Thanks so much for the ask @guileandgall! Pairing of my choice… be still my beating heart! This prompt had Blackwall written all over it, so Blackwall/Lavellan it is!
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“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Blackwall frowns as he studies the war table’s map. Three handwritten notes are pinned to the tiny town of Val Gamord: a perfect note in Josephine’s impeccable hand, a slightly curled scroll with Leliana’s sharp cursive, and a fastidiously folded note in Cullen’s oddly messy scrawl.
Blackwall glances at Arya, who stands beside him with folded arms. “Cullen’s plan is the best one,” he says. “Send the Wardens to defeat the darkspawn. It’s what we – what they do best.” A tiny pang of guilt wrenches his chest as he corrects his pronoun; Arya has forgiven him his lies, but the sense of chastisement remains.
Arya shifts her weight to one hip and eyes him speculatively. “I’m not sure. Leliana has a point. It’s an odd place for darkspawn to appear, no?” She pushes away from the war table and slowly wanders around behind him.
He frowns again. “Yes, but you should neutralize the threat before investigating. Or else there may be no one left to… to save…” He trails off absently as Arya’s arms slide around him from behind. The slender fingers of her left hand trail over the buttons of his overcoat as her right hand slides down to stroke his belt.
The gentle pulsing light of her left hand matches the sudden kick of his heart, and he reaches down to capture her right hand. “What are you up to?” he asks shrewdly.
“Me? Nothing. I’m simply getting strategic advice on strategy, obviously,” she replies. Her tone is innocent, but her body betrays her words; she presses sinuously against his back, and he can picture the arching of her spine all too clearly.
His overeager cock begins to straighten with interest, but another pang of guilt rings an alarm in his brain. Cullen and Cassandra still haven’t quite forgiven him his lies, and he doesn’t want to risk further anger from the Inquisitor’s inner circle with bad deeds. He gently pulls Arya around by the hand until she’s facing him. “Strategic advice on strategy, hmm?” he drawls.
Arya smiles cheekily at his skeptical expression, then shocks him by deftly lifting herself onto the war table. She pulls him close by the collar until he’s standing between her legs. “Yes indeed,” she purrs. “Very strategic.” She pulls him closer still. Her hand is a fisted command in his collar, her damask lips slightly parted with anticipation as she leans forward, and Blackwall sways toward her like a magnet before his senses return.
He leans away from her with no small amount of regret. “Arya, this is a bad idea,” he warns. “Your advisors could come in at any moment.”
“I know,” she says. “Isn’t it exciting?” She releases his collar and slowly slides her fingers down to his belt.
He puts his hands over hers to stop her. “Please, my lady,” he pleads weakly. “Not here. There’s not enough time.”
A wicked grin lights her face. She spreads her legs wider and slides closer to the edge of the table – and closer to him – until they’re nose to nose. “Not enough time for what exactly?” she whispers. “What do you have in mind?”
Nothing, he wants to say, but the lie sticks behind his teeth. She’s deliberately provoking him, presenting her willing body and making him imagine all kinds of things: Arya stretched across the war table map, her spine arching over the Free Marches as he peels her smallclothes down, spreading her thighs over the Waking Sea so he can devour her wetness, her palms flat on Ferelden and Orlais as he fucks her from behind…
His cock jerks eagerly in his pants, and suddenly Arya’s lips are at his ear. “You know you want this,” she breathes. “I know you want this. You want me, here, right now, on this table.”
He gulps in a breath. Her thighs are firm and fine under his hands, and he shouldn’t be touching her, truly he shouldn’t, but his hands move of their own volition as she continues to whisper in his ear.
“You want to strip me bare and spread me wide on this table. You want me naked, stretched across this map with my ass in the air so you can fuck me hard. Don’t you?”
It’s like she’s read his mind, and his cock is throbbing from her sultry words. Harsh, heavy breaths assault his ears, and it takes a moment for him to realize they’re his own.
She pulls back slightly and tilts his chin up to look into his eyes. “You’re a good man, Blackwall. You’ve done so much good for the Inquisition,” she says. “But right now, I want you to do something a little bit bad.”
