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now i feel so capable, wanting to be free
never fall from holiness, painting in the stars
what if we could turn around, like birds in the rain?
The Viscount gets engaged in the Winter. While the harbors are nearly frozen, and the winds are blowing up snow – Varric Tethras becomes engaged to one Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, and Bran’s world gets turned upside down.
On a day to day basis, the seneschal has, at least, fifteen things to do. And while that number alone may seem small, he is lucky if he manages to get that much finished. More often than not, Bran’s day usually is consumed by one or two tasks that take hours to complete.
That would be a day much like today, three weeks after the engagement – Bran is waiting for Marian Hawke to arrive in Kirkwall. Once she does, he can check off one thing from his list and move on to the next – making sure she is comfortable, established, and has food in her belly. She subsists fairly often, according to Varric, on coffee, whiskey, tea, and chocolate for several days at a time. It is apparently annoying, troubling, and also true.
She arrives in Kirkwall nursing a flask that Bran learns is actually coffee and elfroot, a concoction that probably tastes as bad as it smells.
“Staves off dehydration,” she says.
“I’m sure it does, Ser Hawke.”
She clucks at him. “Hawke will do. Marian, if you’re sweet.”
“Hawke, then.”
“Right.” She grins and swings her leg over the saddle of her horse, passing off the reins to a servant. “Been a while since I’ve see the place,” she says, glancing up at her home. Bran remembers the day she acquired it quite well. Her hands travel to the stonework outside the door as she fishes into her pack for the key, tied up in cloth and twine.
“Varric had it cleaned.”
“Bet he picked the lock for the cleaning crew himself.”
“He did.”
Hawke scowls. “Little shit. He’s really doing that whole marriage thing, isn’t he?”
“His heart does seem to be set on it.”
“And what about you?”
Bran raises a brow. “I have no desire to be married.”
“Ah, no. No, I meant how do you feel about the whole Varric and marriage business?”
“Lady Pentaghast is a fine woman.”
“Bet she keeps him on his toes.”
“And then some.”
Hawke grins. “Love it.”
Bran knows for a fact only one other Viscount before Varric had married while in office, so he has nothing, really, to compare this particular situation to. He had expected the engagement party to be rather large, but he isn’t truly surprised that Varric and Cassandra host a rather intimate gathering at the Viscount’s keep at the end of the month. Bran leans against a wall and observes, sipping on a glass of wine for nearly an hour before he senses someone beside him.
“He looks happy, doesn’t he?”
“He does.”
Hawke angles her head. “I used to think he’d be sort of…supportively alone forever, you know? Or at least, like, my fallback.”
“Your…fallback.”
“I was convinced about six years ago that if I never got married I could talk Varric into doing it with me, and we could live in the house and I could have my whoevers, and Varric could pine and mope about, and we’d get the married people benefits.” She takes a long drink from the bottle of whiskey she’d graduated to nearly an hour before. “Maker’s always had a funny way of screwing with my plans.”
“Sometimes you meet someone.”
“Sometimes you do.”
Bran drains his wine glass. “If we could all be so lucky, hmm?”
“Yeah. It’d be nice.” Hawke looks into the bottle. “My mother once told me you had a son my age.”
“I do.”
“You were a kid when he was born.”
“The circumstances were less than ideal.”
“Gotcha.” She tips her head back against the wall. “Mother kept talking about suitors and marriage. I think she wanted to ask you if I could meet him. You’d have said no.”
“Probably. You were a pest.”
“Were? I still am, ask anyone.”
Bran smiles. “Well, you’re a bit late. He’s married, now. Lives in Hercinia.”
“That’s a lovely place.”
“It’s nice enough. He’ll have a child of his own soon.”
“Well, congratulations. You seem a bit young to be a grandfather, but you were a bit young to be a father in the first place.” Hawke shrugs. “What is age?”
“A thing that wears on you,” Bran admits. He hasn’t felt his own in years, but his time as Viscount put a strain on him that he can’t quite shake. He wonders what it will do to Varric.
“It doesn’t matter much to me,” Hawke says quietly, and angles herself toward him. “You’ve got a pleasant face. How come I didn’t notice that before?”
“I did quite a bit of scowling at you, if you’ll remember.”
“You were snotty,” Hawke says.
