Fanfic writer with a passion for exploring romantic relationships // Fandoms: Horizon Zero Dawn, Mass Effect, and Dragon Age // Fandom: Dragon Age, Horizon Zero Dawn, Mass Effect
I’m really vibing Baewall and the Hot Broody Elf™ these days so I dearly thank you for these prompts! The Abelas one will be filled in a separate post ^_^
So this is the prompt fill for Blackwall: grace, dark, holding. It is NSFW. This should surprise no one.
Her fingers clench between his own, her fingertips pressing into his knuckles.
Blackwall squeezes her hand in kind. The heel of his palm gently presses her hand back into the mattress. “I’m watching,” he whispers. He strokes the angle of her naked hip with his other thumb.
“Good,” Arya gasps. Her eyes are shut and her erratic breaths are escaping through her parted lips. He watches her besottedly, his adoring gaze sliding from her angled eyebrows to her beaded nipples, over her trembling belly and down to the juncture of her thighs where her fingers are diligently working.
She slides her fingers low to dip into her own slick heat, then back up to circle her clit, and Blackwall swallows hard as he watches the movements of her hand. Her elegant archer’s fingers dance between her legs, a masterful play that matches their dexterous dance across the string of her bow.
Truth be told, that’s what brought them to this moment: the pleasure he takes in watching his Dalish lover’s talented hands.
I know someone here has posted this already, and it’s not my footage, but PLEASE TELL ME I’M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO WATCHED THIS A MILLION TIMES AND CRIED WITH HAPPINESS
I’m really vibing Baewall and the Hot Broody Elf™ these days so I dearly thank you for these prompts! The Abelas one will be filled in a separate post ^_^
So this is the prompt fill for Blackwall: grace, dark, holding. It is NSFW. This should surprise no one.
Her fingers clench between his own, her fingertips pressing into his knuckles.
Blackwall squeezes her hand in kind. The heel of his palm gently presses her hand back into the mattress. “I’m watching,” he whispers. He strokes the angle of her naked hip with his other thumb.
“Good,” Arya gasps. Her eyes are shut and her erratic breaths are escaping through her parted lips. He watches her besottedly, his adoring gaze sliding from her angled eyebrows to her beaded nipples, over her trembling belly and down to the juncture of her thighs where her fingers are diligently working.
She slides her fingers low to dip into her own slick heat, then back up to circle her clit, and Blackwall swallows hard as he watches the movements of her hand. Her elegant archer’s fingers dance between her legs, a masterful play that matches their dexterous dance across the string of her bow.
Truth be told, that’s what brought them to this moment: the pleasure he takes in watching his Dalish lover’s talented hands.
It started with his gallant confession of admiration while she was training in the courtyard at dusk. He watched from a distance as arrow after arrow struck her targets with an easy grace. When her quiver was empty, he approached and took her hand.
“You’re a pleasure to watch, Your Worship. You put every archer in Skyhold to shame. But don’t tell Sera I said so.” He dropped a chaste kiss on the back of her hand.
The corners of her amethyst eyes crinkled in a smile. “Well well, Ser Blackwall. I didn’t know I had a spectator.”
“You’re the Inquisitor,” he reminded her. “There’s always someone watching.” He glanced around at the mostly empty courtyard; most of Skyhold’s residents were eating supper at this hour. “But it looks like I’m your only admirer tonight.”
“Hmm,” she acknowledged, then took a step closer. “A solo admirer watching me from afar… sounds rather dirty, don’t you think?”
Her hands were folded innocently behind her back, but the tilt of her chin was coquettish and her eyes were sly. Instantly his cheeks started to warm with a combination of excitement and embarrassment. “Not at all, Your Worship,” he stammered. “I just meant-”
“I know what you meant,” she interrupted. She stepped closer still until her chest brushed against the base of his sternum. “You like watching me pulling my bowstring, setting off my arrows to strike their targets.” She raised one auburn eyebrow. “What else do you like watching me do?”
Minutes later and here they are: stretched naked on her bed in the half-light, his right hand holding her glowing left hand captive and his greedy eyes scanning the lean length of her body as she strokes the swollen bud between her legs.
He watches the swirling of her fingers for a moment longer, then lowers his mouth to her ear. “I like watching you, my lady,” he murmurs. “I like to see you touching yourself.”
“Mm-hmm?” She moans an encouragement, her voice strained as she arches into her hand.
“That’s right,” he confirms, then drops his voice to a low growl. “I like to see you stroking your clit. I like watching while you make yourself wet, getting yourself ready for me.”
She whimpers and nods furiously, and Blackwall’s cock pulses with excitement as her fingers circle her clit more quickly. He traces the pointed edge of her ear with his tongue, then brushes his lips to her cheekbone. “You want me to stroke my cock against you. Push inside of you and fuck you hard.”
