I Couldn't Stop Thinking About You

To the readers of my first story:

First of all, thank you! I wrote and published that on a complete whim and was not expecting your high ratings and your kindness.

Second, this story is completely unlike that one (though I did come up with both of their plots in a dream, funnily enough). It's my first ever piece of fanfiction, and though that may be an automatic turnoff for you for which I understand, I did try to make it as erotica-friendly as possible. I read enough stories on here to, hopefully, get a good grasp on how to write hot stuff. It involves two characters from the Dragon Age series, Fenris the elf and Marian Hawke the player character (who can look like however you design her). I left out a majority of the "description" stuff because anyone can google what Fenris looks like, excusing the very 2011 haircut, and because Hawke is supposed to be unique for everyone. The descriptions I included were mostly the "default" Hawke design. Also, obviously, this story is straight unlike my first one (but both characters are canonically bisexual and do bisexual things in this).

I don't expect many to read this, so if you have read this far and choose to continue: thank you! It's long. About 15/33 pages contain sex or sex-like activities, though.

The bar was loud--and packed full. There were countless dozens of sailors just off their ships, earning their land legs in the cups of horrible Free Marcher ale the wenches were serving. Fenris stood at the bar, trying not to let it get to him. It was far louder than the Hanged Man, and Varric let that be known in his complaints before the group had even set foot inside. For now, though, it would have to do; Isabela had gotten them kicked out of the Hanged Man the night before, and though they would doubtless let their best paying patrons back in eventually, the bartender was not like to be in any mood of exuberance towards their attendance tonight.

That morning, Hawke had been enlisted by some shady businessman from hightown, redundant as that description is, into running some reconnaissance on his missing shipments. She agreed, much to the disapproval of the pirate woman and the chagrin of the dwarf. Fenris suspended his judgements, as he was want to do more often after having met the mage woman just a few years past. He was proven right when the described location was chock-full of a group of bandits clearly hired for an ambush. Clearly, their employment was cheap; They had barely jumped out of hiding when they were struck down so handedly by the group, in no small part due to Hawke's prediction of a doublecross. She had guessed the businessman was meant to rid Kirkwall of their little group by some higher, wealthier power and used evidence from the ambush to get their mutual friend in the Guard Captain's seat to make an arrest.

So here they were. Celebrating the night away in a shady tavern just off the docks, one where Isabela was equally as "popular" but far less controversial. One where none of the rest of them were noticed--so far. Fenris enjoyed that part, at the very least.

He stared down his reflection in the muddy brown drink, watching the ripples dance as the bar shook from its patrons' rambunctious cheers. A heavy hand clapped him on the back, making him spill.

"Great job today, broody," Varric boomed. He had clearly imbibed a lot more than usual tonight. His chest was flushed under all that hair, and he smiled easily.

"You too, dwarf. I saw that bolt you put between that man's eyes. That was nice work," Fenris replied in earnest.

"Hah! It's easy when Isabela distracts them by slicing their buddies' throats in front of 'em!"

Varric took another swig and sat down, prompting Fenris to follow. The dwarf was not usually much for celebrating these casual wins, but always showed out when the opportunity presented itself. Fenris tried to enjoy it as much as he could--he didn't particularly enjoy the nickname Broody as much as he had earned it. It was unfortunate, though, that the circumstances were so in such a joyous time.

Isabela swung back around the corner of the counter, Hawke on her arm.

"Helloo, my lovelies!"

The pirate was drunker than normal too. There seemed to be something in the air; Fenris could feel it too, but he wasn't sure it made him want to drink any more than he usually did.

"Hello Mr. Broody," there that nickname was again, "what are you doing, hiding over here?" Hawke chimed in, slurring.

She was more sober than the other two for sure, but her voice had that buzzed intonation to it that was impossible to miss. It was as if she was trying to stifle a giggle every time she spoke.

"I'm... I didn't want to bump into anyone at the tables. Fights are easy to start and easier to finish," he replied. His ears felt hot.

"Ahh, alright," she and Isabela pulled up the chairs next to him and the dwarf, "smart thinking."

