AN: This is a tiny bit gory at first, just so you know.
His hand was on fire.
Not literally, which was a bit of blessing considering how fast and loose Daisy tossed her spells around sometimes, but ah shit—
He gritted his teeth, and for the very first time since he'd met his soulmate and finally knew what it was to be complete, Varric considered kicking her really fucking hard.
The leather of his glove had parted like warm butter, his palm split wide open from between his ring and pinkie fingers, all the way across to the meaty part under his thumb, and now he was getting sand in it. Shit, shit, shit, every kind of shit.
His glove was beyond ruined, and there was blood on his coat, his own blood, with a dark droplet or two even falling onto the toe of his boot… Maker, he was furious.
"Bitch," he hissed very quietly, something he had never, ever called her before, but holy Andraste he meant it now. Bianca kept resting serenely where he'd dropped her at his feet, her wicked bayonet dripping with the proof of her spiteful, hateful betrayal, and Varric cursed again when the agony lancing up his arm informed him that no, he would not be moving his fingers just then.
"What's the problem—" Hawke glanced up from where she'd been appropriating a few trinkets from an unfortunate mercenary, or what was left of the man's faintly smoking corpse, but it was catching sight of him that made her blanch. "Maker, Varric, what happened? Are you all right?"
"No," he replied, maybe a little tersely… okay, maybe very tersely. It probably wouldn't have been so bad, even though the cut was nasty and deep, if it hadn't been his Biancawho'd done it to him. "Really, no. My hand—"
Hawke was darting to his side in an instant, crouching near his elbow and reaching out with her own hands already pulsing bright blue. Somewhere nearby, Daisy shrieked, but Varric didn't have the patience to reassure her. Later, he'd probably feel guilty for letting her fret; with Hawke occupied, that only left Fenris, and the Viscount of Broody wasn't likely to offer their sweet little blood mage a friendly shoulder.
There was a slight tingle in his palm, cutting through the white-hot throbbing, but then it stopped without taking any of the pain with it. Hawke was biting her lip, looking so apologetic that he thought he might throw up. If she couldn't do anything— if his hand, his right hand, was ruined—
Forget lockpicking and disarming traps. He'd have to learn how to play cards, how to write again—
"Varric, darling," Hawke said gently, but with an undercurrent of frantic haste. "I can't heal this with your glove still on. Do you… should I put you to sleep?"
Yanked out of that vortex of mounting dread, Varric nearly sagged with relief, even with the realization that actually removing his glove was going to be a blighted nightmare. Still, he would rather not be magically knocked out while they were stuck in the ass-end of nowhere, surrounded by dead mercenaries who might have friends waiting around the next hill.
"No, let's just do it." Flames, he hated the Wounded Coast. No sane person would intentionally get hot, sweaty, and bloody when there wasn't a single tavern for miles. After this, he was never stepping foot outside Kirkwall again. "If it's really bad, I'll pass out anyway."
He forced a weak little twitch of his mouth, not even close to a real smirk, and Hawke looked at him with wide green eyes glittering damply. "I'm so sorry, love," she murmured, and he locked his jaw so as not to curse a blue streak right in her face. Her fingers took very careful hold of the edge of his glove, but it didn't matter how slow or gentle she went— pulling still meant blinding pain, more blood, and as a special added bonus, a very clear view of exactly how deeply he'd managed to stab himself. The wound stretched when tacky leather stuck to his skin, there may have been a flash of bone, and passing out was starting to seem like a better idea all the time.
As soon as the glove finally tugged free of his fingers, that blue glow of healing flared to life and started prickling through him again. Flesh began to knit together very sluggishly, and somehow the sight of that was much worse than the previous gore; in one last ditch attempt to avoid heaving his guts up all over the sand, Varric shifted his attention to Hawke's face.
Her expression was completely intent, right down to the little line between her eyebrows and the way she was simply holding her bottom lip between her teeth, not gnawing at all. It was cute, but would have been cuter if she was pouring over some arcane tome instead of his nasty hand, especially if she was reading it in bed. A combination of blood loss and the weird, calming feeling of healing magic was making him slightly woozy, but the distraction of his imagination taking such a jaunt was entirely welcome. Hawke, all curled up in his bed, reading… reading naked, but draped in his sheets just enough to make it tantalizing—
Hawke made a small, frustrated sound. "I wish Anders was here," she muttered, shaking him out of his daydreaming. "I couldn't… there's a scar."
