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

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( heathcliff, it's me, your cathy, i've come home - )

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Her eyes glint as she takes in his reactions, but once the ring is in place and the last kiss accomplished, she slides her legs over the side of the bed. "Right, time to get dressed. Then breakfast." She grins at him over her shoulder. "You can wear whatever you want, though I recommend that outfit from yesterday. Your usual trousers might be somewhat...confining."

She dresses in her normal 'at home' dress, this time, as though it's an ordinary day with ordinary tasks ahead of them.

"As milady commands," he snerks.

Varric palms himself a little just to make sure the ring actually stays on, just until he can feel a hint of that all-too-familiar pressure squeezing at him, then gets up with a tense sigh. As per her suggestion he goes with the trousers from yesterday and his usual tunic- that vest she picked out was just a little too "harem boy" for him.

Although he won't be leaving the house today, he does put on his necklace. Something tells him she'll enjoy using it as a handle.

In contrast to yesterday, Hawke acts...normal. She plays the game, treats him as a servant (albeit one with whom she shares a lot of quips), orders him to make and serve breakfast (just toast, hard to mess up toast, and she has little faith in his cooking abilities, he doesn't even have a kitchen) and to do the dishes. Firm orders, always keeping it clear that she's in charge. But no hint of kink and surprisingly little flirting.

The cockring still as an effect, she notes. It's a slow build, but easily witnessed. Especially in those trousers. She mostly restrains her smirk, but not entirely.

Then she sets him a real task: going through her correspondance. Filtering through what's important and what isn't, drafting a few responses where necessary. It's a real task, one Bodahn usually sees to for her, and there's a backlog. It will easily take a couple of hours.

The ring's effects do build slowly. He'd started out basically hard, just enough to make sure the thing stayed on. As he putters around the kitchen, following orders, there are a thousand little ways that it builds: his cock, jutting straight out from that damn ring, bumping into the counter, or pressing lightly against the sink when he has to lean in to do the dishes. The way pushing in his chair knocks him lightly against the edge of the table, making him catch his breath. The way following even a mundane order sends the tiniest little thrill through him. Hell, even just wearing the ring, on its own, causes its own build up.

By the time he sits down to do her correspondence, he's fully hard and can feel the ring's familiar pulsing pressure: an all-consuming, inexorable squeeze around him and seemingly almost inside his body. He could do the mundane tasks well enough, but as he looks at her correspondence he knows that it'll be a little more challenging to summon up the actual brainpower to do this.

"Sounds thrilling, M'lady Lunatic," he says with only mild complaining. Then he reaches for an envelope and gets to work.

She actually leaves him alone with it for an hour, which won't be long enough to complete the task, not even for Varric and especially not with such a distraction going on. When she does come back he's just starting a response to Lady Elegant, a friend, who actually deserves something polite and detailed. Perfect.

Hawke stands behind him, a little too close. "How's it going?"

Varric carries on the best he can; it's slow work on the best of days, and today is far from the best of days. He has to periodically stop, eyes closed, and breathe through the gentle throbbing of his cock and will himself to focus. More than a few times the urge to touch himself arises, but he quells it every time, remembering the rules Hawke laid out for him- a fact that does nothing for his distraction.

Still, by the time he gets to Lady Elegant's response, he's coping pretty well. Until she stands a little too close, and his breath almost catches.

"Pretty well, all things considered," he answers neutrally. "Just wondering who actually names themselves something like 'Lady Elegant' is all."

"The 'Elegant' part is because her name before that was truly dreadful, and no, I'm not going to tell you what it was." Said with a bit of a smirk. Elegant and Hawke have done each other a few favors over the years, and she likes the woman. Not least for devising healing potions even Anders can't duplicate. "And the Lady came about more naturally, after she married a nobleman. See? Perfectly understandable."

She walks around him and then...ducks under the table. "Don't mind me. I'll just be a moment." It sounds innocent, as though she's looking for a dropped pencil or picking up a bit of rubbish.

Except that once she's under there she spreads his knees and starts unlacing his trousers.

If Varric had all his faculties he probably could say what Elegant's name used to be. As it is, his mind snags like a cloak on thorns when Hawke ducks under the table. That innocent tone fools no one, and when hands spread his knees he takes a slow breath through his nose and tries not to react.

