More photoshop practice – also Dragon Age has been ruling my life.
Oh my god this is so gorgeous.
Tag: blackwall x inquisitor
(InquisidaarTabras) for DA Drunk Writing – Blackwall and Arya – Erotic Prompt # 35 “Do That Again”
Ayyy, thank you for this prompt! I hope you enjoy! For @dadrunkwriting Friday 🙂
Read on AO3 instead:
tinyurl.com/baewall2
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“Solas needs help,” Arya snaps. She pulls another arrow from the quiver at her waist. “Draw them away from him. I’m fine here.”
Blackwall nods curtly and follows her command. Solas is facing a pack of red lyrium horrors, and the corrupted creatures spin toward Blackwall when he charges them with an aggressive roar. Before they can do more than screech in defiance, he’s plowed the lot of them off their twisted feet.
He spins and readies himself for the next attack. Fire and bits of Fade rain down on the jumble of enemies as Blackwall lifts his shield. He exchanges a quick glance with Solas, and together they assault the group of horrors until they’re nothing more than a pulpy pile of flesh and scarlet crystal lumps.
Blackwall looks around, his shoulders growing tense as he tries to find Arya in the fray. Suddenly he spots her: she’s thirty paces away, and there’s an enormous lyrium-laced monster that’s racing toward her…
“The Inquisitor-” Solas says, but Blackwall doesn’t wait to listen. He bolts toward her as fast as his armoured feet can carry him, his pulse pounding in his ears as he watches the monster reach for her arm –
Arya dodges away from the beast with a swift roll, and Blackwall slams into it with a bellow of rage.
He hits the ground with the red lyrium monster beneath him. He raises his sword in both hands and slams it into the creature’s chest with every ounce of force in his body.
The beast’s limbs twitch and writhe for a moment, and then it falls still. Blackwall tosses his head impatiently, then runs his gloved and bloodied fingers through his hair to smooth it back.
He lifts his face, and relief squeezes his chest as he meets Arya’s amethyst eyes. To his surprise, a heated little smirk is curling the corner of her lips, and he gives her a quizzical look; in the face of this ambush, what could she possibly be smirking about?
“Do that again,” she says.
He stares at her with growing confusion. “What, kill another of these monsters?” he asks. He rises to his feet and wipes his sword clean on the red templar’s ragged tunic before sheathing it.
“No,” she says. “That head-tossing thing. You’ve certainly got my attention.” She raises one eyebrow suggestively.
Blackwall frowns. He’s utterly bewildered. “Head-tossing…?”
“You know,” she drawls. Then she tosses her head and runs her fingers through her short auburn hair.
Instantly he understands, and his face goes hot as Arya grins at him. “That – that wasn’t – I need a haircut, my lady, that’s all that was,” he sputters.
She throws her head back with a hearty laugh and traipses over to his side. “I’m sure it was,” she purrs, then runs one finger along his jawline.
He ducks his head sheepishly as Solas and the Iron Bull approach. “Arya, please. Not now,” he begs.
She bites her lower lip provocatively, and a shameful rush of heat pools in Blackwall’s belly as their companions draw close.
Bull claps her affably on the shoulder. “That was a close one, Boss. I don’t blame you for wanting to take your noble stallion here for a good ride.” He jerks his head in Blackwall’s direction.
Arya grins up at the qunari captain, and Blackwall rubs his face in embarrassment. He’s violently thankful when Solas delicately clears his throat and changes the subject. “I might suggest taking our rest for the night, Inquisitor,” he says.
Bull scratches his neck idly. “We’re kinda far from camp, Solas.”
The mage folds his hands behind his back and politely bows his head. “That is so. But Arya mentioned wanting to investigate Din’an Hanin tomorrow. It would be more efficient to remain nearby, rather than travelling back and forth.” He shifts his gaze to the Inquisitor. “I would be happy to set protective wards if you wish to make camp closeby.”
Arya nods in a businesslike manner. “Yes. We’ll camp by the river tonight,” she says. She points toward the south. “There was a good spot about two hundred paces that way – protected on one side by the cliffside, easy to keep watch. Thoughts?”
“I remember the spot,” Blackwall says. “It’s defensible. A good choice.”
Solas and the Iron Bull nod their agreement, and they set off toward the specified campsite.
Solas and Bull segue into a quiet conversation, and Blackwall falls back a step to guard the rear. A moment later, Arya is sauntering along beside him.
He pretends to ignore her, but it’s proving quite impossible; his elven lover draws his attention whether she means to or not, and she certainly means to do so now. Her slender hips are swaying, and her dimple is revealed by her sassy smile, and when Blackwall finally meets her eye, she tosses him a coquettish little glance.
He tilts his head with fond exasperation. “Arya…”
She shrugs innocently. “I just think you need to be careful when you do things like that. Tossing your head like some kind of dark and handsome lion.” She runs a heated glance along the length of his body.
A wave of warmth laps at his belly in response to her sultry stare, and Blackwall swallows hard. “Maybe you can cut this hair for me when we get back to Skyhold,” he suggests weakly.
“After that little show? Not a chance,” she scoffs. She playfully pinches his ass, then jogs past Solas and Bull to scout the area ahead.
“It wasn’t a show,” Blackwall protests, but she ignores him as she creeps close to their prospective campsite. Her keen violet eyes seem to find no threat, for she plants her fists on her hips and nods in satisfaction as Blackwall and the others reach her side.
She lifts her gaze to Solas. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
“Certainly,” Solas says. Shimmering green patches of light appear on the ground around the site before melting away, and Arya nods her thanks before shifting into the business of setting up camp.
They pitch three tents and settle around a small fire, and Bull begins to sharpen his weapons. Arya settles on a log beside Solas, and Blackwall crouches at her side.
“I’m going to go clean up, if I can have your leave,” he says.
“Of course,” she says briskly. “Be careful.”
He bows his head in agreement, and she smiles before turning to the elven mage. “Solas, I’ve got a question. They say there’s a fallen elven warrior for every tree in the Emerald Graves. Would all that death mean the Veil is thinner here? Does that affect your spellcasting?”
Solas smiles and launches into an enthusiastic explanation of souls and spirits and the Fade. Assured by Arya’s safety at the hands of the mild-mannered mage and the towering qunari warrior, Blackwall rises to his feet and makes his way north in the direction of the waterfall that spawned the rippling ribbon of the river.
Crickets and strange birds, the burbling flow of water and the whispers of shifting grass: the peaceful sounds of these verdant lands fill his ears as he walks along the river. Maybe it is the bodies of fallen elves that feed these lands, or maybe he’s imagining it entirely, but there does seem to be something odd to this place. It’s a sense of something more in the air, a weight that even his mundane senses can detect, and he wonders if perhaps he should have remained to listen to Solas’s talk.
The rushing flow of the waterfall soon takes over the softer sounds of grass and birds, and Blackwall discards his idle musings as he nears the waterfall’s mouth. He eyes the crystalline curtain of water with great appreciation. He’s liberally covered in blood and sweat and dirt, and the waterfall looks especially welcoming in the half-light of gloaming.
He inspects his surroundings carefully for threats. Assured of his own aloneness, he sheds his sword and shield, then doffs his gloves and boots and breastplate. Greaves and cuirasses and his thick padded coat are the next to come off, and when all of his gear is carefully piled at the river’s edge, he rolls the legs of his thick woollen trousers up to his knees and wades into the water.
The coolness of the river seeps between his toes and laps at his calves, and Blackwall sighs with relief. He crouches and briskly washes his hands, then eagerly drinks a few mouthfuls of water before rinsing his face.
Each handful of water is more rejuvenating than the last. He splashes the water over his bare arms and shoulders, enjoying the tickling trickle as it runs down his back. He tries to run his fingers through his hair, but his fingers catch in the stiff strands, matted as they are with sweat and blood.
He shakes his head ruefully. How Arya could find this ragged mess attractive is beyond him. He wades over to the waterfall and bends forward, allowing the rush of water to inundate his head. He rubs his fingers roughly through his hair unless it becomes loose and soft, then backs out of the waterfall and vigorously shakes his head.
He runs his hands roughly over his hair to squeeze the excess water out. Then he hears a drawling voice. “Come on, you can’t pretend that wasn’t for my benefit.”
