undwarfy | Open post

"Good," he said mildly, dealing the cards without so much as a hello. "At least I can get the don't be a sodding idiot, you fucking moron part of the evening's festivities out of the way quickly."

That, paired with a sharp glance over the cards, was all that indicated Varric's worry. It hadn't been surprising in the least to see Fenris lose his sodding mind over the slavers (shit, who didn't get half a stiffy from laying those bastards out?), but that didn't mean Varric had to like it.

So, if he dealt the cards with a little more snap than usual, throwing cards at the elf with an unnecessary amount of force, so be it.

It was a gesture that wasn't lost on him. His shoulders slumped in exasperation, eyes cast toward the ceiling. "Should I simply move closer so you can hit me and get it over with?"

Whether it was irritation or concern on Varric's part, he wasn't precisely sure, but he also wasn't asking. He was picking up his cards, ordering them in his mind (reading cards was so much easier than reading books), and waiting for either a lecture or a conversation. Or perhaps both.

"Don't bother," he answered blithely. "Hitting you is far less fun than my myriad other options for dealing with you."

Oops, he innuendo'd. Oh well. Varric made the executive decision to let the innuendo float there while the card game proceeded. Instead, he started making conversation about some weird-ass mage they'd met down the Wounded Coast, who turned out to be a merchant, of all things, and chatted about a golem they met the week before. Seemed to be the season for weird, what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-here unexpected merchants.

"I'm pretty sure next we'll find someone selling cupcakes out of Meredith's private bathroom."

"That would require being in Meredith's private bathroom, and while I appreciate her stance on blood magic, I have no wish to get to know her that well." He discarded a few cards, drawing the same number thoughtfully. "I would become a Templar did it not require a more intimate relationship with lyrium than I already have."

The game was going roughly as expected. Varric was a hand or two ahead, but Fenris' own winnings were respectable. Just not quite as respectable as Varric's.

"Besides, I hesitate to think what would happen if I spent too much time in a bevy of lyrium addicts. After enough time, I'm afraid they'd begin to look at me like a buffet." He said it wryly, not even looking up from his cards, barely thinking about his own innuendo.

"I'm guessing you don't mean the fun kind of man-flesh buffet," he cracked with a smartass laugh at the hilarity of his own joke.

With that, Varric pushed a few more coins into the middle, upping his bet. His hand was a winning one and he would just love to see Fenris try to beat it.

Fenris gave him a look - complete with a quirk of his lips and eyes crinkling just so at the corner. This slight innuendo, he was aware of. "With Templars, you never know. From what I've heard, their straight lacing tends to go askew in private quarters."

He had to meet the bet, but he didn't raise it. His hand was respectable, but not worth a higher risk than what Varric had made.

"The things I've heard about those uptight lyrium-guzzlers, Broody, would turn your eyebrows white."

He smirked and laid out his cards- a flush. An excellent hand. "Read 'em and weep, firefly."

"Vishante kaffas." But he snorted a laugh as he pushed the pot in Varric's direction, mood improved since his arrival - as was usual after a bit of wine and a hand or ten of cards. It was growing harder and harder to retain a good bit of anger at the world when he was in Varric's presence. Why, he'd yet to figure out, or even think about at length. It was simply... as it was. "Take it, then."

"Ah, don't mind if I do."

Then a thought occurred to him- one spurred on by three glasses of wine and the flush of victory, no doubt. "Actually, while we're talking about man-flesh and lyrium- I have a question."

The best way to set up a question.

Fenris was drinking himself when Varric spoke, and barely managed not to cough at his word choice. He did not, however, keep his amusement hidden. He was smiling when he placed his cup back on the table, wine choked past the laugh that had tried to escape. "Ask. Consider it part of the pot, as you've gotten my last coin."

Varric himself had to laugh at Fenris's reaction. It'd become easier, lately, making the elf laugh- which in turn made it easier to laugh around him. Maybe it was about secrets, or walls coming down, that made it easier.

"So Hawke and I have a bet going," he said, in a tone that made it ambiguous as to whether such a bet existed. "If your markings go all the way down to your business or not. Inquiring minds, you know."

He snorted, the previous laugh halfway escaping. "I should ask what the winner receives and ask for a portion," he drawled, "especially as I'd think the word of one bettor wouldn't be adequate for the other. I could easily tell one of you one thing, and the other the opposite."

But while he spoke, he started to pull off one gauntlet and then the other, leaving his long-fingered hands bare.

"I can't say I ever thought my 'business' would be the subject of a gamble."

"Call it intellectual curiosity," he said, his eyes lingering on the elf's exposed skin for a moment too long.

Varric snapped to, drew his attention back to the table, and started kicking off his boots. The boots always came off now; no sense in getting the bed dirty.

His pauldrons joined his gauntlets on the table, leaving his arms bare from the shoulders down. Those were markings Varric knew well by now, their swirls and arcs familiar, as were the ones they led to on his chest and back. But the ones he asked about...

"I can sate your curiosity well enough to say that there were no parts of me spared from Danarius's intent. I am marked where you imagine." But, after a pause to take a drink, he added, "Though I doubt my word would be enough to settle your bet."

