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Silken Surrender	By : KyeShgall Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 3670 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Bioware, not I, owns Dragon Age and all its characters. I make no profits on this smutty, smutty fanfic.

Chapter List
- 1-Silken Surrender
- 1
Bran was a dead man. No question about it. Because Marian Hawke was going to break into his quarters and murder him in his sleep. She was already plotting out the most painful and humiliating methods. So far, tying him up, slicing off his balls, and letting him bleed out on his mattress seemed to be the most promising option among many.

Bran’s death really was a long time in coming. His seemingly endless string of snide remarks about Hawke and her companions for the viscount’s benefit had certainly been unwelcome. Now that the viscount was so recently beheaded, the seneschal had truly gone too far.

Red-headed rat bastard that he was.

“Honorary Garb of the Champion, my arse,” Hawke grumbled as she stepped from behind the meager changing screen that stood in the middle of the Keep’s upper level. (Rat bastard hadn’t even offered her a room. Yet another reason why Bran was certainly going to die.) “I can’t believe I was foolish enough to agree to this whole event without having signed a contract first.”

“You know,” Varric said, looking Hawke over twice—efficiently the first time, more slowly the second, his eyes lingering appreciatively at the swell of her breasts beneath delicate fabric. “I’m not sure even I could exaggerate enough to call that ceremonial armor.”

“No,” she agreed, smoothing her hands along bright red silk that clung scandalously to her curves. “It’s not even a gown. It’s little more than a piece of cloth with a few clever holes cut out. I can’t even wear a breastband with it. Because look,” she turned in a slow circle, allowing the dwarf to see exactly how low the back of her new outfit dipped. “It’s practically making a run for my arse.”

“It’s slinky,” he said. “I like it.”

“I’ll bet,” she said, rolling her eyes. “So what do you think about helping me murder the seneschal later tonight?”

Varric chuckled at her predicament. “Not exactly a gesture of good will. Shouldn’t your first act as champion be something a bit more politic? You know, shaking hands, kissing babies, that sort of thing.”

“In this outfit, trust me, the last thing I ought to be doing is shaking anything. I already look as though I’ve been dressed in a whorehouse.”

“Which isn’t necessarily a bad look for you,” Varric added with the subtle lift of an eyebrow.

“Right. Well. I’ll give you that. But I’d rather not have every third cousin of a lesser noble in the Free Marches thinking so.” Her gaze traveled over the banister and down, finding its object in the tall doors of the Keep, through which the horde of eager celebrants would soon be entering. “What are the odds I can duck out of my own fete of honor?”

“Slim to none, Champ,” he assured her, “which is what you get for having agreed to give a speech before all the dancing starts. And, speaking of dancing, won’t every third cousin of a lesser noble be just dying to get his filthy paws all over you?”

“You’d never let that happen,” she said, though she did not sound at all sure of herself. A first twinge of panic shot through her gut.

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Varric asked, eyes sparkling with mirth. “If you mistake me for some defender of maidenly honor, just remember, Hawke, you’re no maiden.”

She was about to offer a sharp, but flirtatious rejoinder when, with a reluctant groan of hinges, the great doors were drawn open and the crowd was ushered in. Hawke’s attention snapped instantly to the women, who were, at least, clad in equally bright, festive colors. And yet Hawke was hardly mollified. The immodest cut of her dress, its pitiful lack of fabric, the sheen of its silk—practically begging to be touched—all sought to undermine completely her image as the capable warrior who had slain the Arishok and earned the respect of Kirkwall. Hawke’s eyes narrowed in displeasure as she glanced towards the seneschal’s office door.

“No,” Hawke said, ducking back behind the changing screen—which some servant or guard had already moved back to stand surreptitiously against the wall. “I’ll wear my blighted old tunic and trousers rather than—shit! They’ve removed them already. Now what am I supposed to do?”
Panicked, flustered, overwhelmed by the thought of her imminent defeat to a smarmy little nemesis who deserved no such victory, Hawke’s knees gave out beneath her and she sank to the floor. What a horrible night this was going to be. Even the man she loved seemed to have abandoned her to a grim fate of utter disgrace. Varric, you smug little bastard. Hawke could feel a portion of her rage against the seneschal transferring itself to her dwarven lover, who, among all men, should be the one doing something to help make this right.

