Chapter Text
It’s both a blessing and a curse to have Taash as a friend.
Because on the one hand, she has one of the most skilled hunters (if not the most skilled hunter) in northern Thedas on her side. She knew she was getting a dragon hunter, but Taash's skill extends far beyond the giant flying, winged beasts. Taash can smell a darkspawn before they’re even in Vic’s periphery, can smell blood and Blight and well, pretty much anything.
On the other hand, anything really does mean anything.
“Hey.”
Vic had heard Taash come in, had heard their heavy footsteps. They walk with purpose in a way that some of her other companions don’t. The library is quiet, a few missives gathered in Vic’s lap as she catches up on their allies and their needs.
“Mhm?” Vic hums in greeting and question.
“Leather.”
Leather? Vic frowns, looking up from her missives at the Qunari. “What?”
“Just think about it,” Taash orders.
“Do you need leather?” Vic asks, shifting a little in her chair so that she can look up at her friend better. “For… something?”
“No,” Taash says, their tone implying that Vic is very much missing something. “I told you, just think about it.”
“Okay?” Leather. What by the Maker could Taash be talking about? She wears leather, her armor is partially leather. Lucanis is practically covered in it from his beard down. She’s pretty sure the rest of their companions wear it, too, in some way. Davrin’s armor has it, Harding has her chest piece, Bellara wears her belts and pouches, Emmrich wears his belts and boots. Neve has her leather belt and harness, and her collection of teal and grey and black leather gloves.
They all wear it. So why is Taash mentioning it?
Vic frowns, feeling slightly foolish at failing to recognize something that Taash is implying is obvious. The teal leather of Neve’s gloves comes to mind more prominently than the rest — the bright color beautifully wrapped around slender fingers. Briefly, just for a moment, she can’t help but imagine that teal against her bare skin — cupping her cheek, touching her waist, her thigh—
“Knew it,” Taash says, interrupting her pretty little daydream.
“Knew what?” Vic demands, but she has the sinking feeling she already knows the answer. Her cheeks feel flushed and hot, body already reacting to the mental images that had popped into her head.
Taash ignores her question. “So what was it, the harness or the gloves?”
“Taash,” Vic insists. “What are you talking about?”
It’s a bold-faced lie that she doesn’t understand what just happened, but she’s clinging onto her last shred of dignity with white knuckles and digging nails.
“I said leather, you thought of Neve,” Taash explains, their arms crossed in front of their chest. “Now which was it, the harness or the gloves?”
“I…” Vic starts, at a loss for words before she gives up. She groans, closing her eyes and tipping her head back against the back of her chair. She has one last line of defense - refusal. “I am not answering that.”
“Bellara thinks it’s the harness.”
“Bellara—” Vic starts, opening her eyes again and staring up at the library ceiling and the rotating device that she’s pretty sure does something, but isn’t sure what. She frowns, brow furrowing as she tries to think, watching the rings spin slowly. “… out of curiosity, why would it be about the harness?”
Because sure, it’s attractive, but Vic always just chalked it up to being attractive just because anyone wearing a leather harness looks good. It’s nicely made, it fits Neve well, but Vic doesn’t have the same fantasies about it that she does the gloves. Should she be having fantasies about the harness?
“Her wearing only the harness,” Taash replies simply. “Or pants and harness.” A pause. “Underwear and harness.”
Vic blinks, her cheeks burning even hotter at the mental picture. She continues staring up at the rotating rings, but in her mind’s eye she can see dark leather and teal lace and brown skin and — That’s… yeah, all right. “Ah.” She hates the way even the single syllable sounds choked and desperate.
“So it’s the gloves.” Vic hates the way Taash sounds smug. She turns her head, glaring without any true heat at her friend.
“Is there a reason you’re asking me if I have a leather kink?” she demands.
Taash shrugs. “Was just wondering, mostly.”
“You said Bellara thinks it’s the harness,” Vic accuses, lifting her head. “Is this a discussion you two have had?”
“Me, her,” Taash starts. “Harding. Davrin.”
“Davrin?!”
Taash shrugs again. “He said he was sitting there first, didn’t want to move.”
Vic stares, trying to think of where she might have been during this discussion. And then she remembers — the day before, she went in to check the list in the kitchen, to see what dinner plans were and what her role was, and the crew in the corner got suspiciously quiet before Bellara loudly asked if Assan knew any tricks.
