Blackwall smut: “Her Perfumed Sanctuary”

Self-prompt for @dadrunkwriting inspired by this amazing codex entry which proves that fanfic existed in the world of Dragon Age. A+++. 

Also used a Fictober prompt: “I know how you love to play games.”

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition
Pairing: Blackwall x Lavellan
Rating: Explicit

Read on AO3 instead. NSFW. 

***************

A bright bark of laughter floats out of the bookshop.

Blackwall almost smiles – an instinctive response to the sound of his Dalish lover’s mirth – but he forces his face to stay stern as he surveys the courtyard. Even here in Val Royeaux, he’s Arya’s shield and her shelter, and he needs to ward any potential enemies away. These rich Orlesians may wear a veneer of civility, but Blackwall knows all too well that they’re just as vicious as any common criminal.

A moment later, Arya saunters out of the shop, a jaunty sway in her step and a scroll in her hand. “Look what I found,” she crows.

He takes the scroll from her outstretched hand, and his eyebrows leap high on his forehead at the title alone: Her Perfumed Sanctuary. “What is this?” he asks incredulously.

“It’s hilarious, that’s what it is,” Arya says gleefully. “Go on, read it!”

Blackwall obeys, and amusement wars with embarrassment as he reaches the end of the scroll. He raises his eyes to Arya’s face, and he can’t help but smile at her glowing grin. “You paid good coin for this?” he asks.

“Of course I did! Something like this is priceless!” she exclaims. She takes the scroll back from him and tucks it into her belt. “You Andrastians are so strange,” she says. “What kind of odd person describes a woman’s nether regions as a ‘perfumed sanctuary’?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Blackwall hedges. The language might be overly fancy, but if he’s perfectly honest, he finds the description rather apt.

Unfortunately, his equivocal response only serves to snatch his impish lover’s attention. “Oh my. Oh, Blackwall,” she croons. “You like this description, don’t you?”

He flushes. “No,” he says gruffly. “I don’t like it. I just – it’s not completely – I can see where the writer… I mean…”

He trails off, flustered by the widening of her shit-eating grin. She sways toward him until she’s leaning into his chest. “Come on,” she teases. “You don’t think it’s even a little bit of an exaggeration? I mean, please. Perfumed? That’s simply overkill, don’t you think?”

“Not really,” he mumbles, annoyed that the growing heat in his cheeks is giving him away. “It’s… All right, the phrase is silly. I’ll give you that. But… there’s something nice about the, er, smell. That’s all I mean to say.” To his shame, the more he thinks about that particular feminine scent, the more he agrees with this mysterious raunchy writer: if a perfume is meant to entice the object of one’s desire, to reel a person in and seduce them, then that’s exactly what Arya’s private scent is to him.

At the mere thought of his Dalish lover’s scent, an image sparks in his mind: her legs spread wide, her slick and shining folds crowned by the swollen little bud of her clit, looking for all the world like the perfect petals a dew-kissed rose.

A flush of heat rolls from his cheeks down through his chest to settle low in his belly, and he swallows hard to quell it. Then he realizes that Arya hasn’t replied.

He finally lifts his eyes to her face, and another jolt of embarrassment and heat pulses in his abdomen. Her amethyst eyes are scorching with intent, and her lips are curled in a provocative little smirk. She shifts slightly against his chest, and he clenches his jaw as her pelvis brushes lightly against the front of his trousers and his obnoxiously hardened cock.

After a few long and loaded seconds, Arya finally speaks, and Blackwall almost wishes she hadn’t. “Something nice, you say?” she purrs in a sultry voice. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Blackwall knows her game. He knows exactly what she’s after. And he really shouldn’t indulge her, not here in Val Royeaux where anyone could be watching.

But the thought of Arya’s ‘perfumed sanctuary’ won’t get out of his mind. He imagines his hand dipping down those plump and rosy petals, savouring her slippery heat on his fingers before leaning close and breathing in the hot and visceral musk of her. Then, when he drops his lips right between her legs, the sweet and salty taste…

He inhales slowly and takes a step back. He gently takes the Inquisitor’s elbow and leads her away from the bookshop.

They walk in silence for some time: up a few flights of stairs, along a bright and airy street, around a corner and then another, down a neat but narrow alley that’s overshadowed by two large and opulent buildings on either side –

Suddenly he spins on her, pinning her against the wall with his hands on either side of her head. “You want to know what I mean?” he growls.

