#Blackwall DAI | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sorceresssundries · 15 days

Text

Stormbound

Pairing: Blackwall/Female Quizzy

Warnings: SMUT

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: Hello, here is my first attempt at some Dragon Age fic because I have been playing Inquisition and cannot get THIS SAD BEARDED MAN out of my head. LUCKILY, @orangekittyenergy is sharing the same brainworm as me, and I got to write this for her birthday.

(I have not finished the game yet, I am too busy climbing the wall)

“This armour seems… ill-functioning, my lady,” Blackwall murmured from behind her, his voice rough with the effort to remain composed. His hands, large and calloused, worked methodically at the knots, trying to keep his focus on the task at hand. But it was impossible not to notice how her skin felt beneath his fingertips, like silk stretched over solid muscles. She was well-freckled, they reminded him of the first drops of rain on a parched road. He wanted to count them all, follow them to the secret little places they fluttered away to.

“You okay back there?” Fawn asked, her tone laced with a hint of amusement as she sharpened her dagger with a whetstone on her lap. The sound of the blade against the stone was rhythmic, almost hypnotic, “If you’re struggling, I could always ask Sola—”

“No” The word came out too fast, and he cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to regain his composure. “I mean, that will not be necessary, my lady. I am well-practised in rope work. I have just… not seen it used as armour before.”

“Qunari,” she explained, her voice casual as she continued to sharpen her blade. The grind of steel against stone punctuated her words. “The tightness helps with my posture when firing arrows, and it’s light enough to keep me quick on my toes. Lumbering warriors with their fancy swords and heavy armour stand no chance.” She turned her head slightly, just enough to cast him a sideways glance, her lips curving in the way that made his heart stutter.

“No, we do not.” He said gruffly. He was grateful she was facing away from him, his thoughts were so fierce in his mind that they must be burning right there behind his eyes. The thoughts of her bound before him, the well-knotted rope biting into the soft parts of her flesh, gripping her like impassioned fingers. Him chasing the marks they left on her with his tongue… He shifted a little as he felt his cock harden in his breeches. “How tight do you want it? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It needs to be tight, Warden, to save my dignity on the battlefield.”

Maker’s breath. An image of her with the knots slipping apart and the silk wrappings fluttering to the ground like a singed moth skated through his mind. How tempting it was to leave it loose. But he would not, he would do what was best for her. Always.

“As you say, m’lady.”

Fawn stifled a surprised gasp as he pulled the rope tight across her back, forcing her posture upright and practically dragging her back against him. His legs caged her on each side, and he was concentrating so deeply on the intricate knots she could feel the soft warmth of his breath against her shoulder. She wanted to lean back a little, to force his lips to meet her skin, to feel the roughness of his beard against her, the nip of his teeth as he growle…

She focused on sitting straight - taut as a bowstring, sharp as an arrow. She could not let these thoughts distract her, it was not the time or the place.

There was a battle to win.

The fight was a blur of steel and blood, the clang of metal echoing through the dense woods. The only sight of Fawn was the occasional flash of blades in dim light, the steel glinting like bared teeth as she whipped and sliced through the throng of bandits. She moved with the grace of a shadow and slipped between her enemies like water, her daggers dancing in her practised hands. She would jab them into the slim, exposed crevices hulking armour did not cover, and once a bandit was gored and felled, Blackwall’s sword would cut it’s way down to finish the job.

The two of them moved together. Where she was swift and agile, he was a tower of iron and fury. He was the boom of thunder and her the silent flash of lightning, they fought like a storm and their enemies were caught in their wake like helpless leaves.

Another bandit charged at the Inquisitor, a wicked grin on his face as he swung his sword. She ducked, but as she did, the edge of metal caught her shoulder blade, tearing through the rope and drawing blood. Her armour started to slip loose through the hard knots Blackwall had tied, becoming an ill-fitting distraction instead of the coiled harness which kept her muscles taut and focus deadly.

She hissed in pain but didn’t falter. Instead, she spun on her heel, driving her dagger into the man’s side before he could react. He stumbled, clutching at the wound as she wrenched the blade free, and then fell lifeless at her feet. There was no time to breathe, no time to think before the next attacker lunged at her. She turned to meet him too late, but suddenly, a strong hand grasped her waist and pulled her back with a force that sent her heart racing.

A shield struck out, cracking like a storm-swilled wave against the bandit who had dared to raise a blade to her.