Maybe she could simply hide here all night and no one would think to move the screen in their desperate search for the missing champion. Hawke shut her eyes, steeling herself against the childish threat of tears even as her head hung down, weighted by the specter of anticipated humiliation.

Whispered words shook her from private misery. “Hey, Champ, no crying. You’ll ruin your image and I’ll have to change at least half my best tall tales.”

She looked up at Varric, who was leaning against the wall to peek at her. Only half his face was visible beyond the edge of the screen. “No real need to cry, either,” he added, extending one palm in a placating gesture. “We’ll set this right. It’s practically already done.”

Explaining that he’d just flagged down a friend in the guard, who was already en route to the Hawke estate to request from Orana a still-sexy, but far less humiliating gown from Hawke’s own wardrobe, Varric moved the screen just enough to slip behind it. Settling to his knees on the carpet beside her, he smiled in satisfaction upon realizing that, yes, there was just enough space for a dwarf and a human to share a bit of privacy from the gathering throng. “So all you have to do now, lovely champion, is wait right here for your change of dress to arrive.”

His words were like honey. And Hawke could feel the sweetness of her relief spreading down her throat and into her stomach, which was still tied in knots—and likely would be until she was safely dressed in something less scandalous—but which now felt minutely less knotty, if that even made any sense. “I feared you’d abandoned me to… this,” she said, glancing down at red silk and heaving a sigh of deep relief that caused her breasts to swell forward, straining tightly against their thin fabric sheathe.

Varric’s eyes were drawn to those breasts immediately and he swallowed against the knot of desire that had so suddenly risen to his throat. “It is a nice dress, Hawke,” he whispered and reached forward, the fingers of one hand just barely grazing smooth silk. “What do you think? Shall I show you exactly how nice?”

Hawke shivered, her neck arching back as Varric’s touch ghosted across no more than the very tip of one nipple. She was so sensitive there. And he knew it. It wasn’t fair of him at all. “Varric, we can’t—”

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he asked, that sinful voice inflected with an innocence feigned. He reached for her again and, this time, his finger traced the half-moon curve beneath one of Hawke’s breasts. “Can’t what?”

As if on cue, soft footfalls nearby and the musical peal of a lady guest’s laughter reminded Hawke exactly how exposed their position was, despite the screen that hid them both from view. “Varric, you can’t fuck me here,” she hissed. “If we get caught—”

Varric tsked her softly and shook his head. “Who said anything about fucking you? No, my dear, that’s not at all what I had in mind.” His eyes were full of mischief as he gazed at Hawke, whose lip trembled with some half-hearted protest that hadn’t even the strength to emerge as a whisper. When he cupped her left breast firmly, Hawke could feel the pounding of her own heartbeat. Varric felt its desperate rhythm, too, rising through her flesh and skin and the delicate fabric of her scandalous red dress. “Of course,” he added in a terrible whisper, “this is going to be just as wild as if I were fucking you. Right here in the Keep. All decorated and full of revelers. You scandalous wench. Maybe that little bastard was right to give you an outfit like this one. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
Before she could answer him, Varric squeezed. Despite his strength—or perhaps because of it—her breast slipped from his grasp as his hand slid along such frictionless fabric. “This is going to be fun,” he muttered, more to himself than to Hawke, and reached again for her truculent, evasive breast. Squeezing more gradually this time, he held it captive until it was thrust up and forward, the silk that covered it pulling tightly across her nipple.

Hawke groaned as the thumb of Varric’s other hand landed gently along that nipple and began to brush slow circles, the familiar heat and strength of his touch combining with the shifting sensation of silk on skin to flood her senses. She felt her arousal rear up sudden and intense within her, her clit throbbing its own jealous plea for attention as Varric continued to play with the tip of one nipple, hardening now into a pert little bead. Hawke arched her back, twisting her torso to the left as she urged both of her breasts closer to the heat of Varric’s body.

