Work Text:
To this point, their romance has been gentle, has been sweet. Cassandra may be bold, brash, abrasive, even, when her duty requires, but there is a level of delicacy with which she handles her personal affairs. In no way is Cassandra unaware of her own value, but experience has taught her true connection is rare, fragile, and she has no wish to squander it, to risk a friendship on a romantic notion she is not even certain is returned in kind. As a concept, Josephine can hardly fault it—she herself has chosen the surety of friendship over the risk of romance before—but tonight she intends to persuade Cassandra that the nebulous thing they have between them is hardly a gamble at all. There is ample enough evidence to support her proposal, existing in the spaces between them when their eye contact lasts a minute overlong in the War Room, in the warmth of Cassandra’s hand on the back of hers as they sit too close together while reading before a fire on cold nights, in the hazy line which the gifts of flowers and wine which they exchange stands between those from close friends and those from lovers, but Cassandra’s language has ever been that of action and not of words, and so no letter Josephine could write could communicate this as thoroughly as she needs it to be.
So it is with determination, not passion, that she first kisses Cassandra. She could kiss in such a way as to show her tender affections, all soft lips and the flutter of eyelashes on cheeks, could kiss to communicate her romantic intentions, leaning towards Cassandra with her body as her back foot lifts up, swept off of at least one of her feet—she could, but she shall not. Instead, she grasps the longest patch of hair at the back of Cassandra’s neck, tilting her head so that they can kiss firmly, closemouthed. Her emotional commitment is not in question, she must merely prove that she is resolute and shall see this through, that she will not turn away at the first sign of trouble. The kiss is strong, is serious, and Josephine struggles not to lose herself to the feeling of slightly chapped lips against her own.
Cassandra is not the type to melt into a kiss, for all that she talks of wooing and classic romance she is no swooning maiden, she kisses with the same intensity as she does everything, and Josephine finds herself quickly shifting from the role of actor to that of the person acted-upon. Which, frankly will not do. She has every intention of consummating their relationship—for it is a relationship, although they have not acknowledged it as such—tonight, but knows that were Cassandra allowed to lead, that shall not happen. Not for a lack of desire, but because Cassandra, strong, stoic Cassandra, for although she knows her own self-worth still doubts that anyone else could. Had she her way, Cassandra would demur at the last moment, thinking herself to be taking advantage (never mind that Josephine is perfectly willing to be taken advantage of). This much, Josephine knows.
Having allowed herself a moment entirely in Cassandra’s thrall, Josephine breaks the kiss with a half step back, basking in the sight of Cassandra, hair slightly disheveled from where Josephine had gripped it, breathless, a flush spreading across her high cheekbones.
“Josephine—” she begins, and her voice is laced with desire even if her brow furrows.
“Hush,” she says it softly enough that it is more a question than a command, bringing a hand up to cup Cassandra’s cheek. “Do you want this?”
A nod, with conviction, “Yes,” but there is hesitation in her voice, even if the reason is not forthcoming.
As in all things, Josephine will have to prompt a more thorough response, “…But?”
There is a moment more of hesitation from Cassandra, before she speaks again, “You like beautiful things, and–propriety, delicacy and a quick tongue, and I, I have none of that to give, and I do not see how–”
"Dearest Cassandra,“ it is with a smile she replies, for this she can overcome, but she tempers her expression to a smile of reassurance and not one of triumph, "Have I not chosen you? You are beautiful,” here, Cassandra indicates that she is aware, and opens her mouth as if to qualify the point, before shutting it as Josephine continues, “and as for the rest, I think I have propriety and words enough for the both of us, and delicacy is good for little.”
"…If that is the case–“
"It is,” she affirms, tone quite serious, despite the tinge of affection that is ever-present when speaking with Cassandra.
"–then I have no further objections. That is, if you are quite sure…?“
Once more Josephine kisses Cassandra firmly, before she pulls back a fraction, and softly breathes, "I am. Now let me show you…”
Taking Cassandra by the hand, Josephine leads her from the sitting room she has set up in the antechamber of her quarters, and into her more private living space. Mutely, Cassandra trails behind, having evidently spoken quite enough words for herself already. Cassandra she seats on the bed, and begins to herself undress.