Blackwall huffs in amusement and shakes his head. He should have known she would follow him. “A man can’t have a moment of privacy…” He trails off as he turns around. She’s not on the riverbank, and he frowns as he swiftly scans the surroundings; where is she?
Suddenly he spots a shifting in the branches of a tree to his left. His gaze darts up and finds a pair of glowing orbs in the half-dark.
Her catlike eyes blink twice, then Arya drops from the branches and lands soundlessly in a crouch at the base of the tree. A slow smile curls her lips as she rises to her full height.
He watches with surprise as she wanders close to the river’s edge. She’s unarmed and her feet are bare, and he can’t help but feel a pinch of concern at her slender vulnerability.
His eyes dart around behind her, anxiety rising as he tries to find any potential enemies, but Arya only laughs. “It’s all right,” she says. “I was careful on my way here. We’re alone.”
He relaxes at her words; her elven eyes are sharper than his own, after all. As he returns his attention to his lover, he realizes that it’s not just her eyesight that seems particularly elven tonight: there’s something else about her, something beyond her obviously bare feet that’s reminding him more than ever that Arya is not just an elf, but a Dalish one.
She tilts her head and studies him, her big amethyst eyes tracing from the crown of his head down to the waistband of his woolen trousers. A flush of heat blooms beneath his skin, following the path of her gaze to the juncture of his thighs, and he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot as his manhood begins to stir.
Without any further preamble, Arya unbuckles her coat and drops it on the ground, then pulls her tunic over her head, leaving her nude except for her leggings. As always, her small breasts are bare beneath her tunic, and Blackwall stares stupidly at the rising of her rosy nipples as they’re kissed by the cool night air.
She shifts her weight to one hip, then slides her fingers into the edge of her leggings and shimmies them down. Blackwall’s shameless gaze falls between her legs, then follows the shifting flow of fabric as her leggings slide down to her delicate ankles.
She kicks the garment away and blinks at him. “Do that thing again,” she says.
Her voice is low and smooth, and her eyes are glittering in the dying light of day. There’s mischief in her tone and mystery in her eyes, and he’s entranced by her slow and deliberate approach as she steps into the river to join him.
His cock is a rock-hard rod in his pants, and it jerks toward her as she comes to a stop. His mouth is suddenly dry, and he swallows hard. “Do I have to?” he asks weakly.
She lowers her eyes demurely before lifting them to his face again. “For me?” she simpers. “It’s a very sexy move.”
He scratches his ear, torn between arousal and embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to be,” he mumbles. “It’s – I really do need a haircut, my lady.”
Arya reaches up and traces the edge of his beard with one slender finger. “Come now,” she whispers. “Show yourself off for me.”
He exhales in defeat, then gives her a rueful half-smile. He’s never been able to resist her carnal commands. “If you insist,” he says. He takes another handful of water and splashes it over his face and head, then tosses his head and runs his fingers through his hair.
“There,” he says. “Are you-”
She kisses him, stifling his words with the softness of her lips. Her palms are splayed on his abdomen, then her fingers are curling into the waistband of his trousers as her tongue slips between his lips.
She presses her naked groin against his considerably more clothed one, and Blackwall groans into her mouth. Water might be dripping down his forehead and his back, but fire is sizzling in his veins, a flaming roar of lust for the wanton woman pressed against him.
He nips her lower lip, then eagerly slides his callused palms down the smoothness of her back to cup her ripe and golden curves. He curls his hand around the base of her buttock, and his index finger slips along the edge of her folds.
Arya breaks from their kiss to mewl her need against his bearded cheek, and Blackwall grumbles with satisfaction. She’s wet already, slick moisture coating the tip of his wandering finger, and he reaches a little deeper, trying to stroke more of her slick heat.
Arya breathes hard against his cheek, her fists clenching in the edge of his breeches as she arches her back and spreads her legs, trying to give better access to his hand. Then suddenly she’s in his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist and her fingers twisting in his too-long hair.
“Fuck me,” she demands.
“Yes, my lady,” he instantly replies, and she kisses him hard.
He kisses her back in kind, his tongue thrusting into her mouth only to be parried by the sleek heat of her own tongue, and then he breaks the kiss and strides toward the shore with his elven lover in his arms.
He sets her on her feet at the river’s edge. “Where-?”
She strides over to the tree in which she’d been hidden earlier that evening. “Here,” she announces. She places her palms on its gnarled trunk, then bends forward and arches her spine.
Blackwall gapes at her, enthralled by the sight of her welcoming body. She glances at him over her shoulder and bites her lower lip, and before his mind can process anything but how damned exquisite she is, he’s on his knees behind her and his hands are prying her legs farther apart.
He tastes her, and Maker’s bloody breath, she’s bliss. His tongue slips along her slick-soaked folds to curl around her clit, and Arya jerks back against his mouth.
Her pleasure cries are clear even when muffled against her wrist. Blackwall angles his head to better taste her, his thumbs tracing the velvety inside of her thighs as he laps her plump and heated flesh. Arya’s stifled whimpers grow increasingly desperate, and as she grinds herself back against his face, Blackwall’s own desperation continues to surge, pounding through his chest and his cock until he can barely stand the tension of his own straining lust.
He frees his cock from his breeches. He takes himself in hand and tugs, and a groan of longing bursts from his throat and pours across his lover’s perfectly presented pussy.
Arya’s muffled cry is sharper than before as she bucks her hips back toward his mouth. Within the space of a few breathless moments, they find a perfect rhythm: he strokes himself with his hand as she arches her spine to slide her clit against his tongue, and it’s not long before she throws her head back in rapture.
She shudders and keens with climax, then lifts her mouth from her wrist. “Blackwall, please, fuck me now!” she sobs.
He leans away from her delectable heat. “Yes,” he breathes, and he shakily rises to his feet. His hands slide across the graceful curves of her hips, then he grasps his cock in one hand and smoothes it along the length of her cleft.
She bends her back like a bow. “Now!” she demands.
He doesn’t waste his breath replying, and all at once he’s inside of her.
Their pleasured gasps meld together in the fragrant evening air, and Blackwall splays his palm on the curve of her back as he fucks her fast and hard. Their frenzied need is beautifully equal and glaringly obvious, her bucking hips meeting his pumping ones in perfect harmony, and Blackwall can barely breathe, too focused on the feel of her, the look of her, the muffled and melodic sounds of her –
And then she moves, deepening the bend of her waist and bringing her legs together. A desperate groan escapes his lips as the press of her thighs enfolds his cock more tightly within her heated depths. “Arya,” he pleads.
“More,” she commands. Her voice is rough with pleasure, and Blackwall cedes happily to the authority of her command, thrusting into her with increasing urgency.
The tightness, the heat, the look of her bent against this tree: it’s all too much, it’s all too perfect, and Blackwall suddenly bursts. He’s coming apart, shattering into pieces, pleasure ripping through his calves and fingers and throat until he can only shudder and gasp for breath against his lover’s silken back.
She’s breathing hard as well, and the rise and fall of her ribs against his cheek is oddly comforting. When his heart rate begins to slow, he carefully withdraws from her body.
Arya straightens with a happy groan, then leans heavily against the tree. Her eyes are closed, and a peaceful smile lifts the corners of her lips as she rests her cheek and her hip against the gnarled bark.
Blackwall presses his body against her naked back. Her skin is hot and slightly sticky, and he slides his arms loosely around her waist, then presses his lips carefully to her sweat-laced temple.
She hums happily in his embrace, then chuckles as he releases her and sinks to his knees with an exhausted sigh.
He tilts his head back to look up at her. She smiles down at him, still leaning against the tree as she traces her fingers over the grooves of its bark, and Blackwall simply admires the loose and languid look of her.
Her amethyst eyes are sparkling in the last fading light of day. Her Dalish tattoos are the same shade of green as the leaves that whispers and sway overhead, and her nakedness seems more natural against this cracked and creviced tree than any clothing would be. Arya is the Inquisitor, the woman who gives commands and makes decisions that have shaken this nation and the next. But here in this place, she is an elf: bare of skin and bare of foot on the ancient grounds of her people, softness and strength and oneness with the history that’s steeped into these lands, and Blackwall loves her so very much.
He reaches out and runs his fingers gently from her knee down to her slender ankle. Her smile widens, bright and brilliant and mischievous, and the adoration pounding through his body both brings his blood to life and steals his breath away.