That earned her a small smile, though doubtless it went unnoticed to the drunken eye. The dwarf and the pirate laughed and ordered another round for the group, slamming coins around and shaking their gaudy golden jewelry around with every grandiose gesture. Hawke listened from their sides quietly, as she tended to do when she was drunk. Or, when she wasn't completely drunk. Fenris had only witnessed it a few times, but she was just as much a force to be reckoned with then as she was sober, just with less of a filter; That was saying something. It was, nevertheless, endearing.

Fenris sat in similar silence, though far more tense. Her proximity was clearly more alarming to him than it was to her. He had to keep reminding himself that the night they shared not so long ago was probably inconsequential in her memory--while it remained a red hot flame in his.

The mage took him suddenly by the wrist, pumping her fists in the air at some jeer by the pirate about a battle well fought. Her drink spilled in her grip, flinging ale in every which way. The flying drink hit Fenris, soaking his tunic and undershirt, but he didn't notice. Her strong, playful grip had him wholly distracted. His arm fell back to the bar once she relented. Immediately, he took the shot the bartender brought with the rest of the round. Afterwards, though, his gaze was held downwards. His other hand softly traced where she had grabbed him, and the memory returned.

Tevinter swill always made him dizzy. He felt especially dizzy, sitting across from Hawke, baking in the heat emanating from the grand fireplace in the stupidly grand sitting room. He hated this mansion for all it stood for, for all its intricacies carved by slaves--but he could not bring himself to hate the comfort it did inevitably bring. He and Hawke had sat here plenty of times, surrounded by their compatriots or alone, discussing whatever asinine thing they could think of. Today was special, of course, it being the anniversary of his escape. Not his escape from Danarius, but his escape from constantly being afraid. He was still not devoid of fear, but the day he met the mage woman with that jet black hair and that bloody streaked nose, he knew he need not know fear as he had any longer.

All these years and she still couldn't outdrink him, though. Halfway through the bottle her cheeks were flushed a bright, blushing red, and she was a waterfall of japes and laughs. A sober Hawke was funny enough, but it appeared that in this state everything was funnier. Fenris found himself laughing more freely as well, felt some of the weight he carried with him melt off his shoulders as they sat and laughed and drank and felt dizzy.

In some way, the conversation had drifted towards his experiences after his escape. Particularly his experiences with--how it might be politely put--Isabela-esque activities. The answer embarrassed him, for reasons he knew not why.

"Really? So you've been with no one since then?"

"No, not that I can remember."

"I find that that hard to believe," she joked, giving him that crooked smile that always bothered him so.

"And why is that? I'm no Anders or Isabela, you know," the drink made him say more than he might usually intend.

"Oh, it's not that! I mean just," she paused, "just look at you."

His ears felt suddenly warm. Fenris shifted in his chair, taking another sip of the Tevinter pisswater they called a drink. He always had difficulty looking her right in the eyes, and now was no different.

"Thank you. I just... I don't really know what it would feel like, with these markings. They're very sensitive."

He could feel the warmth in his chest swell after the admission. He had never shared it with anyone before, and certainly wasn't expecting to this night. Another sip, and he waited for her reply.

"We could always find out, you know," she said laughing into her cup, taking a deep swallow of the dark wine.

Those words sent an immediate sensation through Fenris--completely foreign and familiar. In an instant he felt the warmth of the fire on his skin, his proximity to Hawke in her chair, decorated in her Hightown finery, the flush on his face, the tightening sensation in his pants. Looking up, he found that her face did not betray her drunken state, but also that it contained a semblance of honest lust in her eyes. It sent a panic through him.

"Hah! Yes... though maybe another night," he replied, trying to sound as unaffected as possible. He got out of his chair, to do something to ease the burgeoning tension. Quickly, he found himself pouring some nicer Fereldan ale into their emptied cups, though standing with his waist at an angle that did not bring them so close as to touch, and started to bring the conversation to some of her exploits back home.

When Hawke left for home that night, she left Fenris with the most painful blue balls he'd ever had. All it took was one sentence; She always spoke in a smoother way whenever they had a moment to themselves, her voice dipping for secret jokes only they knew, her jokes more selective, the conversation always tiptoeing around an unsaid tension he could not define nor deny. Now, like always, it lit a fire in him.

