Blow by Blow

The hour was late and the bar had grown quiet. Hawke had opted to drag one of the heavy wooden chairs up from the lower level since she had never much cared for the throne-like seats that guarded Varric’s table on three sides. Besides, this way she could sit closer to the fire in its brazier, a position that also happened to bring her closer to Varric. Though she doubted she would ever admit it to him, nearness to Varric had begun to get the heat coursing through her just as potently as—if somewhat differently than—proximity to a fire.

Hawke was answering her mail. She had a hefty stack of it waiting for reply and she had begun with the easiest prospects: a long letter addressed to her sister and bound for the Circle, a quick note to Aveline inquiring as to when Isabela would be released this time, a friendly reply to her mother’s friend Miriam who now lived in Denerim proper. The nib of her quill scratched along at a steady pace.

It wasn’t until she reached thornier, more political sorts of letters that Hawke’s attention began to wander. She had no interest whatsoever in penning even the briefest of reports for the viscount, the knight-captain, or even Keeper Marethari, who had asked after Merrill’s wellbeing. She dipped her quill into the inkwell that she and Varric shared, but instead of putting pen to page, she drew a wet, dark line along Varric’s left forearm.

He looked up from his writing. His thoughtful amber eyes met and held Hawke’s playful gaze.

“Missed the page that time, Hawke,” he pointed out helpfully.

“These letters are boring me to tears,” she said. “Will you tell me a story?”

“Will I? Madam, I simply cannot refuse the request of an elegant and well-mannered lady,” he said, punctuating ‘well-mannered’ with a conspicuous glance at his ink-stained arm. “Nor any of your requests either. What story would you have me tell?”

“Whatever one you’re writing,” she said. “I’m sure it’s engaging, judging by all your hums of satisfaction.”

Varric paused for a moment, the expression on his face inscrutable, as if he were considering whether to tell the truth or to lie—and if to lie, then in which way.

“Still haven’t read any ‘Hard in Hightown,’ have you?” he asked.

“No,” Hawke admitted. “Though I swear it’s at the top of my reading list.”

“And has been for years,” Varric said with a sigh. “Well, no matter. This is an alternate ending to one of my books in the series. My loyal readers will probably object. Might even stage a revolt. Needless to say, I’m reluctant to give away the ending before it’s published.”

“You can’t tempt me with the prospect of open rebellion and then not tell the story,” Hawke said, dipping her quill again and waving it at him with a menacing flourish.

“I’ll do what I please, serah,” he said and, reaching for her hand, caught it deftly at the wrist. With his other hand, he took her quill away and returned it to the inkwell. He squeezed her hand gently before letting it go.

“Between us, I think I prefer the new ending,” Varric said. “Brennicovick finally admits that it’s not just his work that’s keeping him in Kirkwall. Throughout the years, he’s had many opportunities to take some time off and seek out his long lost love. But he’s never left.”

“So what’s keeping him?” Hawke asked. She could almost feel Varric’s gaze as it flicked across her face and, for just a second, strayed lower.

“The sultry guardswoman who shares his many patrols, of course. He’s hopelessly smitten, I’m afraid,” Varric said, his voice a low, smooth drawl, “and late one night in the barracks, he finally breaks down and… indulges.”

“So,” Hawke said, “just to clarify.” With much effort she kept her voice even, marked by a note of levity and playful sarcasm. “You’ve been sitting next to me for the past two hours writing smut while I’ve been answering important letters bound for the viscount and the templars?”

“More or less,” Varric said. “Except the part about you writing important letters. Can’t say I’ve ever seen that happen.”

Hawke smiled. “Right. Let’s have the smutty ending, then.”

“Go shut the door,” Varric said and when Hawke raised a questioning eyebrow, he continued, “I can’t have Edwina listening in. She’s one of my readers. And I don’t wish to hasten her wrath.”

With the door shut behind her, Hawke returned to Varric’s side.

“Pull your chair closer,” he said. “The walls may have ears, you know.”

