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The Inquisitor found Blackwall-slash-Thom-Rainier where he could usually be found in Skyhold, at his work table in the stables. The clomp of her boots announced her presence, and he looked up in alarm as she made straight for him with no preamble.
“My lady--?” He set down his tools and settled into the posture the Inquisitor had come to think of as Kicked Puppy Position. Eyes down, shoulders slightly hunched. She’d seen it altogether too many times since she’d met him, since they’d grown close, since he’d revealed his great secret, since he’d been granted another chance with the Inquisition and with herself.
“I’ve a question for you,” she said, keeping her tone mild. “Actually, several questions. Do you have time?” As she spoke, she stepped well into his personal space. It caught him off guard, as expected; normally he was the one crowding her into a corner for a kiss, herding her backward into the bales of hay in the loft. She had loved that little aggressive streak of his, never shown in public. Lately, it was absent.
He rocked back a fraction of an inch. “I am yours to command, my lady. I’ll keep no secrets from you now. What would you like to know?”
“I’d like to know who you are.” He began to speak, to reiterate what he’d said about continuing to answer to the name Blackwall. “I mean who you are, really. You talk as though your life is split into three separate acts. First, Thom Rainier, the coward. Second, Blackwall the solitary, noble Grey Warden. And now, a new man whom you’ve yet to discover, but who must contend with the actions of the first two for the rest of his days.”
“I never claimed to be noble, my lady. You know that.” He stepped back, turned to the side to avoid her gaze.
She stepped forward again and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, turning him back toward her. “Fair enough, but I need answers just the same. To set us on the right path moving forward, you understand.”
He shrugged. “I’ll do my best to answer, then. Got anything more specific than ‘Who are you?’”
“I do. Let’s start with this: which of the three men I mentioned is the skilled fighter I count on in battle? Captain Rainier? Or did you learn on the job as Blackwall? I know it didn’t come from this new man, of course.”
“Wouldn’t have made any kind of captain if I didn’t know how to fight, would I? And I did win that Grand Tourney in the Free Marches. But I’ll own up to getting more practical experience over the years as Blackwall.”
“So, both?”
“I suppose so, my lady.”
“Which one of you first took up woodworking?” the Inquisitor asked, gesturing at the toy griffon on the nearby table.
He tugged at his black beard. “I learned the basics young. Didn’t make anything like that until I joined the Inquisition. Never stayed in one place long enough.” He took another small step back, not entirely out of reach, but enough that, had she wanted it, it would have given her an opening to step back and walk away without awkwardness.
It was an opening she had no intention of taking, and gradually she steered him deeper into the stable.
“I danced with a dashing man in uniform at the Empress’ ball, as you may recall. He was remarkably graceful, and very kind when I stepped on his foot--twice. Who was he?”
That earned a short bark of bitter laughter. “I don’t rightly know about Blackwall’s courtly capabilities. The disgraced Orlesian captain’s your man there, I’m afraid.” As he said it, his back finally came to rest against the back of the furthest empty stall.
The Inquisitor rewarded him with a brilliant smile. “Duly noted.”
“I see you’ve got me--” he began, and stopped short as the Inquisitor tangled her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and dragged him into a kiss. Just as he began to respond, to pull her closer, she backed off, pressing a palm to his chest.
“But I have more questions,” she told him. “Please, indulge me?” Her fingers fiddled idly with the lacing knot at the throat of his padded armor, an excuse to maintain contact and still pin him gently to the wall. The warmth of his chest nearly distracted her train of thought.
“Proceed with your interrogation, by all means,” he rumbled. His eyes remained wary, but a new, amused note had crept into his voice.
The Inquisitor smiled at him, leaned in, and placed her cheek against his so as to speak softly into his ear. “I want to know which one of you makes me go weak in the knees with his kisses. Tell me that. Did you learn to kiss that way as Captain Rainier, or as Blackwall?”
To his credit, the man didn’t flee, or even flinch. After a moment’s pause, he let out a breath. “If you’re worried there are more skeletons in the closet--”
“--I’m not. If there are, I don’t care. I just need to know who I’m getting when I kiss you, because I’m going to keep kissing you unless you want me not to. Wait.” She pulled back to look at him. “Do you want me not to?”
His eyes were wide. “Maker, after all this, how could you even think that I wouldn’t want--” His strong arms pulled around her as if to protect her from the very thought, and she relaxed into it for all of three seconds before again pushing him gently back to the wall.
