The fucking funniest part is that it started with random bar sex. Seriously. She was just a poor ex-merc looking to score with a cute blonde, and before she knew it the hottie from "that one night that renewed her faith in random hookups, goddamn" was the actual fucking Knight-Captain. A Templar, Meredith's right-hand toadie, beating up recruits for having mage friends. Telling her to her face, with full knowledge of what she was, that mages aren't people.
Well. It went down like a lead balloon, and the rest, as they say, was history. That little fuckery put the stamp on her burning hatred of Templars, and their lingering attraction sealed his fate as an unwilling participant in her ongoing game of Flustering Templars. The really fun part was flirting with him (and other Templars) outrageously, knowing they couldn't respond, while more or less flaunting her apostate status from behind the protection of her noble status.
The best part? Flirting by day while working against him by night. Fucking Mage Underground, fucking Templar blond-headed toadie. Whatever. Marian refuses to let it bother her; he's just another mistake and another brainwashed, power-hungry, hateful jackass in a can. Like all shitty people in armor.
She has more important things to do. Ser Alrik and his "Tranquil Solution." Thankfully they find that Alrik was alone in his quest, at least with regards to Meredith and the Divine. Still, the day is an exhausting one, and she and Anders both return to their homes (after a long, lingering hug goodbye) ready to pass out. However, being the healthy individual that she is, she chugs a weird little stamina-rejuvenating potion that perks her right back up, then settles into the letters on her desk, in the hopes of finding something that will give her another deadly errand to run tonight.
The letters can wait. She'll march into the Gallows and throw them in Curly's face tomorrow. Tonight, she's too full of piss and vinegar to even consider sleeping. She needs a fight.
The fucking funniest part to all of this is that for everything that has happened since that one night in that grimy bar, after all the fights and the barbed comments from both sides, after all the teasing and the wind-ups... he still likes her. Marian Hawke is a woman to be feared, with the sort of determination that's rare in Kirkwall. Rare in so many places, in truth. But that one factor shouldn't be enough to forgive her the multitude of sins she commits on a daily basis, above an beyond walking around as an apostate with that staff strapped to her back, with other apostates, making everyone in Kirkwall nervous.
Including him. He should know better. He should have the strength and focus to ignore whatever lingering desire he has, a weakness of the flesh, and do his job. She just makes it so difficult when she swaggers into the Circle courtyard like she owns the place, with those lips pulled up into a smirk. He knows he shouldn't think so, but for the life of him, he's sure his own personal Desire demon would look like Marian Hawke.
The night air isn't even cold enough to distract him as he heads to her home. The events of the evening should have, but Hawke has just proved to him again that she is not as evil as she sometimes appears. Most evil, misled. A risk to everyone in the city. A law unto herself...
But Alrik was wrong. Alrik deserved what he got, in the end. They can not carte blanche perform the Rite of Tranquility on every mage. It's not the first time someone has suggested such a thing. And while it might make their lives easier... no. It's not practical. There are moral implications. They need the mages, in the event of a war. It is not a black and white solution to the threat of Possession.
He needs to speak to Hawke. That is the be-all and end-all of it. She can't keep taking matters into her own hands, yes, but in truth, she has done the Order a favour. She needs to stop getting involved with things that don't involve her, with things that are best left to the Templars. The more she gets involved, the more likely it is that they will have to act. She'd be better off in the Circle, Maker knows, but if he drags her then, his life will be hell. He knows that and he wants to avoid it.
Before he knows it, he's at the tall double doors, hand raised and the knock echoing around the porch.
Marian's more than a little surprised at having a visitor so late. Surprised, and immediately on the alert. Usually a caller at this hour means trouble for her, or someone in trouble. Some kind of emergency.
Which is why she doesn't hesitate, or throw on a longer robe, before rushing to the door. Hawke throws the door open, expecting Anders or Fenris, expecting Isabela in some legal mess or even some envoy of the Viscount whining about Qunari.