“Feels good,” she said, mouthing her words more than whispering them. A shadow had fallen across the screen and now the low murmur of strangers’ conversation was all around them. My lady Emma, you’re an absolute vision of beauty tonight… Why, thank you, good ser… And what an elegant gown you’re wearing, if you’ll allow me liberty of saying so…

“Whatever she’s wearing, it can’t compare with this, can it?” Varric whispered, releasing her breast and sliding his hand appreciatively across the layer of silk that swathed her ribs and belly. He stood on his knees beside her, his body pressed against the outer side of her thigh. Hawke’s bent thighs now parted and with a careful shuffle of her long legs, she changed her position, capturing Varric between those thighs, the skirt of her gown hitching sinfully high across them and yet still draping enough to cover the space between.

Now better positioned to attend to both breasts at the same time, Varric cupped them lovingly as he captured each nipple between thumb and forefinger. Silk shifted against skin once more as he rubbed, gently at first, then harder and faster until the intensity of the pressure pained her and Hawke’s mouth flew open. She barely managed to stifle her cry before it could leave her throat to alert whatever party-goers passed nearby. The pain was sharp, but welcome, burning at her nipples and causing her hips to buck up and forward as if to entice her lover downward to meet them.

But Varric was not to be distracted, at least not yet. His last hard squeeze had done the trick. Hawke’s sweet breasts, so often stimulated in exactly this way, had begun to leak a clearish fluid that darkened the silk of her dress near the tip of each nipple, the two points from which this fluid spilt. It was sweet and mild-tasting, the tentative milk of a woman who had never been with child. Hawke felt the damp against her skin and looked down to see the spreading stains. She knew even before Varric lowered his head that in a moment’s time his mouth would be on her, sucking her already wet nipples through the soaking silk of a dress that had just become even more inappropriate for wearing in polite company.

“You’d better suck me,” she hissed at him and Varric, obliging, dipped down, continuing to squeeze at her breasts as he did so, forcing yet more liquid out of her. There was something so powerfully satisfying about the way it seemed burst out of her to mingle with the wetness of his mouth. Though Hawke still felt the rub of her dress, somehow coarser against her than it had been when dry, she also felt as though Varric’s mouth and tongue slid across her skin unimpeded. How strange and delightful it was to feel simultaneously naked and yet licked by wet silk.

She would keep the dress, Hawke decided. She would definitely keep the dress.
She sighed softly, her head resting back against the wall as Varric continued to suck her. The front of her dress was increasingly soaked, but Hawke could hardly care. She loved to watch him do this, sucking at her breasts—and occasionally biting—his eyes shut, forehead creasing with the pleasure that lifted the innermost tips of his eyebrows.

Varric opened his eyes in time to see Hawke’s go wide as two of his fingers slid gently over the silk that covered her clit and the labial folds that guarded the entrance to her body, an entrance Varric had used more times than he could count. Not tonight, though. Or, at least, not here. All that would happen behind this little screened-off portion of the Keep would take place with a layer of fabric between them. Only much later, in his room or hers, would he allow their naked flesh to touch.

“You’re not wearing smalls,” he whispered. “You dirty girl.” And she was about to reply—to say something in her own defense about how their outline had shown plainly beneath this most immodest of dresses—when the steady background noise of muffled conversation was drowned out by the heavy thump of booted feet approaching.

A bolt of panic shot through her gut once more as Hawke suddenly feared the worst. Seneschal Bran. Surely he would find them like this. He would move the screen and then everyone at this blighted party would see their champion engaged in the sort of indiscretion that would live on in infamy despite the best efforts of a master storyteller to change all the details after the fact.

