A groan. "You would observe the forms, and after I waived them so nicely for you."
This is the part where she's supposed to make him beg.
He's tense all over. "I haven't got my lute," he points out, shifting involuntarily to seek closer contact even though that's really against the rules. Then again, there are no actual rules, nothing that can't be forgotten or revived by turns at mutual convenience. "The pleading won't be up to your high standards."
(In actuality, Anders has been known to elicit favors by promising not to play the lute. Though how long has it been since he's made that kind of playful reference? Before tonight, how long had he seemed to forget the lute existed in any context at all? Something extraneous, something frivolous, relic of a bygone era.)
So I shall have to cast myself upon your mercy, he very nearly continues, and goes still for a moment as it dawns on him just how unfortunate that remark would be. Right. That won't get him anywhere he wants. He's had more mercy from Hawke than he deserves, and not in bed, either.
And perhaps that's why he's oddly reluctant to ask her for what she wants him to ask, although it's all in jest, although it costs her nothing to give. At some level, he still doesn't want to ask her for anything at all. It's as she said tonight: is that really all you want, or is it all you think you can hope to deserve? Anders is aware of just how little he deserves. When they're moving slowly enough for him to almost think about it -
Thinking is a bad idea, that's the moral of this story. Also, Hawke has wicked fingers. That's not a moral but a fact. Perhaps an immoral fact. "You're an unrepentant tease and I refuse to believe you learned it from me. Maker, don't stop there, please," and there, he's said it.
"True," Hawke says cheerfully. That is what she wanted, and she's glad to have it. In some ways the end of their relationship was an echo of the beginning, with her trying futilely to get his attention. But worse, because his refusal was unconscious rather than deliberate. At least the first time around he'd noticed, even if he resisted. So she'll take this acknowledgement of power and revel in it, thank you very much, though she won't bring up why she wanted it.
Besides, it is fun for its own sake as well.
She sits up and shifts to the side, tugging him so he takes her place on their makeshift blanket. The color contrast is striking, it's true. Anders is pale as well, not to mention nicely disheveled from their activities, and altogether distracting.
But there's a promise to keep, and Hawke does so try to keep her promises.
Hawke bends over and kisses him briefly on the mouth, then begins to work her way down, with more speed than she'd usually use. After all, he did say please, and was very patient while she took what she wanted. "In that case..." She pauses briefly to flick her tongue against one of his nipples, while a finger strokes the other. "...if we're debauching your coat, we should do a thorough job of it." A bit reluctantly she abandons those, leaving a trail of kisses down his abdomen as her hands move ahead, placing themselves on either side of his hips to steady him. "Don't you think?"
And then her mouth is there, licking against him once from base to shaft before taking the tip of him in, swirling her tongue.
On a list of things Anders does not deserve, this would rank toward the top.
On a list of things Hawke can do far too well, this would also rank near the top.
The latter outweighs the former, of course. Anders hasn't the presence of mind even to contemplate guilt, or regret, or unworthiness. His universe has contracted to one diffuse point of delicious heat. It's even better than the time in the Gallows courtyard, behind that herbalist's stand ... As for the coat, Anders could hardly care less. She can debauch whatever she likes, anything he owns, no arguments.
He can't even manage words, let alone any coherent string thereof, only harsh rasping breaths and the occasional low moan.
The ragged breathing and grunts he manages are music to her ears, far better than anything he used to play on that dratted lute they used to have. She'd given the thing to Orana, who actually could play well, but somehow Anders would kept stealing it back and having another stubborn go at learning. Not that his playing was that bad.
...well, yes, actually it was. Even love hadn't made her that blind. Or that deaf. It'd been funny, though.
Still, she'd much rather listen to this, though it's a toss-up as to if it's him or her who's the performer in this instance, who's the appreciative audience. Certainly Hawke's enjoying her work, using mouth and tongue and hands in turn, stroking, sucking, occasionally humming. She hasn't had a chance to do this for a long time, and as she said before, she hates letting her skills get rusty; so she uses every trick she knows in succession, everything that will drive him over the edge.
To achieve coat debauchery 100%, Anders can't allow this to continue, though he's sorely tempted. He makes an inarticulate murmur of protest and grasps at Hawke's shoulders, trying to draw her upward again. If she drains him now, no lyrium potion will restore the needed potency. A pile of foodbricks and a nap perhaps might do the trick, but he hasn't got the luxury of time.