What she sees... What she sees stops her dead in her tracks. The Knight-Captain (that's what she calls him in her head, to avoid the name he gave her that night - Cullen, Cullen, the sweet, sexy, clever boy from back when). His face is everything she hates about the Templar order, and every reason why she keeps fighting. The person trying to singlehandedly destroy the Mage Underground, Meredith's toadie, a hateful shit. She still remembers the day he all but said she isn't a person. After this shit with Alrik, his is the last face she wants to see.
So she looks at him for a few seconds, without a world, then closes the door in his face.
He might be young, and she might not think he's clever any more, but he's not a Knight-Captain for nothing. There's a heavily booted foot in the door before she can slam it. He knew she wouldn't just open the door and let him in, offer him a drink. That was never going to happen. This is Hawke, for one, and this is them, for another. There has only been good to each other on one occasion, and they were both naked at the time. The time for being nice has passed, but he's holding out for them being civil.
Hawke seems to have no such desires.
"I know about Ser Alrik."
And that's all she gets before he forces the door open and steps inside. His first concern is that she's armed, but it's immediately obvious that she's not holding a weapon, her staff is out of reach and... and there's nowhere in that outfit that you could conceal anything. It barely conceals Hawke, especially when her chest rises and falls with anger.
"I know. About what you did."
He forces himself to say, stepping forwards, so that less of her is in his direct vision, so he can focus on her face. Not a happy face.
Marian steps back automatically, eyes widening in both anger and alarm. Her heart is pounding already with the near-adrenaline nerves of an anticipated fight. Cullen forces his way into her home and advances on her with hard eyes and a stern voice that snaps out deadly accusations.
Shit. This is it. It has to be- the final straw that spells the end of her freedom. She steels herself for the fight she's about to start and snaps, "While we're talking about Alrik, there's a lot more to know about what he did."
Cullen doesn't stop. He would have, if her face hadn't set in that way, her shoulders squaring. Why is everything a fight? Because this is Hawke, and she doesn't know how to do anything other than fight. She can't simply hear him out. He came here to talk, that's all. Not to drag her by her hair to the Circle. You'd need at least ten Templars to even attempt it, with Hawke. He's not in armour. He has a sword, but this is Kirkwall. You don't wander around unarmed. Not even in Hightown.
"Will you listen?" He snaps back. "I know. I know what he was doing. I was there when you killed him. You did the right thing. He was... he was half-mad. What he was doing was wrong. I'd followed him to try and put a stop to it, Hawke."
And she'd beat him to it. With her usual flare for trouble and ending things messily.
"You knew?" Somehow, that ticks her off even more. "Why was he alive that long, then? My homeless sewer friends knew what he was doing months ago. They didn't get a chance to stop him until tonight."
Her eyes flick down and up again over him. No armor. Basic Kirkwall-after-dark weaponry. The- shit, the same outfit he wore that first night. Her brows furrow at the memory and she meets his eyes again, a sassy hand on her hip matching the expectant look in her eyes.
"So? What time-wasting bullshit excuse will be my pleasure tonight?"
He was trying to thank her. He was trying to say that she'd helped them, that she'd acted when they hadn't, she'd done what needed to be done but no, Marian Hawke is once more jumping down his throat rather than thinking for a minute, and the pure, unadulterated sarcasm of her stance riles him even more.
"Perhaps I would have known sooner if you had come to us to tell us. You so delight in telling us when we do something wrong."
He shouldn't, but his hand moves by instinct, against her shoulder, and forces her back. The fabric of what she'd probably call clothing is incredibly soft on his fingers, probably expensive, almost certainly not from Kirkwall.
"I'm not here for excuses Hawke. You should have come to me. You can't just murder Templars when you feel like it. You and your homeless sewer friends aren't a judge or jury."
