Note: This fic takes place in the Maker's series. Just after Adamant.
He ran. The way was open, the lime slash spread to show the dark colors of his world, the harsh red of fire and the deep blue of night, so he ran. His legs were shorter, so he ran as fast as he could, not willing to hold anyone up waiting for him. They had to get out of here. Hawke, Stroud and the Inquisitor were right behind him. He knew that. Just ahead of him Dorian cleared the rift, his skin bathed in the clear white light of the midnight moon, free at last of the garish green pallor the fade had cast on them all. A few more steps and Varric has crossed the threshold too, the muggy heat of the Beyond replaced by the crisp winter air. He breathed deeply, taking relief in it.
And then a great piercing screech echoed though the fade behind him. He turned, peering through the fissure between the worlds, to see an enormous spider beast descend, cutting the three trailing party members off from their exit. Including Hawke.
He felt his throat closing, the bottom fell out of his stomach.
"We need to clear a path," Stroud shouted, huge ridiculous mustache flapping. How can I hear him? Varric's thoughts echoed dumbly in his head. The Warden was far away, but he could hear him as if they were shoulder to shoulder.
"Go!" Hawke ordered. "I'll cover you!" She wasn't used to not being in charge. This was the Inquisitor's call, really, but she gave the command anyway.
Stroud shook his head. "No," he objected. "You were right. The Grey Wardens started this. A Warden must – "
Hawke was having none of it. He could see her, hear her as if he was where he ought to have been – at her side. "A warden must help them rebuild! That's your job." She drew her blade, and leveled a dangerous blood-lust filled smile at the arachnid beast. "Coryphaeus is mine."
Varric felt sick. But then, hope. "Hawke," Fitzwilliam began slowly. She would head the Inquisitor's commands, surely. She was not so consumed with making amends for freeing Coryphaeus that she would disobey if he ordered her out, surely?
But he could see her eyes, the stubborn squint, the set jaw. She didn't give him time to give the order. "Say goodbye to Varric for me," she said in a tight voice. And then she was off, charging at the beast muttering, "Spiders, always the Maker-damned spiders!" She swung the sword true, drawing huge gashes and spraying acidic blood.
The Inquisitor and Stroud ran from the fade. Varric blinked to find Dorian had pulled him away from the opening, restrained him. He hadn't remembered telling his feet to move, but they had carried him toward her. Back into hell, where he needed to be. Everything was happening is disjointed flashes. The Mark flared and the rift closed. Hawke trapped inside. He couldn't tell if he could hear her scream or if he imagined it. It didn't feel real. Didn't feel right. Varric jogged up to the Inquisitor.
"Where's Hawke?" He asked slowly, his wits fogged. The eyes of fellow fighters averted from him. No one would meet his imploring gaze. No one spoke. "Fitzwilliam," Varric demanded again, voice hard, brow furrowed. "Where's Hawke!"
But he didn't need to hear the words. He knew them. The long look of devastation on his friend's face was enough. He couldn't do this he… he ran off.
…
The Inquisitor was approaching the hearth in Skyhold's hall. The dwarf could hear him coming and didn't let him speak. Varric kept his back to him and as soon as he was close enough he started, "Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke was on a Merchant Guild hit list?" Varric turned, looking up at the Inquisitor as he began his tale. "Hawke's uncle got into an investment scheme with a couple of Merchant Caste businessmen.
"They took a lot of people's coin in order to arrange the import of Wandering Hills from the Anderfels. A delicacy I'm told. Their weird, foreign foodstuffs arrived... alive. And one of them, true to its name, wandered off in the middle of the night." Varric's voice floundered, his face crumpled, remembering her, unable to taunt and tease her about it as he would have were she here. He squeezed his eyes shut. He could almost see her, smell her.
Warm arms enfolded him and Varric knew he was breaking the Inquisitor's heart. The loss was weighing on Fitz too but despite that he was still here, trying to sooth Varric. He wanted to blame the man, hate him, but he knew if Hawke had made up her mind there was nothing any of them could have done. So, he just let the Inquisitor hug him.
When he felt steady again he pulled back, ending the embrace. "Shit… anyway…" He cleared his throat. "The guild... traced the shipment to Hawke's uncle, but as usual, he was so far in debt he couldn't see daylight. So they went after Hawke instead. They sent guys from the local Carta to Hawke's estate one night. Five big dusters, armed to the teeth. They kick in the door, and Hawke yells "You're just in time!" and drags them over to a game of Wicked Grace."
He managed a small laugh, though it sounded half-sob. "They played two hands of cards before the city guard showed up to take them away! A couple of them became regulars in our weekly game."
Varric shrugged, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he looked up at Fitzwilliam. "Hawke just... had that effect on people." The Inquisitor smiled back, but didn't say anything. Varric rubbed the back of his neck. "Thanks," he said sincerely. "I always wanted to tell that one."
"It's a great story," Fitz agreed. His voice had gone rough too.
Varric half-turned back to the fire. It was soothing, hypnotic, to get lost in those flames. "I guess I've got some letters to write," he muttered. That was what people did in situations like this, right? "I should tell Merrill the news."
"Okay," Fitzwilliam said reluctantly. He could tell the inquisitor wanted to object, or make sure he was really okay, but he didn't press.