“We were in a near-constant state of emergency.”
“When is Kirkwall not in a near-constant state of emergency?”
“Certainly not while you’re here.”
“Oh, he jokes!” she says, grinning. “Maker, but I do enjoy you, seneschal. I think I need some air.”
“That would be wise.”
“With you,” she says. “I think you and I should get some air together.”
“I…oh.”
“What?”
“Well—”
“Ser Cavin. Are you applying that I have some ulterior motive? I would never.”
At that, Bran laughs, and she grins at him, her lips wrapped around the bottle.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s get some air.”
The nice thing about having your own office is having the key to it as well.
Bran locks the door behind him and presses her against the desk, trailing his hands of her sides and her chest. She is without armor, tonight, but in garb only. He suspects the hardness about her extends to the bedroom, and that she would be a terror to pick apart with some practice and preparation. He expects the plains of her body under his hands to be like stone –
But she is soft at the edges, her skin smooth in most places, marked with scars here and there. Bran kisses her cheeks and neck, groaning when she slides her knee between his legs. He can’t think of a single reason why this is a good idea, and a hundred why it might be a poorly considered one – but that doesn’t stop him from reach down to tug at the laces of her breeches and carefully slide them off her hips.
“You move quick.”
“I’ve some practice.”
“Here?”
“Once,” he admits. “Some years ago.”
“Mmm, how scandalous, Ser Cavin.”
“You do know I’ve no social standing high enough to warrant you calling me – mmph!”
“Old habit,” she murmurs against his mouth, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You drank shitty wine all night.”
“I did.”
“I need you to know something,” she says, drawing back. Bran misses the warmth very quickly.
“What is it?”
“If I…let you do this, you should know that I won’t regret it come morning. No matter how much I’ve drunk or you’ve…not drunk. Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“Neither am I. I am entirely lucid and in complete control of my decisions, for the record. So you shouldn’t feel guilty about taking me in a manly fashion against your…oak—”
“Mahogany.”
“Mahogany writing desk,” she finishes.
“I hadn’t intended on feeling guilty.”
“So you were going to take advantage!”
“I wasn’t!”
“Ha.” She leans in and kisses him again. “Gotcha.”
He scowls. “You are as much a pest now as you were then, and I do mean that.”
“Yes, but you wouldn’t have offered to bend me over this desk and pound me from behind all those years ago.”
“I haven’t offered to do that now.”
Hawke raises a brow. “I did think I’d have to do all the asking,” she says.
Bran growls low in his throat, kissing her neck. “Ser Hawke—” She shudders. “I would like to turn you around, bend you over, and fuck you against this desk.”
“Shit, Bran—”
“Is that what you’d like?”
“Maker, yes.”
“Good.” He shoves her breeches the rest of the way down, tugging her smalls with them. She is wet when he reaches between her legs, fingers parting her folds carefully, one sliding inside. She clenches in anticipation, and so he presses in another. “When was the last time you were properly fucked?”
“You’re filthy,” she mutters. He bites her shoulder. “Ah! Fuck, it…it was months ago. Wasn’t even proper.”
“Probably not.”
“Abysmal, really.”
“A dreadful thing, Ser Hawke.” She whimpers when he pulls his fingers from her. “Is the air here fresh enough for you?” he murmurs.
“Quite crisp.”
“Good.” He turns her around, giving her a gentle push so that she bends at the waist. Quickly, he loosens his breeches and draws out his cock, stroking it to full hardness, teasing her with the tip. She rolls her hips against him. “Be still,” he says, holding her with one hand on her waist as he presses further in.
“Come on,” she snaps. “Fuck me, for the love of – ah!”
Bran thrusts in, completely buried inside her, watching her hands scrabble over the desk for purchase. He waits, lets her adjust, and then draws out.
His second thrust is harder, and she cries out, clamping a hand over her mouth.
“That’s right. Best to stay quiet. Something tells me Varric wouldn’t approve.”
“Oh, oh fuck. Please don’t talk about Varric while you’re inside me,” she says, panting. “More, come on, more—”
Bran nods, and he fucks her in earnest. His desk rattles under the movement of their hips together, and the lewd sounds of skin smacking against skin echo through the room.
