Chapter Text
It was on the tip of his tongue to start grousing about just what he’d gotten himself into. So far he’d learned nothing useful about the Grey Wardens. The Makerdamned nag Blackwall rode had bitten Thom twice in as many days and here he was chasing a fucking sheep around a ravine.
“So this is what you do when there’s no Blight on?” Thom hefted the filthy, bleating thing over his shoulders and puffed his way back up the hill. “Fix pastures nobody asked you to fix and catch sheep?”
Blackwall laughed, pushing a stone back into place along the crumbling waist high wall. “Aye, lad, if it needs doing.”
The Warden had a talent for seeing Things that Need Doing. At this rate they’d be a month getting to Weisshaupt. Just thinking the word made his stomach knot up. A wrinkled crone in black was coming along the path, her mule led by a skinny boy in shoes two sizes too big. Thom put the sheep on the other side of the repaired wall more gently than he otherwise would have and started trying to knock mud and dried turds from his shoulders while the Warden accepted the widow’s hospitality.
“I could use a meal I didn’t have to make. That goes double for poor William, I’ll wager.” Blackwall grinned down at the boy and handed over the reins of their horses before slapping Thom’s back. “A week of my cooking? He’s lucky I haven’t poisoned him yet. But we’ll need to scrub up before we’re good enough for the likes of your company, my lady.”
The old thing tittered and nudged the mule along.
***
He could feel the Warden’s eyes on him as he stripped off and stepped into the stream. Was it part of the Joining, part of recruitment that he was supposed to be won over by the Constable? He’d already agreed to give his life to killing darkspawn, was getting fucked in the woods the first part of initiation?
It wasn’t that he minded the idea of men fucking other men. Any port in a storm when he was a green private back in Denerim, but the Warden was always smiling at him. Like he was the Warden’s equal. As if Thom hadn’t been following him around Ferelden like a lost puppy.
If he was so determined to be friendly, then when was he going to let out something useful to know? Asking questions about his future had got him nowhere, and it started to get on Thom’s wick.
“If you won’t tell me anything, then what are we going to talk about from here on out?” Thom sat heavily in the frigid water, scrubbing soap into his scalp. He’d gone nearly numb already, might as well get sheep shit out of his hair.
“Anything you’d like, Will.” Blackwall dunked himself and came up cursing, water streaming from his black hair and curly beard.
“Thom.” His name came out of him like a splinter. Picked at, worried with teeth and fingernails over the past seven days until finally in the cold water the skin parted and the damned thing was free.
“What’s that?” Blackwall caught the chunk of soap Thom threw him and started washing himself.
“I’m Thom, not William.” Leaning his soapy head back on the rocks behind him, he waited for a spark of recognition. It had been a while since he’d heard Thom Rainier come up in a flea-ridden inn or around the fire at an out of the way crossroad. You never knew, though, who paid attention to Wanted bills and thief-takers.
But the Warden only grinned, showing a missing tooth. “It’s a good enough name. Though William suits you just as well. Actions, not names, those make a man.”
Thom nodded, not able to look the older man in the eye any longer. Scraping mud out from under his fingernails gave him something to do. Warden Blackwall may as well have “Good Man” tattooed across his forehead. Running down sheep, chopping wood for two days, chasing off a bunch of apostate nutters looking for trouble in run-down villages - he kept busy and he never once turned someone down. Last week Thom hadn’t seen much beyond a way out of the noose when he’d agreed to Recruitment. But there was something satisfying in the idea that strangers might want him around for more than beating Hurlocks to a pulp.
Not that the Warden didn’t look capable of that all on his own. He was a stocky shit. All thighs and biceps, with a gut coming on. There was a long narrow nose that somehow didn’t look like it had ever been broken. A miracle for a fighting man. His tanned hatchet face belied the heavy body under the griffon armor.
Pale, too, white as a sheet from neck to elbows. Watching brown hands wiping soap over his furry chest, Thom wondered just what Blackwall had done to earn the nasty scar on his belly. Lucky to be alive, from the looks of it. The scar branched out like a map of a desert gully. Threads of it spread all the way up to carve through the greying hair on his chest.
Blackwall noticed him looking and laughed. “It wasn’t such a good fight I needed this much souvenir, but the Healers did a lot of poking around.”
