AN: This is a series of kinkmeme fills I did a while back, re-posted here for your viewing pleasure. Here there be smut and romance, of a dwarfy variety. Shocking from me, I know.
This was… Andraste's ass, this was just peachy, wasn't it?
"Varric—" Hawke's breath was hot against his neck, her long, slender hand was burrowing under his shirt, skating over his ribs, and she wouldn't stop wriggling. Maker have mercy, did humans have to be so bloody tall? "Varric, we're in your room. This is perfect."
He had never hefted a smith's hammer, nor did he routinely lug around gigantic sacks of potatoes— Varric had pretty much lived his entire life trying to avoid the unnecessary lifting of heavy things. His Bianca was a well-built lady, sure, but he'd spent a substantial amount of both sovereigns and time making sure she was as svelte as possible.
Now though, now he was sweating like a whore in a chantry, and being pawed at by a very drunk, very handsy, very heavy mage. Not that he'd ever call Hawke heavy to her face, or anywhere she might hear him, or out loud ever. He liked his insides inside, and his hair very much not on fire.
"Perfect," he grunted, making sure her gangly legs weren't about to get caught up when he kicked the door closed behind them. When he took the extra moment to secure the bolt, she pinched his nipple. "Yeah, okay, let's go with that."
It was well before midday, so the Hanged Man had been quiet enough that he'd wrangled Hawke upstairs without making a huge scene. The few pathetic sots who basically lived in the tavern (downstairs, drowning in shitty ale; living upstairs was a perfectly respectable practice) hadn't even lifted their heads as he dragged her past.
It had been a rough couple of months since the Deep Roads, and Varric could sympathize with the betrayed by your brother thing. He really could. They hadn't actually talked about it, and he could see now that maybe they should have, but the not talking had seemed like a good bonding experience at the time. He'd smothered the searing heat of his anger with copious amounts of brandy, Hawke had gone and done whatever she did when they weren't killing bandits and mercenaries, and everything seemed to go back to something on the tense side of normal again. Regardless of anything else, they were bloody rich— that soothed a bit of the sting, sort of.
Shuffling over in the direction of his bed, Varric peeled himself free of the enthusiastic groping he was suffering and shoved Hawke back onto the mattress. It seemed as if she had finally decided to wallow in the misery she'd been holding back ever since that little prick Caver had stormed out of the slums in his shiny templar frock. Really though, she could've at least had the good sense to drink herself stupid in the privacy of her new mansion, not the middle of Lowtown. Judging by the boneless look she was currently sporting, and based on past experiences with liquor and this particular mage, Varric had little doubt she'd be snoring and drooling all over his pillows very shortly.
He was such a giver.
"Varric," she slurred again, making grabby hands somewhere approaching his vicinity even as her head lolled lazily to one side. She was looking at him, or mostly at him at least, and he felt the smallest jolt of heat in his gut at the inviting glint in her eyes and way her chest was heaving. When he'd found her stumbling around the bazaar, just as shit-wrecked as his informant had warned him she was, her robes had already been unlaced almost to the point of indecency— not that strange for Lowtown, but it was early in the day. "You sodding sexy dwarf, you… C'mere."
Nope, not going to happen. Sure, Hawke was a gorgeous woman— funny, sharp, a hoot at parties— but she was also the biggest mess of crazy and trouble he'd ever met. There was a very large, very ominous sign that he'd always been aware of, looming right over any stray thought of whatever plans the drunk, surprisingly horny Hawke thought she was up for. That sign, just like the one he'd once told Aveline to have made up, said DON'T.
He smiled at her, taking a slow step away now that he was fairly convinced she wasn't about to tumble out of the bed and break her neck. "Maybe after your nap, okay sweetheart?"
Of course, contrary to all sense and luck, Hawke found enough muscle not yet turned to mush and managed to haul herself around, teetering dangerously on her knees before dropping back onto one hip, and flashing him a rather expansive swathe of creamy breasts in the process. It was… distracting, a little, and that was probably enough excuse to justify why he didn't manage to move back before she stretched out and grabbed hold of his belt. He hadn't seen everything, probably less than Isabela showed off on a usual day, but they were awfully nice breasts.
Crazy. Trouble. No, no, no.
Hawke was smirking, flushed pretty and pink from the messy fringe of her hair all the way down to where she was spilling out of her robes, and Varric felt his mouth go very dry, very fast. This was Not Good.
"Mmm, not tired." It was… oh shit, it was a very dirty smirk. "Watch this."