Bran Cavin is nearing fifty-one, far too old for quick trysts in the middle of a party, but he doesn’t feel that number when he’s inside of her, or when one of her hands grasps his own, presses soft, messy kisses to the inside of his wrist.
“Close,” he manages. “Hawke, I’m—”
“Out,” she says. “Come on, out.” He does as he’s told and she turns and drops to her knees in front of him, taking his cocking into her mouth in one go. She slides her hand along the base, stroking as she sucks him off, gets him closer and closer to the edge until –
“Shit,” he mutters, leaning forward and grabbing the edge of the desk as he comes, spilling into her mouth.
She looks up with a grin, and Bran feels eighteen again.
“Good work,” she finally says, standing on trembling legs.
“On the desk,” Bran says quickly, and hefts her up before she can complain. He slides his fingers against her clit, cupping the back of her neck with his hand, forcing her to look at him.
“You’re going to come,” he says.
“Oh, fuck, yeah.”
“You’ll come and you’ll say my name again.”
She grins. “You liked it?”
Bran nods, kissing her. “I did.”
“Mmm, alright.” Hawke appears as composed as Bran’s ever seen her, but he can hear the tension in her voice, can feel it against his fingers just as well. “Shit, shit, I’m gonna come, Bran.”
“Do it. Let go.”
“Bran, fuck, Bran—” She gasps, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him close, crying out against his shoulder. “Oh fuck.”
“That was good then?”
“Yeah. That was incredible.” She looks at him. “We’re doing that again.”
“We don’t have to.”
She swats his shoulder. “I know we don’t have to, stupid. If I didn’t want to I’d tell you to fuck off, but I’m not. What I’m saying is we’re going to do that again while I’m here. Preferably somewhere a bit more private. Varric’s noticed we’re gone, you know.”
“Most likely.”
“Still.” She leans forward and presses her lips to his. “Worth the award winning side-eye we’ll both get from him tomorrow in the morning, huh?”
“Completely worth it,” Bran says.
Nice thing about that is – he believes it.
“You need to sign these.”
“Right.”
“And these.”
“Mmhm.”
“And you’ll—”
“Bran.”
The seneschal grips the last chunk of papers in his hand. “Ser.”
“You know I’m aware of what happened in your office last night, right?”
“I had assumed as much.”
Varric sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Just so we’re clear, then. You and Hawke…”
“I believe Marian Hawke is an adult woman, fully capable of consent, sir.”
“Well I know that.”
“Good.” Bran sets the last paper on his desk. “You signed this one in the wrong spot.”
“Ah, shit.” Varric scrawls his signature in the correct spot and stands. “Right then. I’m heading out. Turns out when you decide to marry a woman she still wants to spend time with you.”
“Give Lady Cassandra my regards.”
“Will do.” Varric pulls on his coat, searing in his desk drawer for his gloves. His stuffs them into his pocket before he goes to the door, pausing for a moment. “Listen. I’m not…worried about her. I know you’re just fine. But Hawke’s…got some baggage. I mean, you’re smart, I know that. And I know you can probably handle whatever she throws at you, but…she’s seen things. Things have happened to her that haven’t happened to anyone else.” He puts a hand on Bran’s shoulder. “She could really mess you up.”
Bran nods. “I appreciate the warning.”
“Can’t ask for anymore, can I?” Varric grins. “Also be good to her, or I’ll kill you. I’m not joking even a little bit.”
Bran laughs as Varric heads out, waiting for him to descend the stairs before going back into his office. He sets a few things to the side for the morning, and though there’s certainly work he could do, he’s tired, he’s hungry –
And she said she’d come by tonight. She said she’d be in the city for the rest of the week, perhaps into the next. Bran shrugs on his coat and knots his scarf around his neck before locking his office door behind him and –
“What’re you hiding in there?”
“Maker!” Bran turns and finds Marian Hawke sitting on the banister, grinning. “How did you get up here so quickly?”
“Fast feet. Varric saw me. He says if we do it in his office he’ll be very cross. Since when does he say words like cross? I think this Seeker’s a bad influence.” She hops down and closes the distance between them, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“No,” he says. “It’s cold and I’d like to go home.”
Hawke pouts. It’s endearing. “Well, fine. I’ll follow you, then.”
