Ayyy, thank you for this prompt! I hope you enjoy! For @dadrunkwriting Friday 🙂

Read on AO3 instead: 
tinyurl.com/baewall2

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

“Solas needs help,” Arya snaps. She pulls another arrow from the quiver at her waist. “Draw them away from him. I’m fine here.”

Blackwall nods curtly and follows her command. Solas is facing a pack of red lyrium horrors, and the corrupted creatures spin toward Blackwall when he charges them with an aggressive roar. Before they can do more than screech in defiance, he’s plowed the lot of them off their twisted feet.

He spins and readies himself for the next attack. Fire and bits of Fade rain down on the jumble of enemies as Blackwall lifts his shield. He exchanges a quick glance with Solas, and together they assault the group of horrors until they’re nothing more than a pulpy pile of flesh and scarlet crystal lumps.

Blackwall looks around, his shoulders growing tense as he tries to find Arya in the fray. Suddenly he spots her: she’s thirty paces away, and there’s an enormous lyrium-laced monster that’s racing toward her…

“The Inquisitor-” Solas says, but Blackwall doesn’t wait to listen. He bolts toward her as fast as his armoured feet can carry him, his pulse pounding in his ears as he watches the monster reach for her arm –

Arya dodges away from the beast with a swift roll, and Blackwall slams into it with a bellow of rage.

He hits the ground with the red lyrium monster beneath him. He raises his sword in both hands and slams it into the creature’s chest with every ounce of force in his body.

The beast’s limbs twitch and writhe for a moment, and then it falls still. Blackwall tosses his head impatiently, then runs his gloved and bloodied fingers through his hair to smooth it back.

He lifts his face, and relief squeezes his chest as he meets Arya’s amethyst eyes. To his surprise, a heated little smirk is curling the corner of her lips, and he gives her a quizzical look; in the face of this ambush, what could she possibly be smirking about?

“Do that again,” she says.

He stares at her with growing confusion. “What, kill another of these monsters?” he asks. He rises to his feet and wipes his sword clean on the red templar’s ragged tunic before sheathing it.

“No,” she says. “That head-tossing thing. You’ve certainly got my attention.” She raises one eyebrow suggestively.

Blackwall frowns. He’s utterly bewildered. “Head-tossing…?”

“You know,” she drawls. Then she tosses her head and runs her fingers through her short auburn hair.

Instantly he understands, and his face goes hot as Arya grins at him. “That – that wasn’t – I need a haircut, my lady, that’s all that was,” he sputters.

She throws her head back with a hearty laugh and traipses over to his side. “I’m sure it was,” she purrs, then runs one finger along his jawline.

He ducks his head sheepishly as Solas and the Iron Bull approach. “Arya, please. Not now,” he begs.

She bites her lower lip provocatively, and a shameful rush of heat pools in Blackwall’s belly as their companions draw close.

Bull claps her affably on the shoulder. “That was a close one, Boss. I don’t blame you for wanting to take your noble stallion here for a good ride.” He jerks his head in Blackwall’s direction.

Arya grins up at the qunari captain, and Blackwall rubs his face in embarrassment. He’s violently thankful when Solas delicately clears his throat and changes the subject. “I might suggest taking our rest for the night, Inquisitor,” he says.

Bull scratches his neck idly. “We’re kinda far from camp, Solas.”

The mage folds his hands behind his back and politely bows his head. “That is so. But Arya mentioned wanting to investigate Din’an Hanin tomorrow. It would be more efficient to remain nearby, rather than travelling back and forth.” He shifts his gaze to the Inquisitor. “I would be happy to set protective wards if you wish to make camp closeby.”

Arya nods in a businesslike manner. “Yes. We’ll camp by the river tonight,” she says. She points toward the south. “There was a good spot about two hundred paces that way – protected on one side by the cliffside, easy to keep watch. Thoughts?”

“I remember the spot,” Blackwall says. “It’s defensible. A good choice.”

Solas and the Iron Bull nod their agreement, and they set off toward the specified campsite.

Solas and Bull segue into a quiet conversation, and Blackwall falls back a step to guard the rear. A moment later, Arya is sauntering along beside him.

