A @dadrunkwriting prompt fill for the lovely @elfsplaining – kiss on a scar for Blackwall/Arya!  

Read here on AO3. Smut alert. ^_^

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“What about this one?” Arya asks.

She strokes Blackwall’s left forearm, and he glances at the fine slash of a scar under her fingers. “Dagger. Tavern fight,” he says. He points sheepishly to another mark at the corner of his eyebrow. “This is from the same fight. A few shards of glass.”

She shoots him a wry smirk. “Indiscretions from your youth?” she teases.

He manages a weak smile in return. His days of tavern fights aren’t far enough in his past for his liking. “I was old enough to know better, my lady,” he says softly.

Her teasing expression softens, but she doesn’t press him. She points to a row of tiny crescent-shaped marks that line the upper edge of his right pec. “And these?”

She blinks innocently, and he shoots her a chiding look. “You know what those are from,” he drawls, but he can’t quite hide his smirk.

Arya pointedly inspects her nails. “Ah, yes, how could I forget?” she purrs, then squeaks with amusement when he playfully pinches her bum. She shuffles backward on his lap to run her palm over a long and shallow scar that spans his abdomen. “This is a wicked one. What about this?”

“Dodged some sorry mercenary’s axe. Just barely,” he says gruffly.

Her eyes widen as she traces her finger along the length of the scar. “Damn,” she murmurs. “I’m glad you did.” She exhales and points to a second somewhat smaller scar below his right ribs. “And this? From the same fight?”

He peers down at his own naked chest for a moment. “I can’t recall,” he finally says. “Maybe.”

Her eyes widen. “You can’t recall?” she demands. “This is a big one!”

“Arya, I’m covered in scars,” he reasons. “I’ve seen many battles. I can’t always remember which scars are from when. Do you remember what all your scars are from?”

“Yes!” she replies. She slides off of his lap to sit cross-legged beside him on the bed, then points to a faint pink burn mark on the inside of her right wrist. “This one is from a cooking pot.” She indicates a row of very fine faint lines on the back of her hand. “This was a fennec scratch – one of the other kids had some cubs when I was young. And this…” She pushes up her sleeve and points to a white streak of puckered skin on her upper left arm – “…was an arrow wound from a stupid clanmate. Some of the other archers in my clan were not as good as me.” She inspects her right forearm and finds no scars, then lifts the hem of her shirt.

Blackwall watches fondly as she inspects her abdomen. He rolls onto his side to face her and smoothes a hand over her belly. His thumb lingers on a large and jagged scar to the left of her navel, near her hip. “This is from that tumble you took when Haven fell,” he says. His stomach lurches at the mere mention of it, but Arya simply nods.

“That’s right. A rock or wooden slat or something got me,” she says vaguely, and he swallows another pulse of dismay at the thought.

He leans in and kisses the scar, then smoothes his hand along the side of her bare left thigh. There’s a crisscross of fine scratches there, still red and healing in places, and he frowns. “What happened here?”

“Dragon nettle. In the garden.” She snickers. “I don’t have a green thumb.”

“Did you fall into the nettle patch?” he asks, only half-joking. “That’s not a brown thumb, Arya. That’s two left feet.”

She scoffs and pinches his arm in rebuke, and he chuckles. He lifts himself to his knees, then gently tugs her ankle to unfold her legs. He settles himself between her knees and leans over to kiss the healing scratches on her thigh.

She strokes his hair affectionately, and he shoots her a quick smile as he runs his palms along her shins. There are myriad bruises there, and a dark round scar graces each of her knees. He brushes the scars with his thumbs. “These happened when you skidded on the ice to shoot that pride demon just outside of Sahrnia.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “Yes, you’re right.” A slow smile lights her face. “Keeping track of my injuries, are you?”

He is, in fact. It’s not logical, but part of his mind considers Arya’s every wound to be his own personal failure. Blackwall is her shield and her shelter, and if she’s injured, it’s because he failed to guard her.

“You are precious, Your Worship. You’ve got too many scars already.” He leaves a protective kiss on each marked knee. He slides his hands back up along her legs, then kisses the inside of her thigh.

She inhales deeply at the touch of his lips. Her fingers slide gently through his hair again. “Come here and kiss me,” she says.

Her voice is low, lightly brushed with a lilt of lust, and Blackwall smiles. “In a moment, my lady,” he says. He drops another kiss on her tender inner thigh, savouring the velvety skin that edges her undergarments.

Her knees drift apart, and he takes advantage of her widespread legs to trace his tongue along the hem of her smallclothes.

She lifts her hips toward his face, and his keen ear catches the sweetness of her sharp inhale. “Blackwall, come up here,” she whimpers.

“Just a moment,” he repeats distractedly; her feminine scent is calling him, and he can’t resist slipping one finger into the edge of her smalls, curious if she’s as ready as her perfume would imply.

His hopes are confirmed as her precious moisture coats his fingertip. She’s slick and wet already, and he swallows his eagerness as he lightly strokes the slippery heat of her cleft.

A moan trembles from her lips as she arches toward his touch. “Mmmmyes,” she mewls, and Blackwall happily accepts her assent.