Marian inhales sharply when he touches her; there's no gauntlet on his hand but it seems to bite into her all the same, imposing and unexpected. He's too strong to resist so she has to walk back with him, as he gradually forces her deeper into the house.
"Is it really murder when they attack you?" Not just attack. He'd turned on her, eyed her up and down, and sneered oh yes, the apostate whore. I know exactly what will happen to you. Don't worry, we'll leave you alive.
In retrospect, she supposes she should thank him. Without that extra bit of disgust and fear, who knows if they would have had the proper motivation to destroy Alrik and his men so completely. It's a double edged sword: the same unsettling encounter that made her dangerous in a fight makes her even more reckless with her words now. Instead of saying something more sensible, she looks up at him, determinedly meeting his eyes, and says, "Please, like Templars get a judge and jury when they do something wrong. All they get is forced retirement."
Her eyes glint dangerously as she narrows her eyes. Cullen, of all people, telling her this? As if they haven't all heard the rumors about him. "Or, if they're really lucky, they get transferred and promoted to Captain."
They both know it was defense. If she was anything other than a mage he would have said it was defending herself but... this is Hawke. She is never, ever just an innocent bystander. She's always involved somehow, and normally she's the one stood in the middle of the pile of bodies and you're left with rumour and her word for explanations.
This is no longer about Alrik. It should be but then she starts on him, her jabs go too close to home. For a moment he isn't in Kirkwall, he's in the Tower Circle. The warmth isn't due to the summer sun on the grey city stones but because of the fires burning, consuming Templar and Mage alike. Instead of Marian Hawke biting at him he hears the demons in his hears, trying to find a way in. There's bodies everywhere, friends, Templars he trained with. The Mages he protected and will betrayed him.
He makes a sudden movement, grabbing her with both hands and turning, forcing her into the wall.
His word come through gritted teeth and they hurt. He would have preferred to be at the Tower. Alive. With the Mages he liked and his Knight-Captain.
"When we get things wrong people die. Good people. Children. Old ladies who were kind. They die because we trusted Mages. Because we thought you wouldn't be so stupid. But you're power hungry and rash. And that's why I'm here."
His sudden motion is almost as shocking as the soft sound she makes when he shoves her against the wall. Cullen is everywhere, his tall, broad form closing her in, strong hands pinning hers tight. Her eyes go wide as she fails to resist the urge to squirm in his grip, a thousand memories of danger mingling with one memory of pleasure in her thoughts.
Shit. She's really stepped in it. Especially by the haunted look in his eyes; that's not the face of a man entirely rational.
"I had to do something," comes her fierce answer. Why didn't he understand that she couldn't leave it to their useless ranks? "Do you even know what he was trying to do? Other than all the rape."
"You should have come to me. I would have helped you. Don't you realise how stupid it was to go alone?"
There's a painful truth he's avoiding. She's right, Ser Alrik had been unpleasant and unusual and so many of the female Templars avoided him. But they'd been slow to act. Too slow. But that isn't to say he wouldn't have believed her. Hawke doesn't tend to get things wrong.
He relaxes his grip, seeing the fear. Not by much. But he won't let her go. He doesn't trust her and she doesn't trust him.
"He was going to make that girl Tranquil." He knows that. He read the man's journal, the various drafts of plans and letters. He'd burnt what he'd found, not that it helped any of the others.
When he relaxes her grip, her fear relaxes... a little. Just enough to let her notice how much of his body is pressed against hers. Just enough to bring out something honest, with a trace less venom than usual.
"He was going to make all of us Tranquil. We had to act. We had to see if it was true. Could we really have expected Templars to care?"
Marian doesn't know what she expects by asking. Maybe it's a taunt, but part of her doesn't think so. She practically holds her breath for his response (partly because each heave of her chest presses against him so-), nerves strung out at what he might say.
"You think I wouldn't?" He has to ask that. He has to ask. Does she believe that? He understands she hates him. She doest agree with him on why there has to be Circles, that some have to suffer for the safety of others but they'd got along once. They'd laughed over drinks. He'd... he'd followed her to help her, if she needed it.