It was Blackwall.

His eyes were fierce, scanning her quickly for injuries. Seeing the tear in her armour, he didn’t waste a moment. With a swift motion, he dropped his shield, yanking her toward him as his large frame shielded her from the chaos. His hands, rough yet gentle, moved with practised skill as he tied the frayed ends of her rope armour back together. His fingers brushed lightly over her cuts and rope marks. She let out a breathy little gasp, and something inside him snapped. Before she could react, Blackwall spun her to face him and he captured her lips in a fierce, urgent kiss.

The world around them seemed to blur and fade—the clashing of steel, the shouts of the dying—all of it dulled. His kiss was fire and tongue, and Fawn could have sworn she heard him growl. Her mind spun, caught in the whirlwind of his rough beard scraping against her skin, his calloused hands cradling her face, the taste of him, wild and desperate.

But as quickly as it began, it was over. Blackwall pulled back, his eyes simmering with a mixture of desire and something darker, something he dared not voice. With a final tug to secure the knot, he released her, turning back to the fight without hesitation, leaving her breathless and reeling.

Fawn stood there for a heartbeat, her mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened. The battle continued to rage around her, but all she could think of was the way his lips had claimed hers, the way he had looked at her—as if she was something precious, something he would die for. She twirled her daggers in her hand and flexed her muscles before darting back into danger. There was no time for questions or second-guessing. She needed to focus, to be the breeze that guided his blade. They moved together once more, steel and silk, iron and water.

When the last of the bandits fell, an eerie silence settled over the battlefield. Fawn wiped her daggers clean, her breath heavy with exertion. She was aching, sweat-soaked, and utterly exhausted, but she turned to find Blackwall, needing to see him, to confirm that he was still there, that the moment they had shared hadn’t been a figment of her imagination. He was already striding across to her, he looked… almost angry.

“Thank you for th..” She started, but the gratitude on her lips was quickly replaced by his tongue and teeth and need.

He grabbed her, his rough hands pulling her close as his mouth claimed hers in another fierce, demanding kiss. This time, there was no urgency of battle to pull them apart. His hands roamed over her exposed skin, feeling the warmth of her flesh beneath his touch. She melted into him, the fire of the fight still burning in her veins now joined by a different kind of heat.

His hands slid down to her hips, pulling her closer still, until there was no space left between them. She moaned softly into his mouth, her hands clutching at the broad expanse of his shoulders as he deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring.

When he finally pulled back, both of them were breathless, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“I… My apologies m’lady” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “I let things get the better of me. I should not have… I’m sorry.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away. He was gone as quickly as he had come, leaving her with nothing but the ghost of his touch and the lingering taste of his kiss on her lips.

A week passed, dragging with it the heavy weight of duty and endless decision-making. Fawn found herself entrenched in the grind of leadership—strategic plans, tiresome debates, and the ceaseless meetings in the War Room. The reports were relentless: a new threat in the west, a diplomatic disaster in the east, and the perpetual need to balance discretion against diplomacy, stealth against soldiers. The endless bickering over the safest routes and the most effective tactics gnawed at her, draining her of energy and patience. Each day, after hours of strained deliberation, she would leave the War Room with a tension coiled so tight in her chest that she could barely breathe.

She would walk through Skyhold, her steps automatic, always ending in the same places—the battlements, the stables, the kitchens, the library, the undercroft—each time hoping to find him. But each time, she found herself alone.

He was never there.

Blackwall was nowhere to be found. Not in the stable, not in the training yard where his deep voice often barked orders, not in the barracks where he should have been resting after another gruelling mission. It was as though he had vanished from the fortress, the only evidence of him was his name in the trail of reports she devoured with an intensity she didn’t dare to admit.

Every one she read seemed to carry his name, and she found herself scanning them eagerly, looking for a mention of him, anything to know he was safe.

Warden Blackwall led a patrol around the perimeter… all back and accounted for.

Warden Blackwall and several others engaged in a scouting mission in the Hinterlands. They returned at nightfall with intel for the commander.

Warden Blackwall has been training new recruits in the field.

Each entry was a mixture of relief and fury, like a double-edged sword piercing her. Relief that he was alive and well, but fury that he seemed determined to push himself beyond his limits, to throw himself into mission after mission without pause. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as she fought the urge to storm out and confront him. He was driving himself into the ground, and for what? To avoid her?

