museyboxy | Soulmate AUs

"Ha hahahaha!" he cackled unattractively, dropping Fenris's foot with a splash. "That's half the fun."

With that, he moved around to the other arm. This time, he studiously avoided turning it over, letting the scarred wrist remain unseen. That arm he did more quickly- because it was the end. All that was left was hair.

Which, alright, he would enjoy doing. Rather than making Fenris dunk again, he scooped up some hot water and poured it gently over the elf's head. Varric took his time lathering the elf up, working his hands in to try to get under the tangles and work soap into his scalp.

"Ass."

But then...

Then Varric's hands were in his hair again and he forgot what words were. The soreness of his scalp ebbed under Varric's touch - as did... Honestly, as did the pain in most of his body. Never in his life-- No. No, never in his memory was there a moment when his skin didn't hurt. Not until now.

If the Maker was a merciful deity, he would let Varric kiss him just once, even if it was to pacify rather than in real feeling, and then kill him so he would have this peace as his last moment. His skin felt like skin, not like some binding that kept him pinned in. The constant aching irritation was gone, leaving behind simple existence in its wake. Only two areas - one small and one tiny - were left hurting, and he found he didn't mind that so much. Not when the rest of him knew relaxation (even if his joints still hurt) like they hadn't in years.

What Fenris could, and did do, with gentle hands in his hair and his skin without pain, was moan. Quiet, obviously pleased, but a moan all the same.

Varric's breath froze in his lungs, mouth falling open in a silent, unseen gasp at how unfairly goddamn hot that was. Maker's ass, who gave him the right? Seriously?

Thank the Ancestors Fenris couldn't see it, because he honestly needed a minute, as blood rushed several different places at once and his head spun from a desire to reach out and kiss him. It was all too close- too much touching, too little space, too short a distance between his lips and Fenris's neck.

The blood was still in his hair. He kept washing. Kept massaging gently, wanting to hear that sound again.

The second sound wasn't a moan. It was a sigh, more innocent but accompanied with a tilt of his head, the lowering of his shoulders - the unconscious offering of his neck. The bruise was fading, leaving behind a sun-browned throat with the white lines of lyrium standing out brightly. His head tipped back, eyes closed. It was trust, and not a gift given lightly.

Under Varric's attention, Fenris' hair was beginning to unravel, to fall back into loose waves (who would have guessed that, longer, Fenris' hair would tend toward waves instead of smooth, straight strands?) from the tangled, matted mess the fight had snarled it into. His hair was slick and fine, like silk between Varric's fingers, sliding into order with light encouragement.

Varric eyed the long, graceful lines of his throat. He wanted very badly to lean in and kiss him- but Fenris was still soapy, so instead, he lowered Fenris's head back into the water to rinse out soap and dirt both.

When the elf's head came back up, Varric still had his hands in Fenris's hair. By any standard, he could and should have pulled away then. He didn't. He kept working his fingers gently against the scalp- gently, so gently.

Shit. As much as he wanted this moment to go on forever, he was starting to get cold. With great reluctance, he dropped his hands and nudged at the elf.

"The drain."

If he'd cursed, it would've sounded halfhearted, resigned, and amused all at once. As it was, all of those feelings wrapped, instead, into a mutter of, "Right," And he slowly sat up to grab onto the plug and pull it free. He knew what came next, and he shoved himself into doing it, standing up on joints that had certainly known better days, and he pushed himself into stretching in an effort to at least accustom some of those joints to moving again. It hurt, but he could feel the benefit almost immediately.

"If this is a preview of how I'll feel at the age of fifty, I'll kill myself next year and spare the world the trouble," he sighed, not thinking of what his wet smalls either showed or hid. He did need to dry off, though, and what he did think about was the location of either a robe or a towel - or both.

Varric already had a towel at hand, produced while Fenris was slowly making his way upright. Fetching it gave him some time to breathe- to breathe, and to think, and to wonder what in stone's name he was fucking doing. This was Fenris- did he even feel that way about Fenris? Shit, he had to be careful, Fenris was in love with him, this wasn't just any affair. He had to be careful, and there was still-

-other things. To think about.

Once he had the towel back, though, other things weren't in his thoughts anymore. It was about navigating the somewhat awkward task of helping Fenris dry off- while studiously avoiding the wet undies.

"Here you go, elf," he said, wrapping towel number 1 around the elf and helping him to the stool. Then he started drying Fenris off carefully, letting the elf handle his own lower body.