The Emerald Graves have proven dangerous thus far, crawling as they are with red Templars and giants and wildlife alike. But here, kneeling at the feet of his sated elven lover, Blackwall feels only peace.
Blackwall/Lavellan angst and smut: By Any Other Name
This was the first thing I ever wrote for the Dragon Age fandom! I don’t think I ever posted the whole thing here, so why not? Let’s call this… Throwback Wednesday? 😉
In which Arya confronts Blackwall after freeing him from prison in Val Royeaux.
Read on AO3 here (~4200 words):
tinyurl.com/baewall
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Maker’s balls, I want a drink.
He stands at the workbench in the annex with his head hung low. Painful thoughts bash through his mind like a Storm Coast monsoon. His throat aches for the comforting burn of booze, but he’d promised himself he wouldn’t drink anymore when he was like this. For a man like him, liquor is nothing but a pretty lie: a shroud for ugly truths that don’t deserve to hide, a balm for a selfish heart that doesn’t deserve relief. Blackwall – the real Blackwall – had convinced him that a strong liquor or a hearty ale should be for celebration, not self-pity.
For the umpteenth time, the Inquisitor’s face drifts through his mind, her gamine visage slack with dismay when she looked upon him in his cell in Val Royeaux. He rubs his hands roughly over his face. He’d thought it would be the last time he would see her, and it took every ounce of self-restraint in his wretched corpse to not to tell her he loved her. Then, against all odds, she’d brought him back to Skyhold, and it had taken every scrap of will in his sorry soul to not tell her he loved her when she sat on her throne and set him free, her face serious but kind.
He runs a hand through his hair and pulls hard at the roots, thankful for the punishing bloom of pain across his scalp. If only he could erase the distress he caused when he admonished her for bringing him back to Skyhold. I shouldn’t have said she stained Josephine’s reputation, he berates himself. It was needlessly cruel. But he was just so angry that Lavellan thought him worth something.
She’s wrong, though, and he knows it. He’s worth nothing. He’s not worth the coin she spent to make him a new set of dragonscale armour, her violet eyes shining as she presented the gift. He’s not worthy of the softness in her gaze when she looks at him, the respect in the tilt of her chin when she nods at him, the heat of her lips when she kisses him. He certainly wasn’t worth the cost – in time or influence – to bring him under the Inquisition’s judgment. He’s not worth anything. He shouldn’t have let Josephine’s people escort him from the prison. He should have ended it all en route to Skyhold-
“Rainier.”
The sharpness of her voice sends a shiver of shame down his spine. He turns slowly to see Arya Lavellan striding towards him, and a jolt of shock makes him nauseous: she looks like absolute thunder, her delicate eyebrows creased in a scowl that contorts the pattern of Dalish tattoos on her face. He realizes with a fresh surge of regret that he’s never seen her so angry, not even when he told her who he was, not even when she judged him as the criminal that he is.
He straightens respectfully as she draws close. “Inquisit-”
She draws her arm back and slaps him hard across the face. A red-hot burst of pain blooms across his cheek and he stumbles back, more from surprise than from the pain, but she’s coming at him again with her hand raised to strike, her lips curled in an uncharacteristic snarl of fury.
A surge of remorse renders him breathless. The Inquisitor is better than this, but she’s angry, so fucking angry, and it’s all his fault.
Lavellan slaps him again, catching his ear this time and leaving his head ringing. She advances on him and shoves him, then beats his chest with delicate fists. He knows he deserves every punch, so he doesn’t defend himself. But this only seems to enrage her further.
“How could you leave?” she yells, and her voice is taught as a bowstring and vibrating with rage. “A note, Rainier. A sodding suicide note. That’s all you left me before going off to die?”
She’s stopped hitting him, but her chest is heaving with angry breaths, and he wants so badly to gather her in his arms and wipe away her rage. But he lost that privilege when he lost her trust. Instead he straightens up, clasps his hands behind his back, and lowers his head deferentially. “I had to go. It was the right thing to do,” he insists. He resists telling her the second half of the truth: that if he’d tried to say goodbye to her in person, if he’d gazed into the ethereal mauve of her eyes, he’d have lost the courage to leave her side.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” she shouts, her voice echoing to the rafters. “You should have told me who you are. I can understand hiding the truth when we first met, perhaps, but you should have come clean! You should have told me before we… before you fucked me!”
Her last sentence pierces him like one of Cole’s poisoned daggers, and he flinches. He’d been hiding from this like the coward he is, shielding himself from this fact as though he could protect himself from the guilt by pretending it wasn’t true. But as always, his Inquisitor is right.
“Yes, I should have,” he replies, and his voice is harder than he means it to be. “Add it to the list of reasons you should have left me in Val Royeaux.”
She gapes at him in silence for a moment. “You utter bastard,” she breathes. “You’re blaming me for this?”
Her glare is fierce, but he knows his Dalish lover’s face, and he sees the vulnerability in her eyes. Self-disgust is heavy in his gut. I did this, he thinks. The Inquisitor is enraged, sad, uncertain, and it’s all his fault.
Before he knows what he’s doing, he steps close to her and cups her face in his hands. Her eyes are shining, and a sympathetic lump rises in his throat, but he swallows it down. “You shouldn’t care about me,” he insists quietly. “You deserve a better man. I’m a murderer, a deserter and a traitor-”
She shoves his hands away from her face. “It’s too late for that!” she yells. “I’m not going anywhere, all right? Andruil’s tit, I just wish you’d told me. Then I would have told you how stupid you’re being, and all of this could have been avoided!” She grabs his tunic and shakes him. “You’re a not a murderer anymore. How can you not see that?”
A note of hysteria creeps into her voice as she continues to berate him. “You’ve acted as a Grey Warden should. You kill darkspawn, you convinced other Wardens to abandon Corypheus…” She thumps his chest with her fists again, but her body is pressed against him, and he’s not sure when she got so close. “You’re not a murderer anymore. That’s in the past,” she insists. “You know what you are? A stubborn, thick-headed, insufferably noble, self-flagellating-”
He kisses her. His hand slides around the nape of her neck and into the short tufts of her hair. Her fingers clench in the fabric of his tunic and she thrusts her tongue into his mouth, sleek and hot, and he basks in the sweetness of her mouth for a long moment until the guilt forces him to break away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against her lips. “I betrayed your trust, just like I betrayed my men-”
“Would you shut up?” she interrupts. “Just shut up. And don’t you dare lie to me again. You’ll tell me the truth. I want to know everything.”
Her fingers are tugging insistently at his belt as she speaks, a stark contrast with the forbidding tone of her voice. Half-heartedly he reaches down to stall her hands, even as a perverse flare of desire sparks to life in his belly. “Arya, wait. Are we talking, or…?”
“Not right now,” she snaps, then grabs the back of his neck and kisses him hard.
He shouldn’t give in. He shouldn’t, and he knows it; she deserves better. But he can’t help himself. Her waifish figure is pressed flush to his front, her fingers twined in his hair, and before he has time to think, he’s lifting her up and wrapping her legs around his waist.
She rubs herself against his cock, a sinuous motion of her hips, and he groans into her mouth. Her breath hitches in her throat, a subtle tiny gasp, and he takes advantage of her parted lips, nipping her plump lower lip with his teeth. He shouldn’t give in, he knows he shouldn’t, but he’s never been able to resist her. Back in Haven when she quirked her eyebrow and tossed him a grin, he knew he shouldn’t have grinned back. That was Thom Rainier responding, piercing through the man he was trying to be, but Arya Lavellan has always had that effect on him: she peels away his stern facade and stokes a warmth in a hearth he’d long thought cold and dead. She slips beneath the cold, hard armour of his duty and warms him with her cheerful light until every battle he fights is longer just a duty: it’s a privilege he’s proud to take on. He’s followed the verdant glow of her palm into the darkest caves and most sinister chateaus, and she’s always guided them out, her Keeper’s robes crimson with blood but her face shining with optimism.
He would have died for his duty and his guilt, but with this woman in his arms and her nails digging into his neck, he has every reason to live. The Inquisitor whispers of hope, like a shard casting light into the darkness of his past, and he loves her for it.
