I Couldn't Stop Thinking About You

Finally, after cumming more than he had ever before, the feeling began to subside. He let the duvet fall out of his grip and sat back, sighing.

That lovely soreness, the warm ache, still remained in his dick, but he felt absolutely disgusting. The sinking feeling was stronger now than ever before. The sight of his semen mixed with the whores' threatened to make him sick. It would never be Hawke's juices on that bed, never the scent filling his nose. He pushed himself off the bed and re-laced his pants, never once glancing back up at his mess.

The wet front of the braies teased him uncomfortably, but he dare not dab it away for fear that he would forget what he did.

He left the Blooming Rose sullenly, giving the whores an extra sovereign each. He attached his sword belt to his hip and left for his empty estate, this time much more sober. He did not stumble getting home.

It was late morning when he finally woke up from the fitful lack of sleep he had called a night. Light poured in through the grandiose bedroom's floor-to-ceiling windows, trailing across the empty bed and directly into his eyes. His head ached from the drink and the sweat from walking across town drenched him still. He flung the covers off himself at once. The cold fresh air of the bedroom immediately stung his bare skin. He had gone to sleep shirtless, donning the same pair of pants he wore to the whorehouse still.

They were still wet.

He stumbled out of bed to shut the standing curtains he always forgot to close. They were fine Orlesian silk, and blocked the view of his bedroom from nosy socialites, but he didn't care. For a moment he held the two drapes, one set in each hand, and stared out the glass-paneled door to his balcony. It was a dreary, rainy day above Kirkwall--but still bright enough to disturb his sleep. He slammed the curtains closed, and made his way to the bed again.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

His dreary eyes shot open at the familiar noise. Hawke always knocked at his door frantically. She started doing it one day during some actual emergency and had since picked up the habit of doing it every time since he always rushed to the door in response. His mind raced. He wondered if it truly was that late already, that she would come knocking at his door to see if he would join her again. He thought--

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

He cursed to himself. Rushing out of his bedroom, he grabbed the closest nightshirt and rushed down the stairs. Pushing his head through the last bit of the shirt, he reached the door handle just in time for the next knock to not ring violently throughout the house and through his headache. The door swung open under his force.

"Oh--Fenris!"

"Yes, it's me. Is it really that late?"

Her eyes wandered down to his nightshirt with a devilish smirk. He glanced too, only to see that it was clearly more low cut than he had last left it. Damned dwarf.

"No, it's still early. You clearly got up to some fun while you were gone though, huh? Can't even tell what time of day it is?"

She stepped inside, as a familiar friend tends to do, and he stepped aside in earnest. He ran a hand through his bed head, trying to not let the bile rising in his throat at the accusation affect him.

"Not really. I'm sure not any more than you, or the two whores--"

He had meant Isabela and Varric, but shocked himself into stopping. If she did notice, the mage woman didn't say anything.

"Ah, well... after you left it was just more drinking and singing. Varric did accidentally trip someone when he bent over to tie his shoe, though, and we had to leave shortly after," she said. She strolled about the room a bit, gazing at the unused decorations as she told her story.

"Unsurprising," he paused, "Is there a reason you're here so early then?"

She turned and smiled, her dimples framing either side of her crooked grin.

"What? I can't just check on a friend?"

He chuckled lightly; no matter how stressed he seemed to be, talking to Hawke just seemed to make the ease seep in.

"No, you can't. You're Hawke. If anything, you're probably more hungover than I am."

"Fine, you're right. I wanted to see if you wished to join us for today's job. It's supposed to be somewhere along the Wounded Coast, but I hate it there this time of year. I figured having you along would make it way more fun, plus, you're the first person I asked so you get to decide who else comes," she said.

The words came tumbling out of her like a child's rambling story about why they weren't the one who hit their sibling, like they always did. She rambled about him, to him--and it felt good. She was one for rambling in between her vicious moments of jestering. He felt warm and fought off a smile as she finished the spiel. The world returned to him as he realized he faced her, foolishly in love, listening to her adorable rants and raves in his foyer, wearing nothing but pajamas and the pants he had soiled thinking of her. Guilt overcame him. Warmth and his smile faded.

