#tethrawke

“This is the one where we lie about the cards we’re putting down, right?”

“No, Hawke, that’s Cheat,” Varric says. “Gin rummy is where you put down sets of three cards, and the first to a hundred…”

“…first to a hundred points wins,” Rian chimes in. “I’m with you. You might have to help me with the scores.”

Having set the conditions for Varric to egregiously cheat, Rian looks down at their starting hand. They have a pair of Serpents already, but not much else to build on. They discard the Song of Autumn, and draw another card from the deck.

“So, how are you?” they ask.

Varric chuckles. “Me? I’m fine. Glad to be back in the warm.”

“Varric, can you be honest with me?”

The smile fades from his face, replaced by something not quite angry. For a moment, Rian wonders if this might trigger their first argument as a couple. Had to happen sometime, they suppose, and at least it won’t be over something stupid. They meet his gaze, resolutely, a calm and silent promise that they’re not letting this go. Varric sighs, and puts his cards down on the desk. Face up. That’s not good.

“You should have seen that place, Hawke.” He must have been desperate to talk about it, for it to be so easy. “It was everywhere. Anything that wasn’t white was red. And they were growing more of it, out of…”

He stops. His whole body is shaking, as if he’s back on that frozen mountain, and maybe a part of him is. Rian can only think to take his hands, and hold them tight.

“Varric, none of this is your fault,” they say, gently. “You found the red lyrium, that’s all. None of us could have known what would come of it.”

Varric shakes his head. “I gave Bianca the location.”

“Because you knew she could help,” they insist. “She must have found something. You said she was good enough to be a Paragon.”

“But it was her, Hawke. She gave red lyrium to the Wardens.”

She gave it to the Wardens. The Wardens gave it to Corypheus, and Corypheus gave it to the Templars, and the Templars gave it to all of Thedas.

“Dozy mare,” they respond, before they can think better of it. Their eyes widen, as they watch Varric for his reaction. Great idea, Rian, insult his beloved ex-girlfriend. That won’t make him clam up at all. Instead, he chuckles.

“I’ll tell her you said that, if she ever comes around again,” he says, warningly.

“Sell me out to your ex? That’s cold,” they retort.

They laugh a little, together, though there’s little mirth on Rian’s part. Varric has hitched up that smile once again, and they rather think they’ve lost their chance to get anything out of him. He clears his throat, and pulls his hands out of Rian’s grip.

“I know I need to do better,” he says, almost absently.

“That’s not what I…”

“No, I mean, I know I need to get better at talking.” He starts gathering up the cards, shuffling and preparing to deal them out again. “I’m working on it.”

The relief that flows through Rian is so great that they’re almost surprised Varric can’t feel it. The candles might be burning a little brighter. They touch his arm, and his hands still.

“We have time,” they say, simply.

Varric smiles, more genuinely this time. “Anyway, gin rummy…”

Rian sits back in their chair. “That’s the one where you line ‘em up in columns, right?”

They crouch on the floor. They’re a little old to be crawling around under desks, especially one set this close to the floor, but crawl under they do. It’s a nice desk, at least. Looks like real serault oak, polished to perfection, even on the underside. They could probably see their reflection in that wood, if they cared enough to cast magical light and check. As it is, the candlelight provides enough illumination to allow them to unpick the laces on Varric’s boots.

“Damnit, Hawke, what are you doing?”

“You’ll see,” they reply. Boots shed, they get to work on his breeches. Varric startles; Hawke bumps their head. “Ouch.” Not the best start.

“Anyone could walk in!” he hisses, even as he lifts his arse off the seat, letting Hawke tug his breeches and smalls out of the way, and bare him from the waist down. He’s half-hard already.

“Entering the viscount’s private quarters unannounced?” they say, with a smirk. They brush their beard up the inside of his thigh. “Who would dare?”

“There’s a ffffffirst time for everything.” Varric almost loses grip of that sentence, as Hawke wraps their right hand around the base of his length.

“Go on, then,” they say, punctuating their speech with open-mouthed kisses up the length of his now straining prick. “Finish your chapter. I’m keeping myself amused.”

“You’re not making it any easier,” Varric gripes.

They don’t really have a good retort, so Hawke puts their mouth to better use. Their lips close around the head of his cock – tastes the sour-salt of precome – and they flick their tongue against him.

“See? You don’t – ah! – you don’t have an answer for that,” he says, entirely too smug for someone with their genitals so close to someone’s teeth. Hawke reminds him with the barest scrape of theirs as they pull off.

“I don’t have your talent with words,” they reply, which is true to some extent. Varric is the author, the negotiator, the silver-tongued raconteur, but Hawke has made him come more than once by simply whispering in his ear.

“Maker, Hawke…” and he does lose that sentence, groaning as Hawke takes him into their mouth again, and swirls their tongue. They chase the sound, taking more of him with each stroke, each grunt or whispered curse lifting fresh butterflies up from their stomach, until they think he must be able to feel them too. They can’t see his face, but they can see his hands in a vice-grip on the arms of his chair. The writing has been well and truly abandoned, it seems.

Hawke pulls off, for just a second, just long enough. Their free hand – marred with a whorl of burns – fondles his balls in compensation. “I want you to come on my tongue.” And they take him deep, deep enough for the wide head of his cock to slip down the back of their throat. A tiny spurt of salt falls over their tongue as they withdraw, cheeks hollowing.

“Rian.” It’s not often Varric uses their first name. “Shit, Rian, I’m…”

Sensing how that sentence would end, Hawke presses forward, taking him to the back of their mouth once again. Varric comes with a noise like a growl, cock pulsing, spend filling their mouth and flowing down their opened throat.

Hawke holds his softening cock in their mouth for a moment longer, savouring the weight of it. When they pull off, prompting a disappointed sound from Varric, they slump back against the desk drawers to catch their breath. They’d been so focused on him that they hadn’t noticed the growing ache in their jaw, or the bump on their head. The hot throbbing of their own cunt.

After another minute or so, Varric pushes his chair back, offering a hand to help them out from underneath.

“Always the gentleman, Master Tethras,” they chuckle, clambering to their feet. When he pushes them back against the desk, it takes them by surprise. “Oop. Spoke too soon.”

Varric hooks his thick fingers into the waistband of their trousers, pulls them down over their arse. They take the opportunity to perch on the edge of the desk. Their smalls must be visibly wet, because Varric eyes them with a low laugh, and says, “got you good and worked up, huh?”

“That you did.” They lift themselves up, and tug the underwear out of the way, tossing it aside. “What are we going to do about it?”