So that was a yes. Varric's eyes went a little wide, but not in a hot damn I win the bet kind of way. His face looked a little sick, and a little sad. The markings weren't nearly as fun to think about now that he knew how much pain Fenris was in.

Varric took his own drink, watching Fenris remove his pauldrons. The last couple months had been strange even by his standards, and it was pushing at things he thought he knew about himself.

Like how much he didn't mind helping Fenris. How often he thought about that first time, and how many lines they'd crossed. The way Fenris's eyes lingered on him sometimes, and how his own eyes found the elf's lean form too often. The simple, perfunctory nature of their usual tattoo-poking sessions was... it worked, of course, it got the job done, but it didn't leave a mark in his mind like that first time.

So here he was, asking about things he shouldn't ask about. Shit.

"I don't know," he said lightly, after draining another glass of wine. "I think Hawke would trust you."

Light. Easy. Not pushing or being weird or...

Edited 2018-02-20 11:21 (UTC)

"Since it is Hawke, you're probably right."

But...

But.

He still woke up to images sometimes of pale but callused hands on his skin, between his thighs, his own fingers splayed against chest hair he'd dared to touch once and it had been once, yet the thoughts wouldn't go. He'd been treating Varric as a friend ever since, even if his traitorous subconscious didn't seem able to let it go at that.

"You, however, have seen practically all of me. If you require confirmation, I trust you."

The statement meant just what it sounded. If Varric needed to see, Fenris would let him. Wouldn't really even think twice about it, for all the combination of thought and memory would leave him... vulnerable.

The offer hung in the air between them, drawn taut like a bow-string. Varric met Fenris's wide green eyes, not sure of what he should say.

Saying yes would be- it'd be too much. Saying no...

After a long moment, he asked a question. "So, you're saying your dick always hurts?"

He can truly think of no greater torment.

The bluntness had him biting his lips to stop the impending laughter. He cleared his throat instead and said, "As I told you that the markings do always hurt, yes, that is what I am saying. It does always hurt. Everything there does always hurt."

He had said moments before - Danarius marked him everywhere. The man had been determined. And cruel.

Damn. That's just- damn.

"Damn," he said intelligently, before dragging a hand over his face. All this phallic talk was making his head hurt and he didn't quite have it in him to just get out there and give Fenris an answer.

So instead he let the moment pass before saying, "Alright, pants off, handsome."

It was the same kind of casual, off-the-cuff remark that he always used in these situations. Business as usual, probably. Except for the mental images dancing in his head.

"Straight to business, as ever, I see." But it wasn't a protest. He stood and started disrobing as he always did, tunic taken off and now, after weeks of experience, laid across a chest. His pants followed. And then he, clad in smalls, as always, went to lay on his stomach on Varric's bed, already eager for the relief that was soon to come.

Now that he'd learned what it was to live without that constant ache, he wanted it with every fiber of his being. He still coped with it between times, but during and after the act, Fenris actually lost some of his tension. Noticeable, he was sure, to Varric by virtue of the fact that, in Varric's company, he smiled. He laughed. Both of which were surprising.

"You know me," he said mildly, watching Fenris undress. There was always a part of him that enjoyed the expanse of smooth, dark skin marked with those swirls and dots- beautiful as they were problematic.

Varric shrugged off his jacket and knelt on the bed next to Fenris. Normally he simply ran his hands over the elf's skin quickly, but today- today, he had certain images in his head, and wine in his veins, and the elf was so very lean and long and intriguing.

Instead, Varric started tracing a line on his back slowly, well aware of the effect it would have on him.

Oh, that wasn't fair. That measured movement of Varric's hand had him sighing and pressing his face down against the pillow. This was going to be like that first night, then, he thought, and add to the torment of his dreams. But could it be called torment when it was so sweet a thing that led him to some of the strongest climaxes he'd had in his life?

Fasta vass, he shouldn't be thinking about that now. For all that was the only thing Varric's touch could put him in mind of, so slow and warm.

"Varric..."

Whether it was plea or warning was open to debate. But it was a near-moan of his name either way.

"Shhh," he shushed softly, effectively sealing the deal for what kind of night this would be. Maker, he did not mind hearing his name like that.

His fingers traced slowly, gently, with that soft, slight-pressure, dragging quality that had undone Fenris so thoroughly last time. He didn't trace both halves of Fenris's back symmetrically, either- no, he did one side at a time, the better to drag this out. All the while, Varric's eyes were on Fenris, watching his reactions as the dwarf dragged his finger down the elf's spine, down to the hem of his smalls and dragging them down very slightly.

All it took was that one finger to make Fenris's back arch, his hips instinctively lifting just a bit off the mattress, and when his touch went further? No complaint, no plea to stop. There was a soft whimper instead. Was he doing this? Really?

A thousand questions pushed one way, another thousand pushed the other. Enough to deadlock, and enough to leave him open to whatever Varric decided to do. In the end, it was the ongoing fantasy and deeper want that decided him. Permission in a moan.

That moan shot right through him, making his mouth go dry and his cock take interest. But he wasn't- he didn't think he was quite ready for that. So he teased a little, dragged the smalls down a few centimeters, then abandoned them to work his way up Fenris's calves.

Dragging, slowly, teasing again. Wanting to hear those sounds again.

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