The realisation twisted in her gut, a knot of anger and hurt that burned hotter with each passing day. Fine, she thought, if he wanted to run himself ragged, let him. If he was so determined to spread himself thin, to exhaust himself in a relentless cycle of duty and danger, then she would no longer take him with her on missions. She couldn’t bear to watch him self-destruct, couldn’t stand the idea of being the reason for it. If he wanted to avoid her, then so be it. She wouldn’t let him see how it hurt her.

But then, just as the flames of her anger burned the hottest, she read the latest report, and the fire was doused in an instant, replaced by a chilling wave of dread.

Warden Blackwall patched up in the field but was sent back to base to recover.

The words hit her like a blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. The ice of it spread through her, numbing the anger, leaving only fear and something deeper, something she couldn’t quite name. Her hand trembled as she held the report, her eyes scanning the words over and over, hoping she had misread, but the cold truth remained.

He was hurt. And he had still tried to stay out there, pushing himself until he couldn’t anymore. The thought of him injured, of him in pain, twisted her insides in a way that made it hard to breathe. She wanted to be angry, to hold on to the fury that had sustained her for days, but all she could feel was a deep, aching worry. He was avoiding her, and she knew it. Well.. Tough. She would go to him, to make sure he was all right, to tell him how much of a stupid, noble, idiotic fool he was for thinking he could do this alone and he would just have to deal with it.

She threw the report to the ground, and headed straight to his quarters before he found a way to escape the fortress again, to escape her again.

His room was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Fawn, angry and impatient, knocked once and, without waiting for an answer, pushed it open. Her steps faltered when she saw him.

Blackwall stood facing a small, cracked mirror, his arm lifted as he pressed a damp cloth to a wound on his side. He was shirtless, his broad, scarred chest exposed, the muscles taut beneath his weathered skin. Another wound marred his back, and an angry purple bruise bloomed across his collarbone, evidence of a recent fight. He looked as though he had taken a beating, but there was something in the set of his jaw, in the way he stood, that spoke of more than just physical pain. He looked tired. Resigned. Her fury slipped away.

"My lady... I was not expecting..." His voice was gruff, tinged with surprise and perhaps a trace of embarrassment. Yet, he made no move to cover himself. Instead, he straightened up, his posture shifting. The change was palpable—he was trying to compose himself, to hide behind a wall of duty and stoicism. Fawn recognised it for what it was, another form of armour, one she wished she could strip away and bury with his past back at the Storm Coast.

Without a word, Fawn strode toward him. She reached for the rag in his hand, her fingers brushing against his as she took it from him. His skin was warm, despite the dampness of the cloth, and she felt a shiver run through her at the contact.

"Let me," she said firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. She pulled a small vial of Oil of Elfroot from her pocket, adding a few drops to the rag. The herbal scent filled the room, mingling with the faint smell of sweat and leather.

He hesitated, searching her face for a moment as if he might protest, but then he gave a small nod, acquiescing to her will. She guided him to a nearby stool with a gentle push. “Sit down,” she commanded.

Blackwall sat, his broad shoulders slumping slightly as he complied. His head bowed, and for a moment, Fawn saw a glimpse of the man beneath the pride. She moved behind him, her fingers grazing his skin as she brought the rag to his back. His muscles tensed beneath her touch. The wound on his back was deep, the flesh around it angry and inflamed. She worked with gentle precision, dabbing at the wound with the oil-soaked rag, her movements slow and deliberate.

Every time her fingers brushed against his skin, she felt the heat of him. It was intoxicating, this closeness, this simmer that had never had enough space to flame into heat. She could feel his breath hitch with each touch, the way his muscles twitched in response, and she couldn’t help but wonder whether it was from pain or pleasure.

"Am I hurting you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she pressed the cloth to the wound.

He grunted, a sound that was neither confirmation nor denial. "I’ve had worse" he replied, though his voice was rough, strained. It was a poor attempt at deflection.

Fawn bit her lip, focusing on the task before her. She cleaned the wound with care, her fingers tracing the edges of the cut as she applied the soothing oil. She knew she should be concentrating on his injuries, but her mind kept drifting, her thoughts returning to the way he had kissed her on the battlefield, the way his hands had felt as they gripped her with a desperation she hadn’t fully understood until now.

“Why have you been avoiding me?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Blackwall stiffened under her touch, his hands clenched into fists on his thighs. “I’m not avoiding you,” he muttered, the lie clear.