The second he was sure she was truly on her way to the Amell estate, he fled to the bedroom to relieve himself of the ache. He fell asleep covered in his shame, but his dreams only contained the same fantasy. The woman was an incessant torture.

His foray into the depths of his memories was interrupted by a laugh which was then interrupted by a snort. Isabela was slapping the counter, clearly overcome with laughter about something Hawke had said. Hawke was joining her, and then Varric, and their raucous chorus soon joined the chatter that filled the rest of the bar. Fenris felt suddenly very aware of his distinctive sullen manner, and his grip on his own wrist tightened. He kept a smile on his face, trying at the very least to appear like he was enjoying himself.

Some sailor or another passed by the group on his way to the privy and bumped into the pirate woman, causing her to spill on herself and Varric, to the poor sod's horror. They went silent for a second but burst into another fit of laughter after looking at each other's expressions, though Hawke's outburst was the loudest. Her laughter sparked Fenris' own to start, and he felt the humor of the situation sweep over his chest flushed with liquid courage.

"It's like you two are just meant for the sea--you can't go an hour on land without getting wet!"

"And you're one to talk," Varric guffawed, grabbing Isabela's arm for support, "You can't go a day without running straight into an ambush!"

The reply tumbled out before he realized what he was saying.

"She knows what she's doing when we're walking into danger, dwarf, but you and the pirate wouldn't notice if it's piss or water staining your clothes."

The mage, pirate, and dwarf all paused for a split second to notice the certain outburst before resuming their cacophony of laughs, all joining his own.

"Way to come to her defense, elf!"

"It's only natural of course," the Rivaini gestured wildly with her cup, "to want to defend your woman's honor!"

"Of course! Broody dreams of the gallant elven knight and the naughty apostate! It makes so much sense!"

Fenris' horror returned in that same instant, as he desperately glanced at Hawke to see if she had taken any note of the--rather astute--observation, but she had immediately moved to strike back.

"Oh, Isabela, and you know so much about a woman's honor? Is that what I hear you moaning about in your sleep, 'Oh Aveline... your honor is so delicious'?"

Even the bartender laughed at that one, chuckling into his work. Fenris laughed too, especially at the dawning horror on the pirate's face, the blush creeping into her dark cheeks as clear as it had on his. The laughter helped calm the fear he felt, but did not quell it completely. He drank more and more along with the others, allowing the warm sensation to overcome him as much as it would.

Fenris found himself, amid all the conversation and drinking, thinking back on the joke time and time again. No one had taken much note of it. A part of him was disappointed that Hawke had said nothing, a part yet elated, and another part had yet to come to the conclusion that she had defended him as quickly as he had done for her. He often interrupted one thought or another with the same scary idea: that the dwarf and the pirate had observed something between him and Hawke so aptly, and had noticed it even as drunkards. Varric was understandable, the man knew everything about everyone, but Isabela? Well, no, she was quite versed in the relations of man and woman. He supposed the true test on how obvious he had been in his, well, desires, was if Merrill had noticed. She was not one for the details on the intricacies of social interactions, in any case. He made a note to ask her the next time they had a moment in private.

Another thought nagged at him, at least for a time, that Anders certainly had to have noticed. The man had a knack for flirting with Hawke, especially when she thought to bring both of them to any sort of outing--and especially in front of him. He never knew if the bastard did it on purpose, to anger him for his righteous hatred of his apostasy, or if it was just the Maker's way of punishing him. The man himself he could stand, but not that. What was even worse was the possibility that he would perhaps only toy with Hawke because he knew that she was the object of Fenris' desire.

The most horrifying thought of all found him last, as the conversation grew ever away from his presence and he and his compatriots grew drunker; Had Hawke truly only ever made these advances that he toiled over under the guise of drink? Did she toy with him only as she did with every second person (much to his chagrin) that they ever had dealings with, male or female? When her form haunted his dreams, when he woke up in a sweat, guilty, with stained sheets--was that all his fancy getting away with him, idolizing his first friend? He sat at the bar, more overwhelmed by the second. Suddenly, he could feel the drink's ill effects all at once. His head throbbed, the room was blurry and dizzying. His shirt was still soaked through, the wet material clinging to his abdomen.