There wasn't really much to watch, just a small flicker of light, but when the room around him narrowed very sharply and Varric's eyes rolled back into his head—
He would have cursed or gasped or something to acknowledge the incredibly bizarre sensation of lightning crawling very gently but persistently down his belly and around his groin, but there was an extra tongue in his mouth, and it was a little crowded. Every ounce of blood in his body was rushing downward, probably trying to get good seats for this fascinating new sensation, and somewhere along the way his mind decided it really needed a break. This shit was getting too weird, and apparently he and his cock were on their own. Fantastic.
The particulars were a bit of a blur— more lightning, he knew, and ice, and that tongue— but Hawke was a hurricane of want and unexpected nakedness, and it was even more convincing than her usual charm. Varric felt dizzy, stupidly so, but he managed to forget exactly how monumentally insane this was just before she had him manhandled and roughly stripped, then laid out across his own bed like some kind of raunchy sacrifice.
Hawke had… she had a presence, or something. It was what made him think offering her a partnership in the expedition was a very good idea, even though she hadn't been all that far removed from the stinking refugees still clogging up the Gallows. It was certainly what kept him traipsing around Kirkwall in her shadow even now, with their little holiday in the Deep Roads long over and him with an entire, sprawling family to manage.
He figured that presence might be at least a little to blame for his current predicament, but the wicked mouth trying to suck his soul out through his cock was probably also a contributing factor.
This was so wrong. Once Hawke sobered up, she was going to murder him.
"Holy fucking Andraste," he hissed, heels digging hard into his mattress when Hawke pressed her knuckle up behind his balls. He felt her chuckle vibrate all the way down to his toes, and then her head started bobbing like cocksucking was a race, sparks crackled from her fingers into places he was fairly sure sparks weren't meant to go, and the whole world took that opportunity to go brilliant, blinding white.
"Shit—" Eventually, somewhere between unconscious and completely out of his mind, Varric found enough breath to gasp, blinking up at the dishevelled woman curled around his side. "Oh fuck, what was— what was that?"
"Varric…" If he survived this, he was going to have to change his name. It would be really embarrassing to get a raging hard-on every time somebody wanted to get his attention, but he'd never hear it again without remembering Hawke's breathy little sigh.
She was shifting, panting against his shoulder, and a quick glance downward confirmed why. Varric stared, maybe just a little transfixed as Hawke furiously rubbed one out right beside him, then caught himself being such an utter moron.
Varric Tethras was many things: a skilled businessman, a crack shot, and a damn fine storyteller probably first among them. A scoundrel, a liar, and a thief, certainly. Let it never be said, however, that he was anything less than a gentleman, especially when it came to situations like this.
It wasn't as if she was going to murder him more at this point, anyway. Dead was dead, which was exactly what he'd be once she slept off this stupor. With that cheery thought in mind, Varric swallowed back every ounce of good sense that was screaming at him to run as fast as he could, preferably to the Anderfels. Any thinking portions of his brain that managed to stumble back after that incredible orgasm were now effectively turned off; he rolled over and truly drank in the vision before him.
"Hey there," he murmured, reaching out to slide her very busy hand out of his way. She was so beautifully slick, already dripping wet with her hips jerking, and at the first touch of his fingers she whimpered, for Andraste's sake. If he hadn't been completed fucked before, he certainly was then.
Her breasts were indeed awfully nice. Soft and bouncy, with just enough muscle behind them to keep them pert— they tasted divine, too. And the sounds she made when he suckled them, all the while demonstrating why dexterous hands were good for more than just picking locks…
He might not have the advantage of magic at his disposal, but he wasn't exactly new at this either. It wasn't even the first time he'd had a human woman— he'd always appreciated the appeal of elven flexibly and dwarven curves, and humans were usually a delicious middle-ground. The mage thing was a novel experience, but so far he was completely sold.
She was restless, and as much as he usually liked to draw these things out, he wasn't completely sure how long this bout of insanity could last. She obviously knew it was him, she wasn't that far gone, and it's not like he was groping her in a filthy alley, but he really didn't want to get caught bare-assed when she put her serious hat back on. Hawke was fun, and Hawke was flirty, but Hawke was also fucking terrifying.
Speaking of that, Varric was finding himself more and more turned on, despite having so recently experienced the best orgasm of his life— he wasn't exactly ready for action, but he easily could have been, given a little more time and the proper encouragement. He wanted to sink into her heat so badly, to fill her up and move with her, to feel the pressure of those shapely legs wound around his back, but that… Well, that was a line he wasn't about to cross with Hawke not quite herself. So instead, he ignored the twitching in his crotch and redoubled his efforts, making Hawke thrash and dig her nails hard into his scalp as his tongue slipped down to join his fingers.
