Lylypuce on Archive

Anders suggested talking. It’s not Fenris’ strongest suit, by far. He slinks from the bed, the air cool enough for goosebumps to prickle over his bare skin. “I’m... taking the kettle,” he says. It feels ridiculous every time, not getting any easier as Varric suggested it might. The routine is familiar, though. A tray lays waiting by the hearth for this exact reason and he focuses on the repetition he’s come to know and expect. 

“I’m filling it with water.” 

The hearth sits blanketed with a layer of ash. Coals smolder cheerily from the grey-black depths. Fenris frowns. “I’m adding more wood to the fire because I forgot to do it earlier.” He places the kettle at the edge of the coals and builds a layer of split wood and small tinder. It blooms to life like a vibrant jungle flower soon enough.

“Tea, now.” Fenris pads back to the table. The small jar of loose tea is nearly empty when he looks into it. "We’ll need to order more.” He measures out into his hand the proper strength for the kettle--then, with another glance to the window, adds another couple of heavy pinches. They’d need the silent energy if they were to keep a regulated schedule. Fenris dumps the loose leaves into the kettle and nestles it into the warm edge of the fire. 

Smoke and spice perfume the room as the tea steeps. Fenris yawns and scratches idly at his belly. He glances over his shoulder at Garrett; no change, which is a weird, morbid measure of comfort. Fenris yawns again and pulls the kettle from the coals before heading back to the table.

Two mugs wait for him on the tray. “We need bigger mugs,” he grouses. A small ceramic crock holds liquid amber honey that drips slowly into the mugs. “These are too small for the amount of tea that I need.” Fenris snorts and only belatedly keeps from pouring tea into the tray. “You’ve spoiled me too much. Now how will I ever be satisfied?” 

He almost misses it, the sound of skin sliding over the bedclothes. 

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Garrett croaks. 

Fenris stills, the kettle heavy where it thuds to the tabletop. His hands shake but he wraps them around the handles of the wooden tray. To his credit, nothing clatters or spills, and he makes it across the room without incident. Fenris sets the tray on the bedside table and carefully crawls into bed, facing Garrett.

Garrett smacks his lips. “How long...?” His voice is a rasp on the silence, sharp and dragging.

Fenris shrugs. “Long enough.” He looks to the far-off mountains and the pink that steadily glows in the east. “A while,” he supplies.

The blankness has left but there’s still an emptiness plain on Garrett’s face, like a pot scrubbed and scoured clean of its contents. Garrett’s fingers flex in a slow rhythm, curling individually and then together into a fist, over and over again. It’s almost glacial, the way his body loosens and unfurls. It comes in halts and jerky starts until the tension finally drains away. Garrett leans back against the headboard with a sigh.

Garrett reaches out for Fenris’ hand. Fenris gives it easily, Their fingers lace together without a thought. 

“You made me tea,” Garrett eventually says. He licks his lips. “You’re too good to me.”

Fenris snorts. “You talk nonsense.” He aims for stern but only comes off sleepy, even to his own ears. A faint blush rises in his cheeks and Fenris passes Garrett a mug. “Careful, it’s hot.” 

Garrett takes a careful sip, winces, and blows on the surface. It’s only another few minutes before he takes another, deeper this time, the tea now his ideal temperature. Garrett slurps inelegantly and a drop dribbles from the corner of his mouth only to be caught by Fenris’ thumb. 

Fenris cups his hand against Garrett’s jaw. Garrett leans into the touch, his mug nestled carefully into his lap. His thumb traces the corner of Garrett’s mouth and follows the curve of his smile. 

“You made me tea,” Garrett says again, almost in a daze. 

“I will always make you tea.” 

The words fall from Fenris’ lips without care, and he only halfway flinches. His gaze rises to find Garrett peering intently at his face; Garrett’s brow is lightly pinched, the skin at the bridge of his nose crinkled. He leans into Fenris’ hand.

“You love me.” 