He pushed himself from the bar. The noise of the screeching bar stool alerted the others sitting with him and their heads turned.

"I think," a pause, "I think I might return home. I need to wash myself of the blood and beer," Fenris said politely. Even in his drunken state he chose his words carefully so as to not sound the fool.

"Ah, boo, you--you elf! Stay and drink!"

"Come on, broods, stay a little longer," slurred Varric. He was barely pronouncing anything at this point, his strange dwarven accent already hard enough for most to understand.

"Aw... do you really?" Asked Hawke, turning her head.

Her voice was small and sad, in the way that only a drunken stupor sounds. Her disappointment was palpable, but she was already nodding off into other distractions. For the elf, this was ideal. The idea of Hawke missing his presence ignited some excitement in him, deep inside, but her state of mind made it much easier for him to ignore the gut feeling to stay and enjoy that.

"Yes. I'm... sorry, Hawke," he replied slowly, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Calculatingly, he placed a hand on her shoulder, giving a squeeze of consolation. At the touch, a feeling of electricity shot through him, shooting through the tattoos on his hand into the ones marking his entire body. His panic caused him to let go and make his escape, fighting the urge to look back at her and his friends' reactions any more. He pushed through crowds of sailors clinging to each other like babes to their mothers, past the roaring fire pit surrounded in half-emptied cups, stepping quickly so as to not start a fight with any unruly oarsmen. He finally made it to the entrance and slammed his shoulder into the light wooden door, stumbling into the cold night's air.

His skin felt like fire to the cool breeze that floated off the sea and through the docks. His ears picked up the faint ringing of the buoys in the high tide, the sounds of masts and rigging billowing in the wind. The calmed sights and sounds were a pleasant break from the jeering, fighting, and drink spilling. He was brought back to the sensation of his tunic, soaked in drink, now ice cold on the skin of his chest. He knew a shiver was not far off, should he not start home immediately; He did not want to shiver in the alleys of Lowtown, and thus he made off for his empty estate.

Between the bar and Hightown was a series of maze-like roads, cobbled hundreds of years ago and flattened by the subsequent years of foot traffic. He had always had trouble navigating down here--most of his time spent exploring the city was accompanied by at least three others who could find their way out of any alley after recalling what it was named after. He could only ever make his way by signpost.

Everywhere, crude wooden signs hung above the doors of shops closed hours past, marked with word and illustration. More than a few, however, still boasted windows full of firelight, their signs adorned with depictions of the nude form. Fenris usually hated brothels; The confusion of feelings that had followed him the entire night did not cease now, however. As he made his way from alley to avenue to side street to mainroad, turning back and doubting his path, stumbling in the dark and in the drink, the sights and sounds of whores and patrons alike taunted him. He pushed onwards.

When he thought he had finally found the way home after climbing a sloped cobbled street for what felt like an hour halved, he had to stop himself atop the hill in frustration. He held himself leaning upon a lamppost embedded in the marble wall of a cobbler or some other asinine tradeshop, wiping his brow of sweat. As his hand cleared his forehead, he was immediately greeted with the sight of a place far more familiar than the common brothels that lined the streets before. The Blooming Rose.

He had been inside before, to shake down some templars with their pants down. To throw out a seedy patron or two--always with Hawke. She had never indulged in the amenities while he was there, thankfully.

She was however known for being the most frequent visitor from Hightown, a lucrative title even among the highborn. Oftentimes she had bragged about her exploits there when the group camped for the night, when they sat at bars, when they broke fast in meager hostels across the wounded coast; Fenris dreaded those times. Hawke only ever brought it up in competition with a story from the pirate, or the apostate, or the dwarf, but she spared little detail about when or where or whom. No matter the story, Fenris always felt that his heart would plummet into his stomach and his hearing would fail him. It was a feeling akin to waking up on the ground after a mage had miscalculated the trajectory of a fireball, the ringing in the ears and the clenched jaw.