Her excited little gasp is all the encouragement he needs. He crowds her body firmly against the wall and presses his lips to her cheekbone. “I like your perfume,” he tells her. “I like to get my nose right in it before I taste you with my tongue.”

“Fenedhis,” she gasps. Her chest rises against his own with her desperate intake of breath. “So… so it’s not an exaggeration then.”

She’s trying for jocular, but she’s failing spectacularly; her voice is wavering, pitched high and pleading, and the tense arch of her spine brings him an odd sense of satisfaction.

Roughly he pulls off his gloves and drops them on the ground, then pushes open her coat and tugs at her belt. “Not an exaggeration, my lady,” he confirms. “You know what else I like? Carrying your perfume in my beard after we’ve done the deed. Especially at night. I like waking up in the morning and having that sweet smell to remind me that you were screaming my name the night before.”

“Falon’Din’s fucking balls, Blackwall,” she whines.

He drops to his knees and drags her trousers down. Before she can say another word, he shoves her thighs apart and buries his face between her legs.  

Her cry of delight is muffled by her fist, but Blackwall doesn’t mind; his attention is solely focused on his Dalish lover’s scent. It’s warm and animalistic and raw, and he breathes her in with gusto while delving his tongue into her delicate flesh.

He laves her swollen clit with long and hungry licks, lapping and languishing in her fragrant flavour, taking every last drop of her to coat his lips and tongue and chin. When her thighs go tense beneath his hands, he devours her more hungrily still. He swirls his tongue over the bead between her legs until she jerks against his face.

Her body shudders as her climax courses through her, and her cries of rapture are stifled by her own hand. As her trembling grows still, Blackwall wipes his face on her bare thighs to remove her excess juices from his beard.

She laughs tiredly and leans her full weight against the wall, her chest heaving with the strength of her orgasm, and Blackwall carefully rolls her trousers back up before replacing his gloves and rising to his feet.

She grins at him as she buckles her belt. Her desperate submissiveness is long gone, replaced by her usual roguish attitude. “I’m surprised at you, Ser Blackwall,” she whispers. “Such behaviour in a public place!”

Her tone is rounded with mirth, and he shakes his head at how utterly irrepressible she is. “I know how you love to play games, my lady,” he drawls, then gently takes her hand. “Come, we should find Solas and Cole. They’ll be wondering where you’ve gone.”

She cackles as they jog through the alley back into the brightly lit streets of Val Royeaux. “Oh, they won’t need to wonder,” she says. “Cole will know exactly what we’ve been up to. You have a very hard time hiding your thoughts from him, I’ve noticed.”

Blackwall grunts, but Arya’s tinkling laugh wipes away some of his dismay. As they reach the lower market, she smiles up at him and squeezes his hand.

Her expression is sweet and fond, and he smiles back before leaning down to give her a chaste little kiss. But before he can pull away, she twines her fingers around the back of his neck.

“I can smell my perfume on your face,” she whispers.

She’s a cheeky little minx, but Blackwall isn’t embarrassed anymore. “I’m glad to hear it, Your Worship,” he says softly. “I’ll wear it as a badge of honour.”

Her laughter is low and knowing, and Blackwall grins before kissing her again. Arya honours him every time she gives him her body. If anyone notices the evidence of her esteem in his beard, he’ll take their disapproval in stride.

Arya Lavellan’s approval is all he really needs.

I’d like to see you do either prompt 11, 20 or 23! X3 Although if you want a off the list idea i have one! Fenris and mage hawke finding out their child is also a mage! Can’t wait to read whatever you decide to write! x3

Ayyyy thank you for the prompts! Honestly I will probably fill them all (except the child one – I generally don’t “do” fics with children lmao), but I’ll start with #23: “This is not new. It only feels like it.” (It was easy to incorporate into the Fenhawke oneshot I was already writing! 😉) 

For @dadrunkwriting, and also for Fictober 2018.

Fandom: Dragon Age II
Pairing: Fenris x femHawke
Rating: Mature

Read on AO3 instead. 

****************

With all the care of a mother laying down a child, Hawke laid her cards on the table.

The party instantly dissolved into an uproar of laughter and jeering. Varric chuckled and shook his head, and Sebastian absolutely roared with mirth while Anders pounded his fist on the table. Merrill wrung her hands and dithered about Hawke taking poor risks; meanwhile, Isabela began insulting the Fereldan mage with gleeful relish.

Aveline, on the other hand, shook her head in dismay. “Hawke, why would you raise the stakes so high with such a terrible hand? What were you thinking?” she scolded.