A sweet whimper escapes her lips at the nip of his teeth, and she grinds against him more insistently. She presses her mouth to his cheek. “Take me upstairs,” she breathes.
He loves her, he loves her so fucking much, and she deserves so much more than a man like him, but he’s powerless to deny her command. He ascends the stairs as quickly as possible, her weight supported by his stronger right arm. She brushes her lips over the tender juncture where his beard melts into the shaven skin of his neck, and he tries to ignore the feeling as he watches his steps, but he might as well be trying to ignore a dragon’s roar. The roar he hears now is louder than the Hivernal and more insistent than the Kaltenzhan. It’s the howling of his need for her, the drumbeat of his own heart as she scrapes her teeth over his racing pulse.
He throws her onto his bed and wastes no time in pulling off her clothing piece by piece. Her boots are the first to go, thrown carelessly aside as he crawls onto the foot of the bed. He watches impatiently as she fumbles with the button on her trousers. When the fastenings finally come free, he drags her trousers down to her ankles.
Her knees fall open instinctively, and a rush of saliva floods his mouth as he stares hungrily at her sex. Her feminine folds are slick and inviting, framed coyly by her chestnut curls, and he swallows hard; her taste will be on his tongue in a matter of moments. But she’s frantically pulling at her vest, trying to remove her scarf and undo her vest buttons at the same time, and despite the howling of his lust, he smiles fondly at her eager clumsiness.
She arches her back and tugs fruitlessly at her vest. “Blackwall, help me,” she whines.
Blackwall. It’s the first time tonight that she’s called him that. A sudden squeeze of guilt and abject gratefulness stops his breath for a moment… but only for a moment. His need for her is overriding everything now, washing away any dutiful reluctance he might have had, and he’s powerless to do anything but obey her wishes. He pulls her right hand away from her scarf and tugs off her elbow-length glove, then does the same to her left.
The glove slips off of her elegant fingers, and the anchor on her palm glimmers a faint emerald-green. This mark used to make him queasy with its demonic green glow, but he understands it better now; it’s a part of her, an integral tool that lets her light shine from this world into the Fade, and he loves it as much as he loves her.
He kisses her glowing palm tenderly, and she strokes his face briefly before he sits back on his knees and unwinds the scarf from her neck. He quickly unbuttons her vest, and she roughly pulls the offending garment off and throws it aside before peeling her shirt over her head in one smooth motion.
She leans back on her elbows, naked as a babe in arms. The flickering lantern-light washes over her skin, highlighting the angle of her hip and the smooth plane of her belly, the gentle curve of her breasts and the slight sheen on her lips. Her short hair is in disarray and she peers at him through her spiky bangs, and Blackwall simply stares. He doesn’t deserve her, doesn’t deserve the privilege to drink in her bare-skinned beauty, but she’s the most exquisite woman he’s ever seen, and he can’t tear his eyes away.
She raises one eyebrow, then arches her back slightly and spreads her knees. “Come here,” she demands.
He’s powerless. There’s no point denying it. He tears off his own gloves, then kneels at the foot of the bed and drags her towards him with his hands on her thighs.
She lets out a little bark of surprised laughter as she slides down the bed, but her mirth melts into a moan as he slicks his tongue over her sex. She’s so warm and so wet, and the fragrance of her desire dazes him as he laps hungrily at her pussy. The tip of his tongue gently explores the length of her cleft, dipping deeper until she jolts and gives a tiny cry. He lavishes her plump folds with long, gentle strokes of his tongue, drinking in her arousal and leaving the moisture from his tongue behind, then caresses the delicate nub of her pleasure ever-so-gently with his lower lip.
Lavellan arches her back slowly and gracefully, her legs parting even wider in blatant invitation. “Blackwall, please,” she pants. “I want more.”
Blackwall. The name is a benediction when it’s sung in her voice. He didn’t want forgiveness and he didn’t ask for it, but he realizes now that his stolen name falling from her lips is the sweetest kind of pardon. Blackwall is more than just a mask now; it’s a proud title, something he aspires to live up to, and when the Inquisitor calls him this, it’s more than just a form of address: it’s her belief and her acceptance, her trust that he is capable of being who he aspires to be.
He doesn’t deserve that trust, but he can feel his muscles relaxing even as the tension begins to build in hers, her thighs becoming rigid under his fingers as he continues to gently brush his lower lip over her clit. She arches her back more insistently, then reaches down and twines her fingers in his hair. “Please,” she insists. “I need more.”
“Yes, my lady,” he growls, then slicks his tongue firmly over her swollen bud.
She jolts beneath his mouth. Her one hand grips his hair tight, and her other hand clenches in the sheets. “More,” she cries.
She lifts her hips entreatingly, and he’s powerless to resist the demands of her body. He laps sweetly at her clit, then carefully parts her folds with his fingers and slides one finger inside of her.
A mewl of pleasure escapes her throat, an almost feral sound of ecstasy, and Blackwall feels a surge of pride. He doesn’t deserve her, doesn’t deserve to feel her tight heat pressing around his fingers or her sweet-and-salty musk on his tongue, but right now, he doesn’t care. The Inquisitor is panting beneath him, her breaths coming short and sharp in anticipation of her rapture, and he focuses on the sounds of her pleasure with every scrap of attention he has.
He slides another finger into her sleek heat, and she lets out a sharp moan. He curls his fingers inside of her and smoothes his tongue over her firm bud in a careful circular rhythm. She thrusts back against his hand, her body sinuous and eager, and his simmering lust boils over at the hungry rocking of her hips. Her back is curved like a bow, her breasts outthrust and her pearled nipples begging to be touched, and he’s never wanted her more. His cock is throbbing in his trousers, his pulse pounding between his legs in time with her gasping breaths-
Lavellan releases a sharp cry and throws her head back, and her inner walls are clenching around his fingers. He swirls his fingers in a deep, circular rhythm and lavishes her clit with careful laps of his tongue, and her thighs convulse against his face for a long, exquisite moment before she relaxes.
He roughly wipes his face on his hand and rises to his feet to gaze down at her. She’s limp with pleasure, splayed unselfconsciously on his rumpled sheets, and his throat swells with emotion even as his cock jerks insistently in his trousers. He doesn’t deserve her, doesn’t deserve to see her looking so damn delectable in his bed, but she called him Blackwall. She believes in him. He needs to be worthy of that belief.
She opens her eyes, and the heat in their purple depths steals his breath. She lifts herself to a sitting position and reaches unerringly for his belt. Her fingers are skillful and sure, as though her climax has given her new purpose, and she rips his belt from his trousers in a matter of seconds.
She gazes up at him while unbuttoning his pants, her face serious but her eyebrows lifted mischievously. “Take off your clothes,” she commands.
He’s powerless. He pulls his coat and shirt off as she shoves his trousers down, and suddenly her lips are encircling his cock. Blackwall gasps in shock and rapture. Her hands are on his ass, pulling his pelvis close to her mouth, and her mouth is hot and wet and ravenous: her lips are brushing the raven curls between his legs, the pressure of her throat squeezing the head of his manhood as she takes him deep.
She slides one slender hand between his legs and caresses his balls, and he throws his head back in rapture. Her nipples brush against his thighs as she arches her back towards him. The soft caress of her breasts contrasts with the hard suction of her lips around his cock, and he indulges himself shamelessly in the marvelous sensation for a long, blissful moment.
Suddenly she pulls away. “Fuck me,” she orders. “Right now.”
Her face is utterly serious, her eyes blazing with intensity and her lips bright red from her ministrations. She’s everything he doesn’t deserve, but she calls him Blackwall, and he needs to make himself worthy of the claim.
He kicks off the trousers pooled at his ankles, then abruptly wraps his arm around her waist and crawls onto the bed, clutching her close beneath him. He drops her on the pillows and lifts her long, silken leg over his right shoulder, spreading her wide. “I’m yours to command, Lady Lavellan,” he whispers.
She grins suddenly. “Always so polite, Ser Blackwall,” she teases.
Blackwall, she says. He smiles at her. The Inquisitor’s purple eyes are glowing with humour and an affection he doesn’t deserve, but he can’t help but bask in it. He strokes the length of her throat with his left hand, and her playful expression is abruptly replaced with desperate desire as his callused palm drifts over her breast.