It would, no doubt, be more romantic were she the one to strip Cassandra, removing her armor layer by layer, but Josephine has little enough experience with the removal of armor, and Cassandra doubtless feels vulnerable enough already. Best to give her some measure of control now–true intimacy will come later. She does not rush to undress, but nor does she draw it out; for all that Josephine would like to indulge in the sensuality of it, Cassandra is undressing with a military precision borne of years of training, and Josephine does not think that it would serve her purposes to still be mostly dressed whilst Cassandra is left to wait.
When the both of them are nude, Josephine takes Cassandra’s items from where they have been folded neatly on the bed and places them on a nearby nightstand, her own she sets on a chair. This breaks the atmosphere, she knows, but Josephine knows the value of her clothes and it would not do to so destroy them, and Cassandra does not seem the type to brook any sort of mess. It simply is not practical.
Wordlessly, she walks back towards the bed, conscious of how her hips sway as she approaches Cassandra again, watches Cassandra’s eyes as they roam on her body, lingering on her breasts before shoot up to her face. Likely, Cassandra is embarrassed, not wanting to be caught staring, as if Josephine did not want her to look. She comes to a stop in front of Cassandra’s knees, puts a hand under her chin, tilts her face up, holds eye contact. A nervous smile from Cassandra, to which Josephine responds with a gentle brush of fingers along the side of her face, reassuring as can be.
With Cassandra’s legs together, she has too lean too far to kiss Cassandra comfortably, so she brings her free hand down to guide Cassandra’s legs apart, and moves to stand closer, her hair skimming Cassandra’s skin as she leans in to bring a kiss to each of her cheeks, then her lips. She can feel the heat of Cassandra’s flushed skin from this distance, wonders if it is arousal or embarrassment. She moves her lips along the shell of one ear, “You look beautiful,” whispered quietly, enough so that even at this proximity it will be a quiet thing, spoken like a revelation.
“No,” says Cassandra, and her voice is think with arousal, but also with shame, “I am not I…”
A nip to the shell of Cassandra’s ear is enough to silence her, if only for a moment. “You are.” And she kisses the spot of the bite to punctuate, “Now hush and let me show you.”
Others might say Cassandra is stubborn, but Josephine finds that she acquiesces easily, does not fight her assertions, and falls back willingly when Josephine presses her to the bed, rolling sideways slightly so that her body lays across it horizontally. She is quiet as she does so, but her eyes never leave Josephine’s face. She is quiet still as Josephine entwines their thighs, quiet still as Josephine presses a kiss to the scar high on her left cheekbone, then openmouthed, presses another to the one along her jaw, but her breath hitches as Josephine moves her tongue to lick a stripe along it, eyelids fluttering closed for but a moment. Beautiful, thinks Josephine, and kisses her again more firmly to say so.
By now, Cassandra is moving her hands towards Josephine’s hips, and while that is all very well and good normally, she is trying to make a point to Cassandra, and so she wants to remain very much in control for now. Josephine knows herself quiet well enough to be aware that if she allows Cassandra any ground now, she’ll quite quickly find herself on her back, and that will not do. Batting her paramour’s hands away Josephine speaks again, voice husky even to her own ears, accent creeping back in a bit as she does so, “Not now, Cassandra, I want to take care of you. Will you let me do that, please? Yes? Then just lie back, and let me do this for you.”
Her lips travel down Cassandra’s throat, and she sucks at a scar by the edge of Cassandra’s collarbone. Not long enough to leave a mark, quite, but enough that it is pleasantly red around the patch of light scar tissue, her fingers trace the scars along Cassandra’s ribs as she continues to kiss downwards, moving lightly enough that Cassandra shivers slightly. There are light scars on Cassandra’s breasts which may, upon further inspection, be only stretch marks, but she kisses them anyway, moving one hand to fondle Cassandra’s other breast as she does so.
When she alights on the puckered scar on Cassandra’s sternum—an arrow, she thinks, if her memory of Leliana’s scars proves a valid comparison—she tweaks one of Cassandra’s nipples, and is gratified to feel her hips cant in response, rubbing against the thigh Josephine has placed there. And oh, Cassandra is wet, Josephine can feel it.