But of course it was only guardsman Brennan, returning at last with Hawke’s change of clothing, which landed on the floor at Hawke’s feet after having been blindly tossed behind the screen. Brennan knew with utter certainty that if she were fool enough to look, she would certainly regret it until her dying day. As far as she was concerned, a girl was either into dwarves or she wasn’t. And Brennan, unlike Hawke, was solidly among the wasn’ts.

“Just get dressed and get out here quickly,” the guardsman whispered before she turned and walked away. “Bran’s beginning to wonder where you are.”

“Which means we have plenty of time,” said Varric. “If he’s just beginning to wonder.” And before Hawke could protest or reach for the gown at her feet, Varric dropped to his knees and elbows, a more comfortable position indeed for the job he meant to accomplish between his lover’s thighs.

One expert finger stroked the thin barrier of fabric as Varric traced the ridge of her clit downward along her fleshy inner folds, swollen already with the heat of her desire. His calloused hands were made soft by intervening silk and Hawke couldn’t help but smile at the novel sensation. Her smile became a quiet groan as her very favorite dwarf flipped his palm over to curl that finger into her, stuffing fabric inside her wet and aching pussy.

“Just so we’re clear, Hawke.” Varric spoke into the silk that draped her inner thigh, his voice marked by levity, a teasing undertone of laughter barely suppressed. “You’re not going to come. Not here. I’m just going to get you good and wet and then all night long, you’re going to want it.” The laughter fell away as his voice dropped to its lower, more seductive range. “You’re going to want me, Hawke. You’re going to want me working my cock inside you, bringing you all the pleasure I always give. But not until much, much later, my dear Champion of Kirkwall. Because first you have speeches to give and sycophantic old nobles to appease.”
Hawke’s fierce, dark eyes flickered down to meet his gaze. She both hated and loved it when he built up her desires only to frustrate all hope of release. Already she knew that the hours of small talk would pass far too slowly and Varric would make matters worse by avoiding her company for the rest of the evening. Her only contact with him would be every so often when she managed to catch his eye from across the great hall. And then he would wink at her, a wordless reminder that she really ought to be flirting with more gentleman, because Varric was watching and he did so enjoy it when she strung them along only to crush their hopes brutally at the end of the night when she left in the company of a dwarf. And not just any dwarf, but a much-loved one who would at last be ready to reward her with whatever variety of pleasure she demanded of him. And anything was fair game—from the sweetest, most sensual round of lovemaking to the most improbable role-playing rape fantasy she could conjure.

She wasn’t sure what she’d ask of him tonight, but Hawke knew she would have to make it good. Because he was already ensuring that her wait would be particularly difficult. He was stroking her clit with the lightest of touches as his other hand flattened the damp silk that he had so recently thrust inside her.

“This dress is amazing, Hawke,” he said. “Get it wet and I can see every contour. Just as if you were naked for me.” And with that he bent down to work her clit with the most gentle and teasing sequence of licks, delicate as a cat lapping cream. She was practically dying for him to suck her deep and long, to slide his thick fingers in and out of her body as he drew her closer and closer to orgasm. But she knew he wouldn’t risk the chance of her coming for him. Not when he had already decided otherwise. Maker, he drove her wild.

A shiver ran through her as the gentle pressure of his tongue rolling across wet cloth created just enough friction to make her think an orgasm might not be far away, despite her lover’s inclinations. But Varric would have none of it. With a dark chuckle, he disengaged.

“Nice try,” he whispered. “But I don’t think so.”

His finger slid lower and she already knew what he game he would play with her next. She always felt so dirty when he played with the puckered skin around her ass. But considering that skin was nearly as sensitive as her clit, she certainly never objected. “You’re such a dirty dwarf,” she whispered, her voice gone slow and sultry. “Remind me, Varric, however did I end up with you?”

And she smiled, sinfully delighted at the visible effect of her words. Varric’s whole body shuddered as he fought to hold back a groan that would have been far too loud for their location. It emerged instead as long, breathy sigh. “If I remember correctly, Marian, you humiliated and berated all your other suitors. And you did it to prove to me that you weren’t fickle or transient. That I was the only one you wanted. And weren’t you lucky that I gave in?”