Varric took a couple of steps toward the stair up to his rooms but paused just at the landing. "This story," he called back over his shoulder, "is no good for heroes."
VVV
Varric started awake, shaking and sweating, heart pounding. It had felt so real. But it was just a dream. He knew it was. Hawke was in her room, cocooned in her silken bedding and downy mattress like a beautiful dangerous butterfly. The actual memories of their trip to Adamant came flooding back. Hawke had come through the fade – and Stroud had been lost. Relief flooded him, followed closely by immense guilt for feeling it. "Ancestors," he groaned into the dark of his room. "I'm the worst man alive."
"The fiery mage, the butcher," an unfocused, matter-of-fact voice called from the window ledge. Varric jumped, scrambling for a dagger before he knew what was happening. "Templar, solider, cook's man," the voice kept on in a sing-songy tone. Varric could see the shadow swaying back and forth, the silhouette of an outstretched hand ticking off the count on his fingers.
"Shit," he swore roughly, tucking the dagger away. "You can't sneak up on a man like that Cole. I could have hurt you."
"You would have felt bad," Cole said seriously. "But you already feel bad. I want to help."
Varric rubbed his face again, trying to rough the tired itch from his eyes. "I'm fine, kid," he sighed.
Cole did not move, but something about his shadow, backlit by the window, shifted and his voice gained the dreamy lilt it often did when he dipped into people's heads. "Compulsion, fixation, consuming. Denial, redirection. Words stuck in my throat. Mouth dry, uncooperative. Pick up the pen." Varric felt confused and entranced by the words, so otherworldly, floating on air half-hot with the fire's coals, half-chilled from the window the boy had opened to gain his perch.
"The ink glides smooth," Cole continued evenly. "I lay her upon the sheets. Her body there, soft curves and hard lines. Her heart. Thump. Thump. My hand pressed to the page. It pulses. I write. Different names, different faces, but it's her. It's always her. Now she will endure. Continue on through the ages to come. Stenciled into arts not yet invented – in ears and on tongues not yet conceived."
Cole stood, moving toward the desk. Its top was littered with sheaves of papers, and loose pages, and crumpled, discarded drafts. The boy looked down at them, his profile just visible in the dim moonlight. "I have read her with my eyes," he said. His hand reached out, plucking up a sheet. "Held her in my hands."
Without another word Cole moved to the side of the bed and dropped the paper. It fluttered to the bed before him, slow and subtle, as if in a dream. This Being the Telling of the Lady of the Hills and Her Forgotten Love, Varric read, his mind turning sluggishly. He looked up at Cole, eyes pooling with questions.
"You didn't know. I thought everyone knew," Cole said with a smile. "No wonder you hurt so loudly." His smiled faded. Varric had seen the kid look this serious before, but, well, not aimed at him. "I should go," he said. The dwarf couldn't tell if Cole was expressing his own thoughts or reading his.
He couldn't go now, could he? Andraste, it was still pitch out. Hawke would kill him for waking her unless it was important. Varric shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them, Cole was gone. "Just go back to sleep, nug-head," Varric grumbled to himself. And he did. He lay back down, closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
VVV
Varric woke just in time to look out his window and spot the lingering pinks of the rising sun. He felt better than the night before, lighter, his sleep undisturbed by further dreams of the fade and the tragedy that could have been. He washed and dressed, and found that he was whistling as he made his way through the tower and across the battlements. This would be a good day, he decided. He would have breakfast, write a bit, chat up Prickles if the opportunity presented itself. Maybe even play a hand of cards with the others.
As his mind had wandered, so had his feet. He was knocking on someone's door, where was he? It swung open. There, before him, stood Hawke in all her glory. Leather trousers, loose white shirt, leather wraps winding up about her wrists and forearms. She was going to train today. He could tell by that outfit. "Varric?" She said looking down at him. "All right?"
Before he realized what was happening he was pushing past her into the room. "What is wrong with you?" He shouted, turning about face to find her closing the door and whipping around to glare at him.
"Excuse me?" She said, voice dangerous and slow.
There was some small, obviously hidden, part of Varric's brain that tried to warn him off, but it was overpowered by something else. "You," he said an accusing and unsteady, finger pointed up at her. "You tried to stay." Her brow furrowed. "At Adamant. I know you tried to stay. Stubborn, stupid, bull-headed woman." He saw heat flash in her eyes. He ignored it. "How could you do that?" He finally shut up. Too late. Hawke was glaring, and trembling, ready to fight.
"I did what I knew had to be done. Someone had to stay, Varric," she managed through grit teeth. He ought to have been impressed with her restraint, but he was just annoyed by her defense.
"But why does 'someone' always have to be you, Hawke?" He yelled.
"That's who I am Varric," she shouted in return, hands clenched into fists at her side, striding over and looking down at him. "I make the sacrifice, I fight the fight. Without that, who am I?"
That same small part of his brain from before was pricking at him, trying to get him to acknowledge what she was saying. "Without that you're Hawke, Hawke," Varric growled. "You're still you. You still fight, with everyone, every chance you get, apparently!"
"What in the void is wrong with you this morning," Hawke huffed.
