Fic: Accident
Title: Accident
Rating: M (but I'd say still SFW. As M as the game, then.)
Word Count: 1600
Pairing: Cousland/Anders (I pictured my Cousland, anyway, but it's not actually explicit.) Um. And it's ABOUT Alistair, even though he's not *in* the story. You'll see. So it's also a bit Cousland/Alistair.
Spoilers: Very mild spoilers, through Awakening.
Notes: Hey, so this is TOTALLY w0rdinista's fault. She was all, "I'd just have a hard time figuring out a way to make a Cousland/Anders drabble NOT be entirely about him being an Alistair replacement." And I was all, "Well. There goes MY afternoon. Angst ahoy!"
The first time was an accident.
She was drained, worn down, and more than a little frayed at the edges. She’d given a throne to a king, losing her love in the process. She’d driven a blade into the skull of an Archdemon, but when she’d woken on the roof of Fort Drakon she’d felt hollow, as though she ought to have been dead and wasn’t. All this was followed by the agonizing period of unwanted accolades, parading about as the Hero of Ferelden as her companions left her one by one. A Blight ended only to have Wardens slaughtered and darkspawn once more running rampant a mere six months later and by the Maker she was tired of giving and giving and giving, only to have things taken away in return.
Excuses and she knew it, but more than anything she wanted to feel something.
To Vigil’s Keep, then, with yet more titles she did not want and a parcel of new companions she could not bring herself to like as well as the old. There were days she’d have given an arm for one of Leliana’s stories. Even one of Wynne’s lectures would not have gone amiss. More than once she caught Nathaniel or Anders giving her a strange look and she realized she’d been caught having the most vivid daydream of just what she’d be willing to allow Zevran to do to her these days, if only he were around to stare at her luridly.
It was Anders, she decided, who always looked the longest and the hardest. It was Anders who always seemed the most interested. It was Anders with his jokes and his innuendoes and his fair hair and his almost-but-not-quite-ness, damn him. And this, she thought, this at last would be a feeling. This was a way she could make herself feel.
It did not take much in the way of persuasion, really, which she found unaccountably disappointing. Not at all like it had been with… but this was nothing like that, and how had roses and sweet innocence and declarations of love turned out in the end? No, this was better. This was too much of the potent spirits Oghren passed liberally round the dinner table. It was, “All I want is a pretty girl, a decent meal, and the right to shoot lightning bolts at fools.” It was even a little bit, “We… need to talk,” though she pretended it was not.
It was catching up to him when he left the dining hall, leaning in, and with the lazy grace of a cat (and he liked cats; she knew he liked cats) allowing the tip of her tongue to trace the shell of his ear. He groaned as she nipped the flesh of his earlobe and she knew she had him.
“Come to bed,” she said, and because it was almost an order and she his commander, he obeyed her.
She was glad the fire had been left to die down, and she did not bother to light even a single candle. In the long shadows his eyes and his hair were almost the right color, though the hair was long, too long. She did not dare touch it, for fear of ruining everything. The mirage was better. The shadows were better.
And if his hands felt different-his fingers more finely boned, more dexterous even, certainly not as calloused-she ignored it because his lips were soft and hot and urgent. She tried not to think about how his lips were thinner than she wanted them to be, and how they did not yet know about the sensitive spot at the juncture of jaw and throat Alistai-he-would never have left unkissed. His voice sounded almost like the voice she wanted to hear, and his accent as he whispered her name again and again was close enough she had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming out the wrong name as she came.
She left him sleeping in the dark, choosing to walk the battlements of the Keep until dawn as punishment. When he tried to speak with her the next morning she raised her eyebrows, fixing him with the coldest of her glares, and she watched the words die on his tongue.
Oh, Maker, she felt something all right, but it was not something good.
She could not quite convince herself the second time was an accident.
It came after she’d seen hungry villagers slain by her own guards, and had been able to do nothing to stop the slaughter. After seeing the families would be taken care of she fled to her rooms, content to sit and weep in the dark. The words ‘weakness’ and ‘necessity’ and ‘duty’ ran circles in her head, leaving her exhausted, frustrated, and so very sad.