“Liar.” Fawn’s voice was sharper than she intended, but she didn’t care. She moved the cloth to his shoulder, her fingers brushing the edges of the bruise there. “You’ve been volunteering for extra patrols, taking on more work than anyone else. Seems like you’d rather go out and get the shit kicked out of you than spend another moment with me.”

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the floor. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and quiet. “What happened between us… that kiss… was a mistake.”

The confession hit her like a blow. A mistake? The word reverberated through her mind, unravelling something inside her that had felt so solid, so certain. What had been a moment of raw, unfiltered connection now seemed to collapse into nothingness, as though it had never existed at all.

Of course, she thought bitterly. What a fool I’ve been. How could she have allowed herself to believe that it meant something? The heat of battle had driven him to kiss her, nothing more. He was a stoic fighter, a man of iron resolve who had gotten caught up in the rush of adrenaline, just another soldier with a hard-on after a good fight. And she—she had been conveniently there, within reach. That was all it had been.

The realisation stung, cutting deeper than any blade. The vulnerability she had felt in his arms, the trust she had allowed herself to extend to him, now seemed misplaced, foolish even. He must think her a smitten little creature, a naive girl who had come to demand his affection, to cling to him like some lovesick fool. The thought made her stomach twist with humiliation.

“I understand, Warden Blackwall.” His head suddenly lifted at the sudden use of his full title.

“The error is my own. I mistook what happened earlier as a display of something more meaningful.” She placed the rag back in the bowl and focused hard on breathing in and out, not wanting to show herself up. “The wound is clean. I’ll leave you in peace, I shan’t make a fool of myself again”

She barely had time to turn before he was gripping her. Before he stood, a shirtless bulk of a man inches from her. His large, well-worn hands circled around her wrists as delicate as swan necks. His eyes were so dark they reflected the fire, but he was soft. He was worried.

Gently, as though handling something prone to breaking, he took one of her hands in his and placed it on his bare chest, right over his heart. She could feel it pounding beneath her fingertips, hard and heavy, like the relentless beat of a war drum. As though it was trying to crash its way out from between his ribs to get to her. Her heart fluttered like the wings of a trapped hummingbird in comparison.

His gaze burned into hers as he slowly guided her hand downward. Her fingers grazed the thicket of dark hair covering his chest, and she could feel every muscle twitch beneath her touch. His breaths grew hot and ragged and as her hand travelled lower, she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, the tension coiled within him.

When he brought her hand to his breeches, what she felt there made her breath catch. He was so achingly hard, so ready, and all of it was for her. The realisation sent a wave of heat through her, a fierce blush creeping up her neck.

“Please, do not leave here thinking you are unwanted,” he murmured.

He lifted her hand once more, guiding it to the side of his face. The rough of his beard scratched lightly against her fingertips as he closed his eyes, his entire body seeming to relax under her touch. He closed his eyes and his cheek pressed into her hand as if it were a balm and not a curse. A different kind of key, to a different kind of lock.

He opened his soft eyes, and struggled to find the right words. “I am not.. I am no fair-haired commander in golden armour with an army at my side," he began, his voice low and pained. "Nor am I a dashing mage or a charming diplomat. Would that I were, my lady, I would grant you all I have. Each drop of magic, every easy smile, an entire army. But, this is all I have. Just me. And it is not enough. Not for you.”

Fawn’s frustration flared, and she couldn’t keep the bite out of her words. "And how about what I have?" she snapped. She pulled her hand away from him, her patience wearing thin. "Why do you think I am so much better than you? so far above? Because I survived the Conclave? Because of some cruel twist of fate? My hand is now blighted by duty and some dark magic. What have I to offer you, Blackwall? Other than danger and burden."

His gaze was gentle, but the resolve in his voice was unyielding. "It is no burden," he insisted.

"Of course it is," she retorted, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation.

"No. Not for you," he said, shaking his head firmly. "It is a privilege."

Fawn’s heart clenched at his words, the sincerity in his voice cutting through her frustration like a blade. She took a step closer, as she tried to make him understand. "Well, if I am your privilege, then you are mine"

“Maker’s breath, woman…” His voice was rough, and rolled down her spine. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes I do,” she murmured, leaning forward so she was just a breath away from kissing him. “I know exactly what I want.”