“Oh, Maker,” Vic mutters, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose because, as if she didn’t have enough on her plate dealing with two gods and a Blight and Venatori and darkspawn and everything else, now she has to deal with her team talking about her sex life. Great. Just great.
At least they’re bonding?
“Don’t worry, you’re not the only one we talked about,” Taash says, as though that’s reassuring at all. “Lucanis definitely has a thing for leather.”
“I don’t know that he does, I think that’s just a Crow thing.”
“And a you thing,” Taash quips.
“It’s not—”
“You wear it all the time.”
“We all wear it all the time!” Vic exclaims, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “We all wear leather belts and boots and chest pieces and gloves and armor. It’s not a thing.”
“Gloves.”
She could imagine Emmrich’s hand, or Lucanis’s, or hell, even Bellara’s or Harding’s. But no, she imagines Neve’s again, teal fingers wrapped around her staff.
Taash snickers.
“Don’t. Say. Anything.”
“I didn’t.”
“You laughed.”
“Because it’s funny,” Taash insists. “Just tell her to keep the gloves on next time.”
“I’m not—” Vic protests. “No.”
“Your choice,” Taash replies, shrugging as they turn to leave.
“Taash!”
“What?”
“If gold changes hands…” Vic warns. “I get a portion.”
“What? No, that’s not fair.”
“It is when it’s my sex life that you all bet on.”
“Ugh. Fine.”
“Thank you.”
-
The worst part about the discussion wasn’t the humiliation of being called out for her interests.
It wasn’t even the fact that her team — people she trusts with her life, her safety — had bet on the intimate details of her sexuality and relationship. That was all fine, whatever, water under the bridge, she’s glad they’re bonding about something aside from the trauma they’re all constantly being dragged through.
It was the fact that, now that Taash had called attention to it, Vic finds herself looking towards Neve’s hands more and more often.
They’re lovely even without the gloves. There have been many times during their late night meetings when Vic had seen movement out of the corner of her eye, and looked up from whatever borrowed tome or marked-up serial she was reading to watch Neve’s fingers carefully wrap around the wooden handle of her copper coffee pot and pour herself a fresh cup. She’s watched as those fingers became ink stained, watched the other ice mage’s teeth worry at her thumbnail as she reviews the details of a case over and over in hopes something new will jump out from the parchment.
She loves watching Neve paint her nails, the little glass bottle of teal paint often found on top of piles of notes. It’s a little luxury the detective won’t let go of, despite the price of the paint getting higher and higher these days. And Vic likes the contrast between the bright color and Neve’s skin, likes the way it looks when Neve’s fingers are splayed out on the pale skin of her hip, her thigh, her waist.
But truthfully, Taash was right. The gloves are the worst culprit.
There’s a certain sound the leather makes when Neve grips her staff tightly right before they start swinging and slinging spells. A little creak that makes Vic’s breath catch in her chest, imagining the sound coming from Neve gripping her hips instead.
Neve doesn’t take her gloves off at the Cobbled Swan when they go to check in with Rana about the goings-on of their city while they’ve been off helping Treviso as best as they can. Vic watches as Neve’s leather-clad fingers mindlessly stroke up and down a glass of liquor, teal-covered fingertips tracing the cut glass.
Vic thinks Rana is talking about the merchants, something about a concerning decrease in sales. Neve is nodding her head, listening intently. Vic forces herself to look at Rana, hoping beyond hope the dim light of the Swan covers her blush as she tries to focus on the wellbeing of her and Neve’s beloved city instead of the mesmerizing patterns Neve’s fingertips are following.
There’s a flash of a thought, as quick as the flickering of a candle flame in a drafty room. Of teal-covered fingertips on her skin, tracing patterns as mindlessly and lovingly on her bare back, on her hip, on her backside. Soft and a little careless, fingers as wandering as the detective’s mind.
Vic closes her eyes, breathes deeply, and focuses on the concern in Rana’s voice as best as she can.
Of course Taash just has to be in the library when she and Neve return from their meeting. Vic sees the green and gold and grey of their horns before she even fully emerges from the stairs down to the Eluvian. Neve continues walking, prosthetic clinking on the stone of the library floor with every purposeful step. Vic tries to keep her own steps steady, tries to keep her head high — is it too late to go back down to the Eluvian, say she needs to go to Arlathan to get some more gingerwort truffles for Assan or something?
“Oh, hey, Neve! Rook! How’d it go?” Harding calls as they emerge.