He could feel tingling branching out through his hair, and spared a momentary thought about whether or not Hawke was in any fit state to keep her magic under control. Then she howled, arching her back as he curled his tongue just like that, and all such vague concerns were pushed aside. Dying with his face pressed between a beautiful woman's legs was probably the best he could ever hope for, after all, even if she did accidentally blast the top of his head off. It beat starving in the Deep Roads, anyway, or getting shanked by a Carta thug.
When the banging started on his door, loud and insistent, Varric started cursing a blue streak before he thought better of it. The vibration of his words made Hawke moan urgently, which was great other than the interruption, but it didn't appear like his bedpartner was nearly as concerned about guests as he was. He tried to sit up, but she just gripped his hair harder, and her legs locked around his shoulders.
"More!" The throaty, demanding quality of her voice was very convincing. "Oh Maker, Varric, so close—"
Whoever it was clanging around outside could just wait.Unless the tavern was on fire, Varric didn't bloody care… and he could see Hawke, so there probably wasn't a fire. Tuning out the banging and the muffled voices calling his name from the corridor, Varric focused his full attention back on the nearly sobbing hitch of Hawke's breathing, speeding up the pumping of his fingers to match the quaking of her hips.
He was a merchant prince, steeped in the backstabbing of surface dwarf machinations, so he still managed to notice when his door creaked opened, even with Hawke's thighs glued to his ears. It was harder to ignore rude bastards when they didn't even have the decency to wait for a woman to properly peak, and Varric firmly but gently disentangled himself enough to reach for the knives secreted in his headboard. He didn't especially like blades, and Bianca was his soulmate, but no matter what the rumours implied, she was awkward to sleep with.
He stopped when he saw who the uninvited guests actually were. If Choirboy's cheeks blushed any redder, he'd burst into flames that would rival Andraste's pyre. Blondie, a surprising addition at the other man's heels considering how much bitterness he usually had for all things Chantry, looked almost equally appalled. Hawke decided their audience warranted shrieking like an alley cat and yanking the edge of the blankets up over her nakedness, which was good and bad. Varric hadn't quite finished with her nakedness, and the pair of harsh, outraged glowers he was suddenly receiving didn't do a thing to improve his mood.
Hawke was decently bundled, with only a mess of hair peeking out of her cocoon, but that left Varric at something of a garment disadvantage. At this point— nude, frustrated, and getting a mean stink-eye from trespassers— he was way too pissed off to give a shit.
Laying a hand on Hawke's leg, a move that prompted her to wiggle slightly towards him, Varric glared right back. "Can we help you, boys?"
"You— You filthy little degenerate," Sebastian barked, just as Anders puffed up like fury itself (minus the glowing thing, at least), with flames igniting around his clenched fists.
Apparently the knives might still be a good plan.
When Hawke darted up, raising a glimmering shield around the bed, Varric took the opportunity to slide back and palm a blade. Having a woman throw herself between him and danger might have emasculated a lesser man, but Varric was too practical and too naked to really worry about machismo.
Sebastian was furious, or so it appeared, though his words sounded faint and far-off through the arcane barrier. Varric thought he caught bewitched, taken advantage, and sullied somewhere in the ranting, and the implications turned his gut to ice. Had he— Oh shit, he'd assumed she was just drunk, enough to make this whole thing a bad idea but not a complete moral sinkhole, and he'd felt guilty enough about that—
Hawke didn't seem terribly concerned, which itself was sort of alarming. Blankets tucked up under her arms, she pointed exaggeratedly at the small bottle Sebastian was flailing about, then at Anders, who was looking decidedly less angry and much more confused. That strange little performance complete, she made a very rude gesture at the pair of them and scooted back across the mattress, unwrapping herself just enough to toss the blankets over him as well.
Varric tensed up, extremely unsure what to do with his hands at this point other than be careful not to stab the woman snuggling up against him. The blankets covered them both head to foot (his feet, anyway; Hawke's were some incredible human distance away, so he couldn't be sure), creating a dim little cavern of bare flesh and warm breath, and he really, really needed to know what in the blighted Void was going on.
"Uh, Hawke," he began hesitantly, still hearing only eerie, muted quiet from out in the room. "What—"
"Shh…" This definitely wasn't the time for shushing, but before he could insist on an explanation, Hawke's mouth was pressed against his. They'd only really kissed a couple of times since she'd dragged him onto the bed and proceeded to ravish him stupid, but it was something Varric was discovering a real appreciation for. Hawke was fierce and playful, which wasn't a surprise at all, but it was exactly what he liked in a woman. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost his hair tie, and now her fingers were curling and tugging at his nape, sending shivers down his spine that pulsed in time with the slow rolling of her hips.