Hawke smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “I tried to bluff! Bluffing normally works so well when we visit the Gallows. Cullen still believes that Anders is just practicing voices for an independent opera production at the Blooming Rose.” She winked at Fenris.

Fenris just shook his head and folded his arms. “You don’t have enough coin to pay off the raise, do you?”

“Nope, she doesn’t,” Varric interjected. “I’ve been counting.”

Hawke shot him a mock-offended look. “You’ve been counting my coin? Isn’t that cheating?”

“It’s only cheating if he counts your cards, not your coin,” Sebastian replied. “And that’s only for certain games. I still can’t believe you don’t know this, Hawke.” He grinned at her as he sipped his water.

She threw her hands up in exasperation. “I’m a late bloomer with this game, all right? So sue me!”

“No one’s going to sue,” Fenris drawled. “But you have to pay your debt to me. I am winning, after all.” He raised one challenging eyebrow at her.

Her bright coppery eyes darted to his face, and Fenris fought back a smile at the mischievous smirk that dimpled her cheeks. “Well, Fenris, as you so smugly pointed out, I’ve got no coin left,” she said. “So what do you suggest?”

“Give him the shirt off your back,” Isabela interrupted. Her arms were folded and her smile was broad and wicked, and Fenris watched curiously as Hawke abruptly elbowed the brazen pirate.

“Bels,” she hissed.

Aveline rolled her eyes. “Of course you would suggest making it a stripping game. Trollop,” she said primly.

“Prude,” Isabela returned absently, but her eyes were still on Hawke. She elbowed the mage in return and jerked her chin in Fenris’s direction. “Go on, Hawke, give him your shirt. That’s sure to balance the scales. Isn’t that right, Fenris?”

Varric grumbled something about a perfectly good card game being dragged off the rails, and Merrill began twittering to Aveline about humans and cards and getting naked, but Fenris ignored them; he was too busy watching as Hawke’s cheeks warmed to a rosy pink.

Finally Hawke scoffed and rolled her eyes at Isabela. “Fine, I’ll give him my shirt. But only if you take yours off too, you cheeky bitch.” Fenris noted with interest that Hawke wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Isabela cackled, then pushed back from the table. “Done,” she declared.

Aveline groaned. “Oh Maker’s breath, Hawke, don’t encourage her…”

It was too late. Isabela had already pulled off her thigh-length tunic, leaving her practically naked except for her boots, bright blue brassière, and leather shorts that were hardly more than smallclothes. The brazen pirate carelessly tossed her tunic at Sebastian, then turned to Hawke with a complacent smirk. “There. Your turn, sweet thing.”

Sebastian abruptly rose from the table, almost knocking his chair over in the process. “I have to go and, er, pray. Thank you for the hospitality, Hawke, I’ll see you tomorrow-” He bolted from the table, chased by another wave of laughter and jeering from the rest of the group.

Fenris, meanwhile, kept his eyes on Hawke. She’d finally deigned to meet his gaze, and now it seemed that neither of them could look away. Her expression was more than just the usual mischief. There was something intense in the cant of her eyebrows or the heat of her dark golden eyes, and Fenris simply watched her, waiting to see what she would do.

Finally she rose to her feet. In one smooth motion, she pulled her loose silk tunic over her head.

Isabela and Anders hooted encouragement, and Merrill giggled and covered her face while Varric and Aveline shook their heads and groaned. Without breaking from his gaze, Hawke tossed her tunic across the table and into his lap.

“Satisfied?” she said.

Fenris wasn’t satisfied – not by far. The blood in his veins felt like it was pumping too fast, a surge of heat and something undeniably feral that started low in his abdomen and burned up into his chest.

Without moving his eyes from her face, he studied her half-bared body from the periphery of his vision. A wicked-looking pattern of black ink traced back from her left collarbone over her shoulder, and he could see hints of the tattoo curling around the edge of her ribs. Her breasts weren’t nearly as generous as Isabela’s, and her simple leather bustier was nowhere near as ornamental as the pirate’s blue lace, but that simple leather bustier was the sole focus of Fenris’s attention.

His mouth was dry. His pulse pounded in his ears. He liked her simple bustier. He wanted to see the curves that lay beneath it. He wanted-

“Rynne, darling? I’m home!”

Fenris jolted out of his salacious reverie as Leandra Amell’s voice drifted up from the foyer. Varric snickered as Hawke’s expression transformed from a look of heated challenge to sheer panic.

“Shit!” she squeaked, and Merrill gasped as Hawke suddenly lunged across the table toward Fenris.