Instants later, her smalls are forgotten on the floor, and Arya’s fingers clench convulsively in the sheets as he laves the length of her sex with his tongue. He traces the path of her folds up to the pearl of her clit, then strokes the swollen little nub with his lower lip.

“Blackwall,” she whimpers. His name is like a song in the cadence of her voice, and the desire and desperation in her tone make his cock pulse between his legs. He presses his pelvis against the bed to calm himself, but a contrary surge of pleasure renders him lightheaded.

His hand drifts between his legs while he tastes her scented heat. He carefully squeezes his shaft, and another eager rush subsumes him.

A blissful groan escapes his throat. It bleeds across his lips to vibrate against the apex of her thighs, and Arya gasps anew as the depth of his groan joins the press of his lips and the lapping of his tongue, painting her pussy with myriad shades of pleasure.

“Oh gods, Blackwall, come here now,” she whines, and finally he obeys, lifting his face from her delectable folds to look at her. She eagerly pulls his hair until he shuffles closer and straddles her knees, his thumbs sliding from the crests of her hipbones and up along her waist.

He slides her shirt higher, revealing the tempting little globes of her breasts, and she eagerly lifts her shoulders from the bed so he can pull the garment off. It joins her smallclothes on the floor, and Arya grabs the back of his neck as he nuzzles her breast, then suckles the pointed peak of her nipple.

Her knee drifts along the inside of his thigh to press against his balls, and he releases her nipple with a gasp of longing. Suddenly her hand is on his belly, burrowing into his trousers, and he gasps again as she runs her fingers along his steely length.

Her thumb strokes the head of his cock, and he moans helplessly against her breast. “Arya,” he pleads.

She presses his balls with her knee, sending a white-hot rush of pleasure through his abdomen. “Lie on your back,” she orders.

He obeys without a qualm, and Arya is straddling his face within seconds, her knees bracketing his head and her hands shoving his trousers down so his manhood can spring free. He barely has time to admire the shining slickness of her flesh before her mouth takes him in a hot wet stroke.

He chokes out a groan of pleasure, then grabs her thighs and pulls her flush to his face. He can feel her hand caressing his balls as she suckles his cock, like little bolts of bliss that accompany the pressure of her mouth. He moans unabashedly into her pussy, his pleasure melding with her own as her juices paint his lips.

Arya presses down against his face, and he slides his tongue against her with firm devotion. Her wetness holds all the appeal of water from the clearest mountain spring, and he happily devours every drop. He thoroughly kisses her sex, his lips firm and his tongue swirling as he teases her swollen clit, and soon she’s undulating against him, her pelvis rolling smooth and slow across his eager tongue.

Her fingers start to tighten against the bare skin of his thighs. Her mouth goes still on his cock and the flexing of her hips grows jerky. Her focus is sharpening, and Blackwall knows she’s close. He wraps his arms around her waist and redoubles his efforts, the flat of his tongue caressing her cleft and clit in a smooth and steady swirl.

Her nails bite into his thighs as she hits her peak, and she briefly releases his cock with a high-pitched moan of bliss. Then suddenly she takes him deep again, and it’s like his Dalish lover has gone wild: her hands grab his thighs as she zealously rides his face, and his own lust trebles as she fucks him hard and fast with the lush heat of her mouth.

When the shuddering of her thighs has stilled, she tries to rise away from him with her mouth still on his cock, but Blackwall tightens his arms around her waist. “Stay here,” he gasps. He’s drunk on her, intoxicated by her musky scent and the slick feel of her arousal on his tongue and the carmine flush of her pussy, and having her straddling his face is fuel to his ardent fire.

Her thighs relax at his words, and she continues to work his cock with her tight and slippery throat. His hips rise helplessly to give her his full length, and he groans as she squeezes his cock with a swallow.

He holds her tight and thrusts his tongue inside of her, and she releases him with a gasp. “Fuck,” she whines, then takes him deep again, her moans of pleasure vibrating into his abdomen in a sweet staccato as the head of his cock slides deep and cuts off her air.

His tongue delves inside of her as he buries himself in her mouth, and when the surging roar of his pleasure finally crests, he groans his approval into the wetness of her groin. Arya’s lips slide along his shaft as she swallows his release, her tongue tenderly tracing his length until his limbs go limp with completion.

Finally she lifts her face and sighs happily. “Gods, that’s good,” she breathes, then slides off the bed to her feet. She walks shakily over to the desk and reaches for the jug of water. “Would you like some?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Yes please,” he says. His gaze travels across her naked back as she pours two cups. Another scar from the fall of Haven taunts him from her left shoulder blade, and a yellowing bruise on the back of her calf is a reminder of a Red Templar attack on the Storm Coast.

She brings the water back to the bed, then cozies up to him with cup in hand. “How are you?” she purrs. It’s an idle post-coital question, laced with a mischievous drawl in her cheeky voice, and his heart squeezes with affection.

“Wonderful, my lady,” he replies, and she grins before kissing him. He gently traces the angle of her jaw as he returns her kiss. Arya’s scars and bruises might mark his mistakes, but Blackwall will gladly count them every night if it leads to this.