"I can't stop thinking about it, Hawke. Losing you. I can see it, I dream it. My best friend trapped behind a wall to a world I can never touch. It's a thousand times worse than when you vanished into the wilds," he explained, voice tight with emotion. Her hand reached out to his shoulder and he flinched, expecting a blow that didn't come. Instead, it alighted there, soft, graceful, comforting.
"I didn't want to leave you Varric," she said at last. His eyes fluttered shut even as his hand lifted to cover hers. He squeezed her fingers gently.
"I know," he said in a whisper of a breath. "But I don't know who I am without you, Hawke." The hand left his shoulder, forcing his arm to drop to his side and hang loosely. He could hear the shuffle of her bare feet across the stone, the creaking of the low bed as she sat upon it, the slide of her hands across silken bedding. He had made her uneasy. She made space when she didn't feel comfortable. He kicked himself. "It wasn't supposed to go like this," he sighed, spinning to look at her. She had slumped onto the bed, half-folded over her knees, face looking to the floor, but he could see how wide her eyes had gone. "If I wrote it like this no one would read it. This is not how romance is done. Sorry, Hawke."
Her chin lifted, locking their gazes intensely. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" She asked. Her face was a jumble of so many different things that he couldn't make out any single one with any clarity. It was blasted hard to know what she wanted to hear if he couldn't read her, so he went with blatant truth, consequences be damned. Varric nodded slowly, knowing he must have looked downright apologetic about the whole thing. "What about Bianca?"
Varric scoffed. "Oh, I know exactly who I am without her." Hawke raised an eyebrow, a silent inquiry. "Free," he clarified.
Hawke waved a hand. "I don't understand I thought –"
"I loved her?" Varric finished for her. She nodded. "Yeah me too," he admitted. "I thought love was all sweeping emotion. That the strength of it was what mattered. Pain or pleasure, either way, as long as it was overwhelming."
"And that's not what it is?" She asked in a small voice.
Varric shook his head. "No, I don't think it is." He felt like he was fumbling. He needed a way to explain that he understood, dammit. "The characters I write, the ones based on Bianca," he tried again. "They never go over well. She's too selfish, readers can't understand why the hero is fascinated with her, why he would endure her. The romances the readers fall for are the ones full of honesty, careful consideration, small everyday gestures. Those are the romances that sell. The ones people want.
"Bianca was all dramatics and longing and the thrill of the unavailable." Varric sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. "That's not love. That's folly."
"Love makes fools of us all," Hawke quoted with a smirk.
"Truer words," he agreed gesturing to himself. He rolled his neck back and looked up at the ceiling, groaning, "I buggered this." He heard Hawke snicker. "Well," he continued, dropping his head back down to look at her, "as long as it's buggered anyway, I have to know." Hawke leveled him with an even gaze, inviting his question.
"When you tried to stay," he said slowly, "did you think of me at all?"
Hawke pulled the corner of her lower lip into her mouth and worried the red flesh between her teeth, nodding ever so slightly. She looked contrite, guilty. "I did," she confessed. "In fact, you were the only regret I had. Not getting to say goodbye to you."
That genuinely surprised him. He'd hopped she would have bemoaned their lack of farewell, but he didn't expect to be the only thing on the list. After all, there had been many regrettable things in her past – Carver's accident, Kirkwall, Anders. They were more important.
"It's not like it would have stopped me," she said in a rush. "But yeah, I worried about you. You're the best friend I have ever had Varric. You're… you're family."
Varric felt himself deflate a little at that. It made sense and it was a declaration of feeling, but it wasn't the one he had wanted to hear. Still, he'd take a life at her side under any label. "I'm sorry I barged in on you like this," he said finally moving over to the bed. He took a moment to appreciate the low set of it, practically just a mattress on the floor with a fancy frame, now more than ever, as it put her in a rare position – at his eye level. "I didn't plan it, or anything."
She smiled at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "That much," she said softly, "was obvious."
"Such a brat," Varric sighed dramatically.
"You love it," she jested. It was a familiar phrase. One she had used a hundred times over the course of their friendship.
"Yeah," he said, amazement and awe filling the mild timber of his voice. "I do."
She closed her eyes, the bow of her lips still curved up slightly, red and wet and lovely. He leaned forward instinctually, his body and mind working together. For this one moment they agreed upon the best course of action. Nothing in the world could be greater than this, he decided. It was worth the pummeling she would likely give him after. He pressed his lips to hers, tender and slow, a silky slide of skin. He kissed, and he waited. Waited for the moment she pulled back, waited for her to make a sound of disgust or apology.
The sound came, but it was neither of those things – it was a deep sound, rolling up from far inside her chest, a moan and a sigh as her lips sprang to life, dancing with his own. He felt like someone had doused him in cold water and sat him beside a raging fire all at once. His hands lifted, touching her face, her cheek, her chin, sliding down to cup her neck, tilting their heads and slanting his mouth over hers, deepening the kiss. He could feel her tremble, gooseflesh suddenly tactile under his fingertips. His hand buried itself in the short fringe of her dark hair as she reached out and let her hands caress him, sweeping across scratchy stubble, down to where red kinks poked out of the open "v" of his tunic. The fingers curled, fisting the hair, and tugged gently. It was his turn to moan, the sound becoming imprisoned between them.