Eloquence is beyond him. "Not like that. Hawke ...?" Does she understand? "I want you ..." No, not eloquent in the slightest. Too raw for pretty words. She's driven him to desperation.
Not eloquent, but the words shock through her, filling her ears until her head pounds with them. The bare need in his voice is undeniable, and strikes a chord inside her, something from not long ago, something perhaps not yet dealt with. There are so many things they won't be able to deal with tonight, whatever their intentions. The night is too short, the ground of unspoken things between them too great.
With something like a strangled sob, Hawke releases him, hauls herself back up so she's straddling his body. She kisses him with an urgency that matches his, tears stinging at her eyes. Again. That's happened a lot this evening. She can't make herself care; Hawke's not ashamed of tears, ever, they're just a luxury she doesn't usually allow herself. Clearly it's a night for indulgences.
She shifts to thrust herself down on him, permitting herself another indulgence and granting his request at the same time.
He hisses yes as she descends, and then there are no words at all anymore from Anders, not even a name. Not any name. (Hawke is the only other person in the universe. She fills his awareness. She doesn't need a name.)
He clutches at her hips, holds tightly, bucks against her and into her. She sheathes him in ecstasy. He struggles with his rider and, at last, he is tamed, if only for now.
Such is her control that for all his efforts, he's carried past the peak ahead of her, and he really ought to feel badly about that. Except it's too good, he can't think of anything except how good it is, and if Hawke is smug about it later, he can't say she isn't entitled.
It takes her a bit longer, but this time it's less about the physical release and more the emotional one, for Hawke. She cries out as she follows after, an inarticulate sound that might have something like his name in it or might not, and holds herself above him for long moment afterwards, breathing hard, head bent.
Then she disengages to lie next to him, in the crook of his arm, resting her head on his chest. Her face is wet.
Anders can feel the dampness of her cheek against his skin. His arm about her, he reaches to rub his thumb against the other cheek, concerned. "Did I hurt you?"
Oh, of all the stupid questions. He isn't thinking of the meanings that could have.
"Right," he says softly, comprehending at least the gist of that response. Her laugh is not the laugh he loves to hear. "Not what I meant, but I'll face up to it." A wisp of her hair sticks to her cheek with the drying tears, and he brushes that away too, tucks it tenderly behind her ear.
He's never experienced something like this before. He has made people cry, but in fear or in anger, never in ... whatever she's feeling, something too complex for him to pretend he can unravel from the outside. Whatever he's made her feel, or reminded her she's felt all along.
"Marian, I -"
And he probably doesn't get much further than that before she'll have to cut him off, not that he can anticipate the reaction to that name.
"No," she interrupts, quietly but with determination. "I can't be Marian anymore, Anders. Not after everything that happened. That's one thing we've lost."
It's futile to argue against this. It's her choice. Besides, he came to know her first as Hawke and he's always called her Hawke except with family. (Her family. Funny how he slips sometimes into thinking of them as his, for all his prickliness about lineage and belonging. Bethany, especially, who's always welcomed him. Anders would even go out of his way to help Gamlen, his least favorite of all.)
So why is it when she tells him not to use her name, he'd rather she just socked him in the face again? Or else in the gut; closer to what this feels like.
A nonsensical reaction. He won't bother her with it; knows it wouldn't matter if he did.
"Whoever you want to be," says Anders, after a moment. "Perhaps someday you'll be Marian again, if it's not with me." He does not like saying that. He's almost compelled to say it.
There's little enough justice to be dealt between the two of them.
This is the part where she's supposed to make him beg.
He's tense all over. "I haven't got my lute," he points out, shifting involuntarily to seek closer contact even though that's really against the rules. Then again, there are no actual rules, nothing that can't be forgotten or revived by turns at mutual convenience. "The pleading won't be up to your high standards."
(In actuality, Anders has been known to elicit favors by promising not to play the lute. Though how long has it been since he's made that kind of playful reference? Before tonight, how long had he seemed to forget the lute existed in any context at all? Something extraneous, something frivolous, relic of a bygone era.)
So I shall have to cast myself upon your mercy, he very nearly continues, and goes still for a moment as it dawns on him just how unfortunate that remark would be. Right. That won't get him anywhere he wants. He's had more mercy from Hawke than he deserves, and not in bed, either.
