Inspired by that flirt in Haven that goes as follows: 

Blackwall: You have the world at your feet, myself included.
Lavellan: At my feet? I could get used to having you there.
Blackwall: [APPROVES SO HARD THAT HIS BEAUTIFUL BEARDED HEAD EXPLODES]

Also, I’d like to dedicate this one to @incadinkadoo and @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul , my Blackwall-loving soulmates. Love and kisses to you both! xoxo

It’s a long one, >9000 words, so I won’t post the whole thing here;  read on AO3 instead.  In the meantime, here is an excerpt. 

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

It’s been almost a year since the Exalted Council, and almost a year since Arya lost her left arm.

Being the fiercely independent woman that she is, she’s learned to do almost everything with her one remaining arm, and she barely ever asks for help anymore.

So when Arya does ask for help, Blackwall comes running.

“Blackwall? I need a hand!”

Her shouted request is quite literal, and it carries down to him as he steps through the door that leads from the Great Hall into her quarters. Alarmed by the rare request, he vaults up the stairs three by three, then bursts through the bedroom door.

She’s sitting at the vanity in her dressing gown, looking completely at ease, but he hurries to her side nonetheless. “Are you all right?” he demands.

She looks up at him in surprise. “Yes, of course. Can you fetch that for me?” She points vaguely to a spot on the floor about three paces away from her left foot, then shrugs off the left sleeve of her dressing gown and begins fastening her everyday prosthetic to the stump of her left arm.

Confused, Blackwall looks at the ground. A carved wooden comb lies there, likely where she knocked it off the table.

He picks it up and holds it out to her, and she takes it and places it on the vanity before tightening the straps of her prosthetic around her bicep. “Thank you,” she says distractedly, then finally looks up at him.

Her violet eyes widen as she takes in his expression. “You look pale! What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

Slowly he kneels beside her stool. “No,” he says, his muscles going lax with relief. “I’m… I was worried. When you shouted…”

She stares at him, then claps her hand over her mouth. “Fenedhis, did I scare you? No, I dropped that stupid comb and I just heard you coming and I couldn’t be bothered…” She trails off, then a slow smile creeps over her face as she cups his cheek. “Oh, Thom, I’m sorry. I’m fine, I promise. I was just impatient…”

Then her words fade into a delighted trill of laughter. “Your face,” she giggles.

Blackwall wilts in exasperation, then roughly rubs his beard against her bare thigh before giving her leg a punishing little bite. “Arya,” he growls.

She squeaks in amusement at the nip of his teeth. “I’m sorry!” she says. “I didn’t mean to scare you. But since you’re down there picking my things off the floor, how about you polish my boots while you’re at it?”

Her cheeky voice is overflowing with mirth, and Blackwall mock-scowls at her. “You’re not wearing any boots,” he grumbles.

“Not yet,” she says airily. “But I will be once you grab them for me.” She turns back to her mirror and carefully combs her short hair back from her face.

He studies her suspiciously. Her lips are curled in a smirk, and she flutters her eyelashes as she meets his eye in the mirror. “Well?” she simpers.

He sighs and rises to his feet, shaking his head, and fetches her socks and her favourite ram-skin boots from the wardrobe. He places them gently by the foot of her stool. “Anything else, my lady?” he drawls.

She ignores his sardonic tone as she turns on her stool to face him. “Yes,” she announces. “Now you can help me put them on.”

Her eyes are dancing and her chin is lifted in challenge. She absolutely does not need his help putting on her boots; dressing herself was one of the first things she mastered with one arm.

Blackwall narrows his eyes. He doesn’t know her game, but as always when she innocently blinks those big amethyst eyes, he’s helpless to resist her request.

With a heavy sigh, he kneels at her feet and starts to roll her socks onto her delicate elven feet. “You are a cruel mistress, Lady Rainier,” he complains.

She releases a bark of laughter. “Mistress!” she exclaims. “So what does that make you? My beck-and-call man?”

He grumbles indignantly into his beard, but her merriment is contagious, and soon he’s grinning as he finishes lacing up her second boot. “There,” he says, then shoots her a chiding look. “Are we satisfied?”

She smiles smugly at him and crosses her legs. “I don’t know if I like your tone, Ser Blackwall. I don’t think a mistress would accept such impudence.”

The purr in her voice stirs a restless wriggle of warmth in his abdomen. There’s a different kind of challenge in her face now, and it’s one that Blackwall finds very intriguing indeed.

“What do you plan to do about it, my lady?” The growl of a question stems from his libido more than his mind, and he watches with growing interest as she leans away from him, her posture becoming arrogant as she proudly lifts her chin.