Her hands on his trousers put pressure on his cock: her gentle motions press the fabric against the head, jutting proudly out like a damned flagpole, and makes him grip his pen a little harder. He bites his lip, waiting for her next move with eyes closed.

Edited 2018-03-13 17:52 (UTC)

She pauses in her movements, and he can probably feel her smirk even if he can't see it.

"Keep writing."

He exhales, eyes screwing shut tighter.

"Right." Of course, of fucking course.

With some difficulty, Varric turned his attention back to the letter before him. He'd paused mid-thought, and wrote out the rest of the sentence carefully.

Hawke chuckled, the low, wicked chuckle she used when they both knew she was up to no good, and followed up on it by unlacing his trousers completely. Varric's cock all but sprang forward, which earned another chuckle. In other circumstances there would've been more than a few smartass remarks about that. She'd have to save them for later.

She moved forward, and repeated "Keep writing" just before licking the tip of his cock slowly with her tongue.

The rings made him overly sensitive, so when she did that, he sighed and groaned low in his throat, grip on the pen tightening.

It took an incredible effort to put pen to paper. He was about 70% sure of what the next word would be, and he tried hard to hold onto that frail certainty to get him through this.

It was a bit crowded under the desk, chair and legs and a low ceiling, but Hawke could adapt. She pushed his legs further apart and licked a slow circle around the tip of him, then kissed it, then repeated the circle, lapping at the skin, brushing her lips, grazing her teeth so lightly. If at any point he stopped writing for more than a second or two, she stopped. Reproachful noises would be arranged if necessary.

Varric learned the rules quickly: stop writing, stop feeling good. Keep writing, keep being tortured. He bit back a groan and tried hard to soldier on, very nearly putting a hole in the paper.

When she grazed teeth over him he let out a noise, slamming the pen down and biting down on his own fist.

"Hawke," he managed through gritted teeth. "Call it curiosity- I know you're not gonna let me come, so how long do I have to look forward to this?"

How long are you going to torture me.

"I hadn't decided yet." Said with maddening (she hopes) nonchalance, just before she slides her tongue along as much of the length of him as she can reach from this angle. "Haven't decided if I'll let you come or not, either. It might be fun to let you, so you'll know for the rest of the day what you're missing. You're not writing."

"Sorry, milady," he put pen to paper again- but also slid forward in his chair a little, adjusted his position, so that she'd have an easier time of getting to him. Fortunately this table was human-sized, not dwarf-sized, so while his legs dangled a bit, it also meant there should be more than enough for Hawke to drive him absolutely fucking insane.

He kept writing, trying very hard to focus on crafting a half-decent response through the torment he was suffering. Trying even harder not to moan openly. It felt like a forfeit, somehow.

She chuckled as the sound of pen scritching on paper resumed, and took him into her mouth, slowly lowering herself around him. It was an interesting fact about Marian Hawke that only Varric knew: she liked giving head. A lot. Not least because of the sounds he'd make when she did it. They weren't easily earned, Varric was a surprisingly quiet lover, but they happened, and she practically catalogued them. He was holding back now, but she knew how to read his tension.

And as he knew all too well, she was in no hurry. This was fantastic, being hidden under a table sucking on his cock, while he tried to try and keep his thoughts straight enough to write a letter. She was tempted to try it in public sometime. A restaurant, maybe. Somewhere with a tablecloth.

The thought made her moan, and she drew that out, knowing the vibration of it would work to her advantage. She drew him back out, not completely, enough to swipe her tongue around him inside her mouth, then took him back in deeper.

Varric Tethras was perfectly fine. He was fine, thank you very much. It was totally normal that he had to actually read out loud, instead of reading to himself like an adult. It was equally normal that he had to stage-whisper each word as he wrote it, to keep himself anchored to the moment.

It was totally normal that he had to say each word before he wrote it, to make sure he remembered.

It had nothing to do with his cheeks burning, his hands trembling, or his breath coming shaky. It had nothing to do with what Marian Hawke was doing to him, or the way it took real, concentrated effort to keep his hips still. The fact that he kept biting down on small gasps and that his breath rattled in his lungs was unrelated. The fact that he, more than once, bent over and leaned against his closed fist to gather himself had nothing to do with the mouth on his cock.

"Okay," he found himself saying, way too often. "Okay, okay. Okay. Alright. Next sentence."