When it ended they were panting, eyes closed, foreheads pressed close. Their breath, hot and staggered, mingled between them. Hawke had never been a woman of subtlety, and when she had caught her breath her hands wandered to the fastener hooks which held his tunic closed. "I want you Varric," she sighed, lips falling to his neck as her deft fingers worked open his clothing.
His head rolled back, appreciative sounds fighting through his control. Blighted conscious, he swore inwardly. "Hakwe, I can't. I want to. Maker," he growled, "I want to, but I can't."
She pulled her head back and looked up at him like he'd sprouted a second head and it was speaking gibberish. "What?" She asked. "Sure you can, I know you can. I've heard you doing it!"
Varric chuffed a small laugh. "No, that's not what I mean," he said patiently. His hand rested on her neck, but his thumb swept across her jaw consolingly. "This is just a line I can't cross, sweetheart. Not if I'm ever gonna be able to move on."
"Move on?" She parroted. "To where? From what? What are you talking about?"
Varric screwed up all the courage his shattered ego could scrape together. "It's fine that you don't feel the same way," he said. "Really, it is. These things happen. But if we do this," he gestured between them with his free hand, "I'm never gonna be able to forget it. You're like a drug, Marian, and I'll never find anything as strong."
Her eyes went wide, her mouth fell open, the slightest parting of her lips. His tongue snaked out, moistening his own. He wanted to kiss her again. "You said my name," she whispered dreamily. Varric furrowed his brow and tried to concentrate.
"Sorry," he said. "What?"
"You said my name, and I didn't hate it," she clarified, speech picking up speed as she went. "I always hate it when people say my name. It's a stupid name, Varric. I loathe it. It's a name than invokes roses and sonnets and sugary empty words. I hate when people use my name."
"I apologize?" He said again, still confused.
"Oh, shut up, will you? Just this once, shut up and listen," she chided. His mouth closed with an audible click. "I didn't hate it. I liked it, Varric. I like when you touch me, I liked your lips on mine, I liked feeling you. I like when you out drink me, and when you read to me. I like when you steal my knife and play with it until I notice. I like that you treat me like I can handle myself, but I know you're there when I need you. And those things, those things are all amazing and wonderful and they've been pointing to one thing. One thing so huge and obvious that we are both utter fools for not seeing it." It had all come out in a rush, one long breath that had gone so thin that when the words stopped she had to gulp in more air.
He had no idea what she was going on about. "I have no idea what you're going on about," he said.
"I love you," she said, grinning.
Varric managed a lopsided smile. "I know," he said. "I'm family, you said."
She narrowed her eyes at him, lips pursed, scowling. "Don't be an idiot," she warned. "Think about what I am saying."
"I heard you, Hawke," he sighed. "You love me. I get it."
She scoffed loudly, rolling her eyes. Her hands fisted in his half-opened tunic and she used all the strength in her considerably well-muscled arms to pull him close and capture his lips again. His eyes went big as saucers, but he had to admit it was nice getting to kiss her again. He was just easing into it and starting to relax when she pulled back, breaking contact. She tucked a finger under the scruff of his chin and lifted his eyes to meet her deep, imploring gaze. "I. Am. In. Love. With. You. Varric. Teth-ras," she said slowly, pointedly, letting each syllable sink in one at a time.
He blinked. He blinked again. "Because I said your name?" He asked stupidly.
She smiled and shook her head. "Because I liked the way it sounds when you say it," she corrected. He nodded slowly, his thoughts coming like winter sap.
"You're in love with me," he said again. She tried to hide her amusement behind a wry grin and bobbed her head in affirmation. "Me, Varric." She nodded again. "And I," he said carefully, "am in love with you."
"So I hear," she quipped.
"Maker," he sighed, huge smile finally breaking free and splitting his face. "What are we waiting for?" She laughed, a sound so free and easy and beautiful that it might have been a chime – something beautiful and dangerous, like wind catchers crafted from bottles broken in a bar-room brawl. Then she leaned back, and pulled the crisp white tunic over her head in one smooth motion, taking his breath with it, pulled from his lungs and tossed on the floor with the linen.
She sat before him, chest wrapped in gauze, skin bared, forearms still incased in soft leather strips. He could see little brown flecks of freckles scattered across her shoulders and down her collarbone. He could see her scars, old lines of sliver and slashes of newer, angry red, crisscrossing along the canvas of her body artfully – a masterpiece in dawnstone, flesh flushed hot and pink under his hungry gaze, the curve of well-defined musculature, dipping and curving in ways that invited his fingers. He accepted, dipping them into the hollow at her neck, sliding across her bicep, coming to rest on the edge of the binder, his eyes looking to her, waiting for her. She nodded, looking shy, and he felt he could breathe again. The air came in a rush, expanding his chest, making his head spin. But he grasped the gauzy end firmly, unwilling to let it slip through his fingers.
Hawke lifted her arms over her head, folding them over her crown to give him better ease as he worked. He was mesmerized – the gauze swirling around her as he flicked his wrists and flung his arm, uncoiling her. It was almost magic. When the last coil fell to the bed Varric took a step back, admiring her with a heady gaze, wonton and unapologetic. Maker, what a sight. She hadn't moved, arms still folded atop her head, pulling her breasts up slightly, almost presenting them to him, welcoming his admiration. Her eyes were cast down, so when she looked up at him it was through a nervous flutter of lush eyelashes.
