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In Good Hands	By : KyeShgall Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 4955 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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There were plenty of other times in which Hawke had scared the living shit out of him. The majority of these had involved a sharp blade—hers or someone else’s—and Hawke bleeding profusely because of it. Of the remaining non-blade-related incidents, most had involved Hawke being hit with dangerous assorted battlefield projectiles: arrows, bolts—in both varieties, of lightning and fired from crossbows—and a fun miscellany of mage-generated others. On rare occasion, the scaring shitless was caused by Hawke getting bloody wasted and tripping inelegantly over her own feet before taking a sudden, unplanned face-dive into heavy barroom furniture.
So, yes, the fear of Hawke dying was usually what stopped his heart cold. Said heart typically resumed its regularly scheduled functions as soon as he had procured a potion, friendly mage, or glass of cold water to splash in Hawke’s face and ascertain that, yes, in fact, her body was still responding to stimuli—rather angrily if the glass of water was involved—and she was therefore most likely still alive.
The most recent and only just now abating heart-wrenching, scared shitless feeling was in a category all its own. To be honest, he was more than a little surprised at how crushed he’d been to think he was about to be rejected by Hawke, his friend and a woman he hadn’t even thought he’d wanted that way until exactly one day ago. It was a sure sign of one thing: he was already emotionally compromised. Severely, even. And that was something he hadn’t let happen in a really, really long time.
Well, shit. This was certainly going to be interesting.
Of course, the other, but far less likely possibility was that he hadn’t actually been scared shitless at all, just shocked by what he thought was about to happen to him—namely, rejection by a woman, which was something he could honestly say he’d never experienced before. Of course, he didn’t ever actually say it. Not out loud. Not to other people. Because it was sort of a shitty, smarmy thing to say. And that was exactly the kind of thing he liked to hold onto and save for the really special occasions.
But no sense wasting time pondering. Not when he had a naked woman in his bed, a woman who most certainly had not rejected him. Unless, of course, rejection was a lot sweeter than what he’d always heard. If it involved the naked woman carefully and playfully undressing him so that he could have access to all the necessary “tools of the trade” before he continued her massage, well, then he supposed he was in the process of being rejected pretty damn hard.
Hawke was tugging gently at his shirt, lifting and pulling until more and more of his skin was exposed. As soon as she’d made the shirt disappear—neat trick for a warrior—her hands were everywhere, her fingers rolling firmly over muscle in fierce imitation of the massage he was still supposed to be giving her. Where her fingers had gone, her lips followed and she pressed a string of soft, sucking kisses from the palm of his hand up the length of his arm and across one shoulder before she stopped to plant a last, more urgent kiss against his neck.
It was good enough to make him shiver. And, Maker knew, he was hard enough already, a condition which was only being helped along by Hawke’s insistent one-handed fumbling at his belt buckle. Easiest option was just to give in, press her beneath him, and show her exactly how far beyond friendship he was going to take her now. But no. Not yet. Her timidity had given way to confidence a little too quickly, perhaps.
Varric pulled back from her increasingly passionate kiss and slid his hand along her jaw. “Look at me,” he said.
Hawke obeyed and for a long moment he searched her face for any sign of lingering doubt. But she was smiling at him like a love-struck idiot and any fear left in her wide eyes had already been extinguished in a flood of longing. Good thing, too. Fervent desire for her notwithstanding, he would still put a stop to this if at any time he thought she wasn’t wholly certain.
Let no one ever say he complicated a perfectly good friendship lightly.
“Good,” he said, finally satisfied that, yes, Hawke was unwavering, a woman who knew what she wanted. And because what she wanted was him, Varric was quite willing to reward her with a much better kiss than the slightly ticklish one her lips had just been sharing with the patch of now wet skin beneath his left ear. He tilted his head, smiled ever so slightly, and leaned in for a kiss that began with the softest, most tantalizing brush of his lips against hers.
In that first instant of contact, he remembered something—an insignificant and, later, potentially traitorous little thought—that he’d buried years ago, because Hawke had become his partner and then his friend. But there it was again, the memory of a warm late afternoon in the hexes of Lowtown, months before his formal introduction to Hawke in the Hightown square. He’d been worn out from a day of boots pounding stone as he traversed the city to call on contact after contact in a desperate bid to mend a deal that Bartrand had broken in a fit of drunk and stupid. The alienage had been Varric’s last stop, again to no avail, and he was righteously pissed off, enough to catch himself thinking that yes, today might be an awfully nice day to murder his older brother.
And then he heard the sound of humming and looked up. It was so soon after her arrival in Kirkwall that he’d never even heard the name Hawke before, but he knew a beautiful sight when he saw one. She was sitting on the stairway just beyond her uncle’s door with a sword in one hand, whetstone in the other, and a polishing stone waiting patiently at her feet. She was all alone, but went about her work happily, all the while humming the cheerfully infectious melody of a popular children’s song about a little boy tricked by a swamp witch, turned into a rabbit, then boiled alive in a stew. She hit all the notes just right.