This was fine.

"This letter is just fascinating," she murmured, withdrawing him from her mouth for a minute, though she brushed her lips on the side of him as she spoke. She also reached up, wrapping fingers around the base of the shaft just above the cock ring, squeezing and pulling a little. "I do hope Elegant appreciates it. I was just imagining doing this to you in public next time we go to dinner. Would you like that?"

With that mental image placed she took him back in, pumping him slowly into her mouth.

"I-" His next breath drew raggedly over the images in his head: Hawke, under the table at a Merchant's Guild meeting, sucking his cock in front of every sodding deshyr he knew, looking down during a meeting or a card game or dinner and seeing her beautiful dark head bobbing in his lap, a secret only for him.

"I'd like that," he managed quietly, tremble in his voice barely hinting at how much he really would like it. The way his cock twitched in her mouth was answer enough.

He gripped the table for a moment, suddenly determined to get through this with some dignity. After all, if she really did mean to blow him in public, he had better fucking well practice hiding his reactions. If he could manage it with the ring on, he could endure anything.

So pen returned to paper, shaky but there, fighting down the urge to lean over and moan brokenly. The ring made everything more sensitive just as it made arousal itself a torment: smooth metal bit into him, constricting with a dizzying vise grip. When the heat chased down his arms to his fingers and his toes and down his chest, the way his balls pulled close to his body was its own torment: coming up hard against that ring that squeezed and pulled them away, sending waves of pressurized feeling through him that broke his determined silence.

"Fuck," he said, voice breaking at last. He leaned his forehead against his closed fist, face screwed up for a few seconds against the feeling, before forcing his eyes open to write again. Truthfully, he scarcely knew what he was even writing- it could have been gibberish for all he paid attention.

Every touch. Every slide of tongue. It burned like the sweetest brand, stung like the loveliest torture.

After so much time spent teasing she gradually made her movements a bit quicker, more regular, pumping and sucking and licking at a speed she knew would fire his blood and push him towards the edge, continuing with a relentless attention until that one word escaped him, despite himself. That made her smirk.

She kept going for a few more minutes--then stopped, gradually letting him slide out of her mouth, releasing him from her grip, and taking a moment to do his trousers back up. Then she crawled back out from under the table, as calm and unruffled as if she really had just been down there to pick up a lost pencil or something, except that her mouth was swollen and red.

She bent over to look at the letter he'd been trying to write and chuckled, picking it up and blowing on it a little to dry the ink, then examining it critically. "Hmm. Sorry Varric, but I think you'll need to redo this one. The writing is a bit shaky."

She walked off towards the stairwell carrying it. This sheet was definitely going into her box of personal momentoes. It was a memory she'd treasure.

"You're serious." He gaped at her in disbelief, a complicated mixture of arousal, frustration, and mild horror playing over his face like a symphony.

Once she reached the stairs he turned back to the table, elbows braced heavily on the table, and ran his hands through his hair. Even that simple motion dragged fabric over the wet head of his cock, drawing a ragged groan from him. Without her under the table he allowed himself a moment, indulging in the reactions he'd tried so hard to stifle before- a low moan, a hand moving over his thigh, pulling at the fabric of his trousers- for friction or freedom, he didn't know.

"Shit," he whispered to himself, then sat up straight, got out another piece of parchment, and started re-writing the stupid fucking letter. As fast as he could without being messy.

If she lurked silently on the balcony for a minute listening for his reactions, well, it was all in the name of research. Obviously.

She came back in half an hour, humming a little under her breath. "Nearly finished with all those?" she asked, smiling pleasantly.

Edited (phone tags = typos) 2018-03-20 12:42 (UTC)

The look he gave her was incredibly unimpressed. "Just finishing up now, m'lady lunatic."

If his handwriting was a tad messier than normal, he couldn't entirely be blamed. With that, he stamped an envelope as hard as if it had wronged him in some way.

Hawke didn't look even remotely contrite. She didn't doubt that when all this was over his revenge would be thorough and protracted. She was looking forward to it, actually. "Good, thank you. I'm sure you've done an excellent job. But I'm afraid I have another job for you." Her mouth quirked. "I think you'll find this one less tedious, if it helps."

Though possibly not less frustrating.

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gonna time skip a bit if you don't mind

\o/

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