Thom felt himself go red. He ducked under the surface to get rid of the soap. He still woke up some nights, bellowing like he was back in the Emprise. It had taken five of his men holding him down on the snow, one on each limb and even a booted foot standing on his chest while the squad’s mage pulled chunks of shattered stone out of his side. Coming up, he wiped at his eyes and squinted in the glare off the water. “Sometimes it feels like you’d rather they just let you die in peace.”
“A peaceful death isn’t for the likes of us, Thom.”
***
In the loft of the widow’s barn, sacked out on hay and stuffed full he got comfortable. He’d never been able to sleep well in his clothes, but the older of the daughters on this muddy green patch of land had been eyeing him up something fierce at the table. Best to have his breeches and shirt on in case she got any foolish ideas in the wee hours. He was sweating and pushed his blanket down as he thought about the round arse her heavy skirts couldn’t hide.
Blackwall was snoring into the saddlebag he used for a pillow, head turned away. He settled in and stroked himself a bit; staring up at the rafters not thinking of anything much. Once he was good and firm he tugged harder and let out a moan though he tried to keep it quiet as his hips jerked.
“I’m surprised you didn’t get some help with that.”
Thom froze, his hand on his cock clenching tight.
Blackwall rolled over, hay rustling in the still loft. His eyes were heavy, moving over Thom’s chest, down to where the itchy wool was bunched up. “I’ve always been a light sleeper, lad.”
“Er, sorry.” Thom drew both knees up, tenting his blanket until the lump of hand-on-hardon wasn’t visible.
“No apologies.” The Warden scratched at his chin and yawned. “I’m wondering why you didn’t get a hand from the young miss, though.” He was still looking at him, just watching Thom lay there and go red in the face. “Not your type?”
“It didn’t seem polite.” Which was true enough. In fact he had thought about it, and then thought about getting them both run off the farm with a pitchfork if her mother overheard. It wasn’t worth the trouble. The heavy thump of his pulse between his legs was starting up again as Blackwall nodded.
“Want some help, then?” He said it lightly, as though it made no difference either way.
Did he? His cock wasn’t against it. Blackwall fucked men. Well, he might fuck everybody, but right now it was obvious he fucked men. Shit. How long had it been since he’d had someone else’s hand on him?
Thom pushed the blanket down past his hips then kicked it off completely, keeping an eye on the Warden a foot away. Those sleepy blue eyes went straight to the hand around his reddened cock, not quite as hard now in the cold air.
“Be my guest,” Thom said, letting his hand rest on his hip, but stroking his shaft with his scarred finger.
“Nah, lad, I said I’d help.” Blackwall shifted closer and down a little until he was on his side with his head around Thom’s elbow. Blackwall’s hand stroked firmly up the inside of one thigh, then down around his sore knee. Which wasn’t smarting like it had been, now that he thought of it. On the way back up Blackwall circled Thom’s jutting hipbone where it stuck out between the waist of his breeches and the tail of his shirt. He put Thom’s hand back around his cock, but didn’t touch it himself. “You can do the work.”
Thom closed his eyes. Circling himself hard at the base with a thumb and forefinger he stroked with the other hand, faster now. The hand on his hip petted him, slid down between his legs and squeezed briefly. Easy but not shy. Blackwall’s thumb rubbed firm circles into the long muscle of one thigh then the other.
He moaned. He hadn’t meant to. He’d meant to get this strange thing done quick and quiet. But the pressure of Blackwall’s touch was just what his aching muscles needed.
“Sore, huh?”
Thom nodded and looked down. The big hand on his leg was odd, but when Blackwall tugged at his breeches, Thom wriggled until the Warden could pull them down to his knees. The older man sighed appreciatively and nudged him to bend his knees.
Val Royeaux had bath houses with big Rivaini blokes who’d massage you in a sweltering hot room, beat you with leafy birch branches until your skin stung then dump freezing water over you by the bucketful. It didn’t feel too good at the time, but fucking great after.
This wasn’t that kind of a massage. Thom found he forgot to stroke his cock because he was concentrating so much on Blackwall’s hard fingers pushing the tension out of him. It almost hurt, and the warm friction of callused palm on his hairy leg served to remind Thom just who was touching him, even with his eyes closed again. A peek down and he could see Blackwall was concentrating on his work, propped up on an elbow not even looking at Thom’s erection.
