bakerstreet | weekly (lady-)boners and just generally shippy things

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Cullen has been busy sparring most of the afternoon, showing some new recruits how it's done, with the Iron Bull assisting. The big qunari is an impressive opponent, but Cullen is confident he made a good outing today.

Still, though, he's worn out - not to mention in need of a wash. He's in Betrys's chambers, stripped down to just his trousers, slung low over his hips, and he's considering a trip to the barracks washroom to sluice off - no point dragging the Inquisitor's big copper tub out and inconveniencing the servants for something he can do much faster on his own.

Betrys really ought to be heading to the garden to lend Mother Giselle a monograph she'd mentioned the day before, but when she comes up the stairs to her bedchamber, she can hardly remember what brought her there in the first place. Cullen is always a handsome man, but so often, he's bundled up in armor and furs, the shape of his body lost beneath all those layers. In the golden sunlight of the afternoon, the slope of his shoulders is nearly haloed, every pull of his muscles clear in his chest.

Whether he realizes it or not, he's absolutely beautiful.

With the door shut tightly at the landing and no one around to hear, she can't resist resting her elbows on the stone railing and watching openly. "Good day to you, messere. What brings you to my chambers on such a fine day?"

The sound of her voice turns him immediately, a little startled to see her here this time of day - but far from unwelcome, of course.

"Oh, well -" He clears his throat and decides to play along. Bets is clearly in a playful mood, which he enjoys. "I won a spar against one of the finest warriors in the land. I was told the lady who occupies these chambers might be offering a reward for such a thing."

"Hmmm. Perhaps she might be, messere." She stands up straight once more and makes her way to the center of the room with smooth, slow steps that hardly stir the hem of her skirt. So much the longer to look at the angular set of his body and that pleasant little expression on his face.

When he's within reach, she sets a palm on his chest without concern for the lingering sweat. Seeing him, feeling him, in such a state, she can hardly resist leaning up for a kiss. But at least for a moment or two longer, she must. "You've fought well, and I am very pleased with you. What reward do you ask?"

"Oh, well - " Cullen finds himself faltering already in the act. The idea of demanding anything from Betrys, even in suggestion, even in play, always gives him pause.

"I, ah, hadn't really thought that far ahead," he says finally. "But, I was told that the lady who lives here is the most beautiful lady in Thedas, and they were most certainly right," he adds. "Seeing you is quite the reward in itself."

These sorts of games never seem to come quite naturally to him, but he does his best, and she doesn't mind if he fumbles in his attempts to flirt with her. That he tries at all is what counts for her, and it only raises him in her esteem (a rather impressive thing, considering how great a place in her heart he already holds).

"Perhaps I shall choose your boon," she tells him, drawing a finger over the shape of his collarbone. "Where are you off to next, my darling?"

"Hm," he murmurs, reaching up to brush his fingers through her hair. "I was thinking of going to the barracks for a quick wash, but there's really no rush..."

Not while she's here, giving him her attention.

Her eyes light up at the thought. He could use some cleaning up, there's no denying that, and if they're careful about it...it might not be especially subtle to order everyone else out, but it certainly would be fun.

"Well, then," she answers, taking another fond little kiss, "I should hardly like to keep you. Why don't I come along?"

Edited 2015-08-02 04:54 (UTC)

"If you don't think it would cause a scandal to be seen with a lowly soldier in the barracks," he rumbles with a faint smile, stepping forward to kiss the tip of her nose.

"It might," Betrys answers, because there's no denying that. She bites her lip, mouth still curved in a teasing little smile. "But Varric keeps telling me that it's better if people see me as a person, not an icon."

And for better or worse, slipping into the barracks to wash Cullen off is certainly a potent reminder of her humanity. "Besides, my commander is an upstanding gentleman. I doubt he would hear a word against me from his troops."

"Perhaps," Cullen murmurs, taking her hand and leading her toward the door of her chambers. "Though I'm not sure we need the troops thinking of you in that particular light."

He squeezed her hand. "Or perhaps I just want to be the only one who does."

She follows, feeling something tightening low in her belly at his words. It's always seemed better to her to be a more distant figure to their soldiers, if only to maintain her position as the Herald of Andraste; remembering that Cullen alone sees all of who she is never fails to arouse her.

"Then you have one more task before you," she tells him lightly, squeezing his hand back. "Take me there without causing a scandal, and I'll see that you're richly rewarded."

