#varrian

[temperqnce]

Varric & Marian Hawke is the greatest love story Bioware never wrote

[midnightprelude]

Gritty eyes when you stare into fire too long for Dorian x Varric =)

Thank you so much for the ask! Been a moment since I've done one of these! For @dadrunkwriting!

“...And between you and me, that’s what really happened in Kirkwall,” Varric finally turned back from the fire, what little was left in his flash sloshing sadly against the engraved pewter. “Hawke made her choices and I stuck by her. Always will.” He poured out the remnants of his whiskey, even though Dorian thought for a surety the man could’ve used another swig. “Even after this.”

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said limply, the words hollow as they left his lips. “You were a good friend to her. I could tell she cared for you deeply.”

“Yeah,” Varric shook his head, a slight, somber smile playing on his lips. “She cared for everyone, really; that was part of the problem. At the end of the day, she’d have thrown herself in front of a moving cart to save a random passerby. This…” He sighed deeply, as though the weight of the world was trying to escape from his lips. “Maybe not exactly how she wanted to go, but close to it.”

“To Hawke,” Dorian raised his now-empty wine glass for what must’ve been the fifth time that night. “Who faced down terror itself and laughed in its face.”

“To Hawke,” Varric chuckled darkly, his eyes turning back to the flickering flames, gold glinting at his neck and in the rosy waves of his hair. “I hope you find the peace you were searching for, old friend.”

[elpiething]

So, with supervision from @lilsoutherncuss, I may be trying to get over some writer’s block with an old Varrian AU. 

Feat. djinn!Dorian. 

And plaidweave.

[midnightprelude]

The way you said I love you in a letter for Dorian x Varric!

Sure thing! Some Epistolary fic for @dadrunkwriting following the qunari raid on Qarinus.

A thin sheet of parchment slipped between the cover and title page of the newest Tethras serial.

Magister Pavus,

I guess that’s what I’m supposed to call you now? Magister Pavus and Viscount Tethras; we’ve come so far from freezing our asses off in the backwaters of Ferelden! Now we’ve got people freezing off their asses for us. Not nearly enough, in my case, not in this crumbling city, but I digress.

I heard there was an attack on your hometown. I hope you didn’t get messed up doing anything stupid and heroic; I have my own experience with the combination of stupid heroes and qunari rampages and I wouldn’t wish them on my worst- Okay. Maybe Corypheus, but only because he couldn’t do us the favor of staying dead after the first time. Pretty rude, when you think about it. 

I imagine… Mae would’ve written me if- 

[Several words are blotted out]

I’ll owe you a bottle or two and at least as many games of Grace if you made it out alright.

You’re one of the good ones and I’m glad to count you as one of my friends. They seem to be dwindling by the year.

Write back. 

Varric

An envelope of expensive vellum, stamped with the two-headed, feathered snake of House Pavus.

Varric,

A bit scalded by qaamek, to be certain, but I’m damnably hard to kill. I’m sorry this letter couldn’t be longer. Mae’s the best of hostesses, but she runs a tight ship. Enough to let you know I’m alive, at the very least.

I wouldn’t mind a nice brandy and a bit of companionship, though the reading material is greatly appreciated. I’ll write a longer review when I’ve finished, but I imagined time was of the essence. I’d come to you, but I’m not in a position to travel at the moment; you understand.

Yours, Dorian

Just Dorian, please. We’ve been through too much for me to be anything else.

[baejax-the-great]

"Taking a warm bath after spending the day outside." VARRIAN? I guess it doesn't need to be the same bath. OR IT COULD BE AND THERE WAS ONLY ENOUGH HOT WATER FOR ONE. THERE WAS ONLY ONE BATH.

This might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever written XD Dorian x Varric, and there was only one bath! @dadrunkwriting

~

Varric ached. His bones ached. The spaces between his bones ached. He trudged up the path to the inn where they were staying—and it felt like all he did was walk uphill today, which shouldn’t even be possible—Dorian trudging by his side in perfect, exhausted silence.

Hawke greeted them at the door with a disgusting amount of enthusiasm, steering them both toward the private bathroom.

“I’m afraid there was only enough hot water for one bath,” Hawke said as they walked, “You’ll have to share.”

“Grown men don’t share baths, Hawke,” Varric responded.