Fenris takes a centering breath and fights the way it shakes on the way out. The words have sat dormant on his lips for months, for years. Too many mistakes lay between them, too many hard words and misunderstandings; but Garrett is as kind as he is forgiving, and he never pressed for more than Fenris could give. Fenris would kill for this man--has, even, and knows with unwavering certainty that he will again. He had never thought that he would willingly die for someone but he did, had wished for it months ago during the showdown with the Arishok at the Keep. 

His life flashed before his eyes at that moment, bleak and colorless without the rich, earthy brown of Garrett’s eyes. 

“Yes,” Fenris finally says when the silence stretches too long, but Garrett doesn’t look stressed; he only smiles at the short proclamation.

His smile is a small thing, but it’s more precious to Fenris than any amount of gold or gems. “I love you too,” Garrett confides. He presses a kiss against Fenris’ palm. “More than I can say.” 

“More than I can say,” Fenris echoes. He smiles and shifts to tuck himself into Garrett’s side. Their fingers tangle together and he leans his head upon Garrett’s shoulder. 

His suspicion is confirmed by a sneaky glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Hawke’s gaze is full of daring laughter and Varric finds himself pulled in right along with the poor lad beside them.

“No,” Marian says, a breathy, fawning affect to her words. “Though you’d think that wouldn’t be the case, all things considered.” Her hand strays to her temple and a dark ringlet wraps shyly around her finger. Hawke glances down, a move that would look demure on any other person, and she darts to look at him again for just a moment. “Makes a girl wonder about things, you know?” 

The Lady makes a choking noise. Her hand darts down to her drink and--by accident or design, Varric can’t quite tell--she knocks her glass across the table to spill her wine into Hawke’s lap. 

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she simpers, and Varric snorts as he clocks it at the same time Hawke does.

“No worries at all,” Hawke replies in that same light affect, and doesn’t bother to look at the woman. “I’ve got three more in this color alone.” She blots the stain daintily with a napkin. 

“Need a hand, oh mighty Champion?” Varric asks. His chair scrapes along the tile as he stands. He drinks in the smile Hawke gives him, this one without the sly guile, just full of knowing warmth. 

“Oh, I suppose I could use someone to hold my bag while I clean myself up.”

He arrives at her side just as she stands and, with a chuckle, she takes his outstretched hand. Together they breeze away from the table, dodging other dinner guests as they move around the edge of the ballroom. Their wandering feet lead them into a hallway just off the main room. 

“Hm, lost in a deserted hallway in a house neither of us own nor particularly like,” Hawke trips her fingers up Varric’s arm as she muses aloud. Her smile turns sharp, dangerous, and even covered in spilled wine she’s as beautiful as a lightningstorm over the bay. “Whatever shall we do?”

Varric grins and casts his gaze down the hallway. “I have an idea.” His fingers squeeze around hers and they jog down the corridor, veering into a curtained-off alcove, light filtering in from the sconces through the folds of the velvet sheets. A large stone statue fills most of the space, but there was just enough for them to sidle up behind it. It was a tight fit but it would work. 

“Oh, Serrah Tethras,” Hawke murmurs. 

The breathy tone is almost genuine this time as Varric pins her against the foundation of the statue, a convenient little ledge that she sits back on. Her legs part and he nestles himself between them, his hands wandering over her thighs. 

An airy sigh pulls out of her as he inches upwards. “I think you might be up to no good.” 

“That’d be a lot more convincing if your hand weren’t at my belt, Magpie.” 

She only grins and pulls at the knot of his sash in response.

It’s easy, this. Hawke’s nimble fingers have Varric’s trousers open in barely a breath and he gasps when she takes him in hand. His cock fills quickly under the thorough exploration of her fingers, and he rolls his hips to chase the friction for a too-brief moment before he can catch himself.

“Keep doing that and this will be embarrassingly short,” Varric breathes against her shoulder. “And believe me, that’ll disappoint us both.” Her laughter rumbles where their bodies meet and, almost drunkenly, he kisses it from her lips.