And perhaps that's why he's oddly reluctant to ask her for what she wants him to ask, although it's all in jest, although it costs her nothing to give. At some level, he still doesn't want to ask her for anything at all. It's as she said tonight: is that really all you want, or is it all you think you can hope to deserve? Anders is aware of just how little he deserves. When they're moving slowly enough for him to almost think about it -
Thinking is a bad idea, that's the moral of this story. Also, Hawke has wicked fingers. That's not a moral but a fact. Perhaps an immoral fact. "You're an unrepentant tease and I refuse to believe you learned it from me. Maker, don't stop there, please," and there, he's said it.
That wasn't so bad, was it?
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Besides, it is fun for its own sake as well.
She sits up and shifts to the side, tugging him so he takes her place on their makeshift blanket. The color contrast is striking, it's true. Anders is pale as well, not to mention nicely disheveled from their activities, and altogether distracting.
But there's a promise to keep, and Hawke does so try to keep her promises.
Hawke bends over and kisses him briefly on the mouth, then begins to work her way down, with more speed than she'd usually use. After all, he did say please, and was very patient while she took what she wanted. "In that case..." She pauses briefly to flick her tongue against one of his nipples, while a finger strokes the other. "...if we're debauching your coat, we should do a thorough job of it." A bit reluctantly she abandons those, leaving a trail of kisses down his abdomen as her hands move ahead, placing themselves on either side of his hips to steady him. "Don't you think?"
And then her mouth is there, licking against him once from base to shaft before taking the tip of him in, swirling her tongue.
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On a list of things Hawke can do far too well, this would also rank near the top.
The latter outweighs the former, of course. Anders hasn't the presence of mind even to contemplate guilt, or regret, or unworthiness. His universe has contracted to one diffuse point of delicious heat. It's even better than the time in the Gallows courtyard, behind that herbalist's stand ... As for the coat, Anders could hardly care less. She can debauch whatever she likes, anything he owns, no arguments.
He can't even manage words, let alone any coherent string thereof, only harsh rasping breaths and the occasional low moan.
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...well, yes, actually it was. Even love hadn't made her that blind. Or that deaf. It'd been funny, though.
Still, she'd much rather listen to this, though it's a toss-up as to if it's him or her who's the performer in this instance, who's the appreciative audience. Certainly Hawke's enjoying her work, using mouth and tongue and hands in turn, stroking, sucking, occasionally humming. She hasn't had a chance to do this for a long time, and as she said before, she hates letting her skills get rusty; so she uses every trick she knows in succession, everything that will drive him over the edge.
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Eloquence is beyond him. "Not like that. Hawke ...?" Does she understand? "I want you ..." No, not eloquent in the slightest. Too raw for pretty words. She's driven him to desperation.
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With something like a strangled sob, Hawke releases him, hauls herself back up so she's straddling his body. She kisses him with an urgency that matches his, tears stinging at her eyes. Again. That's happened a lot this evening. She can't make herself care; Hawke's not ashamed of tears, ever, they're just a luxury she doesn't usually allow herself. Clearly it's a night for indulgences.
She shifts to thrust herself down on him, permitting herself another indulgence and granting his request at the same time.
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He clutches at her hips, holds tightly, bucks against her and into her. She sheathes him in ecstasy. He struggles with his rider and, at last, he is tamed, if only for now.
Such is her control that for all his efforts, he's carried past the peak ahead of her, and he really ought to feel badly about that. Except it's too good, he can't think of anything except how good it is, and if Hawke is smug about it later, he can't say she isn't entitled.
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Then she disengages to lie next to him, in the crook of his arm, resting her head on his chest. Her face is wet.
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Oh, of all the stupid questions. He isn't thinking of the meanings that could have.
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She beats a fist (not hard, though there's a thump) on his chest by way of answer, because sometimes words are entirely insufficient.
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He's never experienced something like this before. He has made people cry, but in fear or in anger, never in ... whatever she's feeling, something too complex for him to pretend he can unravel from the outside. Whatever he's made her feel, or reminded her she's felt all along.
"Marian, I -"
And he probably doesn't get much further than that before she'll have to cut him off, not that he can anticipate the reaction to that name.
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So why is it when she tells him not to use her name, he'd rather she just socked him in the face again? Or else in the gut; closer to what this feels like.
A nonsensical reaction. He won't bother her with it; knows it wouldn't matter if he did.
"Whoever you want to be," says Anders, after a moment. "Perhaps someday you'll be Marian again, if it's not with me." He does not like saying that. He's almost compelled to say it.
There's little enough justice to be dealt between the two of them.
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