"That sounds like a plan," he started slowly, "but I don't think... I think I may just be ill. That's why I left the celebrations last night, too."

Her face fell, haunting Fenris, but her eyes were filled with concern.

"I knew we should've let Yevhen sort himself out. Are you sure it's just an illness? You haven't caught the blight?"

She stepped closer, hand stretched out. Fenris was too shocked to move, and she grabbed him by the shoulders. Hawke examined him closely. He swallowed hard. He tried to avert his gaze to the ceiling and not into Hawke's deep brown eyes, but could not avoid the occasional flicker. She finally released him, making his heart rate slow from the painful pace it kept in her presence. Apparently he was not sick with blight. He always learned something new when the mage woman was around. Fenris steeled himself as she stepped back.

"Not the blight. I'll be fine--you should take Merrill to brighten moods in my stead."

She made a face--clearly still unsure. Eventually she nodded and accepted her fate. She still shook her head as she made her way for the door. She really did hate the Wounded Coast in the springtime; it made her sneeze without end.

"Alright then. We'll still see you soon, yes?"

He nodded. Hawke gave a genuine smile in reply. She still stood in the doorway for a moment, her foot teetering on the doorsill, undecided as to its path. He held the door in his hand and leaned against the stone-brick entryway, almost cornering her, if her back wasn't to the open city. Right before leaving, she gave a quick, almost cunning, appraising glance to all of Fenris. To all of him. She turned and left with a growing smile and left him feeling a brutish embarrassment. His ears warmed. He closed the door feeling his pale, morning-addled face turn red.

A glance down and his pants were undeniably still wet. He hadn't taken even a moment to consider it, running out of bed the way he had. Even if he had--they were not damp, they were wet. He had dreamed of her again. He had shamed himself in front of one of his only friends. His four poster bed was a welcome sight as he dragged himself through the house, the guilt weighing him. Sleep came easier than it had the night before.

It was mid-afternoon when he awoke again. His sheets were drenched in sweat, his hair flowing in random directions, his joints aching from the desperate position he had coiled himself into. Fenris had had intention of getting out of the bed, unwilling to face himself, but the taste of sleep in his mouth pushed him anyways. The reflection in the mirror above the stone basin looked dreadful. He washed his face but could not scrub off the darkness below his eyes, could not clean the sunken cheeks he had yet to feed.

Even the lavish Tevinter shower--complete with runes to heat the water and softened marble to sit and relax upon--could not make him feel clean. He stuffed his face with a meal of burnt bacon (the way his time on the run had taught him to prefer), bakery-made artisanal sweet bread, and an Orlesian grape juice he could not pronounce the name of. It calmed his nerves somewhat, any change noticeable enough for him to appreciate. He tried to finish his grape juice while reading one of the books the dwarf had picked out for him to start him into enjoying reading; his efforts were quickly abandoned. Instead, he paced around the drawing room, running through every possible permutation of the morning's events he felt possible. Most of them involved Hawke hating him the second she left through the door.

The days' chores brought him little distraction. He had to shake himself into rationality. Why would she hate him? She had no way of knowing his state was because of her. For all she knew, he had just left the bar early to hire some whores to spend the night and she had disturbed their post-sex slumber. That thought, unsurprisingly, brought him no comfort. Nevertheless, he tried to remain level-headed.

Hours passed, the light from the stained glass windows above every door, balcony, and windowsill started to pour a warmer evening light into the stone-and-wood mansion. He hated it, but he could not help to admit that the estate even felt like a home at the rise and set of the sun. Fenris lit the fire, stoking it ever so often to keep the blaze strong. He had abandoned all other activities--he could do nothing but think. Thankfully the thoughts eventually became less frenetic and began to edge on hopeful. He had even begun to devise a way to finally get the mage woman alone without the pretext of a social visit, just to speak. Hawke was still away, likely fighting raiders somewhere along the storm coast, and he had plenty of time. That was a confounding factor and a comfort. There she wouldn't visit the Blooming Rose and enlist the help of two familiar elven bodies, who, like all whores, were not like to refrain from gossip. There, too, he could not speak to her and rid himself of the confusion she had bestowed.

