Dear @thealexmachina,

Yesssss Baewall forever. Don’t mind if I do! 😉

Read on AO3 instead.

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Arya kneels by the river and cups her hands, then splashes her face with a sigh of relief. She rinses her face once more, then turns to look up at him with a smile. “Thank you for guarding me, Ser Blackwall,” she says.

He shoots her a tiny chiding smirk; her tone is polite but her smile is cheeky. “You are most welcome, Your Worship,” he replies with mock formality, then continues to carefully scan their surroundings by the light of the moon.

She splashes quietly by the riverside for a minute more, then there’s a silence. Blackwall turns to look, then frowns in consternation and takes a step closer to the river’s edge.

“Stay close, my lady,” he warns. Arya has taken off her boots and socks, and she’s ankle deep in the burbling river.

She sighs happily. “I hate shoes,” she announces. “It’s so nice to be barefoot again. That was one of the good things about clan life. Killing red Templars and darkspawn is not very conducive to having one’s toes out.” She shoots him a rueful smile, then rolls up the ankles of her tight leather pants with some difficulty.

She steps more deeply into the river, and Blackwall anxiously edges closer to the water. “Arya, please. We should go back to Dennet’s farm. Solas and Cassandra will be wondering where we’ve gone.”

“No they won’t,” she retorts. “I told them we’d be gone awhile.” She raises one saucy eyebrow, and Blackwall instantly feels his face heating with embarrassment. He can just imagine the disapproval on their faces at the thought of him and the Inquisitor whisking away like a pair of delinquent youths…

He jolts with surprise as a splatter of cold water hits his cheek. “I know what you’re thinking,” she teases. “Stop worrying. Cassandra and Solas understand. They’re probably the most romantic people in our little circle.”

He snorts with disbelief – he can’t imagine where she gets such notions from – then is instantly distracted as the Inquisitor shucks her coat.

She tosses her coat onto the riverbank and takes another step into the rushing flow of the river, and Blackwall’s shoulders slump with exasperation. “Arya,” he says warningly. “I beg you, stay close. It’s dark, you don’t know what’s lurking-”

“Blackwall,” she interrupts, “you worry too much. You need to relax! We cleared all the red Templars and demons from this area a couple of hours ago. You know it’s safe.”

He purses his lips in displeasure. “That was hours ago,” he argues. “More men could have…”

He trails off as her elegant fingers gather in the hem of her fitted tunic. She peels her tunic off, and he watches breathlessly as her nipples tighten into hard little peaks in the cool night breeze.

He opens his mouth to protest, but the words wither away in his throat.

She shoots him a smug little smirk. “Let’s play a game,” she says. “See if you can keep up with me. I’ll leave you a trail.” She tosses her tunic at his feet.

He snatches the tunic up before it can get more than a little wet. No, he thinks, absolutely not. Arya likes her mischief when she’s winding down; it’s her way of relaxing, of working out her anxiety after a difficult day. But this is not the time for mischief. They’re out in the fringes of the Hinterlands, and his arms are full of her clothes – how is he supposed to protect her when his hands are full of clothes?

His stares in frustration at her half-naked form, bleached by the moon from its usual golden glow to a pearlescent ivory. She needs to stay close so he can protect her. He takes a deep breath to refuse her game.

“And what’s the prize if I win?” he says instead.

He immediately snaps his mouth shut, horrified at his own lack of discipline, but a devilish little grin is already lighting his Dalish lover’s face. “That’s the spirit,” she purrs. She darts off through the water, fleet of foot despite the uncertain terrain of the river.

Maker’s balls, he thinks, more angry at himself and his errant cock than at her. It’s bloody dark except for the light of the moon, and he squints fitfully to catch the greenish glow of her palm.

As he follows her wraithlike shape, he hears a clinking splash; it’s the sound of her belt buckle hitting a rock in the river as she continues to strip.

Cheeky little minx, he thinks. He scowls as he’s forced to stop and pick up her belt, but he can’t deny the excitement that’s now making it awkward for him to run. “Arya,” he snaps. “Stay close.”

“Come on, Ser Blackwall! You’re losing horribly,” she taunts. She laughs, a soft and teasing sound, and he follows her voice and her wet footprints up a brief rocky rise toward a small cave that they’d come upon earlier that day.

He steps into the cave and spots her shadowed form with relief. Her hands are moving toward her waistband, but upon his arrival, her glowing amethyst eyes widen with a grin. “Oh no no no,” she pants, her fingers working madly at the buttons on her trousers as she tries to strip them off before he can draw close.

She’s too late. He dumps her clothes on the ground and lunges forward, grabbing her around her naked waist. “I’ve got you, you vixen,” he growls.

The cavern rings with her pealing laughter as he lifts her off her feet. “All right, all right, you win!” she cackles, then squeals as he rubs his beard against the back of her neck.

He presses his lips to her ear. “What do I win, my lady?” he breathes. Her naked skin is cool and smooth like the gilded Free Marcher statues in Skyhold, and he watches with satisfaction as her lips part on a tiny gasp.