“Then tell me who,” she whispered into his ear. Her fingers had in the meantime become not-so-idle, loosening the knot and pulling the lacing from his armor so that it dangled open. Her hand delved inside, ranging over the thin shirt that covered his chest and belly, all heat and muscle. She wanted to lean into him, to invite his solid thigh between her legs and his hand up the back of her jacket, but it wasn’t the time. Not quite yet.
He peered toward the front of the stable, apparently checking for observers. Finding none, he rasped, “Thom. Not the Captain. Before him. Just Thom.”
“Ah hah,” she chuckled, “Well, my compliments to Just Thom.” As she spoke, her hand roved down the front of his breeches, causing a groan. He was already hard...since what point in the conversation, she wondered?
“Don’t worry, my lady, he doesn’t have a separate name.”
“I must say, that’s a relief.” She reached into his breeches, drew out his cock, and began long, slow strokes. He appeared intent on maintaining self-control, though he did allow himself to arch into her hand. After a bit, his arm crept around her, and she let it stay.
Satisfied, she whispered so softly that he had to bend his head toward her to hear. “I have just one more question for you, and it is this: when we’re in a long, sweaty, intense session of sucking and fucking, when my knees are pulled back to my ears, and you’re balls deep inside me, and your thumb is diddling my clit the way you did that night in the barn, and I’m about to come so, so hard all over your cock--which of your names do you want to hear me cry out?”
The man shuddered and tried to draw breath to reply. Before he could answer, she interrupted. “You don’t have to tell me now. In fact, don’t.” She swiped the the pad of her thumb over his tip, smearing the glassy drop that had formed there. “When you’re ready, come to my quarters and tell me what name you’d prefer me to call you in private. And be prepared to make me scream it.”
The Inquisitor delicately tucked him back into his breeches, turned on her heel, and left him to decide.
She waited in her quarters longer than expected. After the first hour of alternating between fidgeting and resisting the urge to indulge in fantasies of the sort she had described to Blackwall earlier, she busied herself with paperwork she’d put off too long. The slightest footstep in the corridor made her jump and turn to the door in expectation, and always it was a guard or an advisor. She took dinner alone, bathed and re-dressed hurriedly, and recommitted to the remaining pile of paperwork at her desk. Treaties, trade proposals, gossip, contracts, balance sheets, all. Mind numbing, but necessary.
It grew dark. She built a roaring fire in the fireplace and lit enough candles to read by.
More paperwork. Still no Blackwall.
“Perhaps tomorrow, then,” she thought, blowing out a couple of candles that had started to gutter.
And then, of course, came a knock at the door. The Inquisitor walked to the top of the stairs.
“Enter,” she called, in as neutral a tone as she could manage.
The door swung wide, and there was Blackwall--or whoever, she would learn soon enough--not in his padded armor, but in a clean shirt and trousers, with his beard and hair trimmed as it had been at the Orlesian ball. He stood uncertainly in the doorway.
She licked her lips. “Close that behind you. Lock it. The key’s there.”
He did as she asked, then advanced up the stairs toward her, his face unreadable.
“I didn’t expect you so soon,” she stalled.
That brought a raised eyebrow and a smile. “Well, my lady, let’s see. After our little chat, I had to compose myself. Then I had to think about the answer to your question. Then I thought I should make myself presentable. You know, for a proper introduction. If you’d like me to come back another time, I can--”
“--No, now’s fine,” she said, a just a touch too hurriedly.
“Fucking thought so,” he smirked, and pulled her into an embrace that lifted her from the ground. He kissed her first on the cheek, then full on the mouth.
She returned the kiss and embrace with full force, escalating here and there: a nibble on his lip, a hand snaking to the back of his neck, into his shirt collar. After a few moments, with great effort, she drew back. “So, who is this?”
“Thom,” he affirmed, “Just Thom. Blackwall in public, Thom here with you. Will that serve?”
“Thom,” she breathed, and captured his mouth again. She kissed him hard, slipping her tongue between his teeth, then biting his lower lip and pulling, just a little, before letting go. His hands explored her as if she were new. Down the small of her back to the curve of her rear, up again to her neck, face, into her hair. She set to work undoing his shirt and pulling it off his broad shoulders, and all the while she steered the both of them over toward the glowing fireplace.
Thom noticed and chuckled, allowing himself to be pushed backward while he untied her jacket closures. By the fire, she assisted by dropping the jacket, opening her shirt, and discarding her breastband, all while looking him straight in the eye. She could see the glitter of his eyes by firelight, the crinkle at their corners that told her he was enjoying this as much as she. Before he could bend his head to suckle at her breasts, she dropped to her knees and quickly undid the front of his breeches. He was hard, again. Likely hadn’t relieved himself of need after their earlier encounter, saving himself for later. For now. She fished his cock out of his smalls and swirled her tongue over its head, causing a gasp.