Vic glances to the table and chairs, finding Taash in their usual chair, Bellara sitting on the couch, and Harding next to the elven woman, a book spread on Harding’s lap. She steadily avoids looking at Taash, keeping her gaze on the two women instead.
“As well as it could have,” Neve explains as she finishes walking up the stairs. “Nothing dire, but nothing good, either. Still, I’ll take what I can get, these days.” She glances to Vic. “I’m going to go compile notes on the merchants Rana talked about, I may go back later to interview them, if you’d like to join.”
“As long as we’re back in time for dinner,” Vic replies. “It’s paella night.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t miss it,” Neve promises with a soft smile that makes Vic’s heart skip in her chest. “I’ll be ready in an hour or two.”
“I’ll come find you.”
The detective nods, turning to stride out of the Lighthouse door. Vic watches her go, watches her hips sway, the material of her coat making the movement seem more dramatic than it actually is. As soon as the door shuts behind her, she turns, glaring and pointing at Taash. “Don’t.”
It’s pointless.
Taash snorts, laughing as Harding looks between the Qunari and their leader, confused. “I feel like I missed something,” she says.
“You missed nothing, because nothing happened,” Vic insists, looking to Bellara, hoping for backup, but the elven woman looks just as confused as Harding.
“Are you sure nothing happened?” Harding asks, raising an auburn brow. “Because your cheeks are really red.”
“Gloves,” Taash says simply.
“Ooooooh,” Bellara exclaims, before nodding in understanding. “Gloves.”
Vic sighs, hand coming to rub at her temple. Leading this team is a headache sometimes, and not just because trying to figure out how to defeat gods without an obscene amount of casualties is almost impossible. Now she has to deal with … this. “You told them?” she accuses, looking to Taash.
Taash shrugs. “Had to collect somehow.”
“Just…” Vic starts, shaking her head. “Don’t mention it to her. Please?”
“Why not?” Taash asks. “Worst case scenario she thinks you’re a weirdo, best case scenario you get fucked with gloves on.”
“And then she’ll think about you every time she wears them!” Bellara insists, leaning forward with her hands on her knees, eyes bright and cheeks flushed.
“Bellara!” Harding scolds, but her voice loses the harshness after the first syllable of her friend’s name and the last two syllables are barely audible over her giggles.
Vic groans. “Thank you, Bel, for torturing me more than I already am.”
“Sorry!” To her credit, the Veiljumper does sound somewhat apologetic. “Ooh, okay, what about you taking them off with your teeth? Like biting down very gently on a fingertip and pulling—”
Harding dissolves into giggles, the book on her lap forgotten as Taash smirks knowingly.
“I’m not listening to this,” Vic mutters, turning to leave the library.
“Wait, no, I have more ideas!”
“I don’t need more ideas, Bellara, I need less!”
“Oh, right! Sorry!”
-
There was a flower merchant in Dock Town, years and years ago.
His eyes held the same kindness as Bellara’s. His skin was the same deep, rich color as Davrin’s, his hair the same dark curls. He wasn’t as broad as the Warden, though. He was tall and lanky, like Emmrich. And his smile was as sweet as Harding’s.
What was once his booth has changed merchants many, many, many times over, by now. Still, when she and Neve return to Dock Town later in the day, slithering through the crowds like silent snakes, finding the path of least resistance through the regular shoppers, Vic’s eyes find the corner where the shop used to be as Neve goes to question one of the current merchants.
The rain-soaked wood is more rotted than it was back then. And the vendor there now is selling charms — probably fake ones. But Vic can see the daisies in her mind’s eye, the pureness of the white petals standing out against the grey gloom of the city. There were roses, too, fragrant and lovely, even if they weren’t as full or as perfect as some of the flowers in Hightown. Their petals were always a little wrinkled or bruised, but they smelled just as sweet.
He never gave her any of those — they were too expensive. But he would give her sprigs of lavender. Something both useful and pretty. The dried flowers kept her small chest of belongings smelling lovely for months, even after the merchant disappeared one day, his booth empty and only the smell of lavender and rose lingering in the damp air.
She remembers the smell, yes. But more than that she remembers his hands. Large palms, long fingers. Covered in leather gloves to protect his hands from the thorns of the roses and the oils of some of the more medicinal or staining plants. The way his leather-covered fingers would brush against hers as he handed her the sprig of lavender, the way his smile made her heart skip a beat and the rest of the market disappear.
She never knew his name, Vic realizes, still staring at the booth and the man inside of it who’s shouting praises to the streets about his fake charms.