The tension snapped, and he closed the gap between them, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was fierce, almost brutal in its intensity. His hands slid up her back, pulling her against him as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting her go. She responded by tangling her fingers in his hair as she kissed him back, pouring all her frustration, her longing, her love into that single, searing kiss.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting together as they tried to regain some semblance of control.

Blackwall's voice was thick with emotion as he spoke, the roughness in his tone softened by the weight of his confession. "I have not been avoiding you because I do not want you, m’lady. I have been avoiding you because of how desperately I do." His words hung in the air between them, heavy with the longing he had fought so hard to suppress.

He kissed her forehead, a chaste press of lips against skin - then her cheeks, her brow, her parted lips…

"But, I will not abandon you," he continued, his voice a low, fervent murmur. "I meant what I said—the world could turn its sword upon you, and I would remain your shield. I am bound to you."

Fawn's heart pounded in her chest, her breath catching as his words washed over her. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his, seeing the truth and the fear that lay behind those stormy grey depths.

"As a soldier?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, needing to understand, needing to hear him say it.

"No." His response was immediate, and the way he said it, so sure, so resolute, made her drop each trouble she had collected. She didn’t need them now. "Not as a soldier."

She swallowed hard, her throat tightening with emotion. "Show me," she urged, her voice soft yet insistent.

“M’lady…” he began, the familiar title slipping from his lips out of habit, a wall between them that he had used to protect himself. But she wouldn’t let him hide behind it any longer.

“Fawn,” she interrupted, her voice steady despite the storm of feelings brewing inside her. “Please. Use my name.”

The request hung in the air, and Blackwall stared at her as though the very ground beneath him had shifted. It was such a simple thing, to say her name, but it carried a weight he couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t just a name—it was a bond, an admission that she was not just his commander or the Inquisitor. She was Fawn, the woman he wanted, the woman he loved.

When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, reverent murmur. “Fawn.” The sound of her name on his lips, the way it rolled off his tongue, sent pleasure through her that she could barely contain. It was as bright as a spoken spell, a low rumble that seemed to rise from deep within his broad chest, reverberating through her like the echo of some ancient, primal chant. It was as if she were a savage who had heard her name spoken for the first time. This is how it always should have been said — carved by his tongue, shaped by his voice… Her name was a flame in his mouth, and it made her burn. And she welcomed it, she would blaze and shimmer for as long as his voice, his touch, commanded it. She was a woman alight.

His hand slid up to cradle the back of her neck, drawing her closer until there was no space left between them. “Fawn,” he repeated, the word heavy with all the things he hadn’t dared to say before. In that moment, with her name on his lips, there was no more distance, no more hesitation. There was only the truth of what he felt.

He lifted her like she weighed nothing, pressing her back against the cool stone wall. The ease with which he did it made her gasp, the sound escaping her lips before she could suppress it. She wrapped her legs around him and her hand reached out, clutching at the wall, her breath hitching as he leaned into her, his broad chest pinning her. The hard muscle beneath his scarred skin pressed against her, and he was so warm.

“Let go,” he whispered, his voice a command that was as tender as it was firm. “I have you.”

It was a promise that made her heart race. Her fingers released their grip on the stone, instead tangling themselves in his thick, dark hair. The feel of it, rough yet soft between her fingers, sent a thrill through her, and she tugged lightly, drawing a low, primal moan from him. The sound reverberated through his chest, and the vibration rumbled all the way down to her marrow and soul.

“Good girl,” he murmured against her ear, his lips curving into a smug smile as he felt her shudder. So, the mighty Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, enjoyed being praised? The realisation thrilled him. She deserved every bit of it, every word of admiration and every touch he could offer.

Blackwall was no poet; his words were often few, his expressions of emotion guarded behind a fortress of duty and honour. But for her, he would find the words, even if they stumbled and broke from his lips. He would give her words of sapphire, of saffron, of blood. Words bound in devotion and plated in gold. There would be no empty promises or hollow declarations; no pretty little songs with meaningless rhymes, no prayers whispered in the dark when all hope was gone. What he offered her were oaths, and he would use his tongue to paint her body with them.

Slowly, he began to move, grinding his hips against her, letting her feel just how hard he was. The friction was maddening, the pressure exquisite, and she couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped her lips. His thigh pressed between her legs, and she instinctively moved against him, grinding down as her breath came in shallow, desperate gasps.