Shit, mages were always so dramatic. Varric stopped himself from explaining exactly how little he cared about a blighted scar, since without her magic he'd probably be down a couple of fingers. "Relax, sweetheart," he said instead, hazarding a glance at the thick line of fresh pink skin slicing across his bloody palm. It wasn't even as big as he'd thought, and it was pretty smooth, too. "It'll make for good stories, and women go crazy for scars. It's getting outrageous just how irresistible I am."
He'd been trying to get a laugh, but he got a kiss instead— not a remotely bad trade, all things considered, even if he could taste the desperation and fear still humming through Hawke. He would have cupped her face, soothing the tension out of her jaw, but his hands were way too filthy, so he tried to make due with slanting his mouth and trying to calm her by slowing the kiss down a bit. It wasn't particularly effective, and on a different day, Varric might have complained about the death grip she had on the sides of his head while she took violent possession of his mouth. This was not a kiss meant for public scrutiny, and he heard Daisy giggle.
"Hawke," he gasped when she finished bruising his lips, watching as she pressed her forehead against his, eyes closed and breath coming slow but shallow. "It's all right, babe. I'm fine."
"I know," she murmured, barely audible, and still didn't open her eyes. "Just let me be ridiculous for a minute, please?"
"I love it when you're ridiculous." Careful to only touch her with the driest patch of blood and dirt, Varric stroked his knuckles gently along her jaw. "You can tell, since I still drag my ass all over this blighted coast whenever you ask, and I'd camp out here with the bugs and the bandits for a fortnight if it meant making you smile. How's that?"
It managed to draw a smile from her, at least. Mouth twisting up slightly, Hawke inhaled deeply and opened her eyes. "Terribly romantic. Mawkish, even."
"Not losing my touch, then. Good to know."
They trudged back into the city a couple of hours later, and before he could even think to ask, Hawke was nodding thanks and goodbyes to their elven companions and ushering him towards the Hanged Man. Towards his familiar, comfortable suite, his own bed, and his rather extensive liquor cabinet.
If he'd ever entertained any doubts that he loved this woman with every bit of his heart… Maker's breath.
There were also a great many wonderful perks to having a mage around, some less obvious than others (and some much more intimate, but he needed to sit and catch his breath, preferably with dram or two of whisky before he thought too long in that direction). Easy access to hot water was one of those things he rarely considered, until a situation like this presented itself— he was itchy and sore, skin caked with sweat and dirt and way too much of his own blood. He'd wiped some of it off with seawater, but the bitter salt was nearly as uncomfortable when it dried as the grime.
Somewhere between weaving around the drunk-and-disorderlies that populated the tavern's lower floor, and stumbling into his rooms, Varric lost track of Hawke. If his head hadn't been pounding fit to crack his skull, he might have gone back down to make sure she hadn't gotten dragged into some inane conversation with one of the regulars, or wrangled by Isabela, but his feet were already busy toeing off his boots. Going sock-foot in the Hanged Man was just begging for trouble, whether in the form of broken glass, mysterious wetness, or some hideous, rotting disease. Tossing his coat aside as well, somewhere in the vicinity of a chair, Varric groaned and ambled over to his pitcher and washbasin.
Bianca… well, Bianca he left propped against the wall just next to his bedroom. He hadn't quite decided what to do with her yet.
The water was cool, but good enough to get the worst of the lingering muck from under his nails. He splashed his face before he muddied the basin up too badly, and was shaking the excess droplets out of his hair when Hawke finally made her appearance, slipping into his room with Corff and the new kitchen boy, Jerran, in tow. The men were carrying a large metal tub between them, already sloshing, a little less than half-full with what looked like water.
Varric raised one brow, patting his face with a clean cloth, but Hawke simply smiled impishly and turned to Corff, pressing some coin into the man's hand before tossing a silver to the boy as well. "Two more buckets should do it, Jerran. Thank you."
"Right away, messere." The silver disappeared into Jerran's pocket so fast, it was as if it had never been, and the boy was scuttling out of the room not much slower. Corff was a bit less manic about the whole thing, thanking Hawke before offering Varric a nod and taking his leave.
He had a tub already— a squatty thing, big enough to sit in but not soak for too long without getting a cramp. Anything bigger was a pain in the ass to get filled, and hey, now that he had access to a fancy Hightown estate whenever he liked, it was even less of an issue. Hawke had a beautiful copper tub at home, large enough for the pair of them to soak in together even if they got a bit frisky, and it was glorious.
The tub Corff had brought was roomier than his, but smaller than Hawke's, and Varric thought he might recognise it as the tin washtub ostensibly used for scrubbing the Hanged Man's linens. It didn't exactly look… worn out.