“Well, he knew absolutely nothing,” Neve says as she returns to Vic’s side, looking around at the other vendors.
“Knew nothing, or made it seem like he knew nothing?” Vic questions.
“The former,” Neve sighs. “I could smell the sour wine on his breath, I don’t think he can tell his left boot from his right.”
“Should we come back when he’s sobered up?”
“It’s kind of you to think he ever will,” Neve muses.
“You know me,” Vic mutters, looking around at the merchants for someone who could maybe more useful. “Always the optimist.”
She means it teasingly, but she feels Neve’s gloved hand brush against the back of hers. Vic glances to the detective, just barely getting a glimpse of a softened gaze under the woman’s black square hat.
“I know,” Neve says, voice so soft Vic’s heart skips. “Come on, let’s see if we can find something for dessert.”
-
They don’t find dessert. They don’t have time before the skies open further and rain comes pouring down even harder than it usually does.
“Come on,” Neve urges, rain-slick leather brushing against Vic’s fingers, then holding them tightly as she guides them through the open area they were wandering through. Vic has to practically jog to catch up, feeling the rain pouring down her head, soaking her hair, water catching on her lashes as she lets herself be led through.
She’s tugged into a darkened alcove. There isn’t much room in what she guesses was once the back doorway to an abandoned shop — Vic can still feel the cold damp of the rain on the shoulder facing the streets — but at least it isn’t pouring directly on her head anymore.
A few people are running through the streets to find shelter from the downpour, but more have resigned themselves to their fate, walking just as calmly and certainly as they would in the perpetual drizzle. Puddles pool on stone streets, and Vic can see a few pairs of shining cat eyes blinking lazily at them from the shadows of abandoned crates and boxes.
“Well,” Neve says, taking off her hat and giving it a good shake to get most of the water off of it. What hair wasn’t covered by the ornate square-shaped headpiece is soaked, dark strands clinging to her brown skin, rivulets of water rushing down her cheekbones to her neck. She laughs, that breathy soft sound that Vic loves so much, and shakes her head. “That was exciting, wasn’t it?”
“Can’t argue there,” Vic teases, looking out to the now empty street. The rain’s still coming down heavily, casting a grey hue over a part of the city that’s already mostly grey. The alcove is small, forcing them to stand close together. If she’s not careful, she’ll step on Neve’s toes. The wooden planks covering the door creak a little as Vic leans further into them, trying to keep her other side out of the rain.
“At least we didn’t find dessert, first,” Neve offers, glancing out to the street as well. “I’d hate to return to the Lighthouse with water-logged pastries.” Her smile is soft as she stares out at the rain, at the city she calls home.
With her face turned towards the street, Vic watches as a rogue rain droplet trails down Neve’s temple, carving a path along the detective’s cheekbone before dropping near her mouth, sliding down her chin and dripping off to land somewhere on her collar. Caving, she leans in to trace the path with her lips, starting at the other mage’s temple and ending at the corner of her mouth. She presses a light kiss there, feeling Neve still beneath her touch before she pulls back. Neve stares at her, warm brown eyes wide with surprise.
“You had rain,” Vic tries to explain.
So romantic, so eloquent, Vic thinks sarcastically. “You had rain.” Varric would laugh so hard he’d fall off his chair if I told him I said that.
The leather of Neve’s glove is a strange mix of cool from the rain and warm from Neve’s hand. Vic’s breath catches as she feels the teal leather on her cheek, guiding her into a proper kiss. It’s wet from the rain, but Neve’s lips are warm and sweet. The damp air smells strongly of the clove and tobacco that Neve smokes in her pipe and the slightly sweet, metallic smell of the rain hitting the streets. It’s intoxicating as Vic lets her mouth part, lets Neve’s tongue stroke hers as her hands come to Neve’s waist.
She hears the dull thud of Neve’s hat hitting the ground.
Her face is cupped in Neve’s hands, leather-covered thumbs stroking her cheeks as they kiss more deeply. This is quickly becoming her favorite kiss, topping maybe even their first, Vic thinks, stepping forward just a bit to press the detective in her arms against the stone doorway. She pulls back for just a moment to see Neve breathless, her dark hair soaked and sticking to her cheek and skin flushed and pretty.
Neve’s gloved hands are still cupping her cheeks. Vic turns her head, kissing the rain-streaked leather, right at the base of Neve’s thumb. She can smell the leather now, and the heady smoke that lingers on it from Neve smoking her pipe while wearing these gloves at some point.
