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? 😬 

Read on AO3.

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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.