He wasn't going to let all the Mages be turned into Tranquils. They wouldn't do such a thing to the alienage elves and the Mages are... they are people. He was wrong, angry, when he'd said they weren't.
He can feel her heart beat hard and fast, and he can't help it. Part of him from years ago remembers hungry kisses, remembers the press of her against him. He kisses her again, pressing even inch against her. Maker help him, she gets right under his skin.
She kisses back. Maker help her, she kisses back, anger and hate bending under the gust of want that hits her. Part of her from years ago remembers hands on her driving her to desperation, the hard press of him inside her, his voice crooning sweetly in her ear. Marian kisses ferociously, all but trembling under the heavy press of his body against hers, pinning her in place with a quiet thrill.
A sharp burst of need draws a sound from her, and that noise breaks whatever trance letting her get lost in this. Andraste's tits, what is she doing? She's letting him overpower her, kiss her, drag her away from the actual point. It takes some effort to break the kiss - with how forceful he is - but it has to happen.
She marshals her hatred and her wits, letting the anger flare back naturally as she glares at him. The effect is only slightly undermined by her kiss-swollen lips.
"Excuse me for not trusting the man trying to personally enslave every mage in the Free Marches."
He could have lost himself in that kiss. He could have forgotten all about Circles and Mages and for a blissful hour or two just been with her. But no, that's too much to hope for when your companion is Marian Hawke.
She pulls away and snarls at him, like an animal trapped. It's horrific, a beautiful facetwisted with bile and hate, almost demonic. He pulls his head back, almost expecting her to try and bite him.
"No one is trying to enslave anyone-"
It's when he's pulled back that he sees them. The faint lines in the tanned skin, scar lines. They could be from anything but he knows they aren't. He's seen scars like that before. At the Tower. On corpses.
It makes the blood warmed up from the kiss go ice-cold.
Marian freezes about two seconds after he does. When Cullen stops mid-sentence she follows his eyes, a rabbit under the gaze of a wolf. As both hunter and prey she knows to attune to him.
It doesn't take long. He's staring at her arms, and it hits her like a thunderbolt what it is that's gotten his attention. The look in his eyes, the blood draining from his face- he's figured it out.
This is it. Her nobility and money don't matter anymore: she knows with a cold certainty that all she is now is a blood mage alone with a templar. Armor or no armor, backup or no backup, Cullen has only one choice. So if she panics, it's with the good reason that she knows she's only seconds away from the terrible moment he decides to act. If she doesn't fight him off, get him away from her now, she'll never get the chance again.
So she panics, eyes going wide and heart racing, and starts summoning as powerful a blast of magic as she's ever used. Maybe it's a mistake to go for the big guns - they take longer - but only by a few seconds. Only a few seconds longer. The air crackles from the raw strength of it even while the mana is still gathering in her palms.
He feels it. The feels the Fade around them move, the Veil takes an inwards breath as magic moves towards them - towards her. It's not some little harmless zap, something that the lyrium in him can help him resist. This is a whole different ball game, a horrible fear consumes him and his heart hammers in his chest, against his ribs.
The spell tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it, fuelled by sheer panic and memories of the Tower. He's become very good at Silencers. Very good. And this one may be one of his best. It hits her hard, because they're so close, enough to knock the growing magic right out of her.
Marian Hawke has a lot of experience with Templars. She knows how to lie to them, how to evade them, how to run from them. How to act to fly under their radar. She knows what to say to press their buttons, and has seen every shade of their behavior from morally upright to depraved evil. She even knows how to fight them, in the furious, frenetic manner of an apostate: hard and fast, hitting them with everything she has. Everything she knows about Templars is based around not letting them fire off a shot.