Vic looks up at Neve through rain-dotted lashes, smiling as she turns to brush her lips against the leather again. The alcove isn’t so deep that they’re entirely protected, and Vic can feel a few droplets of rain hit the cheek that’s facing the street. One droplet hits Vic’s lips, and she licks it away, unintentionally licking the leather pressed near her mouth as well. The way Neve’s eyes hold onto where her tongue met the teal leather doesn’t escape the blonde, and Vic smiles, pressing another kiss to the material.
“Think it’ll stop soon?” Vic asks. It feels like she almost needs to shout against the roar of the rain on the stone streets.
“I hope not,” Neve teases, fingers sliding behind Vic’s neck so that she can pull the blonde in for another kiss.
For a few moments, Vic lets herself pretend that this is all there is. There are no gods and there is no Blight and she never joined Varric and this is ten years ago and she’s a younger thing with a pretty girl in her arms in her home city, indulging in some heated kisses as the rain pours down around them.
Eventually it stops long enough that they can make their way back to the Eluvian without getting even more drenched than they already are. But not before Neve puts her hand out to test just how much rain is falling, letting the water drip off of her fingers and prompting Vic’s mind to picture something else entirely dripping from the teal leather. She thanks the Maker that Neve is focused on studying the rain and can’t see the way her blush travels down her neck.
Vic watches as raindrops collect in Neve’s palm, her own hands still on Neve’s waist as the detective determines that this as is good as they’re going to get, and they don’t have much time before they need to be back for dinner.
Neve shakes her hand a little, water flying from the leather before she’s reaching for Vic’s hand.
“Time to move.”
Vic can feel Taash’s eyes on her through dinner, but thankfully all that’s said about her and Neve’s outing is that Emmrich is terribly sorry they got caught in such a dramatic downpour.
-
She takes Davrin and Lucanis out to the Hossberg Wetlands the next day, Antoine requesting more samples of the Blight from the newer boils that have been popping up and releasing tougher darkspawn into the wetlands' caves. It’s dirty, disgusting work, and she’s covered in darkspawn blood and blighted muck and sour-smelling mud by the time they all traipse back through the Eluvian.
“The next time Antoine writes,” Lucanis starts. “I beg of you, take someone else.”
“Hopefully those new samples will keep him busy for a bit,” Vic admits. She’s not inclined to return to the Wetlands any time soon, either. Everything aches, and everything feels either stiff or sticky. She looks between the men, glances down to Assan. “Get some rest. Not sure what tomorrow’s going to bring.”
Probably more problems. No, definitely more problems. But they nod, accepting her orders and trudging up the stairs.
It’s a testament to how exhausted she is, she supposes, that she blinks and finds herself standing in front of the study door without any recollection of walking there. She tries to remember if there was anyone in the library, if she passed or greeted anyone on the way to see Neve, but she genuinely can’t. Maker, she needs sleep.
There’s a piece of parchment pinned to the door with the same pins that Neve uses on her clue wall.
Got a letter from Rana, the merchant I questioned has closed shop. Investigating. Will be back soon.
N.G.
It’s foolish to think that the detective is in the study when there’s a note on the door that quite literally states that she isn’t, but Vic chances opening the door anyway. True to the note’s word, the study is empty, Neve’s desk covered in papers but a new, more crisply-folded letter is open on the top. Vic crosses the room to peer at it, recognizing Rana’s neat handwriting as she explains that the drunk merchant Neve questioned hasn’t been seen for a day and a half, the booth closed up with no merchandise left behind.
Vic looks up as she sees movement out of the corner of her eye, a flash of light blue. One of the wisps has floated closer, seemingly investigating the mess on Vic’s armor. It chimes curiously, and Vic shakes her head, trying to dissuade it.
“No, it’s gross,” she says, pointing to the … she’s not even sure what it is. She feels like a parent dissuading a child from touching something they shouldn’t. Maker, she’s not even sure the wisp can understand her, but it seems to get the point, at least, and floats near one of the other tables that’s covered in notebooks and coffee cups and a pair of teal gloves.
Neve must have worn the black ones this time, Vic reasons. She stares at the teal leather, now dry and cool. It seems like sacrilege to reach out and touch them with her blood-and-blight stained hands, but the leather’s so smooth beneath her fingertips.
She feels guilty taking them, but only a little.
-
Unlike the flower merchant, she can’t remember the woman’s face.
