bakerstreet | ( heathcliff, it's me, your cathy, i've come home

"As much as I would enjoy flaunting everything for you, Hawke," he smirks, taking the trousers from her with a small (but wholly unnecessary) flourish, "I think I'll generously let you concentrate on your... work."

With that, he puts the pants on. It's a bit delicate, given the metal rune-engraved contraption encircling his luggage, but he gets it on easily. His bulge is a bit... different than normal. A bit more distinct, perhaps, with his half-hard cock held out and up by the ring. He looks at her casually.

"Should I get the tunic on, too? Or am I just here for my chest hair?"

"Not just the chest hair." Hawke grins, and quick as a flash cups him through the loose trousers. She gives him several slow, deliberate strokes. "Also for this. And there are a few more rules you should know about."

She steps closer, her hand still working on him, feeling him harden against her palm. "I can touch you whenever I want, but you can only touch me if I give you my permission. And you'll only be able to come when I allow it. If I allow it."

He's read the book. He knows how this part of the game goes.

Varric is not a normal man. He's a merchant prince, an incredibly wealthy and powerful merchant with an army of spies who's made a generous living out of keeping a straight face. His ability to suppress his reactions is instrumental to his income, his life, his living- and yet, when Hawke talks about if I allow it, he sucks in a breath quite suddenly.

Despite his strongest attempts at hiding his real reactions.

It's so hard to keep in his reaction, while wearing this thing. Apparently, one of the side effects is being more sensitive- but Maker, it feels good. And Maker, when he talks about not letting him come, it's- it's impossible to keep it together. At least, not entirely.

His gaze is still level, meeting hers. His face is still mostly neutral-slash-sarcastic, even as a bit of strain gets into his voice. "Noted."

Normally, he'd say more. Much more. It wouldn't take him a second to collect himself.

"So, no grabass and no groping the decollatage. Got it."

Hawke knows Varric extremely well, and is an expert in reading his reactions. She doesn't miss a thing--not a twitch, not a breath, and not the absence of a more lengthy response. She chuckles, finally releasing his cock. Once feature of the ring is that once Varric is hard, he'll *stay* hard. One reason she got him started. That, and for the fun of it, of course. "Good. Let's go upstairs. You're going to draw me a bath."

And she sets off, hips swaying, leaving him to follow.

He gasps and grits his teeth through her attentions, noticing acutely that she only stops when he's good and hard. Maker, his cock isn't showing any signs of flagging, either- one feature of the rings, naturally. Once he gets hard enough he starts to feel them- a pressure around him, behind him, almost inside him, digging into his cock and behind his balls and making everything red-hot sensitive with metal rings dug in deep. Oh god, how is he gonna survive two days of this?

Then she lets go of him, letting him gasp in a breath, and says some shit about baths. Okay. Okay! Fine. That's fine. "Alright, M'lady Lunatic," he answers smarmily. "Lead the way."

He follows her up the stairs, eyes on her swaying hips and full ass. Cock tenting his loose trousers like a goddamn flagpole.

It takes a while to make a bath happen, of course. Lots of time spent collecting water. And heating it, because she's not about to take a cold bath. She sits and watches, one leg folded over the other, pale thighs just peeking out from under the edge of her clothes. They gives her orders and they exchange snarky comments, because of course they do, but the whole while she watches him keenly. No question that the ring is having some effect, given how distracted Varric is. He tries not to make it obvious, but she knows him too well.

It's a good start, to her mind. When the bath is ready she makes a show of testing the temperature and making sure it's to her liking, then strips herself. She doesn't make an obvious show about it, but she does take her time and make sure he's watching. It's the little things, after all.

Then she steps into the bath and sighs luxuriously, stretching out and letting hot water seep into her muscles. Hot baths are one of Hawke's few real indulgences, and she makes a point of enjoying them to the fullest in any circumstances. Especially these.

After a few moments of that she dunks her head back in the water to wet her hair, then sits up more straight. "Hand me the soap? And then you can do my hair for me."

Funny thing about the ring- every bit of arousal and hardness that happens with it on doesn’t go away. At all. So yeah, he’s distracted, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. The ring doesn’t let him forget, either- the way his cock is out and proud, it’s hard to avoid bumping into goddamn everything, and harder still to avoid a visible reaction when he does.

There’s something very odd about drawing someone else a bath and doing this mundane shit for them- Varric isn’t ostentatious, and he spends at least three nights a week at his rooms in the Hanged Man, but he does have servants. Not many, but a person in charge of each of his properties, who does this kind of piddly shit for him whenever he sleeps there. It’s worth it, though, to watch her strip and sink into the tub. Makers breath, she is beautiful.