Varric leaned towards her and in a voice barely louder than a whisper he began to narrate. “The common room of the barracks is desolate but for two human figures, each hunched over a stack of reports. Unbeknownst to the lady beside him, our hero protagonist marshals his nerve. With a sudden resolve, he reaches forward to claim the hand of the woman who has haunted his every fantasy, marveling only at how it easy it is to cross that first of boundaries…”

Mirroring the actions of his protagonist, Varric reached out and took hold of Hawke’s slender hand. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, but she didn’t pull away. In truth, the pressure and warmth of his hand was welcome and she wondered vaguely if he could feel the accelerating drumbeat of her heart through the pulse points of her wrist and fingers.

“Though he aches for the taste her lips, our good guardsman is more curious to know how far she will obey. He is not her captain. They rank as equals and yet Donnen wants nothing more than to press her into his service.”

“Service?” Hawke asked, raising an eyebrow once again. “Is this story… going where I think it’s going?”

Varric’s smile was full of mischief. Still holding Hawke’s hand, he reached forward to rest his left hand gingerly against her cheek and jaw. She trembled at the moment of contact.

“Reaching forward, Donnen runs a strong hand along his lady’s jaw line and, cradling her chin, begins to draw her head forward and down. His other hand is at his belt, unbuckling and undoing…”

Varric’s right hand moved down to rest gravely atop his own belt buckle. He made no further move.

“Don’t stop there,” Hawke said, her voice a coarse whisper. She was well aware that her own head was not being drawn forward and down, and wondering how far Varric was really willing to take this game—if game it was.

“I’m afraid the curtain closes at this point in our story,” Varric said, abandoning all contact with Hawke to settle back in his chair. “It opens again the next morning with our love struck heroes cuddling in their sleep—a blissful scene that is too soon interrupted by the clomp of heavy boots as the rest of the guard arrives for an early breakfast only to find Donnen and his lady, limbs-entwined and naked, fast asleep beneath one of the tables.”

“You must forgive,” Varric continued, meeting her gaze for an instant before glancing swiftly down to inspect the tips of his ink-stained fingers. “A gentleman doesn’t typically narrate the… blow by blow. Especially not to a lady.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Hawke said. “This lady was hoping for a bit of blow by blowing.”

Varric looked up sharply. “Was she?”

“She’s been hoping for a while.”

Varric paused, as if again considering which course to pursue. At last, he spoke. “As it turns out, the same is true for Donnen and his lady.”



Hawke smiled, releasing a full breath, which—although she hadn’t quite realized it—she’d been holding for the length of Varric’s silence.

“As Donnen pulls her forward, the guardswoman slides from the edge of her chair to kneel before our hero.” Varric lifted his chin in a quick nod to Hawke, his devious smile returning. “That’s your cue, sweetness.”

Hawke’s breath caught in her throat as she realized exactly what he was suggesting. She didn’t need him to repeat the hint. Hawke slid from her chair and knelt before the man whose hard, thick, and ready cock she was about release from his trousers, nuzzle affectionately with her nose, and then begin to suck with a willing enthusiasm born of her long-frustrated desires.

“He runs a strong hand through her hair and gazes down at her beauty with all the appreciation of a man who is hopelessly… oh, Maker…”

Her first teasing kisses had given way to the smooth, wet passion of an open mouth and a firm, insistent tongue.

“It’s been a long time since he…”

Her tongue curled and twisted, adding an undulating pressure as she sucked him. All the while, Varric caressed her cheek with a gentle hand. If she kept her courage later, Hawke would tell him just how strongly she felt the urge to press herself into the musky spice of his scent. In that way, she would mark herself as his. Always his.

Her gaze flickered upward. He was smiling down at her. His eyes, drugged with pleasure, flashed with the light of recognition.

He had been telling a story, hadn’t he?

“He was right at the edge... and he wanted her to know…”

The moment of release was sudden. Hawke sucked at him deeply as he came. She welcomed even the bitter salt of the fluid she swallowed, because it was his and because no matter how much she’d been avoiding the truth of it, she loved him. When at last he shuddered, fully spent, she released him, damp and still hard, though gradually softening. Satisfied with her work, Hawke drew a deep breath and rested her head against Varric’s thigh.

“Varric?” she said after a minute had passed in comfortable silence.

“Hmm?”

“What did Donnen want her to know?” she asked.

“That he loves her,” Varric whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from Hawke’s eyes. She looked up and caught the playful glimmer in his eyes as Varric added, “Let’s not tell Bianca just yet.”