She rolls her hips forward and arches her back until her breasts brush his chest, and it’s like she’s broken a barrier: he’s not sure if it’s her dirty words or her trusting ones, the dirtiness of her smile or the trust in her eyes, but Blackwall can no longer resist.
He grabs her hips and kisses her hard, his tongue stroking against her own as he slides his fingers into her pixie-short hair. Arya gasps against his lips and wraps her legs around his waist. He grinds eagerly into the cradle of her hips, and a tiny moan of pleasure slips from her throat, spurring him to further heights.
She clasps his neck with one hand as he pulls her hips against him, and soon she’s panting feverishly, her eyelids at half-mast as she clenches her nails against his neck. He knows his Dalish lover’s face better than any, and he can tell she’s primed for something more – for him.
Blackwall steps back, and Arya’s eyes fly wide, her expression imploring and desperate until he reaches for the buttons of her trousers.
“Yes,” she breathes, and lifts her hips helpfully as he unfastens the buttons on her pants. His fingers drift across her quivering abs, his thumb sliding down to graze the edge of her smalls, lower to her auburn curls-
A deep, sonorous bang fills the air as the war room’s huge double doors slowly open. Blackwall snatches his hands from Arya’s body as though he’s been burned, and she’s off the table and on her feet before the intruder makes it through the door.
Cullen raises his frowning face from the sheaf of papers in his hand, and his expression moves through a cycle of emotions as he spots them: surprise, then disapproval as his eyes fall on Blackwall’s face, then a guise of neutrality. “Inquisitor!” he says. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“I was seeking Blackwall’s advice about that problem in Val Gamord,” she replies. To her credit, her tone is perfectly neutral. He glances down at her bland expression; the only hint of their indiscretion is in the pinkness of her cheeks.
Naturally, the single-minded commander doesn’t notice. “Ah,” he says. He gazes at Blackwall appraisingly. “Any thoughts?”
Blackwall subtly clears his throat. “Your plan would be my choice, ser,” he says gruffly. “I may not be a true Warden, but when darkspawn are the problem, the Grey Wardens are the ones you need. Your proposal is the right one, in my opinion.”
Cullen’s expression softens slightly. “Thank you,” he says. “Fortunately, the Inquisitor agrees. I was just about to initiate the plan. The lieutenant is on her way here now.”
“Excellent,” Arya announces. “We’ll be on our way, then. Carry on, Cullen.” She strides purposefully from the room with Blackwall close at her heels.
As soon as the war room’s doors close behind them, he backs her against the wall and pens her between his arms. “‘The Inquisitor agrees’, eh? You didn’t need my advice at all.”
She bites her lip saucily and raises her chin as Blackwall crowds her with his body. “I always need your advice,” she retorts breathlessly. “I was just seeking something different this time.” She bites back a gasp of delight as he presses his thigh between her legs. “You’re so nice all the time,” she pants. “You can stand to be a little naughty now and then.”
She grinds subtly against his thigh, her spine arching toward him like the wild little wanton that she is, and her desperation is contagious, whipping up something equally wild in his blood. He gently grips her throat, and his entire body thrills at the moan of pleasure that escapes her lips. “Naughty is what you want?” he growls. “That’s exactly what you’ll get. Come on.” He releases her throat and takes her hand, then all but drags her down the hall.
They pass through Josephine’s office with the bare minimum of polite greeting, then move into the great hall. Arya tries to head toward her quarters, but Blackwall pulls her purposefully across the hall.
He feels a tug on his fingers as she balks. “Where are we going?” she whispers.
He doesn’t reply. He pushes open the door across from Josephine’s office and leads her up the stairs, then through the door to the loft where Vivienne usually resides.
As Blackwall had hoped, Vivienne isn’t there – probably meeting with some snooty nobles from Orlais – but Arya gasps and pulls more forcefully on his hand. “Blackwall, no,” she hisses. “No way.”
He stops and pulls her firmly against his body. “You wanted bad? This is as bad as it gets.” He slides his hand down to cup her ass and lowers his lips to her ear. “You know you want this,” he purrs. “I know you want this. You want to lean over that fancy daybed on your hands and knees while I fuck you hard. Don’t you?”
She’s panting against his ear, her fingers betraying her as they clench convulsively against his shoulders, and he ruthlessly presses his advantage by pulling her hips against his thigh again.