When the door opened, and a sliver of light from the hallway intruded on her darkness, she almost hoped it would be some hapless soldier or servant she could scold. Instead, until those familiar hands took hers in the dark, she did not know it was Anders who’d entered. He turned her hands over, and she gasped involuntarily when he pressed a kiss to each of her palms.
“These hands are not to blame for what happened today,” he said softly.
“Are they not? I am the final authority of this land. Commander. Arlessa. My failure to provide for my people drove them to such desperation.”
“People will do strange things out of desperation,” he replied, and she almost thought he wasn’t speaking of the villagers anymore. “We are none of us immune.”
Snatching her hands from his grasp, she meant to push him away. She meant to order him to leave. Anger burned hot in her. Instead she buried one hand in the fabric of his robes, and pulled him toward her. Her kiss gave nothing, and he resisted it for a moment before she leaned forward out of her chair, straddling him, sending him backward onto the rug in a tangle of limbs and fabric. He did not resist again.
“We are none of us immune,” she whispered against his lips, twisting her hips against him, feeling the proof of his lack of immunity underneath her. This time she wasted no time wishing for something-someone-else: she squeezed her eyes shut and rode him hard, pretending the dampness on her cheeks was sweat. Afterward, he gathered himself. It was still dark, but she did not think he looked at her. She thought he would leave without saying anything, but he paused at the door.
“People attack out of desperation, yes,” he said quietly. “But they also run.”
She did not attack him again. She tried harder not to run.
The third time, he found her. She was up to her elbows in missives and paperwork. She heard his ever-present cat meow and glanced up, surprised.
“Perhaps some of these can wait? I’m not sure you want to be held liable for whatever Oghren will get up to if he doesn’t get the chance to kill something soon.”
“He sent you to tell me that?”
“I sent myself. It’s been too long since I’ve been able to invoke my right of lightning bolt shooting.”
Ser Pounce-a-lot meowed again, loudly, and wound himself around her ankles, purring.
“He likes you.”
She gave Anders a crooked, if genuine, smile. “How can you tell?”
“He likes who I like.”
Glancing away, she felt the heat of embarrassment rise in her cheeks. “I’m afraid I’ve given you little reason to like me, these past months.”
“You gave me the cat, didn’t you? Helped me with my templar problem? It’s not been so bad.”
Squeezing her hands into fists in her lap, she did not reply. His tone was light, jesting; she felt she could not possibly deserve such easiness from him.
“If you mean the other… thing, you know that wasn’t all bad, either. I suppose I even understand, a little. The dwarf tells me you had a rough time of it, before.”
Silently bringing any number of curses down on Oghren’s head, she allowed herself to meet Anders’ gaze. He was standing closer now, leaning on the desk. “I shouldn’t have… used you. That way. It was unfair.”
“It wasn’t ideal,” he said, bending at the waist to bring his face nearer hers. “I escaped the Circle seven times. I could have escaped you. But I think you’ll recall I didn’t actually complain. And I’ll complain at the drop of a hat, I think you’ll agree.”
She did the unthinkable: she laughed. The sound so startled her she stopped almost even before she’d begun. Putting her fingertips to her lips, she realized she’d not laughed in a very, very long time. Certainly not since the rebellious villagers. Perhaps not since arriving at the Keep. When she tried to remember herself laughing she saw only a girl backlit by campfire, smiling up into the face of a man who made endless jokes and promises he couldn’t keep. It was time, she thought. Time to remember laughing. Past time.
Anders said, “I’ve always suspected you’d be even more beautiful when you laughed,” and this time he kissed her. It was gentler and sweeter than any of their other kisses, that much was certain; it felt like a gift and made her eyes sting with tears.
She did not immediately close her eyes. Reaching up, she unbound his hair, running her fingers through it. He smiled against her mouth before pulling back. The smile remained.
“I’m leaving the lights on, this time,” he whispered.
