Chapter Text
He slipped his hands over my chest, the fabric of my thin shirt crumpling under his touch, and I felt my body shudder as a shaky breath left me. I needed him. I wanted him. Sweet Maker, but the warmth of desire pooling in the pit of my stomach burned more than any flame I had seen. His blond hair pooled over his face, eyes the colour of molten honey boring into my own. What angel had He seen fit to gift to me? What fortune that it was I this perfect man had chosen to direct his attentions to, straddling me with slender legs, surprisingly tight thighs gripping to me as he rolled his hips, grinding down on me and purring at the wanton moan that left my throat.
“Ugh.. M-Maker..”
He smirked, nipping my jaw harshly, moving to my throat and tugging the skin in time with my rapidly beating pulse. His hand now slipped under my shirt, dragging nails down my skin, raking them and leaving little grooves before sliding back up and threading through my chest hair. He carded his fingers there, using it as leverage to pull me closer to him, eyes back on mine as he brought his face level to me, his tongue darting out quickly to wet his lips.
We stayed that like for what felt like forever, the only sensations my heavy breathing and his own, shallower, quicker, shoulders trembling once or twice with anticipation.
Suddenly, everything kicked back in to normal time as he shoved me harshly onto my back with surprising strength, deft fingers immediately locking in my waistband and pulling down. The shock of the cold air made me jolt lightly, but he didn't seem to care, his lips curling into a predatory snarl, eyes pleased with what he saw.
“Perhaps I should thank this Maker of yours,” the Scion of the Anderfels purred as he leaned down, breath ghosting over my bare flesh, and the whimper I emitted served only to drive him on. Lips closed around me as he moaned lowly, and my fingers quickly found their place in his hair. He worked me hard, cheeks hollowing as he sucked deeply, fingers playing over my thighs as I could do little but shudder, gasps and moans puncturing the otherwise silence of the balcony.
The Scion had done his work, and now he claimed his prize. Me. I was his prize. I still wasn't over this fact. My brother and sister were both more attractive than me, surely, more confident, more everything. And yet, it was my quarters he had stolen in to. My body he was currently ravaging, claiming as his own.
And he knew what he was doing. I was unravelling under his ministrations, the heat of my building orgasm almost too much to bear. “Hngh, I-I can't.. I'm going to-”
“FUCK!”
I probably shouldn't have shouted that so loud, but I couldn't curse my luck more than that. I stared at the wretched device in my hand, that blighted little spinning circle taunting me, all “hey, look, my battery ran out. You didn't really want to hear his fake climax, did you?”.
So what if I did? His voice is to die for at the best of times, but when he's working like that, putting his heart and soul into it, it's hard not to feel drawn in. I asked Varric once or twice if the man actually is jerking off in the recording booth to sound like that, but he assures me that no, aside from his very emotive facial expressions, he has no help. It's not fair. The man can sound so heavenly moaning in a recording that will be heard by thousands, and I can barely speak without my voice quivering its way through a number of pitches. I never used to be so nervous, but I suppose that's what happens when you experience a number of traumatic experiences that. In all honesty, I'm not sure I really managed to hold myself together through the first one. The second and third were just the icing on the cake.
The lady sat diagonally in front of me on the train glares at me for a moment longer before turning back to her book, and I can see from the spine she's reading the prequel to the one I'm listening to. There's only two books in the series so far, and I had very nearly finished listening to the second, but Varric is already well into the third and assures me it's to be his best work yet. The books had gotten progressively more sex-oriented, not that I'd heard any complaints. Everyone read them. I'd found a couple of copies stashed in desks at work, but so far it was only Lirene that had picked up on it.
“ You know, that Scion seems to look a lot like you, going by the description..”
And it's not just the Anderfels part, either, though Maker knows I couldn't look more Anders if I tried. There aren't that many of us around – I met a single other Anders in Ferelden, a woman named Woolsey, back when I was with the Wardens. They were an elite military division that recruited those nobody else would touch, so a doctor with a history of minor criminal offences had been right up their street. Woolsey had been in charge of our squad's funds, and I had gotten along well with her. It was nice to have someone else to talk to about home, even if neither of us would be returning to it any time soon.
My parents sent me to boarding school in Ferelden, a wretched establishment known as Kinloch Hold, which effectively cut all ties with them. My mother had opposed it completely, but I was a disgrace to my father. I'd always been an odd child, flicking through bouts of uncontrollable rage and sheer panic. It had exhausted him, and when I'd attacked one of the children in the village, he'd said that enough was enough. It didn't matter to him that the boy five years my senior had decided to see what would happen if he dropped the stray cat I'd adopted out of an eighth story window. It was just a cat in his eyes. No, I was dangerous, I was unruly, and I was not his son.