He could have made a joke of it, but the thought of a bath, a long, hot bath with Marian…
"Don't tell the Chantry," he said instead, raking one hand back through his slightly damp hair; his leather cord fell to the floor, unheeded. "But you are a goddess."
In no time at all, Jerran returned with the last of the water (and got another silver for his trouble, and for Hawke's generous heart), and Varric watched as his goddess turned a puddle into a paradise, calling up just enough flame to make steam rise from the tub. He didn't even have to ask whether or not he'd earned some company, either, as her robes fell away to reveal all that creamy, gorgeous skin.
Sparing a glance between him (also quite naked at this point, and drawing closer), and the tub, Hawke tilted her head for a moment, then stepped into the steaming water with a hiss. Watching that long, luscious body sink under the water was almost a tragedy, if only for the faint obscuring effect of the ripples and the steam, but then his lady beckoned, and Varric was helpless to do anything but obey.
Granted, he made a brief detour to grab a rather nice bottle of whisky and one glass, but then he was all hers.
The water was almost too hot, but after overcoming the initial shock, it was utter bliss. The heat started leeching into his muscles almost immediately, soothing away a day full of particularly stressful aches, and the slick press of Hawke's thighs against his ribs was certainly helping too. Working around the bulk of his shoulders and the length of her legs could be a bit tricky when deciding a good position to share a bathtub, but this time his back against her chest seemed to work pretty well.
Yanking the stopper free, he poured a healthy dose of liquor into the glass, then offered it to Hawke first. She didn't move to take it, just steadied the back of his hand with her fingers as she sipped over his shoulder. He smiled at that, and she smiled back so sweetly it made his chest pang, before she darted in for a brief, whisky-flavoured kiss.
If he weren't sure his muscles would have staged a coup, he would have wriggled around and ravished her right then and there, leisurely soak be damned. Reining himself in just a bit, he managed to take a long swallow of whisky rather than another taste of Marian, setting the empty glass carefully on the floor beside the tub.
Sliding lower, letting the water lap up against his collarbones, Varric made absolutely no attempt to stifle his deep, contented groan when her fingers started carding through his hair. He'd never in his life found a more comfortable place to rest his head than on her soft, supple breasts… except possibly the inside of her thigh. That was an outstanding pillow.
One of her hands strayed, squeezing at his neck and shoulder as it trailed down, and Varric arched into the touch. "Mmm yeah, okay. This… this was possibly your greatest idea ever, Beautiful. At least top five."
Hawke chuckled warmly, pressing a kiss against his temple. "What can I say? Maybe divine inspiration?" She was stroking down his arm, lower and lower, until finally she caught his wrist, lifting his hand out of the soothing water to run her thumb gently over the his latest, brightly pink scar.
He waited, ignoring the faint ghosts of pain that were really only in his memory, and let her deal with whatever phantom hurts were plaguing her. He'd had worse than a cut on the hand, and so had she (nearly having her head torn off by that gargantuan spider in the Deep Roads sprang to mind, but Varric dismissed the ugly memories as quickly as they came). Something was different now.
"I love your hands," she said eventually, with quiet words muffled against the skin of his neck. "I love that they're so much bigger than mine, rougher and forever warmer. I love that they're a hundred times more nimble than they look, and a thousand times gentler."
"Marian—" She shushed him, abandoning his hair to wrap her free arm tight around his chest, pulling him closer. Where this was all coming from, he wasn't quite ready to guess, but despite what the rumours suggested, Varric Tethras did indeed know when to shut up.
"I love your hands," she said again, and the feel of her teeth catching and tugging on one of his earrings, all hot breath and promise, was enough to make his hips jerk, water splashing dangerously close to the lip of the tub. "And I would love nothing more than to have them all over me, right now."
Well. He could do that.
Turning to face her, balancing on his knees against the bottom of the tub, Varric would have grabbed the edge for some added support, but he'd been given a very clear directive. Hands. Hawke. All over.
Still, as fantastic as that sounded, he was a sucker for multitasking. Sinking one arm under the water to tease her thigh and the curve of her hip, he slid very close, nuzzling just under her jaw.
"Mm, Marian," he murmured, and was rewarded with fingers raking through his chest hair as she sighed and wriggled so beautifully. It was almost a crime to distract her from petting him, but he was a dwarf on a mission.
While waiting for Jerran to come back with the last buckets of water, Varric had gathered up his usual basket of bathing supplies, and now he craned one arm over the side of the tub, straining to reach his prize even as he peppered Hawke's neck with firm, wet kisses. She tasted like water, but also still of sweat and dust— he had just the thing to fix that, once he managed to catch hold of it.
