A/N: I wrote this awhile ago and decided that, although it feels unfinished, I could probably pass it off as finished and maybe get back into it later. Until then, enjoy.
Legs.
Those fuckin' legs.
Maker, those legs.
Varric had sat down about an hour or two ago and a pair of legs joined him about halfway through.
No, he didn't remember why he'd sat down for more than five pints of ale. No, he wasn't about to get up anytime soon. And no, he didn't have the energy to look up from either the bottom of his tankard or those blessed legs.
And so he just kept talkin' to 'em.
And somehow, those sweet legs never once stopped responding.
"Y' know, I just can't imagine my younger self imagining me being here at the peak of my life." Varric grumbled into his half-empty tankard, "I just don't understand how I got here at all."
He turned his head to watch legs' ankles cross before releasing a chuckle, "I guess I can't exactly say I don't appreciate what I've got but, gee, I wanted to be something more than a bard."
Here, he grinned, letting out another laugh, though this one heartier, "A bard! That's what I am! I tell stories for the mirth of others and the sake of the story bein' told. To be part of the process of creating history." The tankard was lifted and tilted up, contents emptied into his mouth, some overflowing and running down his stubble on his chin, "My favorites these days are of Hawke and her company."
The legs' owner scoffed, "Company? More like a band of misfits!"
Varric erupted at her reply, "Oh yes! The Champion of Kirkwall has a strange gaggle of geese"
Maker did he want to feel those smooth, sculpted legs under his palm. He wanted to trace those toned quads with his fingers. The curve between the heel and the beginnings of the calves were just too sexual to not be arousing.
"You know, Hawke is my favorite heroine. If I could die in a tavern telling her stories, I'd die pretty content." He smiled wistfully into his tankard, "Hands down, I could spend my entire life fighting by her side and never be bored.
"I might if she offered. I definitely might. I can't even imagine myself anywhere else anymore besides at her side or in this sodding tavern. Maybe I don't even need to necessarily be beside her. I wouldn't mind one bit being behind her, that's for sure. With an ass like that? Ha!
"I like to think myself a respectable storyteller, see. I try to tell it like it is, while keeping it interesting –stepping near the border where exaggeration meets truth. But I tell ya, there are some days where I realize I may not even have to do that."
There was one sweet evening they'd spent in the Deep Roads while searching for those three brothers that'd dug their own grave with greed and want for glory. Hawke was panting, spatters of blood littered across her face similarly to the darkspawn bodies littered across the cave that she stood in the center of. There was a torch on the wall furthest left from her, illuminating that side of her face and veiling the other side in shadow, making for an eerie image when she smiled. She sheathed her daggers, looking up to smile at Varric as she wiped the opaque specks of crimson on her face, leaving streaks across her sun-freckled cheeks. Her breastpiece and chainmail were dripping the dark blood, to the point where the blood would eventually begin to pool around her feet if she hadn't begun moving from fallen body to body in search of any kind of loot. Varric watched her, Bianca still in hand, while she squatted beside bodies of hurlocks. Even with her fitted chainmail and the well-worn leather she wore beneath, her backside could only be described as sublime. She would whip loose hair back, slick with sweat and blood belonging to the fallen darkspawn. Her fingers would travel their mutilated armor and flesh (which-was-which could be argued) and find a few treasures, a few coppers, even fewer salvageable weapons. A hand would be brought up to her face to flick a growing bead of sweat from her eyebrow, drawing his eyes to hers, which scanned the recent battlefield. Even as she knelt beside enemy carcasses, she still looked like some kind of omnipotent being, or some mythological goddess of bloody battle. A paragon too, perhaps, if Varric wanted to pretend she was a dwarf.
Maybe he was sweet on the human, but who wouldn't be, eh?
When he thought of that evening, and the other various battles with several other creatures and beings, he felt as though there was no need to sugar coat his stories in the gory details and the chicken shit that made people interested. He felt as though she already was the stuff of legends. She didn't need extra gory details or nug shit exaggerations to make her into a piece of history. She was the Champion of Kirkwall, after all.
Another wistful laugh into his tankard, "I once told a tale of hers where she fought off an ogre –she's fought many ogres –but in this story, I told people how this woman had torn off both his arms just with some carefully placed slashes from those trusty daggers." This was fable, naturally, but when he watched her interact with foes on the battlefield, she may have well torn off an ogre's limbs.
She certainly was the extreme type some days.
And not exclusively with combat, either.
He doubted anyone could match her ability to sweet talk out of just about everything, not even himself. Hell, she could talk a dragon into giving her his treasures if she so desired. Unfortunately she was on a strictly need-to-kill basis with dragons.
A mouth as sweet as those legs…
Maker, his eyes were beginning to glaze over. His chair felt as though it were missing a leg as his vision blurred and swayed. Of course, he was drunk. He turned his gaze back into the tankard when he noticed it was much lighter than it was at least ten minutes ago. Setting it down, he moved to step off the chair and wave goodbye to his drinking companion, those legs, but his motor functions failed him. Varric found himself toppling to the floor muttering "good talk" and "maybe I'll see you around some time". The legs shifted and stepped off its own chair before squatting down in a manner probably quite normal, though interpreted by Varric's own eyes as provocative and arousing.
He felt an arm wrap around his back and lift him to his feet before he stumbled forward toward the stairs, eyes following the mesmerizing strut.
He didn't even think to ask how the legs knew where he lived until they arrived at the edge of his bed. Even then, he failed to coherently ask before he was pushed onto the bed.
By the time he realized how exhausted he was, his eyes had drooped closed. He wasn't entirely sure, but he wanted to think that the sound he heard before he knocked out was Hawke's light laughter followed by her pronunciation of his name.
"Oh, Varric."