“Sure thing, messere.” Varric hands her the soap and then starts combing his fingers through her hair. He’s not honestly sure what to do next, but he does wanna take a moment to do this. It always feels nice.

Hawke chuckles as she reaches to hand the soap back to him. "Do you actually know how to wash hair? Or do you have people to do that for you? Because if I find out buxom dwarven barmaids are responsible for your clean, luxurious locks, you and I will be having words."

She'll never let the buxom dwarven barmaids thing die. Not out of actual fear, she's got far too much self-confidence for that, to say nothing of her respect for his love and fidelity (and desire not to get on her bad side). It's just a joke now.

To be fair, he doesn't let the buxom dwarven barmaids thing die, either. If anyone asks, it's the Hanged Man's biggest flaw- saying nothing of its atrocious wine cellar, Nora-driven inability to get drink orders right, or general filth. It's also historically been his stated reason for not patronizing the Blooming Rose more often: a lack of cute dwarven girls.

"I apologize, M'lady Lunatic. I'm just a poor rich boy, lost in these simple peasant tasks," Varric chuckles. Okay, he does know how to wash hair, but playing with her hair is more fun. Running his fingers through it, letting his nails rake her scalp lightly, pulling gently on a tangled lock: nobody ever gets to play with her hair (not since Bethany left), and it's a crying shame. As he starts to gently scoop and pour water over her head, and lather up her hair, he ponders what a goddamn crime it is that nobody takes the time to take care of her like this without a cock ring being involved.

Orana would do these things for Hawke is Hawke asked, which she never does. She can wash her own hair, and Orana finds enough to do, even beyond the duties Hawke has set her (mostly cooking, and thank the Maker they don't have to eat Sandal's Enchantment Stew anymore). It hasn't occurred to her to feel berefit. It usually doesn't. Hawke isn't in the habit of thinking of her own needs; she keeps too busy.

Varric is the notable exception to that rule. She enjoys his company greedily, and tonight is no exception. She actually purrs as his hands massage her head, pressing into the scalp. "Oh, Maker," she says, almost moaning. "I may have to cancel all other plans and have you just do this all weekend. That feels wonderful."

It's not quite a moan, but it's enough to make Varric bite his lip and clench his jaw, valiantly determined not to react to the purring naked woman moaning in his hands. It's not easy- from this angle he can see every inch of her naked body in the tub, from her nipples just peeking above the water to the dark thatch of hair between her legs. With her pressing her head against his hands, the natural next step for Varric would be to purr something smug and press a slow kiss to her neck, her throat, before kissing his way down her chest.

He remembers with an enormous effort that that's against the rules. No sodding touching without permission. Fuck.

"You're bluffing," he snorts, confident in her desire to make him thoroughly insane. As if his unnaturally hard cock bumping against the bathtub wasn't already proof of that. "You'd never."

As if to emphasize his point, he promptly stops lathering and begins rinsing. Less delicious, but more likely to get her to start soaping up other things. At least that'll be fun for him, until she finds some way to ruin it. Or him.

"Only a little." Hawke sighs luxuriously as she says it, stretching out her legs, the very definition of languid. "I don't really want to shrivel up in the bathtub for two days. But the scalprub part is a serious temptation. Two days of scalprubs and backrubs, mmm..."

She lets him rinse the soap out of her hair, leaning her head back accordingly, eyes closed. Once all the soap is gone, she sighs again, this time with more resignation. "That was lovely, thanks. There's a few towels in front of the fireplace. Fetch them for me?"

And while he does that, she can soap herself down and rinse off. It would be lovely to have him do it, and sometimes in the past they've done just that. But for now she'll only let him watch. And if she makes a little more of a show out of it than usual, it's nothing obvious; slower, longer strokes of the soap on her legs, slightly exagerrated motions, nothing that could really be commented on.

Varric retrieves the towels obediently. However, holding them at his front puts pressure on his cock that makes him throw his head back and hiss loudly. The rings are holding his cock at a rigid, unforgiving angle and when he returns to the bathroom, the towels are at his side awkwardly.

Hawke is putting on a show. He knows this. It’s subtle but he knows her well enough to tell when she’s just doing things, and when she’s enjoying being watched: so watch he does. And wolf whistles obnoxiously.

She raises an eyebrow at the wolf whistle, and says some dwarven word that she doesn't even know the meaning of (though you'd better believe the memorized it, and others, extremely carefully). The result is that the cock ring contracts slightly a few times--not painfully, more a throb, unignorable and intense.

She did warn him, after all. She can't stop him from pushing back against the boundaries she's set, but she can make sure there are consequences.

