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

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

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

Read on AO3 instead. NSFW. 

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

A bright bark of laughter floats out of the bookshop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arya Lavellan’s approval is all he really needs.