Blackwall rolls her nipple between his fingers and lowers his mouth to her ear. “Politeness has its proper place, my lady,” he growls. “But that place isn’t in my bed.” He slams his cock into her in one hard thrust.
She screams an unequivocal yes, her cry shivering up to the rafters, and a surge of pleasure and pride render his cock even harder. She grips his right arm, her nails biting deep into his skin as he fucks her hard and fast just the way she likes it. He grips her hair in his left hand and kisses her hard, and she suckles greedily on his tongue when he plunges it into her mouth.
Their skin slaps together with the satisfying sound of their sex. With every long thrust, every tight squeeze of her slick inner walls around his manhood, his resolve toughens like dragon scales. She bites his lower lip, and he silently promises to never betray her. She reaches between their bodies to stroke the precious bud between her legs, and he silently swears never to lie to her again. She bucks off the bed, lifting her hips fiercely to meet him thrust for thrust, and he silently pledges to follow her every shining example. They fuck long and hard, and when she finally screams her climax, her body convulsing beneath him and bringing him along to his rapture, he silently vows that he’ll love her forever.
They lie together silently in the aftermath, his face pressed against the warmth of her neck. She runs her fingers gently through his hair, and he can feel the gentle pulsing of energy from the anchor on her palm.
Slowly he lifts himself onto his elbows, then kisses her glowing palm. She smiles at him, her eyes brilliant in the flickering light of the lantern. She looks so relaxed and happy, and she’s so fucking beautiful, and she deserves better than a man with a stained past. But he’s so hopelessly in love with her, and after all this, after the way she fought to bring him back, there’s no way he’s tearing himself away from her again.
He kisses her palm a second time, then strokes the delicate lines of the tattoos on her cheekbone. “I’m sorry for what I’ve done,” he murmurs. “I never meant to fail you.”
To his dismay, the smile fades from her face. She drops her gaze, then gently pushes him off and stands from the bed. He watches with growing distress as she retrieves her scattered clothing, then begins to dress.
The silence stretches between them as she pulls on her boots. Then she finally speaks. “The only time you failed me was when you left the Inquisition. When you left me.”
Lavellan’s voice is stern with reproof, but her words catch at the end, and she won’t look at him. She turns away and pulls on her gloves, and he watches hopelessly as the mark on her hand disappears under the protective cover of her gloves.
Fully dressed, she finally looks him in the eye. “You’re a good man, Blackwall. You’re making amends as best you can. Stop telling me you’re sorry. Just… be here.”
Her Inquisitor’s mask is back in place, her face stern but kind, and a sharp pang of remorse stabs his heart. His Lady Lavellan is hiding from him, tucking away the part of herself that she’d given so openly before, fearful that he’ll break the gift she’s offered him.
This is what he deserves. He’s earned her reserve and her caution, her doubt and her mistrust. But she calls him Blackwall. She gave him a second chance when he wasn’t worthy, and she gave him her pleasure cries and her intoxicating scent in his beard, and he needs to be worthy of these gifts.
He rises from the bed, uncaring about his nakedness, and grabs her hand. She tenses, her fingers clenching in his fist, but he pulls her close and tilts her chin up. “Arya,” he says insistently.
She reluctantly gazes into his eyes, and he swallows hard to master himself. Words of love sit behind the clenched bars of his teeth, but he can’t set them free; he can tell from her face that she won’t believe him, not right now. So he tells her an easier truth. “I’ll be here,” he tells her.
Lavellan’s face softens at the conviction in his voice. She runs her gloved fingers over his forearm in a gentle caress. “Good,” she says softly. Then she walks away.
He listens to the gentle clatter of her footsteps as she descends the stairs. Then he slowly pulls on his clothes and makes the bed before returning to the main floor. He sits by the hearthfire and opens a bottle of grey whiskey.
She calls him Blackwall. She dragged him back from a prison of despair and pulled him into her light, and here he’ll stay until he’s made himself into something she can be proud of.
He sips from the bottle. The motley mixture of liquors burns his throat on the way down, but he smiles to himself; the exhilarating warmth in his chest is better than whiskey. This may not be a true celebration, but it is a homecoming of sorts.
The Inquisitor has duties to attend to, as does he. But when she finds a little time, her Blackwall will be here.
Pikapeppa made a writing masterpost! (FINALLY?)
I had to try multiple times to do this before Tumblr would actually let me save my work but YAY I now have a masterpost of all my AO3 works, organized by ship and fandom!
Here it is: List of Pika’s Works on AO3.
Brief summary, as of December 2018:
- Horizon Zero Dawn: Aloy x Nil, Aloy x Ikrie, Aloy x Spurflints Hunting Grounds Keeper
- Dragon Age Inquisition: Solas x Elia Lavellan, Blackwall x Arya Lavellan, Abelas x Athera Lavellan, Cole x Lyanna Lavellan
- Dragon Age II: Fenris x Rynne Hawke
- Mass Effect: Reyes Vidal x Mara Ryder, Reyes Vidal x Aria T’Loak, Reyes Vidal & Keema Dohrgun (friendship fic)
- Westworld (HBO): Hector Escaton x Armistice (crack fic PWP lol!)
I shall try and keep it updated whenever I add new fics or ships!
…and just because, here is a photo of my cat.
“You don’t know tomorrow any better than I do.”
—
Haven’t got the spoons today, so a simple sketch will have to do ;3;
This hug is everything. Absolutely and unequivocally everything.
HAHAH as though he’s not completely hopelessly head over heels for Quizzy the moment he lays eyes on her 😂 ❤️
Blackwall/Lavellan shameless smut: Hold Me Up, Tie Me Down
Inspired by that flirt in Haven that goes as follows:
Blackwall: You have the world at your feet, myself included.
Lavellan: At my feet? I could get used to having you there.
Blackwall: [APPROVES SO HARD THAT HIS BEAUTIFUL BEARDED HEAD EXPLODES]Also, I’d like to dedicate this one to @incadinkadoo and @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul , my Blackwall-loving soulmates. Love and kisses to you both! xoxo
It’s a long one, >9000 words, so I won’t post the whole thing here; read on AO3 instead. In the meantime, here is an excerpt.
****************
It’s been almost a year since the Exalted Council, and almost a year since Arya lost her left arm.
Being the fiercely independent woman that she is, she’s learned to do almost everything with her one remaining arm, and she barely ever asks for help anymore.
So when Arya does ask for help, Blackwall comes running.
“Blackwall? I need a hand!”
Her shouted request is quite literal, and it carries down to him as he steps through the door that leads from the Great Hall into her quarters. Alarmed by the rare request, he vaults up the stairs three by three, then bursts through the bedroom door.
She’s sitting at the vanity in her dressing gown, looking completely at ease, but he hurries to her side nonetheless. “Are you all right?” he demands.
She looks up at him in surprise. “Yes, of course. Can you fetch that for me?” She points vaguely to a spot on the floor about three paces away from her left foot, then shrugs off the left sleeve of her dressing gown and begins fastening her everyday prosthetic to the stump of her left arm.
Confused, Blackwall looks at the ground. A carved wooden comb lies there, likely where she knocked it off the table.
He picks it up and holds it out to her, and she takes it and places it on the vanity before tightening the straps of her prosthetic around her bicep. “Thank you,” she says distractedly, then finally looks up at him.
Her violet eyes widen as she takes in his expression. “You look pale! What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
Slowly he kneels beside her stool. “No,” he says, his muscles going lax with relief. “I’m… I was worried. When you shouted…”
She stares at him, then claps her hand over her mouth. “Fenedhis, did I scare you? No, I dropped that stupid comb and I just heard you coming and I couldn’t be bothered…” She trails off, then a slow smile creeps over her face as she cups his cheek. “Oh, Thom, I’m sorry. I’m fine, I promise. I was just impatient…”
Then her words fade into a delighted trill of laughter. “Your face,” she giggles.
Blackwall wilts in exasperation, then roughly rubs his beard against her bare thigh before giving her leg a punishing little bite. “Arya,” he growls.
She squeaks in amusement at the nip of his teeth. “I’m sorry!” she says. “I didn’t mean to scare you. But since you’re down there picking my things off the floor, how about you polish my boots while you’re at it?”
Her cheeky voice is overflowing with mirth, and Blackwall mock-scowls at her. “You’re not wearing any boots,” he grumbles.