Fawn hadn’t expected him to be so slow, so measured in his movements. The kiss on the battlefield had been all fury and flame, a desperate clash of lips and teeth born of the heat of combat. But this—this was molten. Deliberate. She felt herself bending under his hands, her body moulding to fit against him as if she had been made for this, made for him

“Is this what you want?” he asked, his voice low and rough, as he tightened his grip on her hips, guiding her movements. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”

He groaned at her plea, the sound deep and guttural, sending a fresh wave of heat through her.

He murmured once more against her ear, “I’ll take care of you.”

He kissed her slow and languidly, each stroke of his tongue against hers deliberate and savoured, as though he were licking honey from a soft, ripe fruit. This is the way he wanted to kiss her cunt, but he would settle for her mouth first.

She dragged her aching core across the thick, muscular trunk of his thigh, feeling the friction through the layers of her clothes. It felt glorious, and it felt filthy—this desperate grinding, still clothed, the heat between them building with every second. Her clothes were becoming soaked, not just with sweat but with the evidence of her need. The fabric clung to her, damp and hot. She was burning up, so needy that it was almost unbearable, but she didn't want to stop. The ache between her legs was almost too much to bear, and the slow, teasing way he moved against her only made it worse. It was maddening, intoxicating, and she never wanted it to end.

He licked the shell of her ear, and the sensation was so intense that she nearly came undone right then and there. A sharp gasp escaped her, and she had to bite down hard on her lip to stifle the scream building in her throat.

But Blackwall wasn’t having any of that. "No," he said, his voice firm. His eyes, dark and intense, met hers once more. He moved one of his hands from her arse to gently stroke her bottom lip, his thumb tracing the spot where her teeth had just been.

Fawn had thought he might struggle to hold her with one arm, but he was impossibly strong. With his muscular thigh pinned between her legs and his other arm wrapped securely around her waist, he was barely breaking a sweat. It was as if her weight was nothing to him, just another reason to keep her close, to hold her tighter.

"Do not hide any of your pretty noises from me," he murmured, his voice like a growl, vibrating with need. To drive his point home, he shifted his grip on her waist and pressed her down harder against the unyielding muscle of his thigh. The pressure made her whine, the sound high and breathless, and he responded with a satisfied rumble deep in his chest.

Each movement of his thigh sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, and with his command still echoing in her ears, she didn’t try to suppress the sounds that spilled from her lips. Every whimper, every moan, every desperate gasp was music to his ears, and he watched her intently, his gaze never leaving her face.

“Fuck.” He said “I want you to come apart like this. Fully clothed and rutting, can you do that for me?”

It took everything in him not to lose control. He could rip the clothes from her in one tear if he wanted to, he could spread her legs as though they were mere pages of a well-read book and he could devour her.

But no, he would not rush this. She deserved more. She deserved everything.

“Blackwall” she breathed, hot and laboured.

He nipped at the delicate flesh just above her collarbone, his teeth grazing the spot before he soothed it with his tongue, and the shiver that ran through her made his chest swell with satisfaction. He wanted to leave his mark on her, to make sure she knew she was his, just as he was hers

Fawn’s hands tightened in his hair, pulling him back up to capture his lips again, the kiss this time more desperate, more insistent. She wanted all of him, wanted to know what those hands could do, what promises his tongue could deliver. The grinding of her hips became more urgent, more demanding.

She whimpered and he knew she was close.

“Let go,” he whispered again, his voice a low, seductive growl. “I have you.”

With a final, desperate roll of her hips, she shattered, the pleasure crashing over her in waves that left her breathless and trembling in his arms. He held her through it, his hands steady and sure, his lips brushing against her temple as he whispered words of praise, of adoration, his heart pounding just as fiercely as hers.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes. They were half-lidded with pleasure, her pupils blown wide, her lips swollen from his kisses. She was beautiful, more beautiful than anything he had ever seen, and the sight of her undone like this, all because of him, made something fierce and possessive flare to life in his chest.

He wanted to worship her. To take her apart piece by piece and put her back together again. To show her just how much he desired her, how much she meant to him. And he knew exactly how he wanted to do it.

Without breaking eye contact, he slowly knelt before her, his hands sliding down her sides and peeling her clothes from her as he went. The rough pads of his fingers grazed her skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and he could feel the way she trembled under his touch. He wasn’t a man of many words, but he wanted to tell her everything. How she made him feel alive, how she had reignited a fire in him that he thought had long since died. There would be time to tell her, he would make sure, but for now he wanted to show her.

He helped her step out of her breeches, he kissed her calf, her knee, small scars and freckles on her thighs.