A murmured thanks about the towel and Fenris did indeed dry himself off - in part. Enough that he felt comfortable enough warning Varric sooner than later, "Turn your back," before he dropped the smalls and wrapped the towel around his waist instead. One edge tucked over the other, he sat on the stool and let him know, "There. I'm as decent as ever."

His calves were still wet, as were his feet, but those could drip dry. As could his hair, where it dripped rivulets down his back, very nearly following the lines of lyrium.

While Fenris turned around, Varric fetched another towel.

"Alright, let's get your hair dry and de... de-rat's-nest it a little."

He proceeded to do exactly that: dry Fenris's hair gently, rubbing the towel against his head in slow circles, squeezing water from the silken tresses. It didn't take long before the hair was as dry as possible, and Varric was tossing some clothes at his feet. Thin, flowy things, much like Varric himself was wearing. He'd bought them for the elf a few days before, and forgotten about them.

"Here you go, messere. Fresh new threads, courtesy of black market Qunari textiles."

"Ah. That explains it."

Scraps of fabric he'd seen on Seheron swam into his mind once more. He thought he'd seen red once before. Green, even shades of grey and brown. He wasn't sure he'd seen this blue.

He had to use his toes to pick them up, but when he did, he could swear it was like lifting something as insubstantial as fog. Varric worked on his hair, and he let this finely worked cloth slip through his fingers. "If half the nobility in Tevinter knew this existed, they'd be fighting their own army to try to make trade deals with the Qunari artisans instead of trying to conquer Seheron," he murmured.

There was no good way to don the lower bits without disturbing Varric's work, but he could and did pull on the tunic, worked as it was to tie closed instead of drop over his head. He left it hanging around his shoulders rather than up high enough to get in the way - and immediately, he was impressed. Though thin, the fabric was enough to keep the very edge of a chill off while still letting heat dissipate. Qunari ingenuity struck again.

Varric was pretty pleased with his own set of clothing- as wet as he'd been when first pulling it on, it was already dry and had dried him with it, wicking away the water. And he had to admit, Fenris wore it well.

He stepped away. "You get the rest of it on, elf. I'll be right back."

Off he went to grab some stuff for those silver tresses.

He worked as best he could, still moving with a slowness borne of pain, but it was starting to ease. The warmth of the bath, the relaxation, the healing balms and - he wouldn't lie to himself - the attention. All of it had helped.

And now, these clothes. He pulled them on, the pants sitting low on his hips, the legs wide and comfortable - the only pair he owned, he thought, that weren't his usual closely-fit leggings - and the shirt a wraparound that tied closed as tight or as loose as he wanted. Tonight, he chose loose, letting the whole thing hang around him like the lightest caftan, and it did. It floated around him, touching his skin like feathers, sheer enough that he could nearly swear he wore nothing, but thick enough that he felt comfortable in it - at least here, in the privacy of the rooms that had become home.

With a small smile, he seated himself again, letting his eyes close just for the sake of resting his eyes. He was enjoying the idea of sleep, though the idea of sleeping alone had an appeal that was shrinking by the moment. He wanted to curl onto his side and drape his arm around Varric's waist as he drifted off. He'd have to take hold of a pillow and let his mind supply the rest.

The instant Fenris ass touched seat, Varric flicked his ear very gently.

"Up you get, now." With an arm ready if Fenris needed it. He let the elf lean on him as they walked back into the main room. One chaise was effectively ruined, or near to it- but to the other he guided the elf, sitting him on the chaise. There was room behind Fenris for Varric to slide in and seat himself, but it was snug. His chest nearly touched Fenris's back- and that was when he wasn't leaning in.

This had seemed like a wonderful idea a minute ago. Varric busied himself with the hairbrush to distract from how very close they were.

To his credit, he only gave the faintest of grumbles before following, and slightly leaning, his way into the sitting room. The chaise was admittedly more comfortable than the stool where he'd been before, and to have Varric behind him made the seating arrangement a battle of wills.

If he stayed sitting up, he reminded himself, he would likely get more attention to his hair, more gentle touches, and more enjoyment. If he leaned back and took hold of Varric and fell asleep on him, he'd get the satisfaction of curling up around him, the content of sleeping there, but... But no, it wouldn't be fairly gotten. So he held on to the chaise at either side, using his palms as guides so he could stay upright. "I do appreciate this," he said once he had enough mind to.

"Don't mention it," he murmured into the back of his neck. Shit, when did they get so close?

Varric started brushing his hair, trying hard not to yank- but there was only so much he could do in the face of that many tangles. The bath helped the worst of the mats, but it still needed serious tending to.