“You may,” Bran says, and heads down the stairs. “I have a nice desk at home, if that’s the only reason you’re interested in me.”
“I do enjoy a man with a good desk.” She looks rather pedestrian in her coat and scarf. Bran realizes that, without the red streak across her nose, he can see her freckles. She takes his arm as they walk into the snow, ducking her head against the wind. “Balls, what’s wrong with this city?”
“It’s winter,” he deadpans, and heads down the stairs and away from the keep.
She complains about the cold the entire way to his apartment, her arm never worming out of his own, even as he unlocks the door and she practically drags him inside.
“I’m freezing,” she announces.
“Yes, you’ve told me eighteen hundred times.”
She raises a brow and shucks off her coat, letting it fall to the floor. “Warm me up, Ser Cavin.”
“Maker’s breath, woman.” He cups his hands behind her head and kisses her – and it’s true, her mouth is a bit blue, and there’s snow dusting her hair and ears. She wraps her arms around his neck, letting him push her toward his bedroom, grinning against her mouth as she pushes his coat off his shoulders, yanks at his tunic until it finally comes off and over his head.
“So good,” she murmurs, running her hands over his chest. “So good for Hawke.”
“You’re objectifying me.”
“I certainly am,” she murmurs. “Didn’t get the full view last night.” With a grin, she turns and pushes him onto the bed, reaching for her own blouse and pulling it off, tossing it to the floor. “I’ll light a fire, then?”
“Ah, yes? Yes, that…that would be fine.”
“Aw, you’re stammering.” She bends to get the fire going in the hearth of his room, poking it with the stoker and sighing. “Well, that’ll heat things up. Now.” She turns back, fingers toying with the laces of her breeches. “Can’t you help me get out of these boots? They’re awfully…constrictive.”
“Everything is constrictive to you.”
“Yes,” she says dryly. “Rules, boots, clothes, the cold.” She watches as he kneels at her feet, bringing his hands up to tug gently at her shoes. “I’ll be quite frank with you, though. It takes me ages to get out of my own shoes.”
“Oh?”
“Ah, yes,” she says quietly, taking his hand and bringing it up to her hip. “Not even forty, you know. It…smarts, sometimes. Everything smarts, really.”
Bran frowns. “Your bones…they ache?”
“Very much so,” she murmurs, reaching out to brush the hair from his forehead. “So be careful with me, won’t you?”
“Did I hurt you last night?” he asks abruptly, standing. He feels a bit sick, really, imagining her being in pain while he was getting off, enjoying the feel of her around his fingers, the heady scent of her in his office, the –
“Stop.” She pulls him back down, shaking her head. “You didn’t hurt me. The minute you ever hurt me, I am going to tell you. I don’t like being uncomfortable. I don’t like being in pain. And if you cause any of it, I’m going to let you know. Do you understand?” He nods. “Good. Now get these damn boots off my feet, I’m burning up.”
Bran blinks and then does as he’s told, tossing them over his shoulder and lifting himself up to kiss her again. She is…intoxicating, really. She smells beautiful, she is beautiful. Her hands are calloused over his arms, years of swords and daggers and war. He tips her head back and drags his teeth over her neck, dragging a moan out of her. “Bran.”
“Breeches,” he says.
“Mine?”
“Yours, mine, who cares?” He lifts her up and toward the head of the bed, grinning when she shrieks with laughter and finally yanking her pants off her hips. “Better,” he murmurs, fingers toying with the band of her smalls, pulling them down as well. “That one,” he says, pointing at her breastband.
“It’s getting awfully unbalanced in here,” she mutters, pulling the band off her head in one go. Bran raises himself up to admire the swell of her breasts, the lone scar snaking its way down her side, cool brown nipples that pebble at his tough. “Your fingers are cold,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Breeches.”
“Alright.” He stands now, fumbling with the laces and pushing them down, forgetting about his own boots in the process. She laughs when he stumbles, but he recovers and crawls between her legs, stroking his hands over her hips slowly, massaging the join.
“Oh damn. Damn that feels good.” He grins, trailing his mouth down her neck and chest, stopping to take one of her nipples between his teeth, for only a second, before he finally settles between her legs. Hawke pushes herself up on her elbows, watching him, keeping her eyes on him all the while as Bran buries his mouth against her cunt. She gasps, head falling back to the pillow, one hand flying to his hair. “Shit.”