Hawke liked his soap, which was sweet in a slightly weird way. The Hightown shops certainly weren't hurting for fancy, fragrant oils and bubble baths, but he still found himself paying twice as many visits to that smarmy Antivan merchant in the bazaar. Hawke had absolutely no scruples about blatantly filching his freshly bought cakes of plain, sandalwood soap, whether or not he had any extra on hand.
When he'd asked why in the Void, possibly a little bit annoyed but mostly curious, she'd blushed so prettily. Then she'd deflected, and told him he could come up to Hightown for a bath anytime he found himself without soap, which even his well-honed business sense agreed was a damn good deal. He dropped the subject, but didn't forget the question.
He wasn't a stupid man; he was, in fact, particularly clever, and not nearly humble enough to doubt it. She wanted his smell near her. That was just too sexy for words, and Maker knew he had a lot of words at his disposal.
Finally catching hold of his target, Varric drew back, smirking a little as Hawke blinked at him with wide eyes already gone a bit glassy. Dipping the soap in the water, he quickly worked up a thick lather between his hands, then held the sudsy cake out towards her.
"Hold this for me, would you, babe? I'm going to need both hands for this." Obviously warming to his intentions, Hawke bit her bottom lip and took the soap without argument. As a reward for being so agreeable, Varric decided to lay off teasing her (for the moment, at least), and immediately started stroking over her collarbones and shoulders, leaving glistening, fragrant trails with every swipe of his hands. It wasn't quite as conducive to a good scrub as using a washcloth, but when Hawke arched into his touch, her beautiful breasts straining towards him, the practical portion of the exercise became a very distant secondary concern.
"Is that good?" Sliding his hands down, skimming along her ribs, dipping under the water then back up to her breasts, Varric managed to draw an almost strangled whimper from his lover, thumbs grazing her wet, pebbled nipples. "Talk to me, Beautiful."
Marian Hawke was the first woman Varric had ever met who could render him speechless on a fairly regular basis. Sure, she loved the sound of his voice, and on one very memorable occasion he had actually managed to talk her to orgasm (the thought of it still made his cock pulse with want and no small amount of pride— they hadto try that again soon), but she also loved reducing him to a gibbering mess whenever the mood struck her.
At this point, he found himself in a similar sort of mood.
Her cheeks were already flushed, and not just from the heat of the water, but when he started plucking at her breasts just exactly how she liked— gentle at first, rolling, then pinching harder after every hitch in her breathing— her colour darkened from pink to vivid cherry. Her slippery thighs were spread around his ribs, impossibly long legs wrapped around his back, and he could feel every lift and shudder of her hips as she sought some friction against any part of him she could reach.
"Talk," he said again, leaning close enough to blow a stream of cool air, chilling one firm nipple to near diamond hardness. Gasping sharply, Hawke's head fell back against the rim of the tub with a quiet thud.
"Maker, Varric… what…" Flicking his tongue out for a brief taste, Varric twisted his fingers lightly around her other neglected nipple at the same time, not wanting to play favourites. The flavour the soap added to her skin left something to be desired, but it wasn't horrendous. They served worse downstairs. "Ah, Andraste's pyre… stop blighted teasing and suck me—"
"As my lady commands," he rumbled, not even making a cursory attempt to hide the smugness in his tone, and the moment Hawke lifted her head to snap at him, he latched onto her breast with lips and tongue, and slipped his free hand down to play between her legs. She was already slick and molten, hiccupping out a surprised cry and fucking herself on his fingers with urgency that might have been funny if it wasn't so incredibly scorching hot…
Tugging lightly with his teeth, Varric rolled his thumb just so over the little pearl of nerves tucked away between her folds, faster and faster to mimic the movements of her hips, and the water rolled in waves around them, cresting over the edge of the tub to splash softly against the floorboards as she bucked under his touch. He didn't hear it happen, didn't notice or care, because Hawke was chanting his name over and over, with all the unwavering concentration she had when spellcasting, though he'd never heard her voice tremble like thatwhen casting a glyph. Regardless, this had to be some kind of magic— how else could a simple (Hawke? No, never simple, never easy or ordinary) human woman make him feel like he'd been declared a Paragon every time he made her come?
"So beautiful," he mumbled into the soft cushion of her heaving chest, hoarse words slipping in between suckles and nips. Watching her come apart was incredible, with her rosy lips parted and her wide green eyes blown dark, eyelashes fluttering. "So beautiful, Marian… You love my hands on you, inside you…" Twisting his fingers, seeking and finding, Varric couldn't help but grin when he felt her toes curl, digging into the small of his back.