If he hadn't been wracked by such an utterly hideous, horrifying thought— did I just— he definitely would have insisted they continue with the kissing.
Tearing his mouth away, Varric reached up to tuck the knife hastily back in its hidden compartment, then laid a restraining hand on Hawke's cheek. "Whoa. Explain bewitched."
He may have been born under a beautiful blue sky, but he was still descended from a race of cave dwellers. Even in the darkness of their impromptu hiding place, Varric could see Hawke bite her lip.
"There was a potion," she said softly, and so far there was no hint of accusation. It was also a bit reassuring that she could speak in full sentences, though she still didn't sound entirely clear-headed. Regardless, there was a potion was not what he wanted to hear. "Sol made it for me, to boost spellpower. It may have had some side effects."
He would have immediately pressed for a bit more information than that, but there were still raised voices outside their bubble of calm; if he was quiet, Varric could only just make out a word here and there. None of it sounded good.
Hawke's tongue snaked across the inside of his wrist, and Varric tried hard not to start cursing again. So much for reconnaissance. "Yeah, no— talk to me, Hawke. What side effects? I'm a bit hung up on the two angry men storming into my room, roaring that I've sullied you."
She sighed, a great gust of breath, which only served to remind him precisely how close together their faces still were. "Sebastian's a tit," she groused, and it was so unexpected he couldn't contain his laugh. She'd never had a bad word to say about Choirboy before, though she did try and hide a smile whenever Varric got overwhelmed by saccharine piety and gave the kid a hard time. "Wouldn't know a thing about potions if you drowned him in one."
Her fingers slid down his neck, trailing sparks, and that was cheating—
"Anders should know better." Somebody should know better; it certainly hadn't been Varric so far. "Can't we just ignore them? They'll leave soon."
It was so very tempting, but no. Not with this kind of apprehension still looming over him. "Uh-uh. What side effects?"
Before Hawke could answer, or grope him, or whatever her next crazy move was going to be, there was a whooshing noise from beyond the blankets. Sebastian's voice, formerly muffled, was suddenly clear and ear-splittingly loud.
"—not in her right mind! She wouldn't—"
"Maker's sake, shut up, would you?" That was Blondie, sounding like his sour, cranky self again. "There, everything's dispelled and you can shout your bloody head off. I'm leaving. Very sorry, Hawke."
Hawke sighed again, and Varric blinked at the unexpected light when she pushed the blankets away just enough to peek out, lifting herself up on one elbow. "Heart-warming concern," she said, and the clear snark combined with the eye-level view of her bare breasts Varric was suddenly enjoying was just fantastic. "And I appreciate it, truly. But I'm not unconscious, not being molested, and really not interested in having a discussion right now. Naked dwarf, incredible fingers— You? Go."
The last time Varric had heard the Choirboy sputter like that, Isabela had been halfway through a story involving a hammock, red-headed triplets, and a goose. "I— Hawke— But you—"
"Out, before I set you on fire." There was a final argumentative squawking, but also very swift footsteps. "And close the door."
When the door slammed, Varric barely had time to register the pounding headache that had formed between his brows before he was being pushed onto his back by a wild-eyed mage. He would have struggled, probably, but Hawke was bendy and surprisingly quick, and suddenly she was straddling his waist and pressing tight and wet against his half-hard cock.
"Shit," he groaned, scrambling for two wits to rub together. "Maker's breath—"
Hawke chuckled, breathless and husky, and braced one arm on the headboard. "I'm not unconscious," she said, just as she'd told Sebastian a few moments before. "And if anyone's being molested here, it's you."
She rocked against him, scraping her nails down over his chest, then back up. "I'm— oh, Varric— not bewitched. Just a little tipsy, and a little… braver."
He rarely stumbled over his words, but with Hawke's knees clamped against his ribs and his cock being pressed slowly but surely up into her slick, almost molten heat, he managed a very articulate: "Ngh—"
There was so much more to say, because how in the Maker's name could Hawke get any braver? And why would she need to be brave to get him into bed? Andraste's flaming sword, she blasted ogres into little, smoking bits and killed demons in her free time, and she flirted sweetly and harmlessly with everyone, all the bloody time, even with Aveline… If he'd ever truly thought she wanted him, the mouthy dwarf who told bullshit stories and bought her drinks and taught her how to cheat at cards… Shit.
Once he'd remembered how to speak again, out loud, they'd… they'd talk.