She let him.
Rating: M (but I'd say still SFW. As M as the game, then.)
Word Count: 1600
Pairing: Cousland/Anders (I pictured my Cousland, anyway, but it's not actually explicit.) Um. And it's ABOUT Alistair, even though he's not *in* the story. You'll see. So it's also a bit Cousland/Alistair.
Spoilers: Very mild spoilers, through Awakening.
Notes: Hey, so this is TOTALLY w0rdinista's fault. She was all, "I'd just have a hard time figuring out a way to make a Cousland/Anders drabble NOT be entirely about him being an Alistair replacement." And I was all, "Well. There goes MY afternoon. Angst ahoy!"
The first time was an accident.
She was drained, worn down, and more than a little frayed at the edges. She’d given a throne to a king, losing her love in the process. She’d driven a blade into the skull of an Archdemon, but when she’d woken on the roof of Fort Drakon she’d felt hollow, as though she ought to have been dead and wasn’t. All this was followed by the agonizing period of unwanted accolades, parading about as the Hero of Ferelden as her companions left her one by one. A Blight ended only to have Wardens slaughtered and darkspawn once more running rampant a mere six months later and by the Maker she was tired of giving and giving and giving, only to have things taken away in return.
Excuses and she knew it, but more than anything she wanted to feel something.
To Vigil’s Keep, then, with yet more titles she did not want and a parcel of new companions she could not bring herself to like as well as the old. There were days she’d have given an arm for one of Leliana’s stories. Even one of Wynne’s lectures would not have gone amiss. More than once she caught Nathaniel or Anders giving her a strange look and she realized she’d been caught having the most vivid daydream of just what she’d be willing to allow Zevran to do to her these days, if only he were around to stare at her luridly.
It was Anders, she decided, who always looked the longest and the hardest. It was Anders who always seemed the most interested. It was Anders with his jokes and his innuendoes and his fair hair and his almost-but-not-quite-ness, damn him. And this, she thought, this at last would be a feeling. This was a way she could make herself feel.
It did not take much in the way of persuasion, really, which she found unaccountably disappointing. Not at all like it had been with… but this was nothing like that, and how had roses and sweet innocence and declarations of love turned out in the end? No, this was better. This was too much of the potent spirits Oghren passed liberally round the dinner table. It was, “All I want is a pretty girl, a decent meal, and the right to shoot lightning bolts at fools.” It was even a little bit, “We… need to talk,” though she pretended it was not.
It was catching up to him when he left the dining hall, leaning in, and with the lazy grace of a cat (and he liked cats; she knew he liked cats) allowing the tip of her tongue to trace the shell of his ear. He groaned as she nipped the flesh of his earlobe and she knew she had him.
“Come to bed,” she said, and because it was almost an order and she his commander, he obeyed her.
She was glad the fire had been left to die down, and she did not bother to light even a single candle. In the long shadows his eyes and his hair were almost the right color, though the hair was long, too long. She did not dare touch it, for fear of ruining everything. The mirage was better. The shadows were better.
And if his hands felt different-his fingers more finely boned, more dexterous even, certainly not as calloused-she ignored it because his lips were soft and hot and urgent. She tried not to think about how his lips were thinner than she wanted them to be, and how they did not yet know about the sensitive spot at the juncture of jaw and throat Alistai-he-would never have left unkissed. His voice sounded almost like the voice she wanted to hear, and his accent as he whispered her name again and again was close enough she had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming out the wrong name as she came.
She left him sleeping in the dark, choosing to walk the battlements of the Keep until dawn as punishment. When he tried to speak with her the next morning she raised her eyebrows, fixing him with the coldest of her glares, and she watched the words die on his tongue.
Oh, Maker, she felt something all right, but it was not something good.
She could not quite convince herself the second time was an accident.
It came after she’d seen hungry villagers slain by her own guards, and had been able to do nothing to stop the slaughter. After seeing the families would be taken care of she fled to her rooms, content to sit and weep in the dark. The words ‘weakness’ and ‘necessity’ and ‘duty’ ran circles in her head, leaving her exhausted, frustrated, and so very sad.