Fenris froze. Her supple body, her maddeningly hidden breasts coming closer, the subtle cleft of her cleavage as she surged toward him, her left hand on the table, her right hand reaching toward his lap-

She grabbed her silken tunic from his lap, then scrambled back toward her chair as Isabela crowed with delighted mirth. “What in the Maker’s massive balls is she doing home? I thought she’d be gone all night,” Hawke hissed as she roughly hauled her tunic back on. She ran her fingers through her chestnut hair, then pointed at the still-cackling Isabela. “Can one of you get this one to put her top back on?” she demanded, then ran off toward the stairs. “Mother! I thought you’d be with Uncle Gamlen until…”

Her voice disappeared to the lower level of the house, and Varric sighed happily. “I guess the party’s over, then,” he said. He started gathering the cards as Aveline began collecting their many empty bottles.

“There’s never a dull moment with her, is there?” Anders chirped. He rose to help Aveline with the bottles as Merrill scurried off, muttering something about a rag to wipe the table.

Fenris slowly rose from his chair and wandered toward the liquor table. He knew he should probably help the others to tidy the detritus of the evening, but he felt oddly off-balance.

He leaned his elbows on the railing and gazed vacantly down at the fireplace. This is not new, he told himself. It only feels like it. But it was hard to convince himself when this was the only attraction he could recall.

A moment later, a fully-dressed Isabela sidled up to him. “We’re heading out,” she said. “But you should stay.”

Her tone was innocent – which, for Isabela, indicated that she meant to be nothing of the sort. Fenris frowned. “No. I’ll leave as well. There’s no reason for me to stay.”

Isabela scoffed and cocked one graceful eyebrow. “You’re even stupider than Hawke,” she announced. She then lowered her voice to a murmur. “Listen, Fenris, I only say this because I care.”

Fenris scowled more deeply at the serious expression on Isabela’s face. She pursed her lips. “If you don’t fuck Hawke soon,” she said, “then I will.”

A wicked little smile lifted the corners of her lips, but Fenris was not amused. The Rivaini rogue was so damned nosy, always sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. Isabela didn’t know what she was talking about. Fenris couldn’t be sure that Hawke meant it with the flirting. She flirted with everyone. Cullen could barely make eye contact with her without blushing like an untouched youth.

But it wasn’t about Hawke, not really. It was Fenris himself. He must have been with someone before; he was almost sure of it. But that was the problem. He wasn’t sure.

The surging of lust, the impulse to reach out and stroke her unexpectedly tattooed skin – it was like breathing, easy and confident and good, but he couldn’t be completely sure that he’d… done this before. He couldn’t fucking remember.

Isabela made it sound so simple, when the truth was anything but.

Fenris didn’t want to tell Isabela that. He didn’t want to tell that to anyone. It wasn’t anyone’s business but his own.

He took a quiet, deep breath to calm his frustration, then shot Isabela a little smirk. “I admit I’m surprised you haven’t already,” he retorted.

Isabela winked. “Who said I haven’t?” she drawled. Then she nudged him playfully with her hip and sauntered away.

Fenris rolled his eyes, then followed Isabela and the others down the stairs.

Hawke was hugging Merrill goodbye while teasing Aveline about staying out so late, and Fenris slowly joined the others as they bade her farewell. Isabela kissed her noisily on the cheek and laughed raucously as Hawke playfully slapped her on the ass, and then only Fenris was left.

He nodded politely. “Hawke,” he said.

She nodded politely in return. “Fenris.”

Her eyes were like flames. They danced with brazen orange heat, and Fenris could feel the tips of his ears warming as they gazed at each other. He watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed and the slow rise of her chest as she inhaled, and he remembered the sight of her simple leather bustier…

He wanted to touch her. She was less than an arm’s length away. He wanted to peel back his sleeves, slide his hand beneath her thin silk tunic and up along the golden skin of her midriff.

Such a simple thing to want. Or so it would seem.

He took a step back. “Goodnight,” he said.

She exhaled, then smiled ruefully at him as though he’d bested her somehow. “Goodnight,” she said. “Don’t get kidnapped on your way home. I can’t be bothered to make any heroic rescues tonight.”

Fenris snorted. He could feel his shoulders relaxing and his stomach sinking at her light-hearted levity. “I’ll bring you the eviscerated hearts of anyone who dares to try,” he replied.

She grinned. “Lovely. We’ll make them into a nourishing stew for Toby. Though it’s probably a bad idea to give a mabari a taste for human flesh.” She knelt to scratch her faithful hound behind the ears.