He had known she was strong. She had to be to wear that armor and swing that beast of a sword, but he hadn't realized the cut of definition that would afford her. Of course, over the years they had spent traveling together he had seen her naked. Bathing on the road was a "get in now or stay rank" situation. But he had never had the chance to really observe her naked body. Not like this. All lean muscle, dangerous power curling in on itself, like a cat. It gave her strength, true, but speed too. Even like this, half naked under his gaze, he had nary a doubt that she could kill him if she so chose. Best not to give her an excuse to do so.
His feet carried him forward, back to her side, putting her flesh back in arm's reach. "Do you know," he said slowly, surprised by the gravel in his voice, as his hands traced the lines of her breastbone, "how beautiful you are?" She looked up at him, mildly shocked by his words. "If I put this moment, this image down onto a sheet," he said, allowing his thoughts and hands to wander. He pressed his palm flat against her chest, then let it slide to the right, cupping slightly, conforming to the curve of her ribs. His thumb stretched out, gliding across the side of her breast. He heard her soft sigh, saw the flurry of her dark, feathery lashes, a pink tongue snaking out to moisten her lips. "If I put this down, I could feel your pulse in it, touch your liveliness, but no one would ever believe me. Raven hair, short and severe like her, but soft too, silken, feminine. Brilliant eyes, blue-white fire of cleverness and intelligence, dangerous and sharp, to see them like this," his other hand cupped her chin, inspecting her face, she opened her eyes to him, "tender, vulnerable. There's no sight in the world as breathtaking."
She smiled, a little watery thing, and chuckled, "You're right," she agreed. "No one would believe that."
"So long as you know it's true," he whispered, leaning over and letting his breath ghost across her skin. She shivered slightly and made a sound in the back of her throat. He let his lips trail down it, leaving wet spots of sloppy kisses as he dipped his head lower, nuzzling his nose between her breasts. She sighed, one of her hands coming off the bed and cupping the back of his skull, pulling him closer amidst small sounds of eagerness. He let his lips follow the slight pressure her hands provided, guiding him to her left breast. He had intended to be slow and teasing, heedless of the impatience in her voice and the insistent throb which had taken up residence in his trousers, but he never had been able to deny her.
His lips wrapped around the stiff crest of her nipple, ripping a guttural moan from her mouth and sending her into a small fit of spasms. It only encouraged him to draw harder, pulling, letting her fill his mouth, suckling as his hands reached up, cupping around the opposite breast. Her breasts were heavier than he had imagined and, unbound as they were, over-spilled his hands, but they were also softer too. His fingers plucked and twisted, teasing the right mount counter to the way he teased the left. He kneaded the flesh gently, pressing the tip of his tongue around the dusky rose pink tip in his mouth and swirling it. Hawke cried out, arching her back. He smirked against her skin, redoubling his efforts until she was a squirming, uncatchable creature. Finally, mercifully, he released her, leaning back and enjoying the view.
Her skin was flushed red from chest to cheek, her nipple had colored deeply and shimmered wetly, she panted, her left hand clutching at the bedding so hard he was afraid she might have torn it. He smirked, openly proud of how he'd disheveled her. Her eyes opened, looking past him, but when they focused and found the smug look he sported they narrowed, glaring. "Amused, Fuzzy?" She spat playfully.
"Fuzzy?" He asked. She nodded slowly, unmovable. "That's a terrible nickname, Hawke. I am more than my hair!"
"Prove it," she challenged. His cock twitched noticeably at that, her tone and gazing stoking the coals he'd set to smoldering.
"You're going to regret that," he growled. She shrugged. "Oh that's it," he declared. In the space of a breath he closed the gap between them, pushed her back onto the bed, and lowered his hands to her trousers. He was good with his hands, and he knew it. He picked locks, he maintained Bianca, he wrote delicately in curling swoops and swift strokes, so the simple leather lacing stood little chance. It was undone in seconds and, that accomplished, those fingers turned to more important work. He tucked his thumbs under the soft suede of the waistband and tugged, pulling it all off in one long motion, slowly, like a blade across an apple, separating peel and pulp.
He had intended to dive right in, as it were, but once more he found himself struck by her beauty. The round swell of her hips, the thickness and authority of her thighs, ankles that were almost dainty by comparison. Andraste's ass, how did they even hold her up? He had to touch her.
He sat on the floor at the foot of the bed and started with her feet. They were hard with callouses, trophies hard-won in hours of marching, battle, and training. His fingers, sporting more than one callous of their own, pressed small circles into her heals, drawing delighted moans alongside ticklish giggling. He could do this for a long time, at literally any other moment of his life. Right now he was entirely too far removed from where he wanted to be. Maker, he could smell the honey-sweet musk of her arousal. Filling his head like a siren song.
Her legs were scared too. The left calf had a sizeable chunk missing from it, the skin had headed over puckered and angry. He touched it carefully, worried that it would be sensitive. He was right. The gasp of an abrupt inhale came from the bed. He lowered his lips to it, careful not to let his stubble scrape the tender flesh. "How did you get this one, sweetheart?" He asked, moving to kneel. His lips trailed along the inside of her knees as he gently lifted a thigh, weighty in his hands, and moved it to the side, spreading her before him.