When the door opened, and a sliver of light from the hallway intruded on her darkness, she almost hoped it would be some hapless soldier or servant she could scold. Instead, until those familiar hands took hers in the dark, she did not know it was Anders who’d entered. He turned her hands over, and she gasped involuntarily when he pressed a kiss to each of her palms.
“These hands are not to blame for what happened today,” he said softly.
“Are they not? I am the final authority of this land. Commander. Arlessa. My failure to provide for my people drove them to such desperation.”
“People will do strange things out of desperation,” he replied, and she almost thought he wasn’t speaking of the villagers anymore. “We are none of us immune.”
Snatching her hands from his grasp, she meant to push him away. She meant to order him to leave. Anger burned hot in her. Instead she buried one hand in the fabric of his robes, and pulled him toward her. Her kiss gave nothing, and he resisted it for a moment before she leaned forward out of her chair, straddling him, sending him backward onto the rug in a tangle of limbs and fabric. He did not resist again.
“We are none of us immune,” she whispered against his lips, twisting her hips against him, feeling the proof of his lack of immunity underneath her. This time she wasted no time wishing for something-someone-else: she squeezed her eyes shut and rode him hard, pretending the dampness on her cheeks was sweat. Afterward, he gathered himself. It was still dark, but she did not think he looked at her. She thought he would leave without saying anything, but he paused at the door.
“People attack out of desperation, yes,” he said quietly. “But they also run.”
She did not attack him again. She tried harder not to run.
The third time, he found her. She was up to her elbows in missives and paperwork. She heard his ever-present cat meow and glanced up, surprised.
“Perhaps some of these can wait? I’m not sure you want to be held liable for whatever Oghren will get up to if he doesn’t get the chance to kill something soon.”
“He sent you to tell me that?”
“I sent myself. It’s been too long since I’ve been able to invoke my right of lightning bolt shooting.”
Ser Pounce-a-lot meowed again, loudly, and wound himself around her ankles, purring.
“He likes you.”
She gave Anders a crooked, if genuine, smile. “How can you tell?”
“He likes who I like.”
Glancing away, she felt the heat of embarrassment rise in her cheeks. “I’m afraid I’ve given you little reason to like me, these past months.”
“You gave me the cat, didn’t you? Helped me with my templar problem? It’s not been so bad.”
Squeezing her hands into fists in her lap, she did not reply. His tone was light, jesting; she felt she could not possibly deserve such easiness from him.
“If you mean the other… thing, you know that wasn’t all bad, either. I suppose I even understand, a little. The dwarf tells me you had a rough time of it, before.”
Silently bringing any number of curses down on Oghren’s head, she allowed herself to meet Anders’ gaze. He was standing closer now, leaning on the desk. “I shouldn’t have… used you. That way. It was unfair.”
“It wasn’t ideal,” he said, bending at the waist to bring his face nearer hers. “I escaped the Circle seven times. I could have escaped you. But I think you’ll recall I didn’t actually complain. And I’ll complain at the drop of a hat, I think you’ll agree.”
She did the unthinkable: she laughed. The sound so startled her she stopped almost even before she’d begun. Putting her fingertips to her lips, she realized she’d not laughed in a very, very long time. Certainly not since the rebellious villagers. Perhaps not since arriving at the Keep. When she tried to remember herself laughing she saw only a girl backlit by campfire, smiling up into the face of a man who made endless jokes and promises he couldn’t keep. It was time, she thought. Time to remember laughing. Past time.
Anders said, “I’ve always suspected you’d be even more beautiful when you laughed,” and this time he kissed her. It was gentler and sweeter than any of their other kisses, that much was certain; it felt like a gift and made her eyes sting with tears.
She did not immediately close her eyes. Reaching up, she unbound his hair, running her fingers through it. He smiled against her mouth before pulling back. The smile remained.
“I’m leaving the lights on, this time,” he whispered.
She let him.