“Yes!” she gasps. Her nails bite convulsively into his knuckles, and she tries to lift her pelvis toward the heavy bulge of his groin, but he pushes down with his hand on her hip to keep her still.
“Easy, Your Worship,” he murmurs. “I can’t give you my cock until you scream for me.”
She opens her eyes and pins him with a furious glare. “And if I command you to fuck me?” she snaps.
Blackwall smiles. Her ferocity rivals that of a hungry dragon, but her fingers are still rubbing the sweet spot between her legs and her breaths are short and sharp. “I can’t disobey a direct order from the Inquisitor,” he replies with mock gravity. “But I know that’s not what you want.”
“No?” she demands, her voice sharp with frustrated desire.
“No,” he confirms. “I know you want to come. I see how close you are. You’re imagining my mouth between your legs, aren’t you? You’re thinking about riding my face. You’re thinking about fucking my tongue with that sweet pussy.”
She arches her back and whines, her desperation sharpened by his filthy voice in her ear. He’s never really been one for this kind of talk, and he’s not sure where his confidence is coming from, but with every gravelly word he whispers against Arya’s cheek, her body arches further, her fingers swirling faster over the swollen bud of her pleasure until – until…
She throws her head back against the pillows and cries out with pleasure. Before her climax can fritter away, he’s between her legs with his cock stroking against her slippery heat. She’s mewling with need and grabbing for his hips, he’s grasping the root of his manhood to slide inside of her and oh-
He groans as her wetness envelops him, so hot and so fucking tight. Arya plants her feet on the bed and lifts her hips with a vicious force, taking him so deep that their hips smack together with the satisfying sound of skin-on-skin.
He gasps helplessly, trying hard to keep up with her frenzied pace, but it’s difficult when the perfect heat of her is so damned distracting. She claws at his arms, her breasts jumping as she fucks him hard, then she growls with frustration and shoves his shoulders.
He rolls off of her, then suddenly he’s flat on his back with his Dalish lover rising over him like a goddess reborn, her body undulating gracefully against him like a tidal wave. Her grips the smoothness of her hips, guiding her against his cock as she takes him in a fast and rolling rhythm.
He stares unabashedly, drunk on the sight of her and the feel of her and the hot and salty scent of her. The column of her neck is craned back, and his eyes draw a smooth line from her chin to her sternum, lower across the dip of her belly, and straight to the spot where his body joins with hers.
“You’re still watching?” she asks breathlessly, and he slowly lifts his gaze to her face. Through the haze of his rising pleasure, he manages to smile.
“Always, my lady,” he pants. “I could never look away.”
She grins briefly at him, her hips still rocking relentlessly against his own, and he’s finally forced to close his eyes as his climax builds in his core, swirling and growing until it bursts into bloom in his belly, his calves, behind the darkness of his eyelids.
He gasps for breath, then releases a happy little oomph as Arya’s weight collapses across his chest. Her shoulder is pressed to his lips, her fingers sliding into his sweat-dampened hair as her lips brush his temple, and Blackwall beams in utter bliss.
There’s certainly a time and place for watching. But Blackwall has never been so glad that Arya prefers to act.
it’s so bloody obvious Blackwall isn’t a warden, and hearing him dodge questions about the wardens is comedy gold. My personal favorite is when you ask him about how to kill an archdemon, and he says that you stick it with a sword until it stops moving. When you ask why it has to be a grey warden because it seems like anyone can stick a sword to a dragon, he says, completely nonchalantly, that it has to be a special grey warden sword.
I’m dying.
When replaying Blackwalls romance I got to this line of dialog and I just sat there in tears like “bitch, why are you so full of shit right now” and my soul left to another plane of existence, it was fucking great
God what a dork
Okay but how does LELIANA not see it? Or is she just like “the people think he is, and he is good at sticking things with swords, so I’m just gonna let sleeping dogs lie.”
Or does Blackwall like agresssively avoid her throughout the entirety of the game?
Okay now I’m imagining Leliana talking to him a little after his recruitment and asking about where he was during the Blight, and she’s like:
But then the Red Templars/Venatori attack and her mind ends up focused on other things because he’s a damn good warrior and loyal and hey maybe the Inquisitor kinda likes him a little bit maybe even more than a friend, so whatever.
But Blackwall knows Leliana is kinda suspicious so he just kinda bounces out whenever she’s in vicinity and the subject never comes up again. Then when he’s found out everyone looks at Leliana like:
And she’s like:
or leliana is thinking that blackwall is dodging questions because wardens don’t speak much of the Joining / taking the taint into them / why it must be a grey warden to strike the final blow against the archdemon… they’re kinda keeping the secret cause otherwise no one would want to become a warden, right?
so she’d basically be like “oh, a special grey warden sword yes i understand” *wink wink* and blackwall doesn’t know why she’s winking at him and it makes him nervous that she’s found out…
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.
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.
The Sharper Edge of Love: Romance, Sex, and Fanfic 