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Driven (Thinking of You)

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Fenris places the blame for his predicament squarely on the belts. No, if he is to be honest, not solely the belts; the way the snug corset cinches Hawke's narrow waist feeds the twin fires in his loins and in his mind as greatly as the curving drape of leather that wraps so distractingly about her broad, feminine hips. Taken in combination, the two factors are lethal, and his self-control is very nearly destroyed after another day of following her about, eyes only for her whenever she is not looking, eyes anywhere but when she is.

Yes, if not for those robes, he would not be in this situation tonight. It is embarrassing; the way his mind drifts to thoughts of her, the sway of her hips, the curve of her lower back where it meets her buttocks and the round, perfect shape of them- he groans aloud and tries to shift his mind away. He should not be thinking of her like this. Even if he ignores that she is a mage, she is his friend. Did she not say as much herself, the other night, right before he walked out of her estate? He'd hoped, some tiny part of him had hoped, that she would stop him - but she hadn't, only spoken a few words about their friendship, as he'd left.

Now, he finds himself wishing he had stayed. If he had only had the courage, perhaps he might have asked how far that friendship went. But in this matter, he has no courage. Death is simple not to fear; Hawke's rejection is much more frightening.

But if anything can drive him to confess- it is those robes. Soft blue fabric stretched tight over (and he stops resisting, can't resist any longer, welcomes the thoughts into his mind as his hand slips down to rest on the front of his leggings and rub himself through the cloth, unlace himself and draw out his cock) stiff boning, emphasizing her womanly shape, the gentle curve of her belly and the rise of her breasts. He can see her now, sitting on the bench in front of his fire where she habitually does, fabric draping her thighs, a tempting shadow between her legs where the dip of fabric over her groin forms a dark triangle.

He's kneeling in front of her, Hawke, Marian, looking up; her hand is in his hair, and she smiles at him, nods, and with that permission, he leans forward, nuzzles at the velvet over her stomach. The nap is rough one way, smooth the other, teasing his skin with dual sensations. His hands rise to smooth down her sides, tracing the hourglass they form. She is beautiful and desirable, and he wants her like no other. His hands slide down her legs, under the hem of her skirt and caressingly back up along her smooth skin, rucking her robes up slowly until they're gathered in her lap, and he ducks down beneath them.

In the darkness under her skirt, he can smell her. He hears Marian gasp his name when he mouths at her smalls, finds them damp and aromatic. Two fingers hook into the cloth and pull it aside; he can't see, though he'd like to, but he can taste. She's wet for him as he runs his tongue the length of her cleft, beads of moisture in the tight curls. With gentle fingers he seperates her, pulls her apart and delves inside. It's perfect, she is perfect, sweetly musky, just a faint bitter edge. He hears her cry out, feels a hand cup the back of his neck, and he obliges her, worries at the nub of her clit with tongue and gentle, careful teeth until she's gasping, her hips rocking slickly against his face. When he slides two fingers inside her, fucks her with them in the same slow rhythm as his mouth on her clit, she comes, his name on her lips.

And Fenris comes, crying out into the hand he's slid over his mouth, tongue worked between two fingers, his other hand tight around his cock, fucking helplessly up into his own grip, completely overcome by the thought of pleasuring her. Her name falling from his mouth is a strangled gasp, so roughened with passion that he can barely recognize it. It's satisfying, for a moment, but then the warmth begins to fade, leaves him feeling sticky and more alone than before. The satisfaction gives way to slight shame, but even moreso than shame, the unrelieved want, a need that cannot be denied any longer.

It's the belts, therefore, that drive him to this: he cleans himself up, then slips out of his manor through an upper window and over to her estate. She is not there, and so he waits for her, inside the door, hoping, needing. When she arrives, before she can say more than his name, he stalks towards her. "I have been thinking of you," he says, low, barely able to look into her eyes. "In fact, I have been able to think of little else."