He could lift her again if he wanted, press her against the wall, get her to wrap her lithe, glorious thighs around his head as he buried his tongue inside her - but he wanted to be on his knees in front of her. This time, at least.

His gaze flicked down, and his breath hitched at the sight of her, bared to him, her cunt flushed and glistening. She was breathtaking, and he felt a surge of pride knowing that he had brought her to this state.

Fawn’s breath caught as she watched him kneel before her. The sight of this powerful, broad-shouldered man on his knees, his dark hair falling over his eyes, his gaze fixed on her with a hunger that made her insides twist, was almost too much to bear. She could see the tension in his muscles, the way he anchored himself to her, and it sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in her belly.

“Blackwall…” she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper. There was a question in her tone, a hint of vulnerability that made him look up at her, his eyes dark and full of promises.

“Let me,” he murmured - a plea or a command, she could not tell any more.

She nodded, her breath catching and Blackwall needed no further encouragement. He placed a series of slow, deliberate kisses along her inner thighs, his beard scratching lightly against her skin. The scent of her, the heat radiating from her cunt, was intoxicating, and he felt his own desire stir, but he forced himself to focus on her, on the task at hand. This wasn’t about him. It was about her, about giving her the pleasure she deserved.

When his lips finally brushed against her centre, she gasped, her back arching off the wall. He paused for a moment, savouring the sound, the way her fingers tightened in his hair, before he flicked his tongue out, tasting her. The reaction was immediate. She moaned, the sound low and needy, and he couldn’t help the satisfied growl that rumbled in his chest.

He took his time, exploring her with a slow, deliberate pace that had her writhing against the wall, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He licked, kissed, and teased, each movement of his tongue designed to drive her closer to the edge. His hands tightened on her thighs, holding her steady as he delved deeper, his tongue swirling around that sensitive bundle of nerves that had her crying out his name.

And then, the licking and kissing turned into something more fervent, more desperate. His initial slow, deliberate pace gave way to an insatiable hunger. He devoured her with a newfound intensity, his tongue moving in rapid, relentless strokes, each one more powerful than the last. His mouth was everywhere, leaving no part of her untouched as he explored her with an urgency that had her whole body trembling. His hand moved from her thigh to squeeze the soft flesh of her arse, to stroke behind her, between her legs, playing and teasing her as he ate her out like a man starved. She had never known pleasure like this.

His name spilled from her lips in a breathless chant, each syllable punctuated by gasps and moans as he pushed her closer and closer to the brink. He could feel her body tightening, every muscle coiling with the tension of impending release. And still, he didn’t let up. If anything, he only grew more voracious, his mouth moving over her with a feverish intensity that left her breathless and begging.

“Blackwall…” she moaned again, her voice trembling with need. She was so close, he could feel it in the way her thighs trembled, in the way her body tensed under his touch. He focused on her clit, his tongue moving in a steady, rhythmic pattern that had her whimpering, her hips bucking against his mouth as she chased her release.

With one final, deep stroke of his tongue, he sent her spiralling over the edge. Her body arched, her breath caught, and her mind went blank as pleasure crashed over her in waves. He held her through it all, his mouth never leaving her as he coaxed every last drop of ecstasy from her trembling form, his tongue still moving with a rhythm that had her gasping for air.

When she finally came down from the high, her body slumped against the wall, her legs weak and trembling. He pulled back, his lips glistening, and he looked up at her, his eyes dark with satisfaction and something deeper, something that went beyond mere lust.

Gently, Blackwall rose to his feet and he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her with utter reverence.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere. “I’ve been a fool.”

Fawn’s breath was still uneven, but a playful smirk curled her lips as she met his gaze. “I’ll consider forgiving you,” she teased, but her eyes still held the dregs of fear. “Just please, no more running from me.”

Blackwall’s response was immediate and heartfelt. “Never.”

Her smile widened at his words, the fear draining. “Good, because I have some excellent Qunari rope I could put to use if you ever try that again.”

The sound of his laughter was like a breath of fresh air, a deep, genuine peal of delight that filled the space between them. For the first time, he seemed completely at ease, his armour dropped and the storm clear.

“Oh, trust me,” he said, his grin widening as he leaned in for another kiss. “I have not forgotten about the rope. I have big plans for it.”

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #blackwall #blackwall dragon age #DAI #Blackwall DAI

36 notes · View notes