Varric gasps and grips the counter tightly, leaning over it with a choked sound. The towels are in a heap on the floor- he can see them, with how his head is bowed over, a strangled moan escaping him every time the thing does whatever the fresh hell it's doing. Andraste's ass, he can feel it- all three rings choking around him, his balls, his cock, throbbing so intensely he can't help the noises he makes. He's so sensitive with this thing on that this slight squeeze undoes his composure almost completely.

"Maker's balls," he swears softly, inhaling carefully through his nose. Oh, and the way his cock hardened painfully is staying, even if the ring's motions aren't. Two days. Two days.

Hawke smirks. To her credit, she doesn't point out that she warned him or told him so, just watches with evident amusement and pleasure. This thing was worth every bit of coin she paid for it, as far as she's concerned. And they're only just getting started. She flushes faintly at the idea of doing that to him while he's sheathed to the hilt inside her, and suddenly the bath is much less important, so she finishes rinsing herself off with a bit more speed.

Then she stands there in the bath, looking at him. "So, about those towels?"

"Right," he answers with difficulty. Maker, this thing is... it is not fucking around.

Collecting himself and trying to steady his breathing, Varric bends over, gathers up the towels, and hands her one.

"Here you go, messere." The honorific isn't even delivered sarcastically; just neutral, like a pronoun. It's not so much that he's ~learning his lesson~ or some nonsense, and more that he's still recovering from the absolute witchcraft that just happened to his dick. The ring may have gone to its original size, but he's hard enough now that he swears he can still feel it clenching around him, making everything throb. His eyes find the floor, the wall, the foot of the tub- anything uninteresting, anything without pink skin and delicate features and pretty eyes.

She doesn't miss the way he's avoiding looking at her. That says more to her than anything else, because he's usually blatantly obvious in how he ogles her body. Or appreciates, if they're being polite, but he's certainly not above shameless leering. It's a way of life these days.

Hawke smirks, walking closer. "Dry me off."

Varric drags his eyes up to meet hers, slowly raking over her legs, those dark curls between them, her bare breasts, up to her slightly pink-tinged face. "Anything m'lady desires."

(You bitch.)

Towel in hand, he starts trying her off: long, slow passes with the towel, at times almost massaging her skin, dragging his hand (over the towel) across her body. By the time he's drying off her breasts, a process that seems to require more attention than he thought, his face is screwed up in displeasure.

"You know, I'm pretty sure there's rules against this kind of torture. Servants have unionized before. We'll do it again."

(She heard that.)

"You know the safewords, Varric. You could stop this anytime you wanted." She smirks down at him. "But you won't. Because deep down, you love that I'm in control. You love wondering if I'll be merciful or not."

She places a finger under his chin, pulls so that he has no choice but to look at her face. Her voice is just a whisper. "You love that here and now, you're not the all-powerful businessman and spymaster. All the power is mine, to use as I want."

He lets her drag his chin up, lets her pull him closer to look into her eyes. Yes, his eyes say, I do kind of love it. His cock is twitching and his cheeks have been flushed for the last forty minutes, and every movement that drags thin fabric over the head of his cock makes him twitch.

It's the same internal something that used to love being a crossbowman, so he could stand away from the battle and watch Hawke work. She was like a whirling dervish of death, a Rivaini scarf dancer with knives instead of seven sodding veils. The same part of him that liked to tag along and watch her make motherless nug-lickers cry, and cackled gleefully when she intimidated or bossed someone around into doing exactly what the fuck she wanted.

He loves it, and loves her, and wants desperately to close the gap and kiss her.

Instead, he smiles faintly and snaps the towel.

Edited 2018-01-28 22:49 (UTC)

She jumps, and gives him a quick glare, though she's not surprised and the smug expression returns soon enough. If anything, that bit of wiseassery is just further evidence that she's right.

So instead of reacting further, she ignores it, gets another towel, dries her hair, heads for the door. Still entirely butt naked, emphasis on butt. "Come along."

She doesn't even look behind to see if he's following, just leaves. Time to move this into the bedroom.

Varric was bracing himself for a retaliation, but when none comes, he watches her curiously. Maybe whatever torment she has planned is in the bedroom.

Strike that, it definitely is. And Maker strike him dead if the day ever comes when he fails to follow that woman into a bedroom. Off he goes, ogling her rather unsubtly but this time biting back a whistle.

She doesn't sashay (at least, not more than she ever does, those hips move like that on all their own). She does take a seat--not on the bed but on a chair, sitting in it backwards. She looks back over her shoulder. "Dry my hair for me. Then brush it. Carefully, mind."

Sitting in a chair backwards while butt naked is startlingly revealing; Varric doesn’t try especially hard not to stare at the join of her spread legs as he gives a sarcastic little bow. “Yes, m’lady.”

Ultimately it turns out to be an excuse to touch her and rub her head some more. If she make more of those delicious noises, then they’re all winners.

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