“I shall have to think of an appropriate punishment,” she says smoothly. Then she uncrosses her legs and presses one booted foot against his shoulder, pushing him away. “For now,” she adds, “you’ll help me get dressed.”

He obediently shuffles back, transfixed by the sinuous movement of Arya’s body as she rises to her feet. She saunters past him with an arrogant sway to her hips, carelessly letting her dressing gown slide off her shoulders to pool in a silken mass on the floor. With her dexterous right hand, she pulls her loose camisole over her head and tosses it on the floor as well, and Blackwall is transfixed by the slender dip of her spine and the lines of her shoulder blades as they shift beneath her golden skin.

She’s now clad in nothing but her smallclothes and her boots as she makes her way toward the wardrobe. Blackwall rises to his feet, vaguely in awe of how quickly his desire and his cock have risen. Slowly, as though in a trance, he makes his way toward his wily wife.

She turns as he approaches, her eyes darting from his face to his swollen crotch, and a satisfied little smirk lifts the corner of her lips. Then she jerks her chin at her discarded clothes. “Pick those up,” she says, then turns back to the wardrobe and opens the door.

He can’t help himself: he laughs. This whole situation is just so ludicrous and so damned arousing, and he’s not quite sure how his mood shifted so swiftly from panic to exasperation to this, and the incredulous amusement bursts from his chest before he can hold it back.

She turns to face him with her eyebrows raised. “Is something funny?” she demands.

Her tone is all Inquisitor, no-nonsense and commanding, and it makes the blood in his groin pulse even more strongly. “No, not at all,” he says hastily.

She lifts her chin expectantly. “No, what?”  

Her stare is hot and intense, and he’s powerless to do anything but give the expected response. “No, mistress.”

Quick as a bolt of lightning, a grin flashes across her face, then it’s gone as she resumes a stern and placid expression. “Good,” she says, then turns back to the wardrobe again. “Now pick those up and get over here.”

Blackwall does as he’s told, lifting her clothes from the floor and carefully hanging them in the wardrobe as Arya flicks through her clothing. She’s pointedly ignoring him, and he takes advantage of her lack of attention by perusing her body with the same focus that she’s giving her clothes.

She’s too damned delectable, all slender elven curves and golden skin, with her delicate ivory smallclothes juxtaposed with her hardy ram-skin boots. Unable to resist, he reaches out and strokes her left breast.

She jerks away from him, her eyes growing wide with mock indignation. “How dare – did I give you permission to touch me?” she snaps.

“No, mistress,” he says. Given the tone of this little game, he’s fairly sure he’s just made things harder for himself – both literally and figuratively – but the feel of her nipple against his palm was more than worth it.

“That’s right, I did not,” she proclaims. “Now I’ll have to think of a really good punishment.” There’s a thread of laughter in her voice now, and as she turns back to the wardrobe, he can see the grin spreading across her cheeks.

He bites back his own grin, settling automatically into an at-ease stance as he waits for her next command. Finally she faces him with a navy blue button-up dress in her hands. “Help me put this on,” she commands.

He takes the dress, but his covetous eyes slide over her mostly-bared body. “Arya,” he begs, dropping his subservient persona for a moment, “can’t we just-?”

“No,” she interrupts. “This is your punishment for now. Disobedient men don’t get the privilege of touching their wives. Besides,” she adds more seriously, “I have to meet with Cullen and Harding in five minutes.”

Blackwall eyes her pleadingly, but Arya snaps her fingers and points imperiously at the dress. “Now,” she orders.

He sighs, but helps her put on the dress and begins to fasten her buttons from the waist up. His fingers trace their way up the front of her dress, but as he reaches the level of her breasts, he can’t resist one last attempt.

He peels one side of the dress away from her breast and leans in swiftly. He actually manages to suckle her nipple for one brief shining moment before she grasps the hair at his nape and pulls him away.

“I said no,” she admonishes, but her voice is distinctly breathless and her cheeks are pink, and Blackwall stares desperately at her, his lust only sharpened by the tugging of her fingers in his hair.

“Please, mistress…” he begs.

She smiles, a brilliant and mischievous flash of a smile, then kisses him hard and swift. He opens his lips instinctively at the press of her tongue, but before he can move, before he can grab her or even really kiss her back, she releases him and backs away.

She makes for the stairs, her fingers and prosthetic moving in tandem to finish up her buttons. “Later,” she promises. She tosses him one last cheeky grin before disappearing down the stairs.

Blackwall sits heavily on the bed, shaking his head with a combination of amusement and despair. His cock is pressing hard and heavy in his trousers, but he savours the pulsing of his lust.

Arya is a busy woman. If she wants him to wait until later for the pleasure of her company, then that is what he’ll do.

Read the rest on AO3.