Maybe it was the darkness of the bar, of the alleyway that she was dragged into. Maybe it’s because she had a little too much to drink, too much clear liquor that burned her throat and made her head spin. She remembers short, dark hair, a fleeting smirk that promised a distraction from the fact that she just fucked up a job that Viper trusted her with, and dark purple leather gloves.
There’s no liquor in her blood this time. But exhaustion and desire are just as effective in influencing bad decisions.
There was no time for soft touches or teasing, all those years ago. Dock Town’s alleys may be many, but there are a precious few that are perfect for quick trysts, hiding needy, writhing bodies better than others. She remembers the feeling of leather against her neck, her collarbone, slipping beneath her shirt to touch as much as possible.
Lovely little thing. A croon that, were she completely sober, would warn of something foul at play. But she’s too needy, too desperate to care.
A hot mouth on her neck, a leather-covered palm against her breast, fingers splayed across pale skin. Her shirt’s open — she doesn’t remember how that happened, the warmth of the woman pressing her to the stone wall and the cheap liquor making her memory as murky as the puddles on Dock Town’s dirty streets.
Distantly, she knows she’s not in Dock Town. The emerald velvet of the chaise beneath her back isn’t nearly as cold and unforgiving as the stone wall she was pressed against. And Neve’s gloves are made of a smoother, thinner leather than the dark purple ones in her memory.
But it’s enough to fuel the fire.
She bucks at the first touch of leather against her cunt. Simply cupping, holding, a smirk against her lips as the woman lets her grind against her palm. Some merchant nearby is shouting at a thief, his angered yelling and the loud music from the bar covering Vic’s soft sighs and whimpers.
Look at you, so desperate.
Yes, yes she is. Desperate for a distraction, for something to keep her mind off of Viper’s look of disappointment. Anger’s one thing, disappointment is worse. A nip to her jaw brings her attention back, a sharp gasp pulled from her lips as leather-covered fingers curl against her folds, brushing at her clit.
The woman didn’t have much room to work with, her hand caught between Vic’s pants and smallclothes. Vic’s hand in the present is free, skin still damp and warm and bare after scrubbing until she could no longer smell blood and Blight. The angle’s different, off, but she can hear the woman’s laughter as she ruts against her own palm.
Soak it for me, darling.
Leather-covered fingers grab her breast hard enough to bruise. There are teeth against her neck, her collarbone. Dock Town is not gentle and neither are its trysts. Vic’s hips buck and she feels the other woman’s laughter, warm against her neck.
The woman’s middle finger slips in all too easily — her finger was thicker than Vic’s own, the leather thicker than Neve’s gloves, but need makes the details hazy. It’s strange, to acknowledge that her finger is inside of herself but not feel it, to not feel the wet heat of her own body. It helps with the fantasy, at least, the dark hair she remembers becoming longer in her mind’s eye. She can hear the ‘clink’ of Neve’s prosthetic as the woman in her mind presses closer, leg coming between Vic’s to keep her steady.
I’ve got you, Trouble.
The smell, the taste of sweet smoke and warm clove. The woman at the bar was a smoker as well, Vic does remember that, remembers seeing her through the grey haze.
You can take another. I know you can. There we are, that’s it, take me.
Head tipped back against stone — no, against wood and plush velvet. But the buck of her hips is the same. The warmth of the leather glove against her breast is the same, the smell of the smoke is the same. The desire is the same.
What do you think you’re doing, Trouble?
Neve’s voice is warm, low, teasing. She can practically hear it as she grinds down against her own palm, trying to get more friction. The woman pressing her to the stone laughs — she’s enjoying the teasing, letting Vic make a mess of herself, of the dark purple leather. The laugh doesn’t sound like Neve’s, it’s too dark, too deep. She rolls her hips into her hand, pinches a swollen pink nipple between gloved fingers. She can practically feel the woman's smile against her collarbone, can hear the praise.
Lovely.
The sound of two fingers in her is slick, almost drowned out by her own panting, gasping, sighing-
“Rook.”
No. No, that’s not right, she wasn’t Rook yet, she hadn’t met Varric yet. And her mind has been conjuring Trouble, not Rook and the voice sounds too close, too real—
“Venhedis,” Vic hisses, opening her eyes to see not the grey, darkened alleyways of Dock Town, but the far-off ceiling of the meditation room, blue light reflecting and shimmering from the wall of fish.
“I was wondering when you’d notice.”