The knowledge sends a flare of arousal through her own body, which she does her best to ignore as she moves down to the rest of Cassandra’s body, alighting on the large horizontal scar on Cassandra’s stomach. It’s old, she can tell from the way the silver shines against Cassandra’s tanned skin, but it still stands raised against her flesh. It must have been a mighty wound that gave it to her, a tearing blow if the jagged edges are any indication, and Josephine makes a note to ask—later. For now, she is entirely too busy with other things, close as she is to the neatly trimmed hair between Cassandra’s legs.
It is a surprise to Josephine, though it should not be so given Cassandra’s penchant for romance novels, and the attention she pays to maintaining the trim of her hair. Still, Josephine who, herself, does not pay such attention to her own body hair, did not expect it. She thinks to touch Cassandra now, but it is too soon, there are still scars on Cassandra’s body she has yet to attend to, to prove to Cassandra that they are beautiful because they are a part of her, and even beyond that, that they have a worth of their own.
Moving off of Cassandra, she presses a kiss to the lowest of her scars, on one of her ankles that looks as if it might be from shaving and not battle. Further, to a scar on her knee which looks precise, perhaps the result of a surgery—another thing to enquire about later. There are scars both inside Cassandra’s thighs and on her hips, and Josephine moves as if towards the one closest to Cassandra’s sex, before turning abruptly and moving towards the stretch marks of her thighs instead, a hand tracing patterns just at the edge of Cassandra’s lower stomach, teasing. She nips at the nick in the hollow of Cassandra’s hipbone, feels when Cassandra’s hand clutches the sheet, trapped as it is beneath her torso.
Cassandra writhes impatiently, and Josephine moves lower, lower, repositioning herself yet again and parting Cassandra’s thighs just slightly as she does so. From here, she can smell Cassandra, and she wants badly to give in here and now to temptation, to give Cassandra what she wants, but if there is anything that years of negotiation has taught Josephine it is patience. Anticipation makes things all the sweeter, and there is one mark Josephine has yet neglected. Seated high on Cassandra’s inner thigh, just to the left of her center is a scar, raised slightly in the manner of a wound left too long before healing magic reached it. It is here that she directs her attention, even as Cassandra cants her hips towards Josephine’s face.
Beneath her lips, the scar is relatively smooth, it is old and likely from a blade. Josephine runs her tongue along it quickly once, twice, thrice as if her tongue were where Cassandra truly wanted it. Above her, she can practically feel Cassandra’s mounting frustration, and when she bites the tip of the scar—gently, mind, just enough to get a rise out of Cassandra—Cassandra at last reaches a hand down towards her head, nudging her in the proper direction.
“You want this, yes? Want me?” she asks, and Maker she sounds aroused even to her own ears.
A noise of assent is the only response from Cassandra, but it is not enough, she needs to hearCassandra say the words. “Say it for me then, tell me what you need. I want to hear the words.”
She draws her fingers across Cassandra’s waist as she asks, moving to grasp her hips, and Cassandra groans as she answers, “Yes, sweet Andraste, please.” If ever Josephine thought Cassandra’s voice was lovely before, it must pale in comparison to now, the depth of emotion in Cassandra’s words, of wanting, reminds Josephine that she, too, is very much aroused.
Now that she has heard the words, Josephine hesitates no further, bringing her mouth to Casssandra’s center. She begins gently, pressing her mouth to Cassandra almost as if she were kissing her, and is amused by the softly frustrated grunt Cassandra gives her, insistent that she do more. In response, Josephine circles Cassandra’s hole, teasing her entrance, waiting until Cassandra is used to the rhythm and moving her hips in time to move on.
As her head moves upwards, Josephine looks up at Cassandra and oh, she is beautiful. The light from the brazier has painted her warm skin orange in the glow, and while she has yet to acquire the pleasant sheen of sweat Josephine is accustomed to seeing on her after practice, the flush on her cheeks is not at all dissimilar to what Josephine has observed in the past. Josephine had wondered, before, how far down that flush extended—the answer, she now sees, is not terribly far, but she finds she is not disappointed. There is little enough Cassandra could ever do to disappoint her, she thinks and—Maker, is she smitten.
