Work Text:
(There are no boundaries between them now. They are together in every sense of the word but by law.
It feels strange: the sense of security and the promise of more. The feeling sits, disquiet, within his chest, jutted against his ribs. Misplaced and foreign, but somehow welcoming.
But at night, when they together, he’s afraid to breath.
There are so many things they have yet to discover about one another, to discuss and laugh about and it’s frightening to imagine it all.
But there are no words at times like these. There is only the look she gives him now, her elven eyes aglow in the dark. Lips curved: teasing, gentle.
Promises, promises.
They have time, however. They have time)
*
He has come accustomed to the late night journey up to her— their bedroom. He’s counted the steps and knows the perfect time to slip into the tower while the guards are in rotation. But despite all this, he still feels a bubble of joy well up in him, every night, with each step he climbs.
He’s never said it aloud, but this is the best part of his day.
He’s early this evening. Tomorrow, she journeys into the Western Approach and it will be weeks before he sees her again. He can’t help but chastise himself, however, for his eagerness. They see plenty of each other during the day but never long enough for anything more than a private smile and a chaste kiss in passing. He does not mind but it doesn’t keep him from longing for her.
Reaching the door, he wavers. He can tell through the door cracks that the room is dark and there is no sound coming from within. Is he too early?
No, no; he saw her earlier bid Cullen goodnight on the pathway overlooking the stables. She glanced down at him as she passed, a hidden look he couldn’t see but knew well enough that it was there, beckoning him.
He gently slides open the latch and steps in. Usually, he is greeted with the scratching of quill on parchment or the shuffling of papers. Instead, the room is dark with only the soft glow and crackle of the fireplace to know that she is there.
He waits a moment— expects her to call out but nothing. Perhaps she has fallen asleep.
The short climb up the second set of stairs builds a different sort of anticipation within him. Something about the mood of the room or the lateness of the hour, he’s not sure why. However, when he stops at the head of the stairs and finds her there, like a figure from one of his dreams, he understands.
She stands, naked, before the fireplace.
Her back is to him, her body silhouetted by the flames. Her long hair is undone; damp and wavy, it reaches just above the swell of her bottom. With arms at her side, the only interruption to her stillness is the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders, breath coming out evenly as if she were asleep.
It was like stumbling upon a doe in the forest— he didn’t want to disturb this beautiful creature, at peace in her natural surroundings. But he couldn't turn away either. Instead, he watches and watches and watches until his own stunned silence is so deafening that she notices it.
Her voice is gentle and small. “Thom?”
As she turns, the firelight catches on her skin. Ink glimmers and his eyes follow, as they’ve done a hundred times before.
At the hollow of her throat, begins a thick branch of ink. It reaches just the top of her sternum before it splits into twin thinner lines that spread out, on opposite sides, just below her collarbone and then down, only to curve around her breasts and fall short there, defining the swell.
Nestled between her breasts, on her sternum, starts a second tree of ink which flows into a more ornate pattern. Lines split and swirl beneath each breast, curving and spiraling. They reach out, like little blossoms, and spots of black ink are mirrored on each side of her abdomen.
There is more on her back but hidden now, by the length and thickness of her hair.
These secret patterns of her body are unknown to the world. Unique to her clan and most of all private, it is a piece of her she shares with only him and he loves her for it, if not for everything else about her. He wants to reach out and touch her but he is fixed in his gaze and it brings a smile to her face.
“You’re early,” she says.
His eyes catch on a stray droplet of water trailing down her neck, down her breasts, then running by a pebbled nipple and his mouth feels suddenly dry.
He clears his throat. “Just out of the bath?”
She hums a “yes” and runs a hand through her wet hair, shaking it up a bit. She doesn’t seem the least bit concerned by her nakedness.
He moves closer, steps easier than before. Confidence swells in him just as feverishly as adoration — and the tightening in his pants — does.
“You know, my lady...” He’s close enough now that she has to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes. His, however, are somewhere else entirely. “You can catch a cold like this.”
That wasn’t likely. Only now does he realize that the windows are shut and the room is a little warm. He feels stifled under his coat, for more than one reason.
Her gentle smile turns wicked. “I’m used to it. My clan does not have the luxury of towels and one builds a resistance to frigid, cold river water.” Blackwall chooses not to linger on that image— Lavellan rising from the water surface, glistening and smiling as she does now. “Also, I like to air dry.”
He glances down at the little pool of water collected at her feet. “And to make a mess of the floor.”
She giggles before pinching her lips and cutting herself off as she suddenly looks bashful. It’s a farce, of course. He knows that look and it only brings about good things— very, very good things.
She moves a little closer and her breasts graze his tunic. He sucks in a sharp breath and it takes all of him from pulling her into his arms and taking her right then and there, in front of the fireplace. Instead, his hands come to grip her thin wrists in a loose hold.
“I do this often, actually,” she says and bats her eyes.
He chuckles. “Do you now?”
“Yes. And every time, I’m always hoping you will come in and catch me, just as I get out of the bath...”
“So you do this for my benefit?”