She never even saw him walk by, but Varric suddenly found himself thinking that if he were ever to end up with a human woman for anything more than a quick tumble, he’d want one just like her: pretty face, nice figure, adventurous, capable, not too broody, able to carry a tune, and judging by her choice of songs, sick sense of humor. And, somehow, his day was a lot less shitty after that. He arrived at the Hanged Man and the right contact was waiting for him. The broken deal was patched and Bartrand got to live through the night. Of course Hawke hadn’t been the cause of Varric’s good fortune, but her appearance had marked a turning point. And for a short while after that, more than a few of his stories had featured desperate war heroes vying for the love of beautiful women who sat on doorsteps singing gruesome songs of death and dismemberment.
So there it was. Even before he’d known her, he’d wanted her. And though he’d always done his best to step out of its way just before it caught him, the attraction to Hawke had always been there, as kicked and neglected as a templar’s ill-begotten love-child and just as deliberately ignored. The kiss he gave her now—tentative for all of three seconds before it escalated into mutually unabashed and open-mouthed want—was the fulfillment of a lot more than one day’s worth of longing. A starving little part of him had been waiting years for this.
...
It was a good kiss, made better by the fact that each of his hands had somehow found its way to a corresponding one of Hawke’s breasts, which he handled with just the right ratio of reverent caress to vigorously lustful grab. Hawke was ever so kind as to adjust her position, turning towards him and granting him better access. Varric could tell by her sequence of throaty moans, which rose to vibrate across his lips as he kissed her, that Hawke liked it most when he tugged and squeezed at the hard little beads of her nipples—a good point to remember for future lovemaking and one he’d have to test her on later to see how hard she could bear it.
He always had fun learning these little quirks about a new lover, and, somehow, the learning process was even more appealing than usual given the fact that this new lover was Hawke. He wanted to know everything about her all at once: What were her fantasies? Did she want any of them indulged? Where (else besides her mouth) did she most like to be kissed? How hard and how gently did she like to be fucked? What was the best rhythm of touch to use on her clit, the best angle to penetrate her and make her come? Fascinating how the same curiosity made for excellence in both storytelling and sex. Definitely something to think about… later.
For now, he was simply overwhelmed with delight at the realization that the toughest of warriors was also incredibly soft and feminine. And she made such good little sounds. So far, no complaints. Not a one. Everything about this was absolutely right. And though he didn’t want the kiss to end anytime soon, he did have a plan for moving things forward. Varric rose to his knees, still tasting deeply from Hawke’s sweet, delicious mouth, while she remained seated beside him.
This meant, of course, that he now had the height advantage due to the simple fact that humans were tall precisely because their gangly legs were so long. Torso length and all the rest were roughly equivalent to dwarven standard, a fact that too often went overlooked by the legion of bigots who seemingly had nothing better to do than prattle on about the two most telling reasons—height difference being the first—why human-dwarf intimacy was never intended by the Maker or the Ancestors or the clerics or the templars or whoever-all else was feeling particularly nosy and judgmental at the moment. (Incidentally, the extremely high rate of dwarven-human infertility was cited as the other telling reason, but as far as Varric was concerned, that one was actually more of a boon than anything.)
He used his newly acquired leverage to lean into her, compelling Hawke gently backwards until she lay beneath him. He then took hold of her wrists and, with one hand, pinned them above her head, effectively trapping her. All the while, Varric was also undoing his belt, slipping off his trousers, and never for one instant breaking off this longest and most euphoric of kisses. (He was really starting to wonder if she hadn’t drugged her lips or something.) Hawke seemed to find the whole gymnastic process completely charming—or something like that—because the series of delighted little hums and purrs that she’d been making throughout the act of kissing him were now sounding even more delighted and were being issued with increasing frequency. And this was all very good, but Varric was nothing if not a man of his word—more or less—and he still had a matter of unfinished business to attend to.
He broke off the kiss.
“I’m going to free your hands, Hawke,” he said, poised above her and looking directly into her eyes, “but you’re not allowed to move. I need to finish this massage and I can’t have you making things difficult.”
That won him a big smile, one that was both aroused and compliant enough to suggest that his best guess had indeed been right. Few people in Kirkwall would ever have dared to start issuing commands to Hawke. She had a really big sword and she knew how to use it: major deterrent, right there. The friends who knew her well enough to see that she often needed help with the really big decisions also knew that giving firm orders to Hawke was a really stupid way to get results, unless of course the desired result was a mocking reply followed immediately by a clear peal of laughter.
So, there it was. Hawke was the sort of woman who never took orders from anyone. And Varric had been banking on the possibility that she was also the sort of woman who would really get off on being given direct commands in the bedroom. Very nice to see that that was true. Convenient also, because he was just the sort of man who excelled at taking charge of the whole lovemaking experience. So it seemed that, yes, once again and as always, they were going to make a really good team.
“Absolutely no interfering. Is that understood?” he added for emphasis.
“Understood,” Hawke echoed in the same breathy whisper she’d been using on him all evening as if someone had told her there was magic in it—enough to allow even the most painfully awkward of human females to ensnare her very own horny, beardless dwarf.