"Mmmh." There were a few little tugs, but Fenris put up with them easily enough, only a few winces that Varric couldn't see. Enough, though, that he asked, "Should we take a dagger to it and get it done?"

It wasn't as if he hadn't done it in the past. That was, after all, the origin of Fenris' haircut when he first arrived in Kirkwall. A slaver had taken hold of the length he'd allowed to grow. Fenris had let him keep it.

"Oh, you're giving up now?" he asked incredulously. "And here I thought warriors of your caliber were supposed to be tough."

It's an obvious bait- perhaps lessened by the soft touch of hand to the back of his neck, or how close they were.

A low chuckle and Fenris answered, "I was only trying to make the work easier on you, amicus; you're the one who sees the state it's in. All I know is how it got there."

And that was a tale he'd ...No, had he told it? He thought he may have, at least in part. Not a pleasant memory, or an experience he wanted to repeat - but it had paid well in the end.

"Don't worry your pretty little head about me, I'm making out just fine back here."

Things were going fine: the brush was working its magic, and soon enough the back was entirely untangled and brushed smooth. Varric turned Fenris's head to brush the sides- but found it necessary to rest his hand on the elf's ears, lightly, to protect them from the brush's bristles.

He closed his eyes, then, and let Varric work. He was still, moving as his head was tipped, letting Varric do what he would. As it went, his breathing began to go low and deep, almost as if he were falling asleep.

Or so it was until he felt a hand on his ear.

The why of it was obvious as the brush began its work, but the fact was that, whether it was detangling or not, there was a touch along the sensitive edge of his ear that was lightly, and unintentionally, moving enough to turn the touch into a stroke.

Fenris caught his lower lip in his teeth, breathing going from slow and even to the smallest hitch as he tried his best to talk himself out of that natural reaction.

Unfortunately for Fenris, Varric had to move his hand just enough to definitely turn that touch into a stroke. Then he saw Fenris's reaction, and- didn't stop. It was surprising, the look of pleasure he saw, but it was too damn captivating to want it to end.

It was enough to make him slowly, gently turn the elf's head and repeat the motion on the other ear- and the rest of his hair. Another pass of the brush, another slightly unnecessary touch to that delicate ear, to protect it.

Already, Varric had gotten a moan, a sigh - now, with Fenris so very malleable, so easy to move wherever Varric wanted him, it was practically inevitable that this time, he drew out the softest whimper.

It had been years since anyone had touched his ears. He hadn't even let Isabela during their fling, and before that, it was--

Someone both of them preferred not to think about.

But here hands were on his ears again, one at a time, light and caressing and putting warmth into his blood. Fasta vass, this was not what he'd expected when he'd awakened this morning.

God almighty, that reaction made it impossible to stay away. The literal second that Fenris's hair was done, Varric gently set the brush aside and leaned in, resting his head against the elf's for a long, heady moment. He breathed in the smell of Fenris's hair, clean and enticing, and that underlying, light something that all elves smelled like.

It took him a second to remember what he was doing, but his body didn't forget. His hand came up to gently pull Fenris's hair back, exposing the long line of his neck.

Varric's heart was pounding. Was he really about to do this? Was he really going to cross a spectacularly uncrossable line, with someone who believed Varric to be his soulmate? For a moment he thought about pulling away. Coughing, or dropping his hands, apologizing for getting too close, and letting them get back to their easy little dynamic.

He thought about pulling away from the soft skin so close to his mouth. He thought about it, and it seemed impossible. No, he could do nothing but move in closer, to breath huskily against Fenris's neck, and press a gentle, hungry kiss just under his jaw.

He exhaled with the touch of lips, his eyes staying closed, his lips quirking upward in a smile. He even leaned back against Varric and he... he just smiled. Something settled in him. Not so much a question answered, but an anxiety eased. A longing fulfilled.

The last thing on his mind was pushing for more. This, here, now - that was enough, and he let it be. All he did was lift a hand, caress Varric's cheek, and murmur a soft, "Thank you."

So this was what it was like. This was... He couldn't stop smiling. It was no grand declaration; he knew better than to believe that. It wasn't even a promise. All it really was was a kiss. But it felt nice on his skin, and somewhere deeper inside.

Varric frowned a little at that reaction. It was- strange, to say the least- to kiss someone on the neck and be thanked for it, when all he wanted was to keep kissing, to keep touching, to feel the man in front of him as much as he could.

So he huffed a little sound and kissed again: a slow, ungentle thing that sucked and rasped teeth until he was sure he made a mark, then soothed the spot with soft presses of lips and tongue. A slow, hard, claiming kiss that said quite clearly: we're not done.

Soulmate AUs

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