“Well... That might be an exaggeration.” He lifts a brow and she has to pinch her lips again to keep from laughing. “But if you were to catch me, and now that you have, it’s not wrong to think of what you might want to do about my 'indecent' state of dress.”
“Something like this, I think,” he mummers before dipping down and kissing her.
And it’s a proper kiss— a hand moves to cup her cheek and he dips her head back as his tongue slips inside and she moans. Her fingers curl into his tunic, another pleased hum escaping her. He mimics her, his entire body thrumming with a throaty sound of satisfaction. When they part, she is breathless, eyes glazed over and cheeks flush.
“Well,” she tries but her voice breaks. She licks her lips before continuing. “Yes, I was hoping for something like that.”
He kisses her again, nipping at her lips. As he does so, his other hand sneaks up and palms her chest. She whines but the nose is swallowed up as his palm rubs against her sensitive nipple, squeezing now and again.
He loves her breasts. He loves every inch of her but her breasts, he utterly adores. It never ceased to amaze him— how he could so easily bring her to the edge, make her moan and gasp, by merely toying with her tits just right. It was one of his favorite things to do. So, his mouth leaves hers, latching to her throat, and he cups both of her breasts.
They fit, snugly, in the palm of his hand. His thumbs trail the tattoos beneath and he halts, for the moment, from following the ink lines as he presses kisses along the column of her throat. Daring teeth now and again, she bares her neck to him. He hums and squeezes, firmer.
There’s a small smile on her face as his mouth wanders, the tips of his fingers hot on her soft, freckled skin. He lavishes the top of her breasts with kisses and mummers filthy things that make her giggle.
And the lower he goes, the more she laughs but, as it turns out, she’s short enough that he needs to fall to his knees to mouth her chest. He does just that and she gasps in surprise, before that too is broken into breathy laugh as he looks up at her with a smirk.
Basked under the warm light of the fireplace, he takes a moment to enjoy her, as she is. Face kind and gentle, he has no words to describe how beautiful she is to him now. So, he kisses her breasts, the space in between, and the top of her belly, and whispers his affection through touch.
She sighs and leans over him, her fingers slipping into his hair.
He takes advantage of the new angle and flicks his tongue over a taut nipple. Her fingers tighten so he does it again and again, eventually granting mercy and sucking it into his mouth. She moans for him and Blackwall feels her tremble with the the sound.
He mouths her chest greedily, sucking and tugging, while his hands wander down her front. In a slow movement, rough fingers follow the black ink lines on each side, repeating the pattern when they arrive at the end, again and again. Then, he moves his head and presses his lips along her tattoos, mouth slightly parted in an almost-kiss. She watches him with heavy eyes.
One hand now cups her hip as the other trails behind, to her back. In his mind, he has a perfect picture of what hides there: An image reminiscent of a tree, upturned— made of thin, black and dark gray ink. The tattoo is simple in style, like those that decorate her front. Its trunk, rootless, begins at her neck, melded with her hairline. It draws down with the curve of her back, lower and lower, as the ink spills from its path to create scarce, bare branches that are exact, on both sides with small black dots as the blossoms of the branches before the treetops stop, just above her hips.
It’s another one of his favorite things— to watch the branches bend and contort with her muscles as she dresses in the morning.
On one such morning, he once asked her the symbolism of it. She looked back at him, over her shoulder, with a blank expression. She paused in thought and said, “Simply put, nothing. As far as I know, body tattoos are unique to my clan; some decorate their bodies to honor the gods but others don’t. I didn’t.”
Blackwall knew she was lying, or at least, telling half-truths. He didn’t press the issue, however. Whatever the story was, she will tell him in her own time, in her own way.
He’s about to turn her around to kiss and worship her there too but she moans— “Thom”. He knows that voice; he knows what she wants. Impatient, yes, but he could never deny her anything, anyway.
He begins to rise to his feet but she stops him, a weight pressing on his shoulders. He frowns at her, confused.
“No, here. Now.”
“On the floor but— ?”
“Please?” Her voice drops and she looks away from him, for a moment. “I did really think about it. This. You walking in and then, in front of the fireplace...” She cuts herself off and the way she blushes despite her being her makes him giddy.
He can’t help but smile. “Oh? Is that right?”
“Yes.” She clears her throat but her voice is still meek. “That’s right.”
“You could have told me about this little fantasy of yours earlier, you know. I wouldn’t have judged and I am not now.”
“Then it would ruin the sensuality of it, wouldn’t it? But if you’d prefer the bed, I don’t mind. The floor is awfully cold. And hard..”
Blackwall recognizes the tightness in her tone and merely chuckles. Her truly bashful moments are rare so he cherishes them, and plants a soft kiss to her belly in comfort. “I do not mind. Anything for you, my lady.”
The way his voice drops with the second sentence is intentional. Her reaction is to be expected too.
Gone goes the meekness as she gives him a look that is both coy and earnest.
He kisses her stomach again, then her hip and runs his palm over her thigh. She parts her legs on instinct and he wants so badly to press his mouth there, between her legs, and taste her, properly but, when he cups her cunt, he finds that she is plenty wet enough for him and he can’t wait.