Fenris grunted in amusement, then left Hawke’s mansion without further ado.

The nighttime air was cool as he slunk through the shadows back to his mansion. Fenris breathed deeply as he walked, thankful for the crisp air that cleared the heat from his cheeks and the confusion from his mind.

There was no reason to worry about the blurry fog of his unknown past, because Hawke was simply flirting. It was what she did. The heat in her amber eyes, the intensity of her stare as it hooked into his chest and held him in a tense and breathless stasis: that was just what she did.

He would convince himself of this, in time.

Perhaps.

Stormbirds & Stalkers Comic Adaptation

ilikedetectives:

Chapter 16: Braids, Part 1

Written by: @pikapeppa (Read full work on AO3)

Comic by: ilikedetectives

Rating: Explicit

Note: This is my first attempt ever at using manips for comic adaptation so thank you for bearing with me 🙂 I will also try my best to juggle between work and grad school to update every two weeks.

Keep reading

I fucking L O V E @ilikedetectives and I FUCKING LOVE THIS LITTLE COMIC. Seriously my heart is dancing. TTuTT 

pikapeppa:

vythika96:

When the boys are competing to be your boyfriend, but you’re a lesbian/asexual/not interested, etc.

Or, alternatively, you’re dating them all and they are just extremely embarrassing.

Bonus pic for when the blaze canister drops:

Draw the squad originally by @mugges I believe.

Special thanks to @pikapeppa who is super awesome and supportive and I love her!

AHAHAHAHAHAAH I LOVE THIS MORE THAN I HAVE WORDS FOR

pikapeppa:

I love this art and IT’S SO INSPIRING AND BEAUTIFUL, I had to make a little dialogue for it. Solas and Lavellan having an academic chat in the library… 

Lavellan: Solas, do you think that spirits consider the Fade their home? Do they know what it means to have a home?

Solas: [GREATLY APPROVES] It depends on the spirit, vhenan. Simpler spirits may only understand the concept of ‘home’ from what they observe of this – that is, of our world. They may not understand that the concept of a home applies to them as well. 

Lavellan: [sadly] I wonder if Cole misses the Fade. Do you think he will go back someday?

Solas: I cannot say. It depends on what he sees a home to be. Even for people of this world, home can mean many different things. For some, it is a place. For others, it may be a time they long for, an age of safety and happiness. And for others still… [he trails off, studies the lines and curves of her face.]

Lavellan: … it’s a person. 

Solas: [softly] Yes, vhenan. Exactly. 

Source: bbbaaarrrkkk

for dadrunkwriting “good morning kiss” with blackwall and arya?

Yay a Baewall prompt for @dadrunkwriting Friday! I doubled up and used a Fictober dialogue prompt as well: “I know you do.”

Read on AO3 here. NSFW smut, because that’s how we do. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition
Pairing: Blackwall/Lavellan
Rating: Explicit

***************

Heat. Pressure. Darkness. Too comfortable, can’t move…

The warm hand travels up Blackwall’s back, sliding over his bare shoulder blade. A shifting of the mattress as another body climbs onto the bed.

He smiles sleepily into his pillow as Arya climbs on top of him. She straddles his hips, settling herself comfortably on his bum, and he feels her shifting weight as she leans forward to kiss the spot between his shoulders.

“Good morning,” she says.

Her voice is pert and bright – far too bright for how dark it is. “What time is it?” he mumbles, his mouth thick with sleep.

“No idea,” she chirps. “But it is morning. Technically.” She kisses his ear, his hair, his shoulders, sliding her palms across the muscles of his back.

He sighs contentedly and nestles his face into the pillow. He wants to ask what kept her out so late; when he’d left her in the Great Hall, she was deep in cahoots with Varric about a ‘special commission’ he was writing for one of their companions, and he can’t imagine that that would have occupied her for hours.

The question forms on his tongue, but then her hands start to knead his back. Her warm weight is just so nice, and he’s too bloody cozy…

The vague query fades to the back of his mind as the lull of sleep returns to the fore. Arya massages his shoulders, the heels of her hands pressing into knots he didn’t realize were there. Blackwall’s body is here in bed, anchored by her solid heat on his back, but his mind is floating and free, loose and wandering in the darkness of very early morn.

Arya smoothes her hands up along his spine, across his shoulders, soothing him with heat and pressure until he’s more asleep than awake. She leans forward, pressing her chest against his back, and with the last kernel of wakefulness in his mind, he realizes that she’s topless.