Still, Ferelden had been my home for a good twenty years before I made the move to Kirkwall. I couldn't say I missed the country that much, but if people asked, I would tell them I was Fereldan. They knew otherwise, not like the name I go by gives it away. I hate my real name, especially with the ties to my father. I've been called Anders for over half of my life now, and really, I prefer it this way. At work I'm known as Dr. Anders, and my real name only goes down on official forms. Everyone who knows me calls me Anders, although I'm fondly acknowledged in the front of Varric's books as Blondie.
He's got nicknames for all of us in his little circle of friends, and I'm more grateful than he can know that I'm one of them. He's one of those people who just draws others to him. He's charismatic, intelligent, organised. I don't know a single person who has met him and dislikes him. Even Fenris, the moodier man from Tevinter that I tend to avoid if I can, cracks a smile for him. Still, for all his gregarious nature, there's only four of us in his inner circle – Fenris, Isabela, Merrill and myself. We meet once a week at the bar he co-owns to play cards and catch up, although I've been out of town for the past two weeks sorting things out with the in-laws.
I say in-laws.. Karl's brother's family. We were engaged for five months before the accident happened, and every year since I've made an effort to go and visit them for the anniversary of the funeral. It was a moment I don't really wish to relive, and it still hurts to think about. I'd never been happier than those years I spent with him.
Which is partly why Varric had dragged me in to his literary dreams. It started off with him talking ideas through with me over coffee in an attempt to lift my spirits, keep me occupied. He'd wanted an exotic character, but didn't want to bend to the stereotypes of the Antivans or the Rivainis, and he certainly didn't want a Qunari love interest in his novels. He, Isabela and I had been sat around the table, she and I playing cards while he jotted down notes, when Isabela had suddenly mentioned that my parents must have been unimaginative to call me Anders. Varric had snapped his fingers and yelled something about that being a bloody brilliant idea, and the next thing I knew, I was being grilled for questions about my home country (“What's the weather like?” Warm. “Are you all blond?” The majority. “Can you speak some Ander for me?” Mach es dir selber.)
And voilà, yours truly became the inspiration for the infamous Scion of the Anderfels. No real name, because it's mysterious. He's skinny and blonde with golden eyes just like me, except while I'm an incompetent bundle of social ineptitude, the Scion is the picture of confidence. He knows what he wants, he goes where he wants, and he takes what he wants.
In this case, he takes the main character of Aedan Cousland, a nobleman who suits me far more in temperament, but who is currently my addiction. I'm not normally one for trashy romance novels (no offense, Varric), but the man who does the audiobook has a voice to die for.
Garrett Hawke.
Varric's work was his first big breakthrough, from what I've been told. He'd done a little work on radio ads and had a brief stint as a sports commentator, but his audiobook skills are to die for. He has this rich baritone that sets right in your bones at his normal pitch, but when he drops it into a growl, you know about it. Karl and I used to joke about people who said that a voice made them shiver, claiming bullshit. He and I both have higher voices, tenors without much depth, and I'd never thought I could grow weak at the knees at a few words from a man I knew nothing about. He was a complete stranger, and yet the way he spoke undid me. Especially in the scene I was just listening to. Deep down, I could pretend that I really was the Scion, and that I could be drawing moans like that out of someone like him. I could pretend that it was my hands making him shiver, my mouth causing him to moan so freely.
And although I knew it couldn't be farther from the truth, I felt like I knew him. Varric's writing was so in depth, and Garrett's reading so passionate, that I genuinely felt as if I had known Aedan all my life – and, being the voice of it all, Garrett was tied in to that.
Oh, he'd also recently starting voicing video game characters. I had not gone and bought Blackguards, his most recent work, where he voices the playable character. I've never played games before, my work not usually allowing the time, but I'd made the effort and although I'm atrocious, it's worth the bumbling through to hear a few extra lines of dialogue. Still, all this, and he'd never shared his face. On the audiobooks it just states his name, and I'd done some research online and found nothing. I didn't know why he didn't want to let people know what he looked like, but maybe it just added to the mysterious air surrounding him.
The announcement on the train cut through my thoughts, and informed us that we were approaching Kirkwall station, finally. Varric had insisted I come and stop by the Hanged Man on my way home, no doubt assuming that I would have finished listening to the audiobook on the journey home. I felt a bit guilty that I wouldn't be able to discuss the ending with him yet, but from what I could tell I was very close to it. I just hoped that there was no earth-shattering cliffhanger this time – I don't think I could bear the suspense again. Finally the train pulled in and I reached up, pulling my case down from the rack above my head. May as well go face the author and see if I can borrow a charger so I can finish listening on the way home.