He nudges her clit and rubs, hard, for a fraction of a second before pulling away— and drawing his hand back, in an gentle spank. She tenses all over and bites her lip. This is not new; he knows what she likes and makes the smart choice in her denying her this. For now.
She’s about to say something when he cuts her off. “Lie down.”
She breathes in a harsh breath and arches her brow. “Oh?”
“Yes.”
He guides her down onto her knees, then onto her back. He falls with her, his warm, large hands latched to her small, lithe body.
The cold of the floor doesn’t seem to bother her, though there is a carpet. To add, the room now tittered on suffocating, the fire beside them cackling lowly as they looked at each other. Her previous wickedness faded again and she gazes up at him, and he her, with clear eyes and a small curve of her lips.
A flicker of hesitation crosses his face, however. “Are you sure about this? Are you uncomfortable? Here, like this?”
She wraps her legs around his waist and bucks her hips. “Yes.”
He barely manages to undress; nimble fingers tug at his hair as her lips press short, sweet pecks across his face. He discards nothing more than his overcoat and undershirt, Lavellan tugging it up and off him before casting it aside. She grins at him, his bare chest free for her to ogle.
He falls back over her, between her legs, and she kisses him with a hint of teeth and sinful words. There’s no stopping the wandering of her hands as palms slide over his back, his shoulders, his chest and down, down to the waistband of his trousers.
With practiced haste, she unties the laces there and draws out his cock, thick and heavy in her hand. He breaths out a strangled moan as she fists his cock, once then twice, thumb on the head. He tries to tell her to slow down but she is persistent.
She tugs his pants down to give him some semblance of movement, his cock and ass free but nothing else. Then, she slaps his ass.
He gapes at her. She grins. “Payback,” she says and he laughs as he kisses her again, open mouthed.
She guides the head of his cock against her hole — rubs it up and down her slit for a moment, to make them both whine — before he draws her hand away, his hand wrapping around her wrist and pinning it above her head. He pushes in, slowly.
There has never been a time where fucking and making love was bad with her, or boring. He’s not so drunk in love to say it’s better every time but it’s always good. The heat of her cunt, the sound of her mewls, and the arch of her body, breasts flush against his chest as she cries his name— he hasn’t grown tired of it and hoped he never will.
The sex continues on, slow and heated, from beginning to end. He drags his mouth over hers in a lazy way, kissing her with ease and familiarity. Her lips too, he will never tire of; it’s a right he never expected to gain and for that, he loves kissing her. And she him, as she sighs and rocks her hips.
His cock slides in and out, each roll of his hips seemingly push deeper and deeper into her. She fights the want— no, need to spread her legs further and scream for him to go faster, harder. But she likes this. She likes the way she can feel how big he is, how it is a struggle, but not, to take him. She clings to him tighter and bites her lip as the ache and pulse of his cock inside her makes her dizzy with lust.
It drags on and on and the fireplace begins to dim. The heat of their bodies keeps them warm, flushed hot. Sweat rolls down the arch of Blackwall’s back as he angles up, in just the right way, and she whines. He pulls away from her mouth so he can watch her face as he does it again, fucking into her.
Her face twists with pleasure and she fights to keep her eyes open. She sees the way his lips curl. His hips halt so he can draw away from her and cup her hip, bracing her despite how she holds on to him. Then, he does it again, thrusting in same as before, and a little moan leaves her, a whispered “yes” escaping her lips. Her cunt clenches for him and he knows that this— this will always be good. Always.
He keeps it up, rutting his hips in with short, hard thrusts. She is all strung and tense now, wound so tight she can barely breathe or focus on anything, but him. Only ever him. He keeps his eyes on her, so she does the same and he watches, entranced, as her head falls back and she comes.
Body arching up, fingers digging into his arms, she is silent in rapture but beautiful. So, so beautiful that he slows his thrusts even further to drag this out. And it does. It does and his cock throbs for more.
In the end, she relaxes with a slow breath but her cunt is still too tight. She is given very little warning before he shifts, bracing both forearms by her head, and fucks in, rough and fast. Raw and tired, she can do nothing more than drop her legs to the side, wide and open, and let him fuck as he wants— without restraint.
There is no rhythm, only the rough slide of his cock as he grunts and growls, going faster and faster, until he tips over the edge and comes, inside of her. His hips don’t stop rutting in until his cock is empty and his lung burn for air.
It’s a struggle, to not squish her, so he begins to pull out, his softening cock letting loose a string of come, but she stops him.
“No,” she moans, voice scratchy. “Don’t pull out. Just hold me? Please?”
There’s that word again. How did he ever think he could resist her?
He nods and kisses her, clumsy and sleepy but he remains. He remains.
*
A sneeze jerks him from his slumber. He blinks, repeatedly, before his eyesight focuses and he realizes that they are still on the floor, naked. The fire has gone out too.
Then— “achoo!”
He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“What was that about ‘air drying’ and ‘bathing in frigid cold rivers?”
She kicks his side before sneezing, again.
“Sorry, what was that, my lady?”
“I hate you.”
He chuckles and pulls her tighter against him, kissing the top of her head. He hums and squeezes her soft sides. “Mm, it’s alright, I’ll keep you warm my lady.”