He pretends to ignore her, but it’s proving quite impossible; his elven lover draws his attention whether she means to or not, and she certainly means to do so now. Her slender hips are swaying, and her dimple is revealed by her sassy smile, and when Blackwall finally meets her eye, she tosses him a coquettish little glance.

He tilts his head with fond exasperation. “Arya…”

She shrugs innocently. “I just think you need to be careful when you do things like that. Tossing your head like some kind of dark and handsome lion.” She runs a heated glance along the length of his body.

A wave of warmth laps at his belly in response to her sultry stare, and Blackwall swallows hard. “Maybe you can cut this hair for me when we get back to Skyhold,” he suggests weakly.

“After that little show? Not a chance,” she scoffs. She playfully pinches his ass, then jogs past Solas and Bull to scout the area ahead.

“It wasn’t a show,” Blackwall protests, but she ignores him as she creeps close to their prospective campsite. Her keen violet eyes seem to find no threat, for she plants her fists on her hips and nods in satisfaction as Blackwall and the others reach her side.

She lifts her gaze to Solas. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Certainly,” Solas says. Shimmering green patches of light appear on the ground around the site before melting away, and Arya nods her thanks before shifting into the business of setting up camp.

They pitch three tents and settle around a small fire, and Bull begins to sharpen his weapons. Arya settles on a log beside Solas, and Blackwall crouches at her side.

“I’m going to go clean up, if I can have your leave,” he says.

“Of course,” she says briskly. “Be careful.”

He bows his head in agreement, and she smiles before turning to the elven mage. “Solas, I’ve got a question. They say there’s a fallen elven warrior for every tree in the Emerald Graves. Would all that death mean the Veil is thinner here? Does that affect your spellcasting?”

Solas smiles and launches into an enthusiastic explanation of souls and spirits and the Fade. Assured by Arya’s safety at the hands of the mild-mannered mage and the towering qunari warrior, Blackwall rises to his feet and makes his way north in the direction of the waterfall that spawned the rippling ribbon of the river.

Crickets and strange birds, the burbling flow of water and the whispers of shifting grass: the peaceful sounds of these verdant lands fill his ears as he walks along the river. Maybe it is the bodies of fallen elves that feed these lands, or maybe he’s imagining it entirely, but there does seem to be something odd to this place. It’s a sense of something more in the air, a weight that even his mundane senses can detect, and he wonders if perhaps he should have remained to listen to Solas’s talk.

The rushing flow of the waterfall soon takes over the softer sounds of grass and birds, and Blackwall discards his idle musings as he nears the waterfall’s mouth. He eyes the crystalline curtain of water with great appreciation. He’s liberally covered in blood and sweat and dirt, and the waterfall looks especially welcoming in the half-light of gloaming.

He inspects his surroundings carefully for threats. Assured of his own aloneness, he sheds his sword and shield, then doffs his gloves and boots and breastplate. Greaves and cuirasses and his thick padded coat are the next to come off, and when all of his gear is carefully piled at the river’s edge, he rolls the legs of his thick woollen trousers up to his knees and wades into the water.

The coolness of the river seeps between his toes and laps at his calves, and Blackwall sighs with relief. He crouches and briskly washes his hands, then eagerly drinks a few mouthfuls of water before rinsing his face.

Each handful of water is more rejuvenating than the last. He splashes the water over his bare arms and shoulders, enjoying the tickling trickle as it runs down his back. He tries to run his fingers through his hair, but his fingers catch in the stiff strands, matted as they are with sweat and blood.

He shakes his head ruefully. How Arya could find this ragged mess attractive is beyond him. He wades over to the waterfall and bends forward, allowing the rush of water to inundate his head. He rubs his fingers roughly through his hair unless it becomes loose and soft, then backs out of the waterfall and vigorously shakes his head.

He runs his hands roughly over his hair to squeeze the excess water out. Then he hears a drawling voice. “Come on, you can’t pretend that wasn’t for my benefit.”

Blackwall huffs in amusement and shakes his head. He should have known she would follow him. “A man can’t have a moment of privacy…” He trails off as he turns around. She’s not on the riverbank, and he frowns as he swiftly scans the surroundings; where is she?

Suddenly he spots a shifting in the branches of a tree to his left. His gaze darts up and finds a pair of glowing orbs in the half-dark.