Kaffas. Shit. Shit shit shit—
Vic tips her head back against the arm of the chaise, heart racing from both being caught and being nearly there. “Hi,” she breathes, staring up at the woman standing at her head.
“Hi,” Neve replies, hands on her hips, smirk sinful and knowing. She’s already dressed down after returning from her investigating, Vic notices. She’s getting a whole new lovely angle of Neve’s open neckline, the curves of her cleavage and collarbone. She can even see the shadow of Neve's dark areola, and keeps staring up at the detective.
Vic’s all too aware of the fact that her own middle and ring finger are still inside of herself. “How long have you been there?” she asks, still a little breathless.
“Long enough,” Neve promises.
Vic feels paralyzed, unsure whether to slip her fingers out and explain — apologize, maybe, perhaps profusely — or to just go with it. She blinks up at Neve. “Did you know you’re just as lovely upside down?”
Neve snorts in laughter, shaking her head. “Always the charmer,” she croons, lifting her forefinger to sweep down the bridge of Vic’s nose and flick off the tip.
Vic wrinkles her nose, smiling gently up at the other mage and trying to ignore the fact that her pulse is racing so quickly she can practically hear it.
“I don’t recall telling you to stop.”
Vic blinks in confusion. “What?”
Neve steps away from Vic’s head, walking around the back of the chaise. Vic lifts her head to watch the detective walk, the sound of Neve’s golden prosthetic filling the otherwise dead silence. Neve stops at the other end of the chaise, right hand resting on the back, left hand still on her hip.
“You were right there, weren’t you?” Neve asks, nodding to where Vic’s hand is still between her legs. “Keep going. Then we’ll talk.”
“Neve—” Vic tries.
“It’s all right, Trouble,” Neve reassures. She gives Vic that soft little half-smile that Vic loves so much, so similar to the one from when they first met, from when all this started. “Keep going.”
Keep going.
She’s never done anything like this. They’ve kissed before, touched before, but not like this. She’s never been watched by anyone, at least not to her knowledge. Vic stares at Neve, pinned by a warm brown wanting gaze.
It feels strange to start in the middle. So she starts from the beginning, again.
She feels empty, wanting, still, as she slides her fingers out slowly, attempting to perform just a little. But she can see the way Neve’s hand clenches on the back of the chaise, just barely hears the other woman’s slight inhale. She lets her teal-leather covered fingers frame her cunt, stroking herself lightly. She hadn’t bothered to dress after bathing, Neve’s gloves the only garment she’s wearing. If they can even be called a ‘garment’ at all.
She lets her legs fall open a little more, and is startled by Neve’s hand suddenly reaching up, a blast of ice hitting the door, effectively locking it. Neve didn’t even look to the door, her gaze still on the blonde’s hand and cunt.
Vic’s pretty sure she’s never been so turned on in her life.
Even if she hadn’t already touched herself, she’s pretty sure just that action alone would have her soaked. She chances brushing her clit with two leather-covered fingers, hips bucking at the slightest touch.
“Neve,” Vic breathes.
“I’m here.” It’s not as heavy as a promise. Instead Neve sounds almost surprised, her voice just as light and breathy as Vic’s.
The sound of the leather rubbing against her wet skin is obscene — Vic’s pretty sure she’s flushed all the way down her chest just from the sound alone. But between how close she was before, and now with Neve’s gaze on her, she reaches her peak again embarrassingly quickly. She doesn’t even get the chance to use her fingers again, focused on the feeling of the leather against her swollen clit and clenching on nothing as she gasps and sighs, legs shaking and fingers sore and soaked.
Well, the leather’s soaked.
She barely gets the chance to catch her breath, barely hears the clink of Neve stepping towards her when Neve’s fingers slip inside her with mortifying ease. It takes very little effort for Neve to slide a third in, curling them and letting Vic grind against her palm. “Neve—”
“One more for me, Trouble,” Neve whispers. The timing of her thrusting and curling her fingers is almost exactly the same as what Vic was doing to herself - she really was watching.
Her body obeys embarrassingly quickly, soaking Neve’s hand as she arches. Neve’s fingers are bare, and she whines at the thought of doing this again with Neve wearing her gloves. Maybe still fully clothed in whatever armor or overcoat she chose that day. Maybe only wearing the gloves. There are too many options for Vic to consider, her mind still reeling with the fact that this just happened.
