A/N: Inspired by my adoration of this artist's work: aimo DOT deviantart DOT com. If you haven't seen her gallery yet, I highly recommend it. Awesome, hilarious work.
I love her warden, and I absolutely love the Stone Temptress, the foxy dwarven Mata Hari who stars in a series of surfacer-loved erotic novels. And of course Varric would love her too.
Dedicated to Miss Aimo. :3
Chapters: Oneshot
Length: ~3k total.
Beta Love: You've gotta love friends who need time-wasters at work.
Dragon Age belongs to Bioware. Not me. At all.
"Oof!"
As she dropped the last crate with its like-marked pile, Hawke dragged the back of one hand across her forehead. When Varric had told her that he needed a favor, she'd polished her daggers before heading to the docks. Usually his favors involved looking intimidating in the shadows while he had a business meeting or pretending that she was his long-lost second cousin to get him out of a boring conversation. Manual labor hadn't even been a thought when she showed up at his shady-looking warehouse.
She'd called it as much when they arrived, and he accused her of not knowing what legitimate- and reputable-looking were if they hit her in the face.
Still, she had somehow found herself lugging big crates from wagons to the spots he designated, biting her tongue when she'd had to dig them out from under piles of hay.
Legitimate and reputable her ass.
He only confirmed what she already knew when he cracked one crate open, revealing a second crate nestled inside. This one, unlike its plain and unassuming outer shell, bore foreign-looking stamps and imprints. And they reeked.
Hawke leaned in, wrinkling her nose. "They smell like moldy brimstone. Orzammar?"
"Where else?" He tallied the boxes on his manifest. "And they're not easy to get, believe me."
"Why?" She sat on one of them, tapping the seal. "I thought you said Bhelen was lifting a lot of the embargos."
"Like anything else in Orzammar," Varric said with a sigh, "it's a long, pointlessly bureaucratic process. And I just can't ignore demand. So I make a few friends with connections, grease the right palms, and here we are."
"Spoken like a legitimate businessman."
He smiled and stared off into the distance, scratching his chin. "I love the way that sounds."
Hawke laughed and took another look at the inner box, curiosity getting the better of her. "What's in these, anyway? Too small for weapons and too big for gems."
He clucked his tongue. "You are so narrow-minded, Hawke. Dwarves make far more... cultural contributions than rocks and weaponry. I'll have you know that these happen to be luxury goods."
She raised an eyebrow. He was baiting her again. "Such as?"
As soon as he opened his mouth, however, she rolled her eyes and ripped the top off of the nearest one. Maker only knew what kind of yarn he was planning to spin her, and this was faster than listening to him beatify his contraband. When she looked at the contents, it took her a moment to realize what she was seeing.
She pulled one thick leatherbound volume from its box. "Books?"
"Literature," he corrected. "And it's the hottest thing on the market nowadays." He gestured to the box she'd opened. "That, in particular, will probably fetch a sovereign each."
"So high?" Frowning, Hawke cracked it open to a random page. "Why would anyone pay so much for a history book or smithing manual or-" She trailed off as her eyes skimmed the page, and when she reached a particular passage, she paled and slammed it shut.
"Varric," she hissed, lowering her voice. "This is porn!"
He chuckled, not even bothering to look up. "One, that's what you get for looking. You should know better by now."
"Porn!"
"Two," he continued, "You make it sound so filthy. It's fine dwarven-written erotica bound by master dwarven leatherworkers. All high-class stuff."
She glared at him, then cleared her throat and opened to a random page.
"You see, Bann Nachtwulf," she said, swaying her voluminous hips as she walked toward him, "without the use of your hands, even such an infamous spy as yourself is at my mercy."
The human tugged at the shackles holding his wrists above his head. "What nefarious deeds do you have planned, dwarf?"
She pressed her chest against him, and he could feel the firm mounds of her breasts against his abdomen. "Ah-ah-ah," she scolded, "I'm the one asking questions here."
He glared at her back as she sashayed away, shorter legs only making the rocking of her hips even more enticing. He cursed himself for being unable to look away, his chiseled features twisted into a scowl. "So it's to be torture, then?"
She smiled lasciviously at him over one bare shoulder. "Of course," she said. "It's what I do best." She grasped a metal handle poking out from behind the forge's wall, where he remembered the kindling fire being as he was dragged in.
Hot pokers, he wondered? Branding? Lit flames?
She took it back with her, and he saw the flat shovel on its end, filled with what appeared to be...
...melted chocolate?
She dipped one thick finger into the puddling confection, licking it off slowly and firmly. "You see," she said, moving ever closer, "this needn't be all bad."
As she poured it down from his neck to his chest, Bann Nachtwolf knew that none of his secrets would be safe tonight.
Hawke held it up as she finished reading the passage aloud, pointing to it accusingly. "This is your 'cultural contribution?' Trashy romance novels?"
"Trashy?" he asked, incredulous. "Trashy?"
"Trashy," she repeated, smirking and pulling open a few more crates, reading their titles to prove her point. "The Stone Temptress: An Intimate Proving. The Stone Temptress: Molten Lava, Icy Heart. The Stone Temptress and the Mage's Magic Staff. Really, Varric? That says 'classy' to you?"