"Ah," she sighed, trying to gain some composure. "In the wilds, pack of feral dogs. Big beast of one got me."
"Hope you gave as good as you got," he mumbled, darting out his tongue and leaving a wet trail up the inside of her thigh.
"Got his eye," she moaned, wriggling.
He was only half-listening, too keen on the sight, and the smell of her sex. A small patch of close-cut hair, and, peeking out, the vibrant pink of slick wet folds. He salivated at the sight, not able to restrain himself at all. His finger moved on its own, dipping slowing into the welcoming warmth of her. Their mutual groans mingled in the air, indistinguishable. "Oh, Hawke," he purred. Her hips pressed up eagerly, her inner muscles fluttering around his thick digit.
She humored his cautious exploration for mere seconds. "More," she demanded in a breathless pant. He pressed another finger in, feeling a delighted purr rumbling through her body. He pumped slowly, the slick of her arousal easing the slide of his fingers. Occasionally, he would curl them, catching his fingertips just beyond the shelf of her sex and stroking across the spongey bundle of nerves nestled within. If the noises she made where any indication he was driving her quite wild.
Finally, he could endure no more. He leaned forward, tongue snaking out to lap languidly at the warm juices that made her core shimmer. She tasted sweet and tart, like good wine, or candied citrus. The flavors danced on his tongue, enlivening it, spurring it to greater movement, more intricate turns. He became so involved in it, the sound and smell and feel and touch, that he didn't notice how close Hawke was to falling over that edge. He wanted to take her there, wanted to hear and feel her as she fell. And he wanted to catch her.
Some men, when they got a woman teetering like this, liked to go full-force. Pick up the pace, pound like crazy. Varric, didn't go in for that, generally. He liked to increase it by increments. After all, if he had gotten her to the edge, what he was doing was working. There was no need to reinvent the wheel here. Persistence would out. So first he merely made his attentions more focused. His tongue drew circles which pulled in from the wide sweeps they had been making to a more concentrated effort around the small bulge of nerves near the crest of her sex. Her hips began to move in time with his thrusting digits, a slow undulation that made his cock throb, longing to feel her moving like that around him.
Well, he'd certainly managed to toe her closer. He tried not to smirk in self-satisfaction and ruin all his fine work, and instead peppered short suckles between the swirling of his tongue. His fingers crooked, dragging ever-louder cries from her, mutters and supplications mixing together into a cacophonous chime. Her pelvis rocked, practically riding his face to the place she wished to go. He took a deep breath and took her there, lapping eagerly, fingers pumping. And then she was crying out, her body going rigid and soft all at once. Her scream of pleasure, for the mere moment he could hear it before the impressive strength of her thighs clamped around his ears muffling all, was sharp and keening. But it was the hot clutching of her core that saw him involuntarily thrusting with her, his body running on pure instinct.
Slowly, so slowly that he worried for her wellbeing and his lungs, she came down, body relaxing around him, her legs falling back to the bed freeing him. He pulled his lips from her then, and took in deep breaths scented by the smear of her which covered him from noose to neck. His fingers withdrew, instead moving to pet, soothing her fatigued sex. She shuddered under his attentions, but mewled contentedly as he kissed the inside of her legs. Admittedly he was also using the opportunity to remove some of the slick she'd left behind. Not that he didn't adore it, mind, but he wanted to kiss her again, and thought she might be rather more willing if he wasn't quite so disheveled. He peppered the pecks up her body, across her abdomen and chest, before he had to stand to reach farther.
The movement broke the spell that had held her so still, and before he could continue with his grand plans she had sat up and crashed their lips together almost violently. She moaned around the kiss, clearly deeply pleased by something and his chest swelled with pride. "Maker, Varric," she sighed between kisses. Her hips were attempting to press closer to him, stood as he was between her legs. "I like the way I taste on you."
His hips bucked hard at her words, the swelling in his trousers actually brushing over her sex making them both cry out. It was shocking to hear her say something like that, shocking at deeply arousing.
He realized now that he had allowed himself to become distracted. She had already pushed his tunic off his shoulders and on to the floor in an unkempt heap, and now her fingers were pushing the buttons, placed in dual rows on his trousers, through their holes. The flap was free in a mere moment and then she was pulling at the laces roughly, forcing them to yield. He expected her, upon completion of that task, to pull them down but she did not. Instead she dove her hand inside, grasping, and he found himself smothered, quite wonderfully, in her warm hand.
He gasped, his head falling back. She trailed her lips down his neck instead, undeterred, as he bucked up into her fist. He could feel the hard pads of her fingers, worn by her sword hilt, marking a tactile difference between their fleshes. Her lips trailed lower and it wasn't until she pressed them just under his navel that the realization of her attentions manifested in his lust-addled brain.
His hand shot out, grasping her by the back of her neck as he attempted to speak. "Sweetheart," he hissed with some effort. "Not that I don't love the idea of your mouth wrapped around me…" Her tongue snaked out, trailing across the head of his cock and completely wrecking his thought process for several seconds. When he looked down she was peering up at him, eyes dancing with mischief. "Ah," he cleared his throat. "Yeah. I'm not gonna last if you keep that up."