She’s breathless, staring up at the detective as Neve pulls her fingers from her. Neve taps Vic’s leg slightly, a wordless request to move it over, and Vic bends her knee so that Neve can sit. Neve perches on the edge of the chaise, pulling her scarf from her neck and wiping her fingers on it before reaching to clean Vic up with a careful, almost reverent touch.
"Thank you," Vic murmurs, watching Neve's movements with the scarf and feeling the smooth, cool material against her swollen cunt. She can't help but reach up, fingertips brushing against Neve's jaw. Her heart is still racing, but now it's from something deeper than just need - it's from the tenderness in Neve's touch, the care in her movements.
“I have questions,” Neve warns teasingly.
“I have answers,” Vic admits.
“So,” Neve starts, standing again. The tub may have disappeared, but the small wash basin that's always in the room remains. Vic hears the sloshing of water as Neve gets a new cloth, this one with an actual purpose for cleaning. “I wondered where my gloves went when I came back.”
Of course the detective would notice something missing from her room, even as small as it was. Vic laughs, the sound a little choked from nerves. “Yeah.”
“And I wondered, back in Dock Town,” Neve explains, returning to sit at Vic’s side with another cloth, this one damp and chilled from Neve's magic. Vic practically bucks at the feeling of it, the cold a shock to her flushed skin, but it feels too good to flinch away. “When you kissed my hand.”
“It’s been a thing for a while, now,” Vic confesses as Neve continues to clean her up, swiping the cloth gently over swollen skin and slick thighs. “Taash called me out on it about two weeks ago.”
“Did they?”
“Apparently there was a betting pool about whether I was more turned on by your gloves or your harness.”
To hear Neve’s laughter relieves more of the fear than her staying and cleaning Vic up. Vic smiles, still a little nervous as she watches Neve shake her head in slight exasperation at their companions.
“Who collected?” she asks.
“Whoever bet for ‘gloves’,” Vic explains.
“I see.” Cloth set aside, Neve reaches for Vic’s hands. Vic lets her slide the teal leather off, the detective examining the difference between the dry right one and the soaked left one. “I’m never going to be able to wear these again, you know that, right?”
Oops. Vic’s heart sinks. “Sorry.”
“The leather’s ruined,” Neve explains. “Unless I can find a cleaner who won’t ask any questions, which is going to be a nightmare.” She sighs dramatically, setting them aside. “I guess they’ll be our dedicated pair, then.”
Dedicated—
“Or I’m going to have to figure out a glove budget,” Neve teases.
“You’re joking,” Vic accuses, sitting up a bit to face Neve fully. “Neve, I—”
She’s interrupted by a kiss that starts off gentle, but then turns into something desperate. Her face is cupped by Neve’s hands again, but this time she can feel the warmth of Neve’s skin, reaching up to hold Neve’s wrist and feeling her racing pulse.
“Neve, I—” she starts again when they part, but this time it’s not the beginning of a protest or an attempt to justify herself, her desires.
She gets the feeling Neve knows exactly what she was about to say when she’s silenced with another kiss. Not now. Not yet.
“Let’s get you dressed,” Neve says gently, words warm on Vic's lips. “And you can tell me about Hossberg and I can tell you about the merchants.”
She may not be a detective with dozens of cases under her belt, but she’s not dumb. She knows what Neve’s avoiding. But she’s too tired to argue, so she just nods, and lets Neve bring her a pair of smallclothes and a sleep shirt. She feels warm and sated, sitting up to sit sideways on the chaise, legs tucked underneath of her as Neve joins her and starts talking about how she found her drunk merchant — washed up on the low tide beach.
“And now the question is how,” Vic says, resting her arm on the back of the chaise as she watches Neve close her eyes and rub at her temple. “Whether he committed suicide, or whether someone pushed him off and he couldn’t get out for whatever reason, or whether he was dead before he even hit the water.”
“Look at you, trying to solve the mystery,” Neve croons, giving Vic another one of her teasing half smiles before it falls and she sighs. “I just…” She shakes her head. “I can’t even ask for one day.”
Vic knows that all too well, both from living in Dock Town and leading their team. She reaches for Neve’s hand, half expecting her to pull back. But to her surprise, Neve lets her, lets her take their fingers and lace them together. She raises Neve’s hand to her lips, brushing a gentle kiss across the detective’s knuckles.
Neve watches, cheeks slightly flushed before — “Do you want me to get a pair of gloves and you can do that again?”
“Oh, shut it, Gallus,” Vic scolds good-naturedly, Neve’s laughter echoing through the tall-ceilinged, glass-walled room.