Her catlike eyes blink twice, then Arya drops from the branches and lands soundlessly in a crouch at the base of the tree. A slow smile curls her lips as she rises to her full height.

He watches with surprise as she wanders close to the river’s edge. She’s unarmed and her feet are bare, and he can’t help but feel a pinch of concern at her slender vulnerability.

His eyes dart around behind her, anxiety rising as he tries to find any potential enemies, but Arya only laughs. “It’s all right,” she says. “I was careful on my way here. We’re alone.”

He relaxes at her words; her elven eyes are sharper than his own, after all. As he returns his attention to his lover, he realizes that it’s not just her eyesight that seems particularly elven tonight: there’s something else about her, something beyond her obviously bare feet that’s reminding him more than ever that Arya is not just an elf, but a Dalish one.

She tilts her head and studies him, her big amethyst eyes tracing from the crown of his head down to the waistband of his woolen trousers. A flush of heat blooms beneath his skin, following the path of her gaze to the juncture of his thighs, and he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot as his manhood begins to stir.

Without any further preamble, Arya unbuckles her coat and drops it on the ground, then pulls her tunic over her head, leaving her nude except for her leggings. As always, her small breasts are bare beneath her tunic, and Blackwall stares stupidly at the rising of her rosy nipples as they’re kissed by the cool night air.

She shifts her weight to one hip,  then slides her fingers into the edge of her leggings and shimmies them down. Blackwall’s shameless gaze falls between her legs, then follows the shifting flow of fabric as her leggings slide down to her delicate ankles.

She kicks the garment away and blinks at him. “Do that thing again,” she says.

Her voice is low and smooth, and her eyes are glittering in the dying light of day. There’s mischief in her tone and mystery in her eyes, and he’s entranced by her slow and deliberate approach as she steps into the river to join him.

His cock is a rock-hard rod in his pants, and it jerks toward her as she comes to a stop. His mouth is suddenly dry, and he swallows hard. “Do I have to?” he asks weakly.

She lowers her eyes demurely before lifting them to his face again. “For me?” she simpers. “It’s a very sexy move.”

He scratches his ear, torn between arousal and embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to be,” he mumbles. “It’s – I really do need a haircut, my lady.”

Arya reaches up and traces the edge of his beard with one slender finger. “Come now,” she whispers. “Show yourself off for me.”

He exhales in defeat, then gives her a rueful half-smile. He’s never been able to resist her carnal commands.  “If you insist,” he says. He takes another handful of water and splashes it over his face and head, then tosses his head and runs his fingers through his hair.

“There,” he says. “Are you-”

She kisses him, stifling his words with the softness of her lips. Her palms are splayed on his abdomen, then her fingers are curling into the waistband of his trousers as her tongue slips between his lips.

She presses her naked groin against his considerably more clothed one, and Blackwall groans into her mouth. Water might be dripping down his forehead and his back, but fire is sizzling in his veins, a flaming roar of lust for the wanton woman pressed against him.

He nips her lower lip, then eagerly slides his callused palms down the smoothness of her back to cup her ripe and golden curves. He curls his hand around the base of her buttock, and his index finger slips along the edge of her folds.

Arya breaks from their kiss to mewl her need against his bearded cheek, and Blackwall grumbles with satisfaction. She’s wet already, slick moisture coating the tip of his wandering finger, and he reaches a little deeper, trying to stroke more of her slick heat.

Arya breathes hard against his cheek, her fists clenching in the edge of his breeches as she arches her back and spreads her legs, trying to give better access to his hand. Then suddenly she’s in his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist and her fingers twisting in his too-long hair.

“Fuck me,” she demands.

“Yes, my lady,” he instantly replies, and she kisses him hard.

He kisses her back in kind, his tongue thrusting into her mouth only to be parried by the sleek heat of her own tongue, and then he breaks the kiss and strides toward the shore with his elven lover in his arms.

He sets her on her feet at the river’s edge. “Where-?”

She strides over to the tree in which she’d been hidden earlier that evening. “Here,” she announces. She places her palms on its gnarled trunk, then bends forward and arches her spine.