"Maybe that's what I want," she quipped.
He nodded slowly, and swallowed thickly, feeling more blood rush to his groin, making her hand jump. "I won't deny you anything you want, Hawke," he said seriously. "So if that's all you want from this morning, you may proceed." He saw her lips curve into a wicked smile and he rushed to finish his speech. "But if you want more," he said leadingly, his hand carding through the short fringe of her inky-black hair. She paused, seeming to consider what he was saying earnestly. Finally, even a bit reluctantly, she nodded, and removed her touch from him entirely. He was not too proud to admit it was a decidedly unpleasant sensation.
"Fine," she huffed, though it wasn't half as serious as it sounded. "But you had better get undressed really, really quickly."
Varric laughed, bending down and unlacing his boots. "I can do that," he agreed. He glanced up from his work to see her. She had moved to the middle of the bed, leaning back on her elbows and was watching him, her crystal-blue eyes focused and appraising. Varric had never been self-conscious about his body, but that stare was… intimidating. He looked back down to complete the task, straightening as he toed the boots off.
He didn't stand on ceremony now, too eager to touch her again, and merely tugged his trousers off. They landed on the floor, beside the rest of his attire. He heard a small gasp from Hawke. "You weren't wearing any…" He merely smirked in response. "Get over here," she demanded, beckoning him with a finger.
He climbed onto the bed, but did not spread himself over her. "Actually," he said hesitantly. She lifted an eyebrow at him, impatient and curious. "I uh, I don't know if you've ever been with a dwarf," he continued. She shook her head. I'd thought as much, he sighed inwardly. Andraste's silky knickers, but he just wanted to grab her by the hips and drive into her. But no, not this time.
She didn't seem daunted by his cock, so that was good, but they were going to have to go to some effort anyway. Varric wasn't built like a human. Where they had length and reach he had foundation and strength. And it was the same in his breeches. His manhood was short and thick and he knew he was going to stretch her something fierce the first few times they came together. It would almost have been easier to couple anally.
"I'm gonna lay on my back," he explained, motioning for her to make room. "And I want you to straddle me. Take your time, he added emphatically. "I'm serious, we don't have to rush."
She looked a little less confident after his words of warning, but no less determined. She set her jaw and nodded curtly. He lay down and reveled in the sight of her setting herself over him. He could feel the heat off her sex even before she slid the slick slit across his shaft. He groaned loudly, eye squeezing shut. It was agony, having to hold still when all he really wanted was to ram up into her until he spilled himself. Somewhere behind the black of his eyelids he could hear her making soft soothing sounds.
He opened his eyes again. "Whenever you're ready," he said encouragingly.
It seemed that was all she really needed. She wriggled until the wide flare of the tip of his length nestled at her opening. And then she was lowering herself. Too fast, he thought and sure enough a loud hiss of discomfort escaped her. He lifted a hand to her thigh, stroking his palm across it in an attempt to temper her eagerness. Hawke ceased her descent for a moment, adjusting to the stretch he required. If he hadn't been in absolute bliss at the moment, only just able to process anything beyond the feel of her body, he would have felt bad for the burning he knew she was feeling. He only wanted her to feel good things. He hoped it would be worth it.
He heard her deep inhale and steeled himself against the slow slide that was to come. He was not ready for the way she sank down onto him in one smooth measure. He cried out, bucking up into her, making it worse, no doubt, but he couldn't help it. The hot wetness of her, wrapped around him so abruptly, was threatening to undo him completely. It was only the shallow panting of her pain that gave him the will to overcome the reptilian part of his brain, the part demanding he take what he wanted.
"Okay, Hawke?" He asked, voice tight. It was very hard to talk. When she didn't say anything, continuing to tremble silently over and around him, he forced his eyes open. The hands on her thighs, one his and one her own, had gripped her too tightly, he realized abruptly. She would have bruises there. He tore his eyes from looking at it, guilt washing over him in a wave, and sought out Hawke's face.
He found it, screwed up uncomfortably, clearly trying to exert her will over the pain. "Hawke," he said again. She forced her eyes open to look at him.
"I'll be okay, Varric," she assured him.
"That's not good enough," he growled, angry with himself. He knew Hawke. He knew her better than he knew anyone else. He should have anticipated her recklessness. His hand reached out, his thumb slipping between her folds and swiping over her clitoris in even, unrelenting strokes. She opened her mouth to object, but then he hit it just right and she was reduced to small cries of delight. "That's better," he drawled slowly, feeling her core pulse around him. It was hard to stay still under that sensation, but keeping his hands busy was helping, as were her mewling purrs of delight.
He drove her higher and higher until, finally, the pleasure outweighed the pain. Hawke began moving, her hips rippling like a wave over him, pulling him deeper. It was intense, overwhelming, and perfect. He forced himself to keep his eyes wide, focused on her. She looked gorgeous, hair wild, inhibitions unfettered. She whimpered, beyond words, it seemed, and rolled her body ever faster, driving him on with her movements.