"For a noblewoman," he said, plucking the books out of her hand, "you have no appreciation for the arts."
"I'm such a bad aristocrat, I know." She picked up a copy of Stone Temptress in the Royal Palace and leafed through it. "Speaking of which, who buys this nonsense?"
"You'd be surprised. A lot of it goes to nobles-"
"Distinctly not surprised..."
"- a good chunk to the templars -"
"Again, not surprised..."
" - the Rose automatically gets two copies of everything, King Alistair of Ferelden has the whole set -"
"Why am I even listening to you?"
"- one to your estate -"
"Wait, what?"
Varric tapped a finger to his lips, grinning. He had to know that would get her attention. "Someone in your household is a big fan."
Hawke was silent for a moment, trying to think who it could be. Definitely not Sandal, and she doubted Bodahn would have time to read such junk. So unless Ogre had learned to read (not that the Mabari hadn't surprised her before), that only left -
"Orana," she sighed. "I should have known. Is this what she's wasting her wages on?"
"She gets a deep discount, I assure you."
"Not helping." After a moment, Hawke looked around and finally laughed in disbelief. "I can't believe that one of your main products is peddling smut. There must be a crown's worth of books here." She walked over to one stack of crates in the corner, considerably larger than the others. "This pile alone has got to be hundreds of them."
The dwarf saw what she was talking about and quickly looked away. "All of those are our bestseller. Ten crates, and it'll be gone by midday tomorrow."
Hawke smirked. "What's this one, Stone Temptress and the Nudist Thaig?"
Varric raised an eyebrow and filed that one to save for later. "Cute. But no." His checklist done, he pulled samples from each batch to inspect. He was about to walk out with the stack walked under one arm, but as he grew closer to the door, he apparently thought better of it and turned back.
"Here," he said, thrusting the entire pile into Hawke's crossed arms, "a reward for a job well done."
She almost dropped them. "What? Oh no, no, I don't-"
"Come on, try something new." He stood close, staring up at her. "Why not? Afraid you might like it?"
She snorted. "If this is your way of hitting on me, Varric, you don't have to be so coy."
"I'm a romantic." He shrugged, walking away with a wave. "Read them, or don't. Up to you."
He shut the door behind him, leaving Hawke to figure out how to discreetly carry ten enormous porn novels halfway across the city.
It occurred to Varric only after he arrived back at the Hanged man that he may have just done something very, very dangerous.
He'd given her a copy of every book. And that meant -
With a colorful string of curses, he sat back in his chair. Maybe he'd gotten lucky and forgotten to put a copy of the new bestseller in the pile. Maybe Hawke wouldn't even see it.
Or maybe this time tonight, his room would look like a tornado hit it.
They were staring at her.
Hawke sipped at her tea, feet propped up on the desk as she sorted her letters. But there they were, a few feet away on the floor, sitting in the unmarked crate she'd used to carry them.
And they were waiting.
No, she thought firmly. If she read them, then Varric won. And she wasn't about to let him win.
She was patting herself on the back for resisting temptation when she came to the next letter in the pile. A sinking feeling in her stomach told her that she shouldn't trust the thick sheaf of folded paper (no one who wrote that much at once had anything good to say), and sure enough, the ribbon holding it together bore the seal of the Knight Commander.
She hesitated, imagining everything that Meredith could possibly be asking about, scolding her for, or even just the sheer amount of proselytizing that the missive might contain.
The letter sat, unopened, emanating waves of ominousness.
And Hawke glowered.
It was with a groan that she finally stood, grabbing the topmost book from the crate and throwing herself down on the library's reclining sofa.
One book.
Then she'd get back to work.
"No," her captive cried out. "I can't take any more. Please!"
"That's what your mouth says," the Temptress purred, "but look at yourself." She took the princess' chin in hand, turning it toward the mirror she'd positioned at the end of the bed. "Anyone can see how wanton you are."
Sniffling back tears of shame, the princess watched as a practiced hand snaked under her skirt, and she was unable to contain her moans.
"Yes," her tormentor encouraged, "that's exactly right."
"But," the princess gasped, "the ransom note – what if the messenger comes back with it and sees us like this?"
The Temptress laughed a sultry, knowing laugh. "Silly girl." She ran her tongue along one delicate earlobe. "I never sent the note to your father."
"What? Why?"
"Because," a soft bite to her shoulder, bringing forth a moan, "I'm actually rescuing you – from a life without pleasure."
"Mistress?"
The elf's voice snapped Hawke out of it, and she bolted upright. "Orana! I'm, ah, in the library."
Her maidservant peered around the corner, shy as ever. "Forgive me for interrupting, mistress, but supper will be ready soon."
Supper?
Looking outside, Hawke saw the moon starting to rise in the sky. Where had the last five hours gone?
"Sorry," she said, running a hand through her hair. "I just got caught up in a book." Then she noticed the small pile next to her. "Or four."
Orana's face lit up at the sight of the rose-emblazoned cover. "Are those-"
"A gift from Varric."