"I actually have an idea for that," Cullen says after a moment's thought. "It would require you to get a little dirty, however. If you were to, say, slip in the mud in the training yard and get it in your hair, perhaps you would wish to quickly wash it off in the barracks washroom instead of making the trip all the way to your quarters to call for a bath. Naturally, anyone in the washroom would clear out for you."

And then he'll slip inside when everyone is gone.

"Hmmm." The very thought of mud in her hair makes her want to shudder, but it's a small price to pay, given the circumstances. She gives him one last little smile as they head down the stairs. Once they're out in public once more, especially with him in the state he's in, there'll hardly be space for that sort of fondness. "All right. But you must promise to help me rinse it out."

"Of course," he agrees immediately, sneakily allowing his hand to brush over her bottom, just to remind her what the dirty hair will lead to before long.

"We'll need to separate. Shall I sneak into the washroom in, ten minutes?"

"What a gentleman you are," she teases, reaching up to his neck so she can draw him down into a kiss. Before she lets him go, she nips at his lower lip, another silent promise that all this subterfuge will be worth it. "I'll see you in ten minutes."

And she's fortunate she has so much time, because between getting to the barracks and getting up the pluck to send herself skidding into the mud (and who knows what else, there are horses here!), it takes her nearly that long to get into the washroom in the first place. By the time they're scheduled to meet back up, she's still carefully hanging up her stained clothing.

He wanders over to where some recruits are drilling, and barks a few instructions at them for a few minutes, then tells them to carry on before wandering back over toward the barracks washroom.

It's deserted, as he expected - the troops, naturally, obey their Inquisitor without question. He glances around to make sure no one will see him slip inside, and finds her still hanging up her dirty clothes.

"We'll make sure they get washed thoroughly," he promises her with a faint smile, already working at the clasps on his armor.

"I'm not sure they can be saved," she answers, turning around to smile at him without any thought given to the fact that she hasn't a stitch on. (Who has time to worry about modesty when only one's lover bears witness?) When she sees his hands, she shakes her head, coming over to set hers atop them. "I promised you a reward. That starts now."

She loves to take off his armor, even if she can't manage it with the speed of his practiced hands. Each piece is its own bit of a puzzle, to be set gently down, and there's the flesh beneath, still hidden by cloth, to be kissed hello. It's a gesture of supreme fondness and appreciation for her.

"I do like your armor," she goes on, as she sets the last piece on the floor, "but I like feeling you even more."

Maker, she's beautiful. As she has no shame in her nudity, he has no shame in letting his eyes wander over her body appreciatively.

"This is already a very nice reward," he comments, reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.

Her cheeks do colour a bit, but it's a pleasant sort of awareness of the way his gaze moves over her form, taking in all of her with such fondness. It's amazing that a man could be so loving towards every scar and blemish after a lifetime of being warned against sunning herself too thoroughly for fear of wrinkles, freckles, and other imperfections.

"With only nicer things to come," she answers, helping him with his shirt. When his chest is bare to her once more--and Maker's breath, his chest--she leans in to kiss his breastbone, letting her tongue flick out to taste the salt of his skin before she draws back.

He smiles into the kiss, reaching out and running his hand down her side lightly, then around to her bottom so he can pull her closer. "I am an incredibly lucky man," he murmurs reverently.

"Not nearly so lucky as you're going to be," she answers, her stomach fluttering as he pulls her near. It's hardly phrasing she'd use normally, getting lucky, but she's heard it bandied about by her troops (generally when they haven't been aware of her presence), and it seems suitably jovial. Especially when Cullen looks at her with that little smile of his, somehow managing to mix his expectations and surprise that he can expect them all in one.

Letting her bare shoulders and breasts press lightly against him, she drags a hand down his stomach to his breeches.

That gets a laugh out of Cullen - a little surprised at her use of the colloquial, but not at all displeased. "You've been spending a lot more time with the troops, haven't you?" he murmurs, his free hand sliding up to cup her breast gently, thumb brushing her nipple.

"Iron Bull's been lonely since the Chargers." There's no need to explain further, she assumes--their corner of the tavern has been all too quiet since their deaths--and when she's standing naked in a washroom with her lover, it's hardly the direction she wants the conversation to go. "I don't often get to use what I've learnt, though."

Right now, though, it seems amusing, even a little sexy, especially as she slips a hand inside his breeches to stroke a light touch over the base of him. Just a moment's brush over the warm flesh, and then she's pushing the cloth down over his narrow hips, a bit more businesslike.

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