She is hot on his tongue, tastes as all women do – completely unlike any other. She is here as she is anywhere else –wholly her own, totally unique, and defiant. She takes control of his mouth on her immediately, rolling her hips down and fucking herself on his tongue and lips. Bran groans against her, his own body aching to be touched, cock sliding sympathetically on the bed. He takes on hand and strokes her clit, feeling her body shift, muscles tighten.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Hawke cries out, arching off the bed as he slides two fingers inside her, crooking them up to stroke her, draw more out of her. “Don’t stop, don’t stop!” She cries out again, sobbing in the hot hair of Bran’s little room, shaking under him until finally, finally – she comes with a scream, her entire body tightening, cracking like a whip. Her skin is burning under his palms as he pulls away, raises up to kiss her.
“You—” he tries to say, but she cuts him off, using her strength to roll him over and raises herself over his cock. “Hawke.”
“Please,” she says. “Let me, let me do this—”
“Yes,” he practically wheezes, and moans pathetically and loud when she finally lowers herself onto his cock. “Fuck.”
“That’s good, that’s a good man.” She hums, content and full as she takes him. “How long’s it been?”
“None of your business,” he snaps, and she laughs. “Maker.”
“Not here,” she says quietly, dropping down, nearly nose to nose with him. “Just us. Just you and me.”
“You’re beautiful,” he says hoarsely, trying to maintain his composure and failing.
“I know.” She raises up again and takes him harder, faster, her hands coming up to cup her breasts, stroking her nipples. “But you could say it again.”
“Beautiful,” he manages. “Beautiful, I can’t—” She raises herself up and pulls off of him, tugging him back over her. “Do you—”
“Fuck me, come on seneschal. You’ve got it in you.” Hawke leans forward and bites his ear. Bran groans, stroking her folds with his cock before sliding his length inside her. “Mmm, yes.”
“How?”
“Hard.”
“I don’t want to—”
She puts her hand over his mouth. “I told you. I will tell you when you hurt me. You won’t hurt me. Now move.” She pushes her hips down, taking him deeper and crying out, a smile on her face. “Yes.”
Bran groans, rolling his hips and fucking her in earnest. The good thing about his age, he supposes, is that he can last. But she’s hot and tight around him, makes the sweetest sounds, strokes her hands over his shoulders – and he knows.
He knows that she’ll take it from him.
It’s a while yet before he feels his muscles tighten, and with a quick roll of his hips he pulls out of her, rutting against her stomach as he spills his release against her with a groan. She gasps at the sudden emptiness, looking up at him. Bran pushes three fingers inside her, feels her clench around him and come as she touches herself.
Bran breathes heavily over her, staring down at her while they both recover. He can hardly move, can hardly think –
And then: “Get off, I’m hot.”
“You’re joking,” he says, rolling onto his back.
“I never joke.”
“Liar.”
“True, but not a joker. A joke is not a lie.”
“It can be.”
Hawke sits up, kicking his blankets away and standing. “I will not debate semantics with you, seneschal. I need water.”
“By the door.” She groans, crossing the room and drinking it straight out of the pitcher. “Better?”
“Yes.” She saunters back over to the bed and crawls in next to him. “Now I’m cold.”
“Maker take you,” he mutters.
Hawke laughs and presses her lips to his shoulder. “I like you,” she says.
“You’re alright.”
“Meanie,” she mumbles, and he can hear her falling asleep. He isn’t far behind her, his muscles aching but satisfied as he rolls over, wraps his arms around her, and closes his eyes.
Marian Hawke leaves the following week, but not without giving him a proper goodbye in his office. The desk rattles underneath them as he takes her from behind, grunting with every thrust, relishing in the feel of her around him.
“Ah, yes, yes, yes—” She hisses with pleasure, her legs spread wide for him as he fucks in and in and in –
“Hawke—” He pulls out, and she drops to her knees in front of him, immediately taking his cock into her mouth. It takes only a moment of her tongue and her clever, clever hands before he comes, spilling his release into her mouth with a groan. “Damn.”
“Mmhm,” she says, wiping her mouth and standing. He gets her off and smiles as she clenches around his fingers, gasping against his neck, lips trembling. “I will…miss this.”