She rolls her hips slightly, pressing her pelvis more firmly into his bottom, and a slow stir of interest uncoils in his groin. Her hands move up along his arms, sliding under the pillow until she finds his wrists, and when she wraps her little elven fingers around them, the stirring between his legs pulses more strongly.

She rolls her hips against his bum, and her breath ghosts against his ear, and now he’s conflicted: he’s still cozy, still comfortable, but Arya’s eager body is calling him, cajoling his cock into alertness. If only he could find the energy to reciprocate…

She leans low, brushing her breasts against his back, and he shifts restlessly to let his cock straighten against his thigh. “Mmm,” he grumbles.

She chuckles softly, then lifts her chest and slides off of his back. “Come on. Roll over,” she whispers.

He presses his face into the pillow for a moment more – crystal grace and apples, it smells like her – then, without opening his eyes, he slowly rolls onto his back.

The mattress shifts again, then Arya is straddling him once more. She pushes the blankets away from his waist, and when she lowers her weight onto his hips, he realizes with a jolt of happy surprise that it’s not just her upper half that’s nude.

She’s fully naked and she’s wet, and Blackwall groans with sleepy appreciation as his shaft comes to rest in the snug embrace of her slick cleft. She slides her hands over his biceps and along his forearms to capture his wrists again, and as she leans her weight into his wrists, pinning him to the mattress, his languid lust intensifies from a simmer into a boil.

He lifts his hips, pressing his cock more firmly into her heat. “I like this,” he mumbles, then immediately regrets it. It’s vague and insufficient praise for how she makes him feel. Blackwall loves this. He loves the solid reassurance of her small and slender body splayed across his own. He loves the dominant grip that she uses to hold him down, even though he could flip her over in a heartbeat.

She chuckles, a bright and vibrant sound that rings like bells in the dark. “I know you do,” she purrs, then undulates her hips, sliding herself along his length, spreading her slippery arousal over them both.

Then suddenly he’s inside of her, sheathed in the heavenly tightness of her, heat and pressure and pleasure of a different kind than her hands across his back. She rocks against him slowly, a rhythmic in-and-out like the breath that fills his lungs, and Blackwall simply breathes in this bliss. He’s blind in the darkness of the bedroom, but he doesn’t need his vision anyway; every scrap of his mind is focused on the feel of her, her heat around his cock and her weight on his hips and her fingers biting into his wrists as she takes him deep and slow.

Her right hand leaves his wrist and she slows down even more, and without even looking, Blackwall knows exactly where her hand has gone: it’s between her legs, her fingers pressing against her swollen bud. He listens with drowsy satisfaction as her breathing grows jagged and sharp, and when she gasps, he gasps as well, his pleasure rising sharply as she contracts around him.

Her hand pins his wrist again. Her lips crash against his own in a ferocious kiss, and Blackwall moans into her tongue as she rolls against him, fucking him hard and fast as she rides out her rapture.

A few long, delicious moments later, she slows and pulls away from his lips with a gasp. “Don’t mind me if I help myself to your cock,” she quips, then laughs breathlessly against his cheek.

“Not at all, my lady,” he breathes. He’s more than happy to be her thrall, the object of her passion and the recipient of her torrid touch. Her pleasure feeds his own, bleeding into him through her skin and her slickness and her sweat.

She presses his wrists into the mattress. She rides him slow and careful, then fast and hard when he thrusts toward her. When he gasps out a groan of ecstasy, she catches his pleasure on her tongue, kissing him deeply as he shudders helplessly beneath her.

Finally Arya releases his wrists and flops onto the bed beside him, and Blackwall doesn’t hesitate: he rolls toward her, slinging his arm around her waist and gathering her into his body.

He tucks her head under his chin, and she laughs and pushes gently at his chest. “Wait, wait,” she urges. “I want to clean up first!”

He wraps his arm tightly around her. “Stay,” he mumbles. He’s dozing off already, both sated and sedated by their sex, and the comfort of her body is all he wants before falling back asleep.

She ceases in her wriggling, and he feels her happy sigh against his chest. “All right, you big brute,” she whispers. “I’ll stay.”

He can hear the smile in her voice, and it makes him smile in return. He nestles into the pillow, enjoying the scent of her hair and the heat of her body tucked into his own. “Good night, Arya,” he mumbles.

He hears the brightness of her chuckle. “Good morning, you mean,” she retorts.

A half-smile is all he can manage before sleep snatches him away. Morning, night, or afternoon: it truly doesn’t matter.

With Arya in his arms, everything is good.