“Not yet,” she says airily. “But I will be once you grab them for me.” She turns back to her mirror and carefully combs her short hair back from her face.
He studies her suspiciously. Her lips are curled in a smirk, and she flutters her eyelashes as she meets his eye in the mirror. “Well?” she simpers.
Blackwall/Lavellan shameless smut: Hold Me Up, Tie Me Down
Inspired by that flirt in Haven that goes as follows:
Blackwall: You have the world at your feet, myself included.
Lavellan: At my feet? I could get used to having you there.
Blackwall: [APPROVES SO HARD THAT HIS BEAUTIFUL BEARDED HEAD EXPLODES]
Also, I’d like to dedicate this one to @incadinkadoo and @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul , my Blackwall-loving soulmates. Love and kisses to you both! xoxo
It’s a long one, >9000 words, so I won’t post the whole thing here; read on AO3 instead. In the meantime, here is an excerpt.
****************
It’s been almost a year since the Exalted Council, and almost a year since Arya lost her left arm.
Being the fiercely independent woman that she is, she’s learned to do almost everything with her one remaining arm, and she barely ever asks for help anymore.
So when Arya does ask for help, Blackwall comes running.
“Blackwall? I need a hand!”
Her shouted request is quite literal, and it carries down to him as he steps through the door that leads from the Great Hall into her quarters. Alarmed by the rare request, he vaults up the stairs three by three, then bursts through the bedroom door.
She’s sitting at the vanity in her dressing gown, looking completely at ease, but he hurries to her side nonetheless. “Are you all right?” he demands.
She looks up at him in surprise. “Yes, of course. Can you fetch that for me?” She points vaguely to a spot on the floor about three paces away from her left foot, then shrugs off the left sleeve of her dressing gown and begins fastening her everyday prosthetic to the stump of her left arm.
Confused, Blackwall looks at the ground. A carved wooden comb lies there, likely where she knocked it off the table.
He picks it up and holds it out to her, and she takes it and places it on the vanity before tightening the straps of her prosthetic around her bicep. “Thank you,” she says distractedly, then finally looks up at him.
Her violet eyes widen as she takes in his expression. “You look pale! What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
Slowly he kneels beside her stool. “No,” he says, his muscles going lax with relief. “I’m… I was worried. When you shouted…”
She stares at him, then claps her hand over her mouth. “Fenedhis, did I scare you? No, I dropped that stupid comb and I just heard you coming and I couldn’t be bothered…” She trails off, then a slow smile creeps over her face as she cups his cheek. “Oh, Thom, I’m sorry. I’m fine, I promise. I was just impatient…”
Then her words fade into a delighted trill of laughter. “Your face,” she giggles.
Blackwall wilts in exasperation, then roughly rubs his beard against her bare thigh before giving her leg a punishing little bite. “Arya,” he growls.
She squeaks in amusement at the nip of his teeth. “I’m sorry!” she says. “I didn’t mean to scare you. But since you’re down there picking my things off the floor, how about you polish my boots while you’re at it?”
Her cheeky voice is overflowing with mirth, and Blackwall mock-scowls at her. “You’re not wearing any boots,” he grumbles.
“Not yet,” she says airily. “But I will be once you grab them for me.” She turns back to her mirror and carefully combs her short hair back from her face.
He studies her suspiciously. Her lips are curled in a smirk, and she flutters her eyelashes as she meets his eye in the mirror. “Well?” she simpers.
He sighs and rises to his feet, shaking his head, and fetches her socks and her favourite ram-skin boots from the wardrobe. He places them gently by the foot of her stool. “Anything else, my lady?” he drawls.
She ignores his sardonic tone as she turns on her stool to face him. “Yes,” she announces. “Now you can help me put them on.”
Her eyes are dancing and her chin is lifted in challenge. She absolutely does not need his help putting on her boots; dressing herself was one of the first things she mastered with one arm.
Blackwall narrows his eyes. He doesn’t know her game, but as always when she innocently blinks those big amethyst eyes, he’s helpless to resist her request.
With a heavy sigh, he kneels at her feet and starts to roll her socks onto her delicate elven feet. “You are a cruel mistress, Lady Rainier,” he complains.
She releases a bark of laughter. “Mistress!” she exclaims. “So what does that make you? My beck-and-call man?”
He grumbles indignantly into his beard, but her merriment is contagious, and soon he’s grinning as he finishes lacing up her second boot. “There,” he says, then shoots her a chiding look. “Are we satisfied?”
She smiles smugly at him and crosses her legs. “I don’t know if I like your tone, Ser Blackwall. I don’t think a mistress would accept such impudence.”
The purr in her voice stirs a restless wriggle of warmth in his abdomen. There’s a different kind of challenge in her face now, and it’s one that Blackwall finds very intriguing indeed.
“What do you plan to do about it, my lady?” The growl of a question stems from his libido more than his mind, and he watches with growing interest as she leans away from him, her posture becoming arrogant as she proudly lifts her chin.
“I shall have to think of an appropriate punishment,” she says smoothly. Then she uncrosses her legs and presses one booted foot against his shoulder, pushing him away. “For now,” she adds, “you’ll help me get dressed.”
He obediently shuffles back, transfixed by the sinuous movement of Arya’s body as she rises to her feet. She saunters past him with an arrogant sway to her hips, carelessly letting her dressing gown slide off her shoulders to pool in a silken mass on the floor. With her dexterous right hand, she pulls her loose camisole over her head and tosses it on the floor as well, and Blackwall is transfixed by the slender dip of her spine and the lines of her shoulder blades as they shift beneath her golden skin.
She’s now clad in nothing but her smallclothes and her boots as she makes her way toward the wardrobe. Blackwall rises to his feet, vaguely in awe of how quickly his desire and his cock have risen. Slowly, as though in a trance, he makes his way toward his wily wife.
She turns as he approaches, her eyes darting from his face to his swollen crotch, and a satisfied little smirk lifts the corner of her lips. Then she jerks her chin at her discarded clothes. “Pick those up,” she says, then turns back to the wardrobe and opens the door.
He can’t help himself: he laughs. This whole situation is just so ludicrous and so damned arousing, and he’s not quite sure how his mood shifted so swiftly from panic to exasperation to this, and the incredulous amusement bursts from his chest before he can hold it back.
She turns to face him with her eyebrows raised. “Is something funny?” she demands.
Her tone is all Inquisitor, no-nonsense and commanding, and it makes the blood in his groin pulse even more strongly. “No, not at all,” he says hastily.
She lifts her chin expectantly. “No, what?”
Her stare is hot and intense, and he’s powerless to do anything but give the expected response. “No, mistress.”
Quick as a bolt of lightning, a grin flashes across her face, then it’s gone as she resumes a stern and placid expression. “Good,” she says, then turns back to the wardrobe again. “Now pick those up and get over here.”
Blackwall does as he’s told, lifting her clothes from the floor and carefully hanging them in the wardrobe as Arya flicks through her clothing. She’s pointedly ignoring him, and he takes advantage of her lack of attention by perusing her body with the same focus that she’s giving her clothes.
She’s too damned delectable, all slender elven curves and golden skin, with her delicate ivory smallclothes juxtaposed with her hardy ram-skin boots. Unable to resist, he reaches out and strokes her left breast.
She jerks away from him, her eyes growing wide with mock indignation. “How dare – did I give you permission to touch me?” she snaps.
“No, mistress,” he says. Given the tone of this little game, he’s fairly sure he’s just made things harder for himself – both literally and figuratively – but the feel of her nipple against his palm was more than worth it.
“That’s right, I did not,” she proclaims. “Now I’ll have to think of a really good punishment.” There’s a thread of laughter in her voice now, and as she turns back to the wardrobe, he can see the grin spreading across her cheeks.
He bites back his own grin, settling automatically into an at-ease stance as he waits for her next command. Finally she faces him with a navy blue button-up dress in her hands. “Help me put this on,” she commands.
He takes the dress, but his covetous eyes slide over her mostly-bared body. “Arya,” he begs, dropping his subservient persona for a moment, “can’t we just-?”
“No,” she interrupts. “This is your punishment for now. Disobedient men don’t get the privilege of touching their wives. Besides,” she adds more seriously, “I have to meet with Cullen and Harding in five minutes.”