It was dark out when he finally forged the courage to enact his plan. The fire had burned to embers, but he was sure to snuff it out. Heat rushed his face, chest, and hands, chased out from the logs. The warmth carried with him even as he dressed himself to leave and left into what little streets separated his and Hawke's estates. He carried no sword on his belt, no dagger at his hip, no maul across his back, no delicately gilded Tevinter gauntlets or chainmail; Even still he felt safe, the crossing between their homes a path he could walk in the deepest of drunken states. Here the streets were lit more frequently, the cobbles maintained. The most ancient and grand of houses of Kirkwall even had their own versions of the crude shop signs, wooden or cloth banners and signs depicting their ugly house sigils. Fenris could always tell where the Amell Estate was by their family sigil, a "temporary" painted sign just above their door, drawn by a drunken Carver when his mother complained offhandedly about their lack of.

He stood under the hasty Amell sigil and knocked at the door. The door knocker was gilded metal in the shape of a dragon, hardly a fitting sign of elegance. He loved it nonetheless. The door opened slowly. Bodahn Fennic stood there, gazing up at Fenris kindly.

"Hello mesere Fenris, how are you this lovely evening?"

"I'm fine, thank you. And you?"

"I couldn't want for more! May I help you in some way?"

"Yes, actually. I assume Hawke is not home?"

He shook his head energetically.

"Nope! Not for a few hours more! She said to sup without her, if you're here to join us."

"Thank you, but I've already eaten. May I enter?"

The dwarf-turned-unneeded-servant graciously stepped aside and beckoned Fenris inside. He wrung his hands upon entering instinctively, but stopped himself. The elvhen serving girl Orana walked by with a crate of vegetables, trying and failing to make it look as if she was not looking at their guest. Sandal sat entertaining himself by the fire, kicking his legs as he drew up designs in a notebook. Fenris turned back to Bodahn.

"I was hoping to speak to Mistress Amell, if that's possible," he posed delicately.

"Of course! I'll fetch her right away, mesere," Bodahn replied.

The dwarf returned with Leandra and the two came quickly down the grand staircase that led straight into the foyer. Leandra said something to the dwarf that Fenris couldn't hear. He bowed and walked after the serving girl, leaving them to their devices. Sandal quickly followed.

"Sorry to intrude on your dinner, Mistress Amell," Fenris said.

"Nonsense! It's not an intrusion if you're always welcome. Tell me, what brings you here, if not to dine?"

Straight to the point. There was no wondering where Hawke got that from.

"Ah, well," he paused, "there is something I'd like to propose to you."

Her interest piqued. She stepped closer, and the two hushed their voices in the slightest, as if they were being spied upon.

"Oh? And does this have anything to do with my daughter?"

"What? I... It may. I was wondering if there may be some way I could, possibly, get you and the servants out of the house for one night. I thought you might want to go shopping for a new family sigil, or even see a show at the theater house."

Leandra's voice rose to a volume far louder than their previous whisper.

"A show? Shopping? That's a grand idea! I'm sure Orana and Sandal would love to come--I hear that new stage show is about the Hero of Ferelden."

Three heads poked out of the doorway to the kitchen with pricked ears. Sandal was the first to admit overhearing with his overjoyed squeal about seeing the Hero again. Bodahn rubbed his neck nervously but also voiced his excitement, to which Orana agreed. Leandra clapped Fenris' shoulder.

"So it's settled then! A night on the town for us! But first--supper. I've been looking forward to helping you make that stew all week, Orana."

The serving girl blushed and bowed, returning to the kitchen. Bodahn and Sandal followed her, though Fenris knew not why. He considered that perhaps being a surface dwarf made them gain taste buds. The thought was cut off by Leandra continuing their hushed conversation.

"I'll have you know that I do know why you're doing this; I am not opposed to it by any means, nor do I think this night on the town is a bad idea in any sense, but I am no fool. I hear how my daughter talks about you in her stories of her grand adventures. She tries to hide it, but the difference in the way she talks about you is clear," she said firmly.

Fenris felt his eyes go wide, his face flush, his ears warm. His throat felt tight and dry, and he could not eke out a reply as she stared deep into his gaze, appraising him more deliberately than ever before.

