KJ (owlmoose) wrote,
KJ
owlmoose

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DA2 fic (yes, really)

Title: "Stages of Grief"
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Rating: MA
Wordcount: 1736
Characters: Female Rogue Hawke, Anders. Anders/Hawke.
Spoilers: Yes, major spoiler for the quest "All That Remains" in Act 2.
Notes: "KJ Does Things That Are Out of Character Theater" presents: a Dragon Age 2 story. Written, polished, and posted before I've even finished the game. Yes, you may all die of shock now. Please, please please, no post-Act 2 spoilers in comments, if you would. (I'm partway into Act 3, but just to be safe.) You will earn my undying gratitude. Update: I'm done now. Spoil at will.

Also, it's pretty shameless hurt/comfort porn, which. Yeah, I don't even know. So not my usual thing. But it felt like a missing scene, and boy did it ever want to be written. Oh game, what are you doing to me? First dubcon, now this? What is this world coming to, and why am I enjoying it so much?

Okay, enough of that. On with the story....


"I'm here for you. Whatever you need."

Anders gently lays his hand on top of hers, and the simple human contact almost breaks her; she doesn't deserve his sympathy, not after a failure of this magnitude. And yet she cannot resist leaning her head on his chest, the feathers of his coat soft against her cheek. He squeezes her hand, then shifts his arm around her shoulders to pull her near. "My fault," she says, softly, under her breath, the words slipping free even as she fights them. "It's all my fault. I should have tried harder to catch the bastard, should have trusted Emeric and believed DuPris, I should have..."

"Shhhhh." He tenderly presses his lips to the crown of her head. "Don't do this to yourself. You don't deserve the blame."

"Who else?" She shakes her head. "I knew there was a killer out there. I knew. If I hadn't given up so easily, maybe Mother would-- maybe she--"

"Hawke." Tightening his arm around her, he kisses her again, a graze against her forehead. "Extraordinary as you are, you're still just one person. You can't expect to save everyone."

His words break through the fog of grief and guilt, and she regains enough of herself to raise an eyebrow at him. "You're one to talk."

For an instant, he freezes, then allows himself a rueful chuckle. "Guilty as charged. But that doesn't make it any less true, in this case." He runs a finger down her cheek, light as a breath of air. "Your mother was killed by a madman. No one can hold you responsible for that."

She buries her face in his coat, and she realizes she is trembling. "I can't accept that there was nothing I could have done. I can't!"

He enfolds her in his arms, whispering meaningless words of comfort and care into her hair, and she clings to him, the only solid thing left in a world where anything, anyone could slip away from her in an instant. She knows the feeling for an illusion -- any knock on the door could be the templars; any mission he undertakes could mean his death; any moment she could turn around to find him gone, subsumed by Justice for good. But for tonight, just tonight, she needs to pretend, and so she tips her face up and kisses him, soft at first, then more deeply as a surge of desire, of need, wells up from the pit of her stomach. He strokes her face, then breaks away, concern in his warm brown eyes.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Please." She kisses him again, swift and hard. "Oh please," she says against his mouth, and his resistance evaporates; his palm cups her cheek, lips parting to admit her tongue, responding with a gentle thrust of his own. Her hands travel down his chest, undoing the buckles of his coat before pushing it off his shoulders, and he shrugs it free. Then his arms come around her, and she is rolling him over, pushing him back on top of the covers, hands tracing the lines of his chest through the smooth cloth of his tunic. Leaning down, she places her mouth on his neck, seeking the life that pulses there; she tastes salt from sweat and sea, and he moans and grips her, one hand fast around her nape, the other traveling down her back to land on her buttocks and pull her tight, tight enough that she can feel his arousal, and she rocks into him. His answering groan is even louder, and then, abruptly, he stops and rolls himself free.

She listens to him breathe, feels his chest rise and fall under her hand as he works to regain control. After a moment, he looks at her, eyes bright, and trails his finger along the line of her jaw. "I don't want to take advantage of your grief. If it is too soon..."

"You said whatever I needed." She lays her head on the pillow and runs her hand down his arm to tangle their fingers together. "I need this. I need you. I need to know that, whatever may happen tomorrow, right now you're still alive, and I'm still alive. I need to remember that love doesn't have to mean madness and death."

His hand tightens under her chin, and he lowers his mouth to hers. "I love you," he murmurs. "You are life to me, a beacon of light in a pitch-black world. Love is life, not death. Light, not darkness. Tonight, and for always."