And with that, Varric removed the finger that had been tracing a slow circle around the delicate skin of her ass. The wetness of his tongue replaced it. And now he did suck at her deeply, fully confident that this way, the possibility of bringing her to climax would be avoided. Moved by the strength of Varric’s mouth and tongue, the silk of her dress rubbed hard and wet against her. Hawke could feel her tight little opening relax. She opened to him and Varric’s tongue, sheathed in bright red fabric, pressed inside.

Varric has his tongue in my ass. That thought alone was almost enough to make her come.

So focused was Hawke on the overwhelming pleasure of this glorious, filthy act, that she hardly noticed the new shadow that moved across the screen. Its significance simply didn’t register. So she nearly jumped out of her skin when a set of boots appeared alongside her and a familiar voice said, “Well, this is bloody awkward, isn’t it?”
“Shit,” said Hawke.

But Varric, untroubled, simply removed his tongue from where it was lodged, raised his head, and smiled.

“Seneschal’s looking for his champion,” Anders said. “I sent him downstairs on a false lead. But you’d best get on with it. It’s nearly time for your speech, Hawke.”

“Thanks for the warning, Blondie.” Varric nodded up at Anders. “And thanks for playing guard.”

“So long as my gambling debts are all forgiven, you’re bloody welcome.” And with that, the mage disappeared from view and Hawke heard the sound of his boots retreating.

Varric was already handing her the formal gown—a bit wrinkled, but otherwise perfect for the occasion—that Brennan had retrieved from Hawke’s estate. But Hawke smiled up at him as she contemplated the details of a truly awful plan, just now taking shape in her mind. There was still time to be caught. And being caught would still bring shame and mockery upon her. But the unthinking desire for orgasm had emboldened her and Hawke was willing to push the limits of luck and decency. She reached for the buttons of Varric’s trousers, undoing them swiftly to release his hard and ready cock.

“I want you to come all over this ridiculous dress,” she breathed. And before he could protest, she was working her hand along his length. Varric leaned into her, the will to resist swiftly disappearing. Nor did he even protest as he watched Hawke’s other hand glide over wet folds of cloth between her legs. They were both so aroused that half a minute was all it took. Varric’s hot seed spurted onto her breasts and belly, staining her honorary garb as Hawke’s own crescendo broke in waves across her throbbing core.

Varric was the first to speak when at last the rapid pace of their breathing had returned to normal. “All right, I’ll give you that one,” he whispered, referring to her stolen orgasm. “But only because of how much I love coming on you, Champ.”

Hawke stood up and slipped out of her filthy dress, allowing it to fall in a heap on the carpet. Moments later, she was looking, if not prim and proper, than at least only slightly scandalous in a gauzy, low-cut gown of a style that was currently all the rage among nobles.

She stepped from behind the screen as Varric exited from the other side. He nodded to her once and turned away. She wouldn’t likely have the chance to talk to him again until speeches and dancing and boring small talk all were finished. But no matter. He was the man who would walk her home at the end of the night. And that was all she cared about.

Well, almost all. There was one other small matter to deal with.

“Seneschal Bran,” she called out, catching the man’s attention and waving him over. Not that he needed any encouragement to approach.

“Hawke, where have you been? We’ve been searching—” He paused, looking her over. “That is not the dress I gave you.”

“Unfortunately not,” she said. “I seem to have gotten that dress dirty somehow.” She raised her left hand, in which she held the garment in question, and extended it towards him. A dark patch was immediately visible as was a bit of whitish fluid whose edges were already crusting as they dried. "It is rather delicate."

“You’re disgusting,” Bran said, completely unamused.

Hawke smiled blithely and continued, “I do thank you for the honorary gift. And I expect I will wear it rather often. But I simply can’t carry it around with me all night. Perhaps I might set it down in your office?”

Rendered speechless, the flustered seneschal shook his head. And, as far as Hawke was concerned, that was victory enough.

Murder not required.
- 1
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Silken Surrender