"I don't mean to--I don't mean to do anything of the--"

"I know you're not here to bed and wed her, fool, but I was young once too. Anything you say past the throes of midnight is playing a dangerous game. I want you to succeed, and for my daughter to be happy. Don't mess this up."

With that, she let her grip of his shoulders go. She assumed her mild, kind expression and jaunted off happily towards the kitchen. It smelled divine, of onions and garlic and beef. Fenris didn't even register the smell as the overwhelming revelation overtook him. He really had just come to speak to Hawke, to put her skills to use as a friend to help him overcome whatever she had put him through. To apologize, even. He took up a chair in front of the fire. Were his feelings really so obvious? More importantly--were Hawke's? He felt as if he were blinded by his own head so much that he wouldn't have truly noticed if she were naked in front of him, before now. Whenever he had entertained the thought of reciprocation he believed himself a hopeless daydreamer. The possibility began to feel real, now.

The regular inhabitants of the Amell estate dined and dressed themselves. Fenris sat still in front of the fire, familiarizing himself with the memories of Hawke that he had looked over before. When the servants and mother of three wished him their farewells, he gave his own well wishes and bid them off.

Hours passed again and he found himself pacing another empty estate; his mood had significantly improved since then, however. There was a swell of emotion that filled his chest, the hopeful feeling that all of the moments he shared with Hawke were more than that. Excitement was not the only emotion heightened within him.

Late in the evening was the first time he had looked back on his experience at the Blooming Rose in a positive light, a light more appreciative of what he had learned. He felt blithe becoming so excited in another's home, and so he tried to repress the arousal he felt coming on in waves. It did not work very well. By the time midnight had passed, he was well into the stage of the night where his bulge would not leave him. It need not wait much longer.

Some time past midnight, near the witching hour, Fenris could hear Hawke arrive home. He waited in the foyer, warmed by one of the grand fireplaces on either wall. She loudly opened the door of the mudroom entrance, kicking off what sounded like armor and weapons and putting them in the chifferobe alongside the door. More like than not, she had just returned from the 3 hour ride back from the coast, and wished for nothing more than to wash off and crawl into bed. He felt a quick twang of regret at disturbing that, but felt still that his mission was imperative.

He stood from the loveseat and anxiously moved towards the center of the room, his pants shifting uncomfortably in the wake of his erection.

Hawke made her way through the archway, rubbing her eyes of sleep and running her hand through tousled dark hair. Even in her casual homewear she looked like she had just come back from a fight, bruised and flushed, moving deliberately slow. Fenris worried for a split second that he really had made a mistake--she would be too tired to tolerate this intrusion--but the second her hand left her eyes her face was lit with an energy he would not have guessed she still had.

"Fenris? What are you doing here?"

Her voice was low, confused but intrigued. He clenched his jaw, hands twitching at his side.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you."

A heavy pause fell between them. He felt as if raising his hand would cut the air like a knife through boiled leather. Her face, for the first time in recent memory, was completely unreadable. Her mouth was slightly agape as she roamed his presence with her gaze. Before he could think, she took a step forward.

"Then don't."

They collided.

Immediately both of their hands roamed each other's bodies, his around her waist and stomach, hers cupping his face and exploring under his shirt. Her mouth was better than he could've imagined; her lips were soft and pink, and grew ever more flushed with each kiss, with each bite. Her pale freckled cheeks remained red and warm, the same as his, but the difference was more notable as he kissed along her neck and shoulders. He felt himself being moved, their feet shuffling as they attempted to never let go of their holds on eachother. He then felt himself being pushed, roughly, against the wall aside the door, Hawke's movements becoming more desperate.

He felt her tits through her overshirt, kneading carefully, desperately, but quickly finding her hardened nipples and focusing his attention towards them. She let out a soft moan as he lightly toyed with her, driving him crazy. She immediately returned the favor by taking the hand that rested against his chest and abs down, fondling his raging hard-on. She let it weigh in her hand, appraising it, and smiled into his kiss as she found its excitement equally arousing; Fenris' knees buckled slightly under his weight as she began to stroke him through his pants, a half hand rubbing against him as his dick strained against the material of the thigh.