"Anders," she whispers, and then she is on him, her hands beneath his shirt, feeling his warm skin and the light fuzz of hair. He kisses her in return, fingers curling around her forearms, leaning her back against the bed before he unwraps her from dress and bodice, revealing the bare skin beneath. Laying down beside her, he dots her with kisses, starting on her cheek, moving to her neck, trailing down to land his mouth on her breast, taking her nipple in his mouth, slowly tracing it with his tongue. With a sharp breath, she arches into him, pulling the thong from his hair to let it fall free; she buries her fingers in his thick, soft hair and pushes him closer, ever closer.

He moves from one breast to the other, and then he breaks away. "Damned boots," he mutters, sitting up to undo them and kick them off. He removes hers with more care, setting them at the foot of the bed before divesting himself of his remaining clothes, and she sits up to watch, taking him in, admiring the way his golden hair catches the firelight, glowing with life. She sheds the gown that still hangs loosely off her shoulders and comes to him again; he embraces her and they kiss, tongues meeting and hands stroking, falling back onto the mattress as their bare legs tangle together.

For a moment, she pauses, nestles against him, content just to feel him, to know that he is here, real, hers. They lie on the bed, side by side, her face buried in his neck, his hand sweeping up and down her side, defining her lines with long, slow strokes. She kisses the hollow where his neck meets his shoulders, and he sighs; the sound of his pleasure brings a quiver to her stomach, and her mouth travels higher, trailing more kisses up the side of his neck, along his jaw, then to his ear, which she takes in her mouth, sucking on the lobe. His sighs become gasps, and his arms tighten about her. Her hand comes up his bare chest, covering his chin, pulling his ear closer to her mouth, and her teeth graze the upper folds. "Take me," she whispers. "Now."

Without a pause, he flips her onto her back, rolling atop her, kissing her again and again. One hand finds her breast, covering it while the other travels downwards, fingers pushing her smallclothes aside to find her cleft, her center, questing, reaching, and now it is her turn to gasp as he reaches his goal, stroking her until her breath comes short.

Then he shifts once more and pulls away just enough to slide inside her, letting out a low moan, his other hand slipping off her breast, up her neck, to the back of her head, cradling it, fingers tangled in her hair. She rises up to meet him, pressing her face to his cheek, rough with half-grown whiskers. His motion is slow, languid, pulling out almost completely before pushing back inside. He fills her, and then takes himself away, leaving her short of breath, wanting more and more with each thrust. Arching into him, she closes her teeth around his ear again, then speaks one last time, the single word harsh with need: "Harder."

Pulling away, jaw clenched with failing control, he meets her eyes, and she sees just how much he has been holding back. For an instant he hesitates, and then he closes his eyes and lets himself go, driving into her: fast, hard, deep, tearing rough sounds from his throat. Her hips rise in response every time, reaching for him, her hands gripping his shoulders, raking down his back. Shifting against him, pressing, rocking, she feels the momentum beginning to build, the bubble in her groin, her stomach, her chest, filling her until she thinks she might burst... and then she does, in a series of tiny explosions, each one stronger than the one before it, until she is shaking and crying out his name. He shudders in response, one last mighty thrust before collapsing with a bone-rattling groan, his weight pinning her to the bed, his arms cradling her around the shoulders. She lets out one last gasp and then her head falls back into the pillow. The tension drains out of her and the last barrier falls, the one holding all her emotions in check: the guilt, the pain, the horror, the grief... and all at once the tears come, her shoulders shaking as the sobs break free at last.

"Oh." Anders shifts onto his side and gathers her in his arms, cradles her close. "Oh, my love. I'm sorry. So sorry." She cannot reply, can only curl up into him and cry harder as his hands move up and down her back in long, comforting strokes. Forever it seems to last, grief and loss unending, only Anders's strong arms keeping her from being carried away.

But eventually it does end, her sobs subsiding into hiccups and then silence; she is spent, too exhausted to move, eyes and throat sore. He rolls her onto her back and slides the covers atop her. Then he leans down over her, the hair falling into his eyes, and looks at her with concern. "What can I do for you, dear heart? Shall I help you sleep?"

She nods, and he lays a hand on her forehead, murmuring a few syllables under his breath. The soothing energy of healing magic flows into her, gentle, calming; her eyes become heavy and fall shut, and she can feel a restful weight taking up residence in her limbs. "Thank you, love," she whispers, and then she fades into sleep as his arms settle around her, escaping into the sweet peace of oblivion, just for a little while.


This entry is also posted at http://owlmoose.dreamwidth.org/545458.html. There are currently comment count unavailable comments on DW.
Tags: anders/hawke, dragon age, fic, it seemed like a good idea at midnight, yes really
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