Blackwall gapes at her, enthralled by the sight of her welcoming body. She glances at him over her shoulder and bites her lower lip, and before his mind can process anything but how damned exquisite she is, he’s on his knees behind her and his hands are prying her legs farther apart.

He tastes her, and Maker’s bloody breath, she’s bliss. His tongue slips along her slick-soaked folds to curl around her clit, and Arya jerks back against his mouth.

Her pleasure cries are clear even when muffled against her wrist. Blackwall angles his head to better taste her, his thumbs tracing the velvety inside of her thighs as he laps her plump and heated flesh. Arya’s stifled whimpers grow increasingly desperate, and as she grinds herself back against his face, Blackwall’s own desperation continues to surge, pounding through his chest and his cock until he can barely stand the tension of his own straining lust.

He frees his cock from his breeches. He takes himself in hand and tugs, and a groan of longing bursts from his throat and pours across his lover’s perfectly presented pussy.

Arya’s muffled cry is sharper than before as she bucks her hips back toward his mouth. Within the space of a few breathless moments, they find a perfect rhythm: he strokes himself with his hand as she arches her spine to slide her clit against his tongue, and it’s not long before she throws her head back in rapture.

She shudders and keens with climax, then lifts her mouth from her wrist. “Blackwall, please, fuck me now!” she sobs.

He leans away from her delectable heat. “Yes,” he breathes, and he shakily rises to his feet. His hands slide across the graceful curves of her hips, then he grasps his cock in one hand and smoothes it along the length of her cleft.

She bends her back like a bow. “Now!” she demands.

He doesn’t waste his breath replying, and all at once he’s inside of her.

Their pleasured gasps meld together in the fragrant evening air, and Blackwall splays his palm on the curve of her back as he fucks her fast and hard. Their frenzied need is beautifully equal and glaringly obvious, her bucking hips meeting his pumping ones in perfect harmony, and Blackwall can barely breathe, too focused on the feel of her, the look of her, the muffled and melodic sounds of her –

And then she moves, deepening the bend of her waist and bringing her legs together. A desperate groan escapes his lips as the press of her thighs enfolds his cock more tightly within her heated depths. “Arya,” he pleads.

“More,” she commands. Her voice is rough with pleasure, and Blackwall cedes happily to the authority of her command, thrusting into her with increasing urgency.

The tightness, the heat, the look of her bent against this tree: it’s all too much, it’s all too perfect, and Blackwall suddenly bursts. He’s coming apart, shattering into pieces, pleasure ripping through his calves and fingers and throat until he can only shudder and gasp for breath against his lover’s silken back.

She’s breathing hard as well, and the rise and fall of her ribs against his cheek is oddly comforting. When his heart rate begins to slow, he carefully withdraws from her body.

Arya straightens with a happy groan, then leans heavily against the tree. Her eyes are closed, and a peaceful smile lifts the corners of her lips as she rests her cheek and her hip against the gnarled bark.

Blackwall presses his body against her naked back. Her skin is hot and slightly sticky, and he slides his arms loosely around her waist, then presses his lips carefully to her sweat-laced temple.

She hums happily in his embrace, then chuckles as he releases her and sinks to his knees with an exhausted sigh.

He tilts his head back to look up at her. She smiles down at him, still leaning against the tree as she traces her fingers over the grooves of its bark, and Blackwall simply admires the loose and languid look of her.

Her amethyst eyes are sparkling in the last fading light of day. Her Dalish tattoos are the same shade of green as the leaves that whispers and sway overhead, and her nakedness seems more natural against this cracked and creviced tree than any clothing would be. Arya is the Inquisitor, the woman who gives commands and makes decisions that have shaken this nation and the next. But here in this place, she is an elf: bare of skin and bare of foot on the ancient grounds of her people, softness and strength and oneness with the history that’s steeped into these lands, and Blackwall loves her so very much.

He reaches out and runs his fingers gently from her knee down to her slender ankle. Her smile widens, bright and brilliant and mischievous, and the adoration pounding through his body both brings his blood to life and steals his breath away.

The Emerald Graves have proven dangerous thus far, crawling as they are with red Templars and giants and wildlife alike. But here, kneeling at the feet of his sated elven lover, Blackwall feels only peace.