The hand placed on her head becomes rather more insistent as she licks in several quick, light stripes, stopping just before she reaches Cassandra’s clit. As she took her time leading up to this point, and it has by Cassandra’s own admission been some time since last she was bedded, Josephine supposes she cannot fault the eagerness. Still, it is rather endearing (never mind that most anything Cassandra does strikes her as endearing these days).
When Josephine at last brings her tongue to Cassandra’s clit she makes a wonderful, breathy sound, and it has Josephine resisting the urge to touch herself. For this, right now, is about Cassandra, about convincing her that she is very much wanted, and very much worthy of Josephine’s love and attentions. Yet she aches, and finds herself repositioning her hips to press against the bed just so, desperate to relieve some of the pressure. It helps, somewhat, and she ignores the rest of her need for the time being. There will be time enough later to pleasure herself.
As she had asked her to be passive, Cassandra seems to be trying to remain still, but even now Josephine can tell that Cassandra is inclined towards being a delightfully responsive lover. She makes a small humming noise as Josephine sucks at the flesh of her labia, and Josephine cannot help but wonder what she sounds like as she recites the Chant—for all the time they have spent together, in Haven, on the road, and now in Skyhold, Josephine has never heard her pray. Cassandra’s devotions are for herself alone. Still, Josephine finds that here she can imagine the voice with which Cassandra sings, can picture her face as she repeats the words of the Maker. Not being particularly inclined to religion herself, Josephine is one to recite prayers by rote, but imagining the passion by which Cassandra must do so is moving.
Passion is Cassandra’s realm, as it were. Strength of body has she, but also of will and of conviction. And here, now, she shows a different kind, her mouth slightly open and her thighs beginning to shake ever so slightly.
When Josephine licks around her clit in slow circles, first lightly but with increasing pressure, the trembling begins to spread from Cassandra’s thighs to the rest of her body, and Josephine knows she must be getting close. A well placed flick of the tongue, followed by a strong sucking motion has her back arching, and Josephine wonders, had she not bid Cassandra to be silent, whose name would be more beautiful on Cassandra’s lips—the Maker’s, or her own?
Such thoughts are not given voice, not only because Josephine’s mouth is quite occupied at the moment, but also because she does not know, yet, if she is comfortable sharing them, or how they would be received. For now they serve only to heighten her own arousal, and the sound she makes at the thought, the corresponding vibration against Cassandra’s flesh, timed with a slight scraping of teeth in the immediate aftermath is enough.
Above her, Cassandra comes apart. She is not quiet, like Josephine had thought she might be given what Josephine assumes has been years of shared tents and barracks, nor is she especially gentle, gripping Josephine’s hair just past the point of pain—not that she minds. But for all this, Cassandra is wordless. Through her orgasm, and immediately after as Josephine moves herself up to lay in her arms, no words are exchanged.
Josephine waits, patience being a virtue she has needed to cultivate given her profession. Words are Josephine’s realm, not Cassandra’s and it would not do to push her now. Between two people, Josephine has always imagined one can sense the words unspoken, in silences like these. Often they are heavy, or brittle, the result of a breakdown in communication years prior. Like a web, they connect the individuals to one another, but one misplaced word might break them. Theirs is not such a connection, for they have not known each other so long, yet, and Josephine hopes that by waiting, by giving Cassandra this space to speak, the words that bind them will be light, will tie them closer to one another.
In the meantime, Josephine’s own need fades to a dull ache, but she cannot bring herself to care. This, here and now, is more important to her. She cannot imagine their…liaison? (She knows not yet what to call this thing they have between them) will end any time soon.
A last, Cassandra speaks, and it is slower than usual for her, but there is a sense of wonder in her voice, and Josephine cannot fault her. “I—Thank you, you…” A pause, as she seems to consider. “I hope you know that I, I admit I am not sure how to say this part, but… My feelings. For you. I hope you know them.”
This is hardly a grand admission of love, but Josephine supposes that even beyond this aspect of their relationship, they have not known each other long enough for love, and it is enough. She presses her lips to Cassandra’s, kissing her firmly. “I know,” says she, and for once a simple phrase shall suffice.