She squeezes his forearms. “Put me down and you’ll find out,” she says.

He sets her on her feet, and she surprises him by shoving him back against the wall of the cave. She presses against him in a sinuous wave, her lips a whisper from his own, and he parts his lips in anticipation of her kiss.

She smiles and shakes her head, then swiftly unbuckles his belt and slides her hand into his trousers.

He chokes on a gasp as her palm cradles his balls. The inside of her silken wrist presses against the hardness of his shaft as she strokes his balls, then her fingers slide up to encircle his girth.

She firmly strokes his length, and he jerks his head back against the wall of the cave, his eyes squeezing shut with ecstasy. She shoves his trousers down to his boots, her nose skims the nest of wiry hair around his sex, he grunts eagerly as her hot tongue strokes his cock-

She takes him deep, the head of his cock sliding along her palate and into the blissful softness of her throat, and he groans with helpless pleasure. “Arya,” he moans.

She doesn’t reply; she can’t, not with her mouth full of his cock. Her hands slide along his thighs and around his hips to grab his ass, and she angles her head to take him even deeper.

He gasps in a desperate breath. He cradles the back of her neck gratefully, his fingers sliding through her short auburn hair in a gentle stroke. In contrast, his lover’s mouth is anything but gentle. Her throat muscles squeeze his head as she swallows, and her lips are tight and firm as she pistons along his length.

Her fingers, on the other hand, are the epitome of gentleness. She softly brushes his balls with her knuckles, a teasing and maddening touch, and he moans again at the surge of sensations: firm heat and pressure on his shaft, the swirling stroke of her tongue over his tip, the tenderness of her fingers between his legs…

He wrenches open his eyes to look down at her, and the ethereal glow of those elven eyes nearly blinds him. She releases him briefly and grins – the hint of a cheeky tongue between her teeth – then she angles her head and sheathes his cock in her throat all the way to the hilt.

Her nose brushes his belly. Her nails press into his hips. Her silken breasts brush against his thighs as she arches into him, and with a gasp and a groan, he empties himself into the blissful heat of her throat.

He leans heavily back against the wall of the cave as his climax trembles through him from head to toe, then sinks to his knees in the aftermath. Arya sits back on her heels, a supremely satisfied grin on her face.

Once he can breathe again, he lifts his face and is immediately assailed by her kiss. She clasps his jaw and slips her tongue into his mouth, and with a confusing bolt of desire and dismay, he tastes the faint bitter-salt of his seed at the tip of her tongue.

She pulls away from him and stands. “Come on, now we really should get back,” she chirps.

She turns away, but Blackwall grabs her hips and drags her back toward him. She gives a squeak of surprise, then gasps prettily as he nuzzles her leather-clad crotch.

Her fingers sink into his hair as he presses his lips against the juncture of her thighs. He inhales deeply, wanting to fill his lungs with her scent, but he can’t smell or taste or feel her through the protective leather of her trousers. He swiftly unbuttons the offending trousers and drags them down to her ankles, then authoritatively spins her around and pushes her back against the wall.

“Your turn, my lady,” he growls. His greedy gaze traces the sheen of moisture that paints her feminine folds, then he presses his open mouth against her heat, eager to drown in her taste.

Her fingers tighten in his hair, but he doesn’t mind; his focus is too intent on her visceral taste. His licks the length of her cleft, his lower lip sweeping a broad and hungry stroke in the wake of his tongue. A careful press of his tongue against her clit until she jolts and gasps, and he repeats the move again: lapping her slippery moisture, an open-mouthed kiss against her plump folds, a tender circle around her swollen little bud.

He savours the tension of her thighs beneath his hands. Her juices are seeping into his beard from the enthusiasm of his mouth between her legs, but he’s glad for it; he’ll keep this scent for later, a smug reminder of the game he almost refused to play but ultimately won in the sweetest of ways.

His lips slide against her tender flesh and his tongue swirls around her clit, and Arya comes with a guttural wail, her pleasure echoing through the tiny cave. He wants feel her on the inside, to feel the clenching pulse of her orgasm in the tips of his fingers, but this dark and dirty cave is not the place.

Her hands fall bonelessly from his hair, and he sits back on his heels. She leans back against the wall, breast heaving as she recovers from her climax, and their eyes meet and hold with a tense and loaded hunger.

He swallows hard and rises to his feet, hastily pulling his trousers up along the way. He walks over to her clothes and gallantly lifts her tunic from the ground. “Come, my lady,” he tells her. “You started this game, and we have to finish it. In a proper bed.”

She laughs breathlessly as she pulls her trousers back up, then gets dressed more quickly than he’s ever seen her dress. She turns to him, her violet eyes dancing merrily, then takes his hand. “Stay close to me, my good ser,” she says. “Wouldn’t want you to get mauled by a bear.”

He grins, and they set off to Dennet’s farm at a run. Stay close to me, she says, but she needn’t even ask.

Being close to Arya Lavellan is all he wants.