Arya whimpers – a soft, pleading sound – then finally capitulates. “Yes, yes, all right, yes,” she hisses. “But hurry.”
He traces her pointed ear with his tongue, then nips her earlobe before releasing her. He lightly slaps her butt as she totters toward the day-bed. “Trousers down,” he commands.
She swiftly obeys his command, dropping her pants and smalls to her ankles and bending over the daybed. She lowers herself to her elbows, and Blackwall loses his composure as he eyes her semi-prostrate form; the moisture shining between her thighs is the most delectable invitation, and the height of her hips is perfect, exactly the right position for him to take her hard.
He shucks his own trousers and grabs her hips, pumps his shaft between her legs twice, then slams his cock in deep, and Arya just barely manages to stifle her scream against her fist. Blackwall pumps into her swift and fierce, and she twists her fists in the fabric of the daybed, her hips bucking back to meet him.
Gradually he slows down, drawing his cock in and out of her with a teasing slowness, and Arya jerks her hips and twists her spine pleadingly. “Blackwall!” she gasps. “I need more. Please-”
“Shhhh,” he whispers. He leans over her and brushes his fingers over her lips. “Quiet, my lady. You can’t let the rest of the castle hear.” He traces his fingers over her throat, then along her arm to gently guide her fingers between her legs. “Touch yourself,” he whispers.
She obeys, her fingers circling over the swollen nub between her legs. He grinds slow and sweet into her tight heat, and her breaths sift short and sharp between her clenched teeth.
Suddenly she gasps. “Blackwall, help me,” she whimpers. “I can’t stay quiet, I can’t- you have to help me…”
He instantly knows what she means. He reaches toward her mouth again, and Arya confirms his hypothesis by grabbing his hand and covering her mouth with his palm. The loose grip of his palm seems to set something free inside of her lithe elven body; she gasps into his hand, and he catches the vibration of her pleasure cry in his palm as she comes with a fitful shudder.
Her orgasm is his perfect cue. He grips her hip with one hand and her delicate face with the other, then resumes his fast and furious fucking. She slams her fist against the daybed and bucks wildly back against him, and Blackwall clenches his jaw against his own gasp of pleasure as his climax washes over him in a searing wave of rapture.
They barely take a minute to calm their breathing before moving into a routine of highly efficient cleanup: he pulls free from his elven lover and swiftly hands her a kerchief from his pocket, and she quickly mops the evidence of their deed from her thighs before buttoning her pants back up.
Restored to a state of apparent decorum, Arya saunters toward the balcony. “We should come up here more often,” she says. “The view is really quite spectacular.” Her tone is perfectly innocent, but she shoots him a wicked grin, Blackwall feels his face turning pink as he grins back at her.
He sidles up beside her. “Lovely it is,” he agrees, but he isn’t thinking about the view. The sight of his Arya with her hair slightly mussed and her crooked little smirk is the loveliest damned thing in this castle.
She smiles up at him, her amethyst eyes twinkling with happiness. But before she can say another word, a cultured voice interrupts.
“My darling Inquisitor! How lovely,” Vivienne says. She floats over to join them and shoots him a brief glance of acknowledgement. “Messere Rainier,” she says, then pointedly returns her attention to Arya. “How can I help you, my dear?”
Vivienne’s back is fully turned to him, a complete and clear dismissal, but for the first time, the Iron Lady’s judgment doesn’t bother him at all. He boldly steps around her until he’s facing Arya again. “I’ll leave you to your conversation,” he says. He turns to Vivienne and politely takes her hand. “Madame Vivienne,” he says with a gallant half-bow – he doesn’t miss the surprised leap of her eyebrows – then turns back to Arya.
“Your Worship,” he says, then shamelessly pulls her into his arms and kisses her.
Arya grips his shoulders and instinctively returns his kiss. When he finally releases her, her face is flaming red but her grin is broad and goofy, and Blackwall smirks in satisfaction before swaggering away.
He can feel the daggers of Vivienne’s stare in his back, but he doesn’t care. Arya Lavellan’s opinion is all that matters, and her shining approval is clear as glass. Arya’s teasing influence has shown him something new: that being bad can feel so fucking good.
The Sharper Edge of Love: Romance, Sex, and Fanfic 