And perhaps there was some magic, because without a second thought, Varric reacted. He’d planned to draw this out, to make the longing for her build nearly to the point of bursting before at last sinking into her and fucking her until she moaned his name over and over again in her pleasure. He’d planned to place the tip of his cock right at her entrance and reflect for a moment on how one gentle thrust was all it would take to change, well, if not actually everything then at least the answer to the question, “Have you ever had a piece of that?”—a question which, oddly enough, inebriated human men in their desperate and invariably unsuccessful attempts to get into Hawke’s pants always seemed compelled to ask him.
He’d planned to at least finish her massage.
But instead, without a word of notice to Hawke or even to himself, he’d released her hands, adjusted his position relative to her hips, and filled her with one smooth, hard thrust. She was so unbelievably wet that one fucking thrust was all it took.
And this was usually the point where he thought to himself, Score! or Nicely done, big guy, or maybe even How’s that for size, you skeptical little minx? And though he did think the first and second of those things, that wasn’t the half of it. The rest of what went through his head was more like a whirlwind of thought and feeling that came and went and left him, in its wake, suffused with a tender sort of warmth that felt really fucking fantastic. The only thought that distilled clearly enough from all of it was a question. Why didn’t we ever try this sooner?
What he said out loud was, “Marian.” And when he realized she was looking at him, he had the presence of mind to add, “Hey there.”
“Hi,” she said, “Varric,” as if to confirm that, yes, he was quite right, greetings were definitely in order.
Possibly even renewed introductions, now that he thought about it.
For an instant, he wondered if he had ever told Hawke how beautiful she was. But of course he had, and with regular persistence, though the sincerity of that revelation was perpetually undercut by the manner of its delivery—namely, enslaved to some bigger piece of jesting. No wonder she’d been so timid, so afraid he’d laugh at her. Every flirtatious thing he’d ever said to her before tonight was couched in laughter, layer after protective layer of it.
Good thing he’d had the sense to tell her in no uncertain terms he’d wanted this massage to end in vigorous rutting. She would probably never have admitted her own desires otherwise. Not that hers weren’t strong enough. Far from it. He could read their strength in the way her gaze rolled across his face and traveled downward—moving appreciatively over the thick muscles of his chest and stomach—until her focus came to rest between both of their thighs. That was still not enough for her and soon Hawke was craning her neck forward to gain a better view.
“You like to watch, don’t you?” he asked, his voice inflected with devious curiosity. She glanced upward to meet his steady gaze and blushing a little, but, undeterred, nodded her assent. Varric flashed her the most self-congratulatory smirk in his arsenal and said, “Then watch this.”
With a graceful turn of each wrist, he presented his hands, front and back, as if for her inspection before he placed them firmly on the backs of her thighs, not far below her bent knees. Slowly, he pressed her thighs down towards her, shifting the position of her hips and ass, which rolled upwards enough to give Hawke a nearly unimpeded view of all the action—action that began with Varric moving his hips in steady rhythm, gradually gaining both speed and force.
Following Hawke’s lead, he indulged his urge to watch the sex act that grew between them with fluid ease. Each partial withdrawal from her body was followed swiftly by a renewed entry. The repetition held a meditative quality and, for a minute, Varric was transfixed, all his attention captured by the delicate folds of her skin that moved with him, yielding as he thrust inwards, rising around him ever so slightly as he pulled back—as if her body were reluctant to let him go.
He forced his attention back to Hawke’s face. Her wide-eyed look of wonder and ragged-breathed smile were enough to tell him that she, too, was lost in a world of her own pleasure. Determined to intensify the experience for her, he reached down to rub the soft ridge of her clit with practiced fingers. A troubled look crossed her face. Not so good. But fortunately for her, Varric did not suffer the seductive arrogance that led many a lesser man astray, convincing him he could do no wrong in the bedroom.
“So show me the right way,” he said, raising an eyebrow in subtle challenge.
“Like this,” she breathed, moving his fingers to the side, away from the sensitive nub. She guided him in a percussive sequence that he continued easily after her hand had gone. That much accomplished, she adjusted her position—planting her feet, lifting her hips—and with a gentle rocking motion, she slid back then forward, driving herself against him even as he continued to fuck her. Varric knew she was close when she clenched around him impossibly tighter, her body transformed into the sweetest of vices.
She was quiet—the only sound to indicate the pleasure that broke across her in waves was a gasping, trembling intake of air. Her eyes rolled and she fought to regain control, bringing her focus back to him. No moan of his name, not even a whisper, but he didn’t care anymore. Just having brought her here was enough—surely, would always be enough.
He rode through it, noting the way her muscles relaxed, loosening around him as her pleasure subsided. They would clench again soon. No reason why he couldn’t offer her a second peak before at last he allowed his own climax, pounding her harder than she may have imagined possible before spilling into her as deeply as instinct drove him.
At the moment of his release, Hawke shut her eyes, her smile broadening as if she were lifting her face to sunlight and reveling in its warmth. Glistening with sweat, heart racing, catching his breath, and softening inside her, Varric rested. Fading away from him was the lust to fill her and returning was a much saner man who managed to spare one rueful glance at his beloved crossbow before settling beside his more-than best friend, pulling her close, and dropping immediately into the void of dreamless sleep against the welcome curve of her body.
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In Good Hands