“Grown men also don’t ruin their friends’ day by being stinky at dinner. You’ll share the bath, or you won’t eat.”

She shoved them into the room and closed the door behind them.  With a sigh, Varric began to strip.

“What on the Maker’s green earth are you doing?” Dorian demanded.

Varric blinked at him. “Hawke said—”

“And do you do everything that she says?”

“Not… everything,” Varric muttered lamely, his hands still wrapped around his waist in preparation for removing his shirt.

“You do, don’t you,” Dorian continued as if Varric hadn’t said anything at all. “And if she told you, ‘Oh Varric, there’s only one bed at the inn so you and Dorian must share,’ would you go along with that?”

“First of all? That was not a very good impression of her. I’m not sure she’s ever said, ‘Oh, Varric.’ But also we’ve shared a tent for months while traveling so I don’t know why that would even be—”

“’Oh Varric,’” Dorian sneered, “’Dorian’s fainted, better give him mouth to mouth.’”

“Is that how you cure fainting in Tevinter, Sparkler? Because down south, a cool compress on the forehead is how I would deal with that situation. But I guess I wouldn’t expect someone who specializes in necromancy to know that.”

“’Oh Varric, Dorian’s hands look cold, better hold them for him.’”

Varric was too tired for this. He pulled his shirt off. “Or Dorian could just get in the bath and stop coming up with absurd hypotheticals.”

“Fasta vas, but you’re an idiot,” Dorian said before storming out of the room.

Varric was awoken some time later, the bath gone cold around him, when Hawke knocked on the door. “Varric, just wanted to let you know that there was a mix-up somehow, and you and Dorian have to share a room. There’s only one bed, but I’ve been assured it’s a large and comfortable one. Dinner’s ready whenever you are.”

On second thought, Dorian may have had a point.  

[midnightprelude]

10- “What the fuck did you do to all of my clothes?!” for varrian!

Okay okay, this is very silly, but what if Varric gave all of Dorian’s robes deep, deep Vs? Probably what happened in this ficlet? Thank you for the prompt, friend! For @dadrunkwriting. :)

“What the Void did you do?” Dorian spun on his heels to find a certain red-headed author chuckling over a glass of ale, his quill scratching against parchment. He barely met Dorian’s gaze over his half-moon spectacles. 

“It’s hot here,” Varric shrugged, leaning back in the red upholstered chair and kicking his feet up on the desk in Dorian’s parlor he’d in effect claimed as his own. 

Dorian tutted, giving him a sharp nod. Boots. Boots on his ironwood. The piece had been an heirloom, originally commissioned by Hadrian Pavus two hundred years prior. And the Marcher had his boots on it. 

Varric puffed out his cheeks, readjusting his feet so they dangled to the floor. They’d had this argument enough times before that he knew better. “It’s hot here and you like showing skin anyway.”

“I like-” Dorian exhaled sharply. “I am exhibiting the highest echelons of fashion, as is my duty as a Magister and my pleasure as an aesthete. The atrocity you wreaked on my wardrobe-”

“Enhancements,” Varric winked, lifting his mug. 

“Hm?” Dorian blinked, lacing his hands at his spine and padding towards him with one of the unfortunate victims of Varric’s handiwork. He tossed the robe onto the desk, grimacing. “You’ve altered my necklines. Why. Why would you do such a thing?” “I told you!” Varric tilted his head with an infernal smirk. “It’s hot in Minrathous. And you like to show skin. What’s a few more inches?”

“You’re trying to make me look like you!” Dorian protested, scrubbing a hand across his face. “The lines are entirely wrong!”

“You never seem to mind my clothes,” Varric lifted a brow. “Is there something you’ve been meaning to tell me?”

“No of-” He cleared his throat. Plebeian. His sense of fashion was dreadful and his hair clashed with his shirts more often than not. “Though I prefer them on the floor.”

“Well, Sparkler,” Varric glanced up sharply, setting aside his quill with a laugh. “Maybe we can work something out.”

[baejax-the-great]

“I guess I accept my inevitable fate of minor physical affection.” Dorian and anyone, platonic or otherwise! 👀

You KNOW I had to go with Dorian x Varric 😅😅

“I have something for you. Now don’t ask me how, but assume it took an enormous amount of effort, skill, and money. And, obviously, no small degree of handsomeness, though that did not factor in much to the successful result.”