“Ah, but not me.”
“Well I should think that if I say I’ll miss your lovely desk and generous hospitality it means I’ll miss you, but—” He cuts her off with a kiss. “Yes, seneschal. I will miss you.”
“You don’t have to say it.”
“You just made me!”
“I was point out a discrepancy in your sentiment, and you admitted to it.”
“Politicians,” she grumbles, fixing her breeches. “Right. I’ve got to go. I will be back for this wedding or whatever.”
“I should hope so. I believe you’re to be at the groom’s side.”
“Oh he told you that did he?”
“He tells me everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything that I can pry out of him,” Bran admits, and kisses her forehead. “Please travel safely.”
“I can’t promise that, because I rarely do. My horses gallop dangerously fast, I am constantly followed by bandits, and my sister—”
“Shut up,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to her. “And be sure to return relatively unharmed.”
“Mmm, now that I can attempt to manage.”
Behind them, the door rattles as Varric bangs on it, shouting, “Come out right now you little shits—”
Bran chuckles, opening the door and letting Hawke go. She throws herself at Varric, wrapping her arms around him and tackling him to the floor.
“Like I’d leave without saying goodbye to you.”
“He was very upset,” says a voice above them. Bran and Hawke look up and find the Seeker watching them all. “I have yet to see you, Ser Hawke.”
“Ah, Seeker Pentaghast.,” Hawke stands and bows. “Forgive me. I was distracting.”
“Yeah, by Bran’s—”
“I do not need your colorful commentary,” Cassandra says, helping her fiancé off the ground. “Please do travel safely, Ser Hawke. Varric is likely searching for any excuse to get married sooner and less officially.”
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m only saying that I know several local citizens who would be more than happy to—”
“Oh, give her what she wants, Varric.” Hawke puts her arm around him. “You don’t get married to a woman completely out of your league every day you know.”
Varric opens his mouth to protest, but sighs. “Yeah, I know.”
“Right.” Hawke looks between them all and smiles. “I’m off, then. I’ll be back for the happy day, I do promise.”
“I believe you,” Varric says, though his voice betrays his doubt, just a bit.
Hawke sighs. “I really do promise, my friend.” She bends down and kisses his cheek. “Take care of him, Seeker. He’s a bit of a lost cause.” She smiles and gives Bran one last look, winking as she heads down the stairs. “Stay fit for me, seneschal.”
“Of course, Ser Hawke.”
She snorts with laughter and finally walks out the door.
The Viscount gets married in the summer. In the sweltering heat of Kirkwall, the Chantry is a cool reprieve. Bran sits in the front row, watching the man he has come to respect marry a woman who is certainly mad for agreeing to do so, but seems to care for him despite it all.
By the groom’s side stands the Champion of Kirkwall, dressed well and proud. She grins, wide and happy, and Bran knows she is resisting the urge to cheer when the Revered Mother finally says, “You may kiss your bride.”
She finally does, when Varric dips the Seeker low and kisses her fiercely in front of them all. Bran stands with all the others to clasp as the rush down the aisle, and it is a good day.
A good day to be happy.
The Inquisitor hosts the reception in her home, and everyone gets stupidly drunk. Bran included. Hawke as well.
They stand in the garden together and he can’t keep his hands away from her as the musician’s play a rather happy tune, and their Qunari friends picks up the mage he came with and spins him around and around.
“I’m happy you’re here,” Bran says.
“Are you?” Hawke presses her knee between his legs and he groans. “Ah, yes. Yes you are.”
“Tease.”
“Minx, is what some might call me.”
“When will you leave again?”
“A few days,” she admits. “But…I’ll spend them with you, if you ask me to.”
Bran smiles, cupping her face in his hands and smiling.
“Yes,” he says. “I would like you to spend every waking moment with me.”
“What about the sleeping ones?” she murmurs.
“Also with me.”
“What about my dreams?”
“I have no way to determine where your dreams take you,” he says. “So with whomever you please, I suppose.”
Hawke sighs, kissing him long and slow, her arms wrapped around his neck. She pulls back for only a moment to whisper –
“With you. I want to spend them all with you.”
what if us i couldn't see
hoping it was me?