A few things happened at once. Withdrawing just enough to press against that spot, all the while still strumming at her pearl with his thumb, Varric felt his cock twitch in sympathy (or possibly jealousy), as Marian tumbled wildly into bliss. Her back arched, her chanting transforming into a soft, reedy wail as she clamped around his fingers, pulsing. And the soap, all but forgotten, shot like a bolt out of her tightened fist, arcing gracefully through the air before landing and skittering under one of his bookshelves.
Yes, he was still awfully turned on and all but gagging to drag her over to the bed and lose himself in a bout of damp, desperate, pounding sex (possibly while she was still quivering from the first orgasm), but by all his beady-eyed Ancestors, the pitiful fate of that damned soap was hysterical.
So instead of manhandling his lax, boneless lover up out of the tub (which admittedly would have been a bit awkward, but not an impossible for a resourceful dwarf), Varric found himself pulling her close and muffling his helpless laughter against her neck. It wasn't as dashingly romantic as it could have been, but it did get him long, gentle fingers stroking through his hair, and a magnificently naked, reasonably debauched woman giggling along with him.
Eventually they did make it to the bed, cleaner and dryer than they would have been had his plan for the romantic ravishing worked out. Realistically, it was less of a pain in the ass if they didn't soak the sheets and the mattress through with bathwater— goose down and wool flock took forever to dry, and didn't always have the most attractive smell when they got too damp. Those considerations, coupled with the fact that Varric still found himself splayed out on his back, being ridden, kissed, and caressed by possibly the sweetest, sexiest woman in Thedas… he easily counted that as a win.
She was scratching her nails over his chest, fingertips sparking with the occasional jolt of magic, and every slow roll of her hips sent lightning through his nerves that had nothing to do with her arcane powers. This had become languorous, tender lovemaking, with whispered words and soft kisses, and despite the tightness in his balls, Varric would have been content to stay just like that for an age.
Marian Hawke had turned him into a fucking sap, but he adored her anyway.
"Varric," she murmured, rubbing a suddenly icy finger around one of his nipples, making him hiss. He loved it when she played dirty. "Tell me you love me."
A few months before, and that gently spoken request probably would have made his throat close up, not to mention sent his cock trying to crawl up into his gut. A couple of years before, and he would have been out of that bed so fast, possibly out of Kirkwall, that the drunks downstairs would've sworn on their mothers' pyres that they'd seen a naked, flying dwarf, or possibly a giant, very well-hung pigeon.
Now, with this woman in this bed, Varric didn't even stutter.
"I love you." Cupping the back of her neck, blowing a few damp strands of her soft brown hair out of his face, he guided her in for a deep, wet kiss, all tongues and moist lips teasing. She drank him in, moaning and rocking her hips just a bit faster, and the quiet bubble they'd built was straining to burst.
She came first, panting and jerking against him, and he dug his heels hard into the mattress, thrusting quick and staccato as his vision narrowed and he followed her over the precipice.
When the dust settled, he had a limp, leggy woman lounging against his chest, both of them all tacky with sweat. He also had utterly no interest in moving, possibly ever again, unless the arm she'd cradled her head on started to go numb.
She was kissing his palm, brushing her lips gently over his new scar, and if he glanced over the top of her head, he could just see Bianca, silent and still, propped against the wall.
He hadn't cleaned her since they'd been back, not even to shake the sand out of her mechanisms. The salt air of the coast wasn't exactly kind to her finish, either; a thorough dismantling and oiling would probably be necessary, or at least a good idea, and he knew her string could use some wax.
She still had his blood on her. He wasn't about to forget that.
He took good care of Bianca, no less now than he had before he'd started taking care of Marian (not in the same way, no matter what the filthy rumour merchants peddled around— a man could be passionate about his crossbow without things getting weird). In return, she took good care of him; up until this incident, she'd been the most trustworthy, surest weapon he'd ever had his hands on. She was special.
He had no reason to feel guilty, he hadn't been neglecting her, and shit, she'd seen more action than a crossbow twice her age, just in the years since he'd offered some hotshot dog lord refugee a stake in Bartrand's insane expedition. Killing bandits and other lowlifes, blood mages, slavers, giant spiders, rock wraiths… It was a fantastic life for a weapon whose primary function was to end life.
Sighing, confused and worn out, Varric decided this was all too crazy to think about when he'd just been fucked into oblivion, thank you very much. Playing with the curling ends of Hawke's hair, humming quietly to himself, Varric drummed up enough forgiveness to offer his Bianca a small, private smile.
He was a smart, adaptive kind of man. They'd make it work.