He would have preferred to draw this out, see her over the edge half a dozen times and then found his own release, but he could see this was going to come to a speedy end. Later he might be embarrassed by that but just now he had but two thoughts: driving her over the edge so that he might see her come undone around him and burying his length in her as deep as he could and letting go of the control he was just barely holding onto.
He grabbed the top of her thigh in his free hand and eased them into a steady rhythm. Then he let his thumb sweep squarely over the bundle of nerves, no longer teasing it, but making a concentrated effort. She cried out as her core gripped at him but she didn't falter in her ride. "That's is sweetheart," he purred. She clenched tightly then, and he smirked. He wasn't sure if it was his words or his voice but it didn't really matter. He felt proud of that reaction. "You feel amazing, Hakwe," he continued luxuriating in the continuous flutter of her core around him. "You're beauty and strength and lust in one perfect package. I'm not gonna be able to hold back much longer," he admitted tightly through several grunts of effort.
"I… that's fine," she gasped and squeezed his thighs around him. Maker, she could probably crush him with them if she wanted.
He shook his head in dissent, but realized she had her eyes closed. "No, sweetheart," he said. "No, I want to watch you. I want to feel you fall to pieces. Then," he broke off for a moment gasping as she quivered around him. She was close. "Then I'll let go."
She didn't need any more convincing than that. She urged him faster and he complied, both in his thrusts and with his thumb. It was mere moments later the fall started. First, her cries climbed in pitch, coming faster and louder. Then her body began to quake, all of her muscles feeling the fatigue. And then, last of all, everything went tense. It was a challenge to continue trusting up into her when her sex was clamping around him so tightly that it felt like she was trying to force him out. But that wasn't what broke him.
Look of shattered, agonizing pleasure plastered across her face, and the knowledge that it was because of him, that set the tight coil of heat in his groin free. He cried out her name, his hips bucking a rough staccato, his cock pulsing inside her as he released long strings of hot seed. He could hear his name on her lips, whispers of it falling from her like delicate father down. He pushed on, her hips still rocking with him, milking every last drop of pleasure from them, drawing it out like water from a well until they were both empty.
Hawke collapsed over him, her back bowing dramatically so she could rest her head on his shoulder instead of smothering him under her breasts. Not that he would have minded, just at the moment. His hands went to her back, smoothing over it, caressing and soothing as they endured the aftershocks of their pleasure. His manhood, still hard and buried inside her, twitched in response to the overstimulation, making his body shudder. Hawke was trembling, head to toe, vibrating him wherever she her skin touched his. He turned his head and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat as he did so. She made a low sound of appreciation at the back of her throat. Varric chuckled softly and continued petting her.
He was soft and sliding free by the time the warrior woman saw fit to roll to the side and collapse upon the bed, and his arm. He could feel the sticky evidence of their activities cooling as it was exposed to the air, but couldn't quite bring himself to rise and clean up. Not yet. He curled the arm she had landed across, pulling her to his chest. A kind of relief washed over him when she responded by moving closer in his embrace, nudging her nose through his chest hair. It was the unexpected relief that highlighted the anxiety he had been feeling, tucked somewhere far at the back of his mind. Part of him, it seemed, had expected her to have regrets, to pull away. But instead, here she was. Her crown nestled between his pectorals, a soft sigh of contentedness whisked from her lips, setting the curls on his chest fluttering, as her fingertips wandered over his skin, exploring languidly, seeking out his scars and tracing them delightedly.
Varric was just starting to doze off when her voice, pitched low and colored by a rare timidity, drew his attention. "So," she was saying, "what now?"
Varric furrowed his brow as she shifted, turning onto her stomach and propping her fists between her chin and his chest so that she could look up at him. He reached out, his fingers finding her hair again. It calmed him to touch her like that, something innocent and intimate. "I don't know," he admitted. "What do you want?"
She smiled at him, the scar across her nose crinkling. "Well, I've missed my sparring session with Blackwall," she said slowly. "He'll be most disappointed, I think he has a bit of a crush on me."
Varric chuckled. "If Cassandra ever stops mooning after the Inquisitor maybe she'd notice the way the Warden looks at her," he said in a conspiratorial tone. "Though, I'm no expert. He probably made moon-eyes after you too. I think he has a thing for strong women."
"Who doesn't," Hawke replied with a smirk. Varric winked by way of reply, his hands still carding through the silky fringe of her hair. "But, really," she continued more seriously, "I meant more like… What next, what next."
"Ah," Varric said, feeling the anxiety crashing back upon him with a vengeance. "Can't we just stay like this?" He asked. "Do we really have to do anything else? Ever again?"
She shook her head, nudging him in the ribs. "You tell me, Ser Storyteller," she said. "What happened after happily ever after?"
He groaned crankily. "Generally," he explained, "more conflict, more attacks, more problems…"
"I think we can handle that," Hawke bantered back. "We're a good team."
He couldn't help the smile that broke free at her words. They had always been a good team. They communicated well, watched each other's back, payed attention to what the other needed. He had felt so lost without her, and now she was here. He didn't know if he could let her go. Varric pulled her closer, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "We're a great team," he agreed.
"Yeah, so, maybe we just stay like this," she said nuzzling her face into his chest as she snuggled closer.
"Your wish is my command," he offered dramatically.
"Merf," she muttered. "I'm too cozy to take advantage of that. Give me a few minutes."