Blackwall eyes her pleadingly, but Arya snaps her fingers and points imperiously at the dress. “Now,” she orders.
He sighs, but helps her put on the dress and begins to fasten her buttons from the waist up. His fingers trace their way up the front of her dress, but as he reaches the level of her breasts, he can’t resist one last attempt.
He peels one side of the dress away from her breast and leans in swiftly. He actually manages to suckle her nipple for one brief shining moment before she grasps the hair at his nape and pulls him away.
“I said no,” she admonishes, but her voice is distinctly breathless and her cheeks are pink, and Blackwall stares desperately at her, his lust only sharpened by the tugging of her fingers in his hair.
“Please, mistress…” he begs.
She smiles, a brilliant and mischievous flash of a smile, then kisses him hard and swift. He opens his lips instinctively at the press of her tongue, but before he can move, before he can grab her or even really kiss her back, she releases him and backs away.
She makes for the stairs, her fingers and prosthetic moving in tandem to finish up her buttons. “Later,” she promises. She tosses him one last cheeky grin before disappearing down the stairs.
Blackwall sits heavily on the bed, shaking his head with a combination of amusement and despair. His cock is pressing hard and heavy in his trousers, but he savours the pulsing of his lust.
Arya is a busy woman. If she wants him to wait until later for the pleasure of her company, then that is what he’ll do.
Blackwall/Lavellan smut: Hello, Nurse!
In which Arya gets doped up and on one of Dorian’s pain potions and Blackwall can barely cope.
This is a shameless repost of one of my older pieces of Blackwall smut. This might oddly be one of my own favourite pieces of smut I’ve written. Is that weird to say? 😬
*******************
Blackwall gallantly takes Arya’s uninjured right hand, then grips her arm for support as she almost tumbles off her horse. “Careful, love. Easy now,” he warns.
She chuckles as she stumbles against him, then gasps as her sprained left wrist presses against the dragonbone plate on his chest. “Fenedhis! That fucking hurts,” she hisses. She tucks her left arm protectively against her chest, then suddenly smiles up at him. “You called me ‘love’,” she says playfully.
Her long lean body sways toward him salaciously, and Dorian chuckles at her uninhibited ardour as he and Bull begin the usual nightly camp set-up. Blackwall clears his throat self-consciously, then guides her onto a log by the campfire. “You sit down, Your Worship,” he says quietly. “Keep that wrist close. I’ll bring you some food.”
Arya pouts, but seats herself comfortably on the log nonetheless. “Back to ‘Your Worship’, am I? I should fall off my horse more often, it seems. Get you to loosen up a bit.” She leans her head back and smiles as her eyes drift shut. “Mmm. Fire smells so good,” she mumbles.
Blackwall watches her in consternation as he digs some rations from his pack, then glances accusingly at Dorian. “What exactly did you give her?”
“Ancient Tevinter secret,” Arya interjects, then inhales deeply of the firesmoke and sighs with satisfaction.
Dorian grins as he replies. “Just a little infusion of deep mushroom and dragonthorn for the pain,” he says. “Barely more than a child’s dose.” His grin is tempered with a hint of guilt as they watch her swaying dreamily on her log. “I might have overestimated her… constitution, as it were,” Dorian admits. “Perhaps elves react more strongly to the potion. We should keep watch on her tonight – make sure she doesn’t stop breathing, that sort of thing.”
Blackwall stares at him in alarm. “Stop breathing?”
“It won’t happen,” Dorian assures him. “Probably. Almost certainly,” he adds hastily as Blackwall glares at him ever more fiercely. “We’ll just take turns keeping an eye on her tonight, that’s all. She’ll be fine.”
“No. No turns. I’ll look after her,” Blackwall says belligerently.
“We can share the watch, you know,” Bull pipes up as he crawls out of the tent that he and Dorian will share. The qunari warrior gazes kindly at him with his one good eye. “You don’t have to be a martyr. This wasn’t your fault.”
Blackwall clenches his jaw before replying. “I’m not being a martyr,” he grunts. “I’m just… she’s… I’ll take care of her.” He sits down beside Arya and hands her a piece of hearty oat-nut travel loaf.
“Oh, let him do it,” Dorian says to Bull – loudly enough for Blackwall to hear. “He wants to gnash his teeth and be all dramatic as he nurses her, then let him. Our Lady Lavellan does love a good tortured soul, after all.”
Blackwall scowls, but doesn’t speak as he tenderly adjusts the makeshift splint on her wrist. He had to use a Venatori’s torn robe and broken staff, and it’ll have to do until they return to Skyhold tomorrow.
For the umpteenth time today, he wishes that Solas had accompanied them during this trip. If Solas were here, he could tell them whether or not it was all right to magically heal her sprain. But without knowing how the magic of her mark will interact with healing magic, they’re stuck with more mundane methods of treatment.
He strokes the Inquisitor’s neck and silently chastises himself for allowing her to come to harm. He should have had her back; he should have gotten to her more quickly. But he’d been surrounded by a pack of swordsmen, and one of those sneaky bastards with a knife had snuck up on her, and then she was leaping off the top of a ruin to escape her assailant and catching her fall by landing wrong on her wrist-
Blackwall takes a deep breath through his nose to calm the residual anxiety that’s leaping in his belly. He wraps a protective arm around Arya’s shoulders and kisses her temple. My fault, he thinks. Should have been there. What use am I if I’m not right there to protect her…
She finishes off the last bite of her loaf, then snuggles into his shoulder. She tilts her chin up and kisses the side of his neck. “Let’s go to our tent,” she whispers.
“All right,” he agrees immediately. She need to rest, after all; it’ll be a long and uncomfortable journey from the Western Approach back to Skyhold with her injury. He solicitously helps her to her feet.
“Let us know if you change your mind,” Bull says, and Blackwall nods a quick thanks before gently guiding her into their tent. He eases her into a sitting position, then pulls off her boots and carefully helps her remove her leather overcoat, avoiding her tender left wrist all the while.
Satisfied that she’s comfortable enough for sleep, he slides over to her bedroll and pulls the cover back. “Come, my lady. Get into- Arya! What are you doing?”
He hurriedly crawls back to her side, but he’s too late; she tosses her pants aside and woozily pushes herself to her knees, and Blackwall wonders how in Andraste’s name she got her pants off so damned fast with only one good arm. She clumsily starts pulling her linen shirt off with her right hand, and he catches her arm as she starts to tip over. “Arya, stop,” he pleads. “It gets cold here at night. You need to keep your clothes on.”
She shifts close to his kneeling form and slides her bare knee between his thighs. “You can keep me warm,” she purrs. “Those big warrior’s hands of yours… You’ll keep me warm in all kinds of places.”
Suddenly the penny drops. This is why she wanted to come into the tent.
He gently pushes her back and looks into her eyes. Her pupils are dilated and her focus is lazy, and an odd combination of tenderness and anxiety squeezes his heart as he eases her into a sitting position. “Not tonight,” he says apologetically. “You need to rest. Come-”
“I won’t rest without you,” she says petulantly.
Blackwall smiles despite his worry. “You drive a hard bargain, my lady.” He swiftly pulls off his boots and his armour, then sits at the head of the bedroll and pats the space between his legs. “Come on then,” he says indulgently. “I’ll keep you warm.”
She perks up, then shifts over to join him and settles back against his chest. She heaves a happy sigh as she tucks her head back against the crook of his neck. “This is nice,” she murmurs. “You’re all warm… and beardy… and hard and warm…”
He chuckles softly as she pulls his arm around her shoulders… then sighs as she tugs his hand down over her breast. “Arya,” he pleads. “We can’t do this, not tonight. You need to sleep.”
She presses his hand firmly against her breast and cranes her head back. “But my wrist hurts,” she whimpers. “I need help.”
“Let’s get Dorian to chill it for you again,” he says weakly.
“You told Dorian you would take care of me,” she says shrewdly. “Besides, Dorian can’t help me like you can.” She arches her back, pressing her tailbone back against his crotch, then tilts her head back further and presses a kiss to his neck.
The firmness of her nipple is evident through her thin shirt, and to his shame, he can feel his cock hardening and straining against his pants at the insistent pressure of her bottom. He silently scolds himself for being an undisciplined brute, then tries to shift his lower body away from her before his arousal becomes obvious. “Arya, I can’t…”
“You can,” she assures him. She firmly tucks his hand inside of her shirt.