This is easy, too. He drinks in the sounds of her, the way his name falls from her tongue when his questing hand slides up between her thighs. Hawke’s breath hitches in her throat and he takes that, too, nipping at her bottom lip as his fingers tease at the growing wetness of her slit. She tips back into the slope of the statue behind her and wraps her legs around his hips. “Patience, patience,” he murmurs into her mouth. 

“Hurry up and---ahh--” 

His fingertips slide ever-so-lightly over the firming bud of her clit. Hawke shudders against him and tilts her hips, trying to press harder into the pressure he keeps from her in his teasing. Varric pulls back just enough to catch her hooded gaze. 

“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he admits, almost smug. Without ceremony, Varric dips his middle finger slowly into the tight heat of Hawke’s cunt. 

Her eyes blow wide and she tips her head back, mouth falling open on a soundless moan. 

Varric gives her a moment to breath--but only a moment--before moving, thrusting lazily into her. “Been thinking about this since you came down the stairs, all gussied up. Prim and proper.” He crooks his finger and she clenches around him, her breath rushing out of her against his cheek. Varric is gasping, himself, her fingers a tight ring that strokes expertly over his cock. He sinks a second finger into her soon enough and cups the nape of her neck with his other hand. Their mouths fit together, a tangle of teeth and tongue, and she bucks against the pumping of his hand. 

“Varric,” Hawke moans. Her ankles hook at the small of his back and she drags her mouth along his jaw, breath scorching against Varric’s ear. “Fuck the lady outta me.”

His brain goes blank. Varric shuffles his trousers further down his thighs and slots himself fully between Hawke’s thighs. His breath shakes out of him and he has to pause as she keens softly against his neck.

They find a quick rhythm. The position isn’t quite ideal, but she bucks against him anyway. He snaps into her heat, rushing headlong toward the edge, and the sounds he has to muffle with his mouth tell him she’s hurtling right alongside him. 

“Hawke,” he breathes. “Fuck--Magpie--” She clenches and Varric sees stars. 

“Please...” She murmurs the word against his lips like a prayer. 

“Maker’s--fuck.” Varric shifts. His arms snake under her thighs to bend her knees up to her chest, and he pulls her tight against him to thrust deeper, fucking into her with all the leverage he can manage. “Fuck, Hawke, I--”

Hawke tightens like a vise around him and he snaps his head up to watch her face in the mottled light as she comes. She bites at her knuckles to muffle the toe-curling noises that spill from her mouth and she shudders against him. Her eyes find him, pupils wide and glassy, and something in Varric threatens to burst from his chest. 

"Marian,” he gasps. Varric presses his full weight down into her to seat himself in her soul and he comes, the world blurring out of focus until all he can see is the low light on her cheekbones, the bright blue of her eyes blazing like alchemical fire. He buries his head at the join of her neck and shoulder and shakes against her. 

It’s not an eternity, but it’s theirs. Varric and Marian gasp for breath, slumped into each other as much as the tight quarters allows. They trade lazy kisses while their heartbeats settle, teasing even in the smouldering heat of the post-orgasm haze. 

“I think we’re missing the party,” she finally murmurs. A laugh twists her plush lips into a grin that Varric dips his head to taste. “Mm--this is why.” 

“Doesn’t look like you’re exactly clamoring to get somewhere.” He gives a slight shake of his head, pulling against the fist she’s twisted into his hair. It makes him shiver, and he sighs out a soft moan when she does it again. “Think we can sneak out of this party and take this somewhere private?”

Marian hums, a low, rumbling purr. “Maybe we can take the scenic route back.” Her fingers tug at his hair again. “Through the parks. Take our time.” 

Heat lances up Varric’s spine. He grins and shifts to help her to her feet. “Yeah,” he says, desire pooling again in his middle at the hungry glint in her eyes. He pulls her into a bruising kiss, his hands cupping at her jaw and nape. They move against each other and he presses her back into the statue behind her for another moment, two, three, before finally pulling back. Varric can feel a heady blush scorching its way up his face, but he can’t care, not when Marian looks at him like that.