. “I don’t care what they say.”
Thom smiles. “I wonder. Have you ever cared?”
Returning the smile, she shakes her head. That is the secret, one she has buried deep within. Josephine has never sought the approval of her peers, only her own. She knows it may seem contrary—she plays the game after all. But that is her mask and her act. This is her, that stands in her room and wants Thom Rainier to touch her and love her. They aren’t so different. Throughout his life, Thom Rainier has sought only the same, his own approval. For two miscreants, it pleases them to be together, to lie with one another, kiss. To give.
“I love a good scandal my lady,” Thom says, making her laugh as they revel in their wayward, nefarious ways of the heart. In the time that follows Thom will always remember Josephine pulling down her hair, letting the dark waves fall long and far past her shoulders. It spills on his chest as they laid together, caught in a world of silk and skin. They act like joyful miscreants hidden away, Josephine finding Thom is sturdy and strong and Thom finding Josephine is pliant and joyous. She laughs when he’s inside her, and such an act would have perhaps wounded another man’s pride. Not Thom. Her laughter sounds like freedom. Free, she’s that happy and herself. She asks him to look at her when she rides him. She asks him to always look at him, to always see her. He always has.
They make love, a lone yet bright bloom on the bedside table. From now on, flowers will never stray far from them.
The next day the Inquisitor wonders what makes Josephine jubilant. The Inquisitor wouldn’t call her a miscreant—as always Josephine is poised and tactful, but she speaks with a newfound freedom and ease. The Inquisitor suspects, and correctly so, that has nothing to do with fete and everything to so with the fresh roses that grace Josephine’s desk.
“I am seen,” Josephine says when the Inquisitor asks. “I am known.”
Duties finish for the day as they always do. Chatter never ceases as it always does. It’s alright. Josephine knows how to divert attention, how to change the talk to favor them. It’s worth it. Thom isn’t a secret. Thom is known. Thom is seen for the good man he truly is.
Above all and with a flower on his lapel, Thom is Josephine’s.
Silvhen: I think we can all admit it’s going to take a little getting used to, this thing with the bees.
Bull: Blackwall, you doin’ okay over there? You look a li-
Blackwall: I’m fine. It’s fine.
Sera: Oooh, Beardy... mebbe we just... don’t scratch that, yeah? Better get a compress or cold whatsit on th-
Blackwall: I’m fine.
Blackwall was a professional soldier. It was his literal job. I often think about the adjustment it would have been to suddenly be fighting alongside bolts of electricity, risen bodies, Antivan Fire potions, and... bees. Blackwall is a champ.
a little unedited writing snippet/exercise, Blackwall cuddles under the cut <3
___________
“Blackwall, move over.”
“M’lady?” He looks up blearily even as he’s rolling aside. She crawls into his bedroll, blanket in tow, and worms her way against him.
“Bloody freezing. I’m here to steal your warmth.”
“Whatever you need, my lady,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. He doesn’t seem to object when she pushes her chilled, stocking-clad feet into his shins, nor when she buries her ice-cold nose into his chest. He’s shockingly warm and wonderfully sturdy.
After several minutes of fitful squirming and rubbing her feet back and forth against him in an attempt to warm herself, Blackwall lets out a frustrated groan. “You must be half cat. Can’t decide if you want in or out.” His arm snakes around her and pulls her into him, back to chest, and her wiggling is effectively quelled.
With a resigned sigh, she backs herself as close into him as seems appropriate and closes her eyes.
“Goodnight, my lady,” Blackwall rumbles at her ear. A minute later and he’s snoring softly.