Blackwall swallows hard as he caresses the pebbled hardness of her nipple. Arya releases his hand, then reaches around behind his neck to slide her fingers into his hair.
I can’t, I can’t, he thinks. This is the opposite of what she needs; she needs to sleep, not to be riled up by his errant hands. And yet he can’t resist the softness of her skin, the bead of her nipple between his fingers and the sweet swell of her breast as it fills his palm.
Arya arches smoothly into his touch, then slides her bare legs apart. Her fingers tighten in his hair. “Touch me,” she whispers.
The heat of her words ghosts across his throat, sending a ripple of excitement down the back of his neck, and he gazes pleadingly down at her lovely face. “My lady, please…”
Her amethyst eyes are unfocused but fierce. “I’m not your lady,” she retorts. “I’m your lover. And I’m injured. And there’s only one thing that will make me feel better.”
She lifts and twists her hips, and he suffers a sharp pang of guilt as his traitorous cock pulses in excitement. Her movements are smooth and sinuous, as seductive as if she’s not impaired, but he can’t be fooled; that fucking potion Dorian gave her is playing havoc with her judgment, and Blackwall would be too many kinds of bastard if he took advantage of her now. “Arya-”
“Sex,” she says succinctly. “Sex will make me feel better.”
He can’t help it; he blurts out an incredulous laugh. Her body might be smoothly seductive, but her tongue is blunt as a dull warhammer.
Arya growls – a cute little sound, though he’s sure she doesn’t mean it to be – then pulls his hand from her shirt and tugs it down over her belly toward her smallclothes. “You think I’m joking, do you? I assure you, I’m quite serious.”
“I know you are,” he says hurriedly. “I just – it’s not right, don’t you see? I can’t rightly… I… oh…” He trails off dumbly; her insistent grip has pushed his fingers into her smalls and past her auburn curls, and his tongue becomes tied as the tips of his fingers find the hot slickness between her legs.
She takes a deep, shuddering breath, then relaxes back against him and spreads her thighs even wider. “Blackwall, please,” she begs. “Don’t leave me like this.”
Her words are a haunting plea designed to break him down. He clenches his jaw – be strong, he thinks – but her lifted hips are a clear command, and he’s never been able to ignore a direct order from the Inquisitor.
He gently slides two fingers along her slick folds, and she releases a breathy hum of pleasure. Her hips tilt eagerly toward his hand, and the next thing he knows he’s stroking her pussy, his fingers sliding and slipping in her heavenly heat.
She undulates her hips like a gentle ocean wave and his fingers follow suit, sliding smooth and sweet around the budded glory of her clit. She tightens her grip in his hair and drops her head back against his shoulder, her subtle mewls of satisfaction pouring straight into his ear and rendering him witless.
No, he scolds himself, even as he runs his fingers along her moist heat from cleft to clit. He needs to keep his head on straight. His rock-hard cock is clamouring for attention, an involuntary jerking inside of his pants, but he must keep it under wraps. He can touch his elven lover and bring her to a soporific satiety, but that’s as far as this can go.
She jerks against his stroking fingers, then twists her chest insistently. Her lips graze his jaw in a gentle caress. “Touch me,” she breathes. “Put your hand inside my shirt.”
Her demand is a terrible temptation, and a vague sense of hopelessness steals over him. But he’s already damned with his hand in her smalls; he might as well do as she asks. He carefully slides his left hand under her injured arm and into her shirt.
“Yes,” she moans. The word is long and languid and perfectly happy, a drop of pleasure that slides into his ear and down his throat to pool deep in his abdomen, and Blackwall can’t help but feel a perverse sense of pride. She may be slightly addled with pain potion, and he might be an ass for letting her put his hands all over her, but at least she’s happy.
Her breath grows sharp and short against his neck, and he holds his own breath as he continues his relentless rhythm between her legs. When she comes with a gasp and a jerk of her hips, he nudges her head to the side with his nose and kisses her flushed cheekbone.
She shudders and moans beneath his hands, her fingers gripping his hair in a painful twist, and he waits until she goes limp against his chest before speaking. “Come on, love. Into the bedroll now,” he whispers. “You need to sleep.”
“No,” she declares. Then she shocks him by pushing herself off of his chest and onto her knees.
She leans forward on her right elbow, her left arm tucked up against her chest, and as he watches gormlessly, she presses her chest toward the bedroll and arches her back like a cat in heat. “My wrist hurts,” she says cheekily, “so I need you to fuck me.”
Her perfect ass is in the air. The moisture of her arousal is dampening the crotch of her smalls. She wiggles her hips slightly, and he stares at her in complete despair. “Arya, please,” he begs. “I cannot do this. I just… I can’t.”
She whimpers desperately, then lowers her chest even lower to the bedroll. “You have to,” she insists. “Blackwall, please. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I can’t breathe without your cock inside of me.”
His selfish heart thrills at her every word, but he swallows his raging libido down with a huge effort of will. Her words are wind while she’s impaired, and he has to remember this.
She pounds her right fist petulantly against the bedroll. “Fuck me right now,” she demands.
He inhales deeply through his nose and prays for fortitude, then says something he’s never said to her before.
“No,” he announces, and she immediately falls apart. She keens with distress and writhes her hips in despair, then starts to reach her injured left hand down between her legs.
“Maker’s balls,” he swears. He hastily grabs her hips and rolls her onto her back, then tucks her left arm back up against her chest. “Arya, stay still!”
“Nooo,” she whines. Her knees are closing on his waist, her right hand grasping at his neck to pull him close, and he wonders vaguely if she’s been possessed by a desire demon. She thrusts her hips up toward his bulging crotch, and finally Blackwall does the only thing he can think of to stop her: he peels her smallclothes off and buries his face between her legs.
A delighted moan trembles from her throat, and she instantly relaxes beneath his mouth. She threads her fingers in his hair and subtly lifts her hips, and Blackwall faithfully follows her cues: he laps with a gentle touch when she undulates slow and smooth against his lips, and he strokes her with a firmer tongue when she fucks his face.
She climaxes within a few short minutes, her visceral cry muffled by her own fisted hand, but Blackwall isn’t finished; he knows his Dalish lover, and he knows this orgasm will only goad her higher. Before she can come down from her delirious peak, he dips two fingers in her moisture, then slides his fingers inside of her.
She jolts and arches viciously, her pleasure cries smothered by the back of her hand, and Blackwall strokes her inner walls with utmost care. A subtle twist of his wrist, a gentle curl of his fingers, and soon Arya is thrusting against his hand with all the fury and grace of a horsemaster.
He stares at her with hapless devotion. She’s single-minded with pleasure, utterly lost to the touch of his fingers, and he’s jealous of his own hand for being the focus of her passion.
He watches as the breath catches in her throat, her abs trembling with tension, and as she gasps in a desperate breath, he surges forward and kisses her hard. She digs her nails into his neck and screams into his mouth, her inner walls clenching around his fingers, and Blackwall savours her rapture like the finest honey wine.
The tension gradually flees her body, and a few long, languorous moments later, he gently releases her lips to gaze down at her face. Her eyes are closed as she smiles, a lazy joy that stretches from cheek to cheek. Her fingers lightly stroke his jawline. “My Blackwall,” she murmurs. Within less than a minute, she’s fast asleep.
He gently smoothes her hair back from her forehead. She looks so damned innocent in repose, her knees bent and her right fist tucked beneath her chin like a child. He thinks of the horny little hellion who was begging for his cock mere minutes prior, and has to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing.
Then the slow, soft sound of applause floats over from the second tent.
“Well done,” Dorian calls out softly. “Top marks for healing techniques, ser. You must give lessons to the surgeon back at Skyhold.”
“Hell, I’d take a lesson in that,” Bull interjects, and they both laugh dirtily.
Blackwall rubs his suddenly scorching face. He can’t reply; anything he says to them will only be used against him later.
He looks down at Arya again, then smiles to himself. He carefully arranges the second bedroll over her sleeping form, then settles down beside her to watch her for the night.
Bull and Dorian might rip on him for his so-called healing skills, but as he gazes besottedly at his sated elven lover, he can’t bring himself to mind.
The Sharper Edge of Love: Romance, Sex, and Fanfic 