With a light blush across her high cheekbones, she picked up the finished books on the floor and moved to shelve them. "Addicting, aren't they, mistress?"
Hawke sighed and let her head fall back. "You're not kidding. It's total tripe, but -"
"You can't stop reading."
"Exactly."
Orana took dainty steps over to the books still in the crate. "Shall I put these away for you?"
Hawke flapped her hand in dismissal. "Ah, not yet. I haven't read those."
"I understand." Something caught the elf's eye, and she gingerly picked up a volume bound in red. "Oh!"
"What is it?"
She ran her fingers over the cover. "This is the newest book, mistress. I wasn't able to get it last week, as they'd sold out before I got to the market."
Must be that bestseller Varric bragged about, Hawke thought. She reached for it, and Orana excused herself to get back to preparing dinner as the champion settled against the pillows once more.
She'd read it, she told herself, if only to see what all the fuss was about. Besides, The Stone Temptress and the Dragonslayer was a title she could get behind.
And ten pages in, she realized why.
She hurled it across the room.
"Varric Tethras, you son of a bitch!"
The dwarf shivered. With a glance to the door, he ordered another drink. Something bad was about to happen in three, two -
Right on cue, the champion of Kirkwall came storming through the doors of the Hanged Man, grabbed Varric by the back of his coat, and hauled him up the stairs into his room. She flung open the door, threw him into a chair, and shoved something in his face.
"Explain, dwarf."
Varric found himself face-to-face with an abused-looking copy of his current moneymaker. "That," he said slowly, "is a book."
"I know that," Hawke said, her eerie calm masking a hurricane of anger beneath the surface. "Care to elaborate?"
"They're made of words?" he offered.
That did it. "Fawkes?" she exploded. "Fawkes? Were you even trying?"
He sighed. "'Fawkes' and 'Hawke' have two entirely different letters."
"Oh, that makes it completely different, then!" She opened to the first chapter. "Fawkes, who has curly red hair, gray eyes with 'flecks of fine sapphires,' three claw-mark scars on her arm," she held hers up to illustrate, pointing at them for emphasis, "wears Qunari armor, and killed a high dragon that was threatening the innocent mine workers! She's a damn hero!"
Glaring down at the dwarf, her voice dropped a register, dripping with ice.
"Sound familiar?"
He smiled innocently. "Maybe a little."
She glowered as she flipped forward in the book. "Wields two daggers etched with lyrium, check. Recently reclaimed her nobility. Check. Stared down the Arishok. Check. Oh, here's something." She thrust the book back at him, open to a page filled with particularly creative language. "Lesbian trysts with a sultry dwarf. Care to jog my memory?"
He spread his hands, grinning. "You'll have to read the book, just like everyone else."
"Oh," she said, indicating the bookmarks decorating the spine. "Oh, I did. Here I let myself get captured and interrogated with feathers. Feathers! Imagine that." She tugged on the next bookmark, skipping to the next passage. "Right. And here is where I find out that she knows the location of an enchanted sword, and I promptly fuck it out of her. Naturally."
"Of course," Varric said, leaning back. Oh, how he loved to watch her fuss.
"And in this chapter," she flipped ahead to the marked page, "she and I team up to molest Bastion, a man who has sworn himself to the chantry, in a confessional booth and using candle wax from the prayer votives."
Varric chuckled. He'd been particularly proud of that one.
She threw her hands up in exasperation. "I'm not going to be able to look him in the eyes for months. Do you know how hard that's going to make my life? Oh! And another thing!" She leaned in close. "You had to mention the mole? That's my mole!"
"It's a very nice mole." He tilted his head, regarding her backside fondly. "Gives your ass character."
"And now," she hissed, inches from his face, "all of Kirkwall knows I have it."
"No," he corrected, reaching up to give her an affectionate tap on the nose. "Fawkes has it."
She groaned, tossing the book on the table. "No more, Varric. I don't know what you're telling these writers, but pick someone else." She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
"Or you could."
She turned around, confusion spread clearly across her features. "What?"
He had tilted his head ever so slightly, regarding her with a calculating look. "Ten percent of Dragonslayer's profits, and you choose the subjects of the next book."
Hawke blinked as the numbers added up. And fought with her integrity for dominance in her internal argument. "Cutting me in I can understand. But why would I want to-"
"My writers are thinking of branching out," he said, folding his hands and crossing his legs. "After all, there are plenty of ripe subjects wandering Kirkwall just waiting to be immortalized, and coin to be made."
And that was when Hawke understood. When he and Isabela teased about their 'friend fiction,' they weren't actually joking. They were tossing around ideas.
Ideas that seemed more and more appealing the more Hawke imagined them. Warmth crept up her neck to her cheeks as racy mental images flooded her logic circuits.
Integrity lost that battle.
"Fifteen percent," she countered, "and the next one involves mud wrestling at 'The Bone Pit.' Which is now a brothel."
"Done," Varric agreed, tossing her the battered copy of Dragonslayer. "And give this to your maid."
Hawke made an obscene gesture as she caught it, and Varric simply laughed.
"See you later, partner."