Varric raised an eyebrow, but his lips were already quirking in a smile. Good. Dorian liked a good smile.

“I have procured what I believe is a fan-made copy of ‘Hard in Hightown’ translated to Qunlat by what I have to imagine is an incredibly dedicated person. Or people. Note the hand-drawn cover by someone who is not entirely certain whether humans have horns.”

“Give me that.” Varric took the book in his hand, examining the cover drawing. “No,” he whispered, tracing over the lovingly crafted illustration.

“I asked the Iron Bull to translate just in case I was mistaken. He said the title comes to something like, ‘Difficulties in the Tall City.’”

“You’re shitting me now.”

“I shit you not.”

Varric flipped the book over and over in his hands, grinning widely. “This is incredible. Sparkler you—you really shouldn’t have. I don’t know what to say.”

“I guess I accept my inevitable fate of minor physical affection for my efforts.” 

When Varric wrapped his big, burly arms around him—and perhaps when given by Varric, a hug counted as major physical affection—Dorian had to concede that there was a chance this outcome was what he had wanted in the first place. Oh, but they were good arms. And a good chest, too, that Dorian had spent far too much time admiring. It was only right he felt it pressed up against him from time to time when the occasion called for it.

The hug ended, as all hugs must, and Dorian felt far too pleased with himself for the entire endeavor. As he left the Great Hall, he turned back once to see Varric smiling fondly at the cover, thumbing at the pages. He stopped in his tracks to watch him, a small moment simple pleasure as Varric grinned, and he only resumed his trek to the tavern when Varric put the book down and returned to whatever he had been doing before Dorian interrupted him.

Verbal Hug Prompts

[baejax-the-great]

For the DADWC, A perfectly brewed cup of tea.

Thank you! Have some Dorian x Varric as I imagine them hanging out in DA4 @dadrunkwriting

~

Dorian had missed good tea. Those long days in the Ferelden mountains drinking whatever those kitchen ladies saw fit to send out had had him aching for home. Strangely, they were never thankful when he offered to explain to them how to brew a proper cup of tea, and it didn’t matter, really, since his method involved magic. Heating up the water just so for the amount of time it took to quietly recite his favorite poem by Rufinus, removing the tea leaves, stirring in the honey—and the honey in Tevinter just tasted better, happier bees perhaps—then cooling it down with a flick of his wrist and inhaling the perfectly distilled aroma of the leaves.  

And that wasn’t even touching on the difference in quality of tea leaves available in the middle of southern nowhere.

Since returning to Tevinter, he had spent a portion of each day perfecting an already excellent procedure. Today his parlor smelled of roses and mint, an interesting flavor combination that called for just the tiniest portion of sugar. He dropped it in, stirred quickly with his spoon which made a pleasant tinkling sound against the delicate porcelain, and took a sip.

Just as he’d suspected: perfection.

Varric ambled in just after he’d set the tea cup in its saucer. That poor man had no taste for tea at all, his tastebuds presumably having all been burnt away after years of tavern food served piping hot to make up for the lack of flavor. Cheap tea leaves, over-boiled and steeped for too long served Varric just fine during their trips across the South together. On one memorable evening, Dorian even saw him dump some of his flask into it. And while Dorian did love a cup of tea and alcohol of almost all varieties, not to mention skirting around convention, that was a sin he could never reproduce for himself.

In a strange way, he’d been impressed.

But the thing about a perfectly brewed cup of tea, Dorian reflected as Varric reported on the news of the day, was that it would never match even the worst swill when that swill was shared with a friend.

“Well,” Varric said, bouncing on the balls of his feet and eyeing the teapot, “I was going to see if you wanted to get a drink with me over at the tavern, but I see you already have—"

“This?” Dorian asked with a gesture toward his teacup. “Pure rubbish. Understeeped and over-sugared. Practically undrinkable.”

“Oh. The smell is—”

“Perfectly awful, isn’t it?” he interrupted with a smile, “Come, a mug of wine at that dreary dive you prefer would be far preferable. Wipe the memory of this refuse right out of my mind.”

Varric grinned as Dorian swept out the door with him. The thing about knowing how to brew a perfect cup of tea was that he could always do it again later. A Varric—well, perhaps one day he’d even teach him how to appreciate it.