“My lady, you shouldn’t.” He straightened and closed his eyes, his fingers only lightly resting on her shoulders.
In response, she licked a broad stripe up the underside of his cock, and then replied, “If you’re to be Thom, we’ll need a better name for me than ‘my lady.’ Now open your eyes and look at me.” She waited, and after a heartbeat or two, he did bend his head and look at her. She smiled mischievously up at him and pressed her tongue to his tip, lapping at the salt there. His eyes were glassy, unfocused with need, and it thrilled her. “As for whether I shouldn’t, I disagree. I think I should. And even if it were true that I shouldn’t, I’m going to anyway. Thom, look.”
She took him deeply into her mouth, savoring his satin skin, the weight of him on her tongue. She watched his face, transfixed by the expressions there, gratified when he finally tangled his fingers in her hair and told her, “If you keep going, lass, I’m going to come in your pretty mouth. Do you want that?”
“Mmmhmmm,” she hummed around his cock, redoubling her efforts and beginning to stroke his heavy sack. It wouldn’t be long now. She watched his gaze flick from her eyes to her mouth to her breasts and back. Finally, he was undone.
“Maker,” he choked out, and tensed, keeping his hips from snapping too fiercely. His big hands gripped her and held as he spent, salty in her throat. She licked at him slowly until the spasms subsided, swallowing now and again. “Maker,” he repeated, and looked down at her with new focus. “Now it’s your turn, lass. No mercy. Get those clothes off.”
They were naked now, warm on furs and cushions alongside the newly blazing fire. She was on her back, her legs spread as far open as she could get them while Blackwall--no, Thom--worked her clit over with his tongue. Her breath came in pants and shudders as she bucked against him. His beard scratched deliciously against her thighs and buttocks. A thick finger entered her and she moaned, eliciting muffled laughter from her tormentor.
“Another,” she gasped, and he obliged by sliding a second finger into her. “Ah-ah-ah...I want...I want…I’m going to…oh, Maker, you’re good. Oh, fuck!” Her orgasm, the first in weeks, made her thrash and rock despite herself. When the tremors died down enough, she reached for his hand and drew him up next to her.
“I could do that all night,” he told her, enfolding her in his arms and planting a kiss on the top of her head.
“But then we’d never get to bed.” She levered herself up to standing and reached for him again.
He stood. “Good point.” He began walking her backward, his arousal brushing against her as they moved. Every few steps, a kiss, until the backs of her legs met the bed and she climbed atop it, pulling him with her. He pushed her back against the pillows. “I can’t get your last question--from earlier--out of my head.”
“That was the idea,” she grinned, spreading her legs so he could settle between them. Her breath hissed as he rubbed the head of his cock over her bud.
“Still so wet,” he smirked. “And sweaty, too. Minx.” He looked down. “Look at you, opening for me.”
“So wet,” she echoed, “I bet you could get inside me with just one thrust.” She hooked her legs over his shoulders, urging him forward.
His eyes went dark with lust. He leaned forward, crushed his mouth to hers, and sank into her heat. Pulled nearly all the way out, and pushed in again. He murmured against her lips. “How did it go again? Knees next to your ears? Like this?” Out, in, again and again. Flesh dragging against hers, slick and hard, stretching her exquisitely.
“Yes. Mmmm, yesss, just like that. And your thumb…”
“And my thumb on your clit, you like that?” He snaked his hand between their bodies and smoothed over her bud in circles. Her walls fluttered and spasmed around him, her hips jerked erratically. “There’s my answer.”
She raked him with the backs of her nails, matching his increasing pace with thrusts of her own. “So deep…”
“How deep?” he urged. He bottomed out inside her over and over, faster and faster, bouncing her against the bed.
Her eyes flashed, and a glint of teeth showed in the dim light. “To your balls. Ah--I need--AH--fuckfuckfuck--THOM…”
“Say it again,” he hissed. “Play with your tits and say it again. My name.”
She rolled her nipples and babbled a string of demands and endearments, the added sensation bringing her almost to the edge. “THOM, fuck me, make me come, I’m so close, come inside me, Thom. Love you love you love you loveyou oh FUCK, THOM!”
Three more snaps of his hips and she was clenching around him, clutching at him and chanting his name as each wave of pleasure crashed.
“Love, you feel so good,” he rumbled into her neck, and then claimed her mouth with his as the dam crumbled and he pulsed into her. They ground against each other, wringing out the aftershocks between them.