“Reach my pack over,” Blackwall was hoarse. “There’s oil in there if you’d rather.”
Thom did and found the tiny bottle, pulling the stopper with his teeth.
“It’s gonna be cold,” Blackwall smiled up at his hurry and it made Thom’s cheeks burn.. “Give it a minute.” He took the vial, sealed it again and then stuck all but the neck of it it in his mouth.
Thom let his head fall back against his folded up coat while the Warden’s strong hand worked its way down one leg then the other. He heard a clink of glass against teeth and glanced down at Blackwall holding the vial - open and poised in the air. Thom stared, holding his cock up, red and straining now. He stood it up away from his belly for Blackwall to drip oil down. The slick drops made him shudder. It felt like the wettest, gentlest tongue sliding over the head, down to puddle up at his fingers. Thom moaned, long and loud as he spread the oil around.
“Better, lad?” Blackwall grinned up at him as Thom thumbed the crown, making his hips twitch. “That how you like it? Fast and light up on the tip?”
Talking to a man about how he stroked his own cock was odd but it made his balls tighten up to hear Blackwall breathing hard. Thom slowed down, flicked the notch under the head of his cock with a finger, grunting at the spike of pleasure. “Sometimes. But slow’s good, too.”
Thom folded his left arm up behind his head and Blackwall’s eyes went to the way his shirt stretched tight over his pecs.
“Good gods, but you’re an eyeful, lad.” Blackwall was practically panting now, his nostrils flaring with his quick breaths. His fingers stirred restless on Thom’s inner thigh. Blackwall brushed the backs of his knuckles against his perineum and Thom tensed.
“Not to worry, Thom,” the older man chuckled. “I’m not looking to do anything but watch your spunk hit your belly. There’s a good lad.” Blackwall rolled Thoms’ balls carefully in his fingertips and Thom’s hips jerked in response, wanting more.
“You’ll get your wish,” Thom groaned, arching a little off his bedroll and trying to get a leg straightened out right. He needed to push against something. Holding his breath wasn’t going to be enough this time. He needed to use the twitching muscles in his thighs. Hand stroking fast and hard, Thom let his head thrash a little against his coat, a couple of frustrated grunts getting away from him.
Blackwall huffed out a surprised breath, pushing Thom’s shirt up, running his fingertips through the hair on his belly. “That’s it lad, move around if it helps.” He teased Thom’s nipples with his thumb. “Fuck your hand, Thom.”
He got both heels firmly in the hay and did just that; swearing, teetering right on the edge.
“Go on, then, lad.” Blackwall’s hand dipped between his thighs again. Thom slowed down, wanting to show off a bit since he had such an appreciative audience but he was too far along for that.
He’d need to stop for more oil and that would only throw him off, set him back a minute. He wanted to come, dammit. Blackwall’s rough fingertips tweaked first one nipple then the other. He rubbed in tight little circles that sent a jittery throb down into Thom’s balls but it still wasn’t enough.
“Look at you, lad,” Blackwall rasped, and Thom met his eyes with a furious snarl of frustration.
“Fucking gorgeous, and so good, you’ll come for me, won’t you?”
Something about the words - the quiet awe in the older man’s voice - startled him and then he was coming in three long hard pulses that made his eyes clench shut on a shout. A bunch of tingling little spurts followed and he caught most of it in his closed fist.
Blackwall’s satisfied hum matched his own. The Warden’s hand slid through the streaks of come on Thom’s stomach before he handed him a scrap of cloth to clean up with.
“Thanks for that, lad.” Blackwall watched him wipe the worst of the mess away. He’d missed a splotch near his navel and the Warden swiped his thumb over it before pulling Thom’s shirt down.
“Ah, yeah,” Thom threw the rag aside and hitched up his breeches, leaving his softening cock out of the flies as Blackwall shifted back to his own bedroll. “Don’t mention it.” Now that his head was clear, he didn’t have any idea what to say.
Blackwall chuckled, the lines around his eyes making him look ancient for a second. “I won’t.” He rolled over. As they both got settled again, Thom tucking himself away, Blackwall looked back over his shoulder. “But any time you want to get your cock out around me, go ahead.”