So when the Silence hits her, it's the first time she's ever felt it. She's had her magic dispelled before, but this is nothing like it. The magic doesn't just dissipate from the air, it rips out of her violently, taking the air from her lungs and the warmth from her blood with it. She lets out a shout of surprise- that cuts off mid-yell, as suddenly as if her throat were cut, and sags in his immovable grip.
She can't help it. It's terrifying. Disconcerting, to be made so very helpless so quickly. Her first instinct is to struggle in his arms, for a moment, before realizing the futility. Her second is even more pointless, to open her mouth and try to shout- in anger, for help, she doesn't even know.
Everything in her tries to scream at him. All that comes out is a soft, pitiful whimper.
The problem, someone might point out, is that while she is very good at treating them as Templars, and they are very good at treating her as an Apostate, neither group has settled into the idea that both of them are people.
Her yelp it painful, but the sudden end is worse. But she's there, she's safe- from harming him and from being harmed, at least while he can gather his thoughts. Not easy when she twists and turns and nearly grinds against him. If he were in armor, he'd hardly feel it, but like this it's almost too much. He presses her back again, to try and stop the movement, using his weight to pin her hips.
"Stop that."
It comes out as an order. He's scared, he's falling back on training, on how this should work. She's not a Circle mage but there's something in the tone, something that demands obedience. The sword on his belt helps too, the pommel not the only hard thing pressed against her.
It's the whimper. It goes straight through him, by-passing his brain and shoots down his spine, warm and tingling, spreading heat into the pit of his stomach.
He gives her an order and she surprises herself by obeying, stilling in his arms and staring at him uncertainly. Of all the ways for him to respond, she didn’t expect the hitch in his voice or the hardness pressing against her. Marian has never been in more danger than this moment, trapped in the embrace of a panicking Templar who knows her secret, but Cullen is solid and warm and every breath he takes presses her into the wall.
There’s nothing she can do. Unthinkingly she makes to speak, but the soft, helpless sound that comes out reminds her of her forced silence. There’s nothing for her to do but breathe too hard, waiting for his next move.
Maybe it's only a second that they're stood there, her breasts against his chest, rising and falling, and it's impossible not to realise how flimsy the robes she wears really are. It's impossible not to focus on her mouth, wet lips parted and still slightly swollen.
"Blood magic? Hawke..." He begins, but he knows she can't answer. He knows that. "You throw yourself into such stupid, reckless, dangerous things, and I don't know if you realise it most of the time. But Blood Magic? Even for you Hawke, that's... Maker."
It's impossible not to lean down and catch her mouth again, to try and relieve that moment when all this could have worked out, all animosity could have been forgotten. How can he forget what he knows? How can he just go back to being angry with her for rushing headlong into things?
She can’t answer but on idiotic instinct she tries, managing only another of those sweet, faint little sounds for her effort. It barely escapes the back of her throat before he’s kissing her again, leaning into her hard enough to make breathing an effort, each rise and fall of her chest a wanting, gasping thing. Maker, all she can do is kiss him back, head spinning in utter confusion at his actions. By rights he should be hauling her off to the Circle or putting a damned leash on her, not snogging her helpless in front of an open door. Cullen has never overtly threatened her, but he has her trapped and has taken away her words and her power, and she knows her strength enough to realize she couldn’t fight him off if he didn’t want her to.
So she lets him kiss her and kisses back, utterly at a loss to what the next moment might bring.
If he takes her away from here, there can only be one outcome. He can't face that. Not with her. She might be the bain of his existence, but... but kissing her is the most wonderful thing, especially when she kisses back.
One hand stays tight on hers, his fingers easily confining both her wrists, and the other moves down. Between them, over her chest, to rest across her racing heart. He can't help the thrill that runs through him as his fingers find her nipple, the strange hard bar through soft flesh that he has to pinch.
His hand works almost of its own volition, slipping easily beneath the loose robe even as his breath hitches, tracing around the piercing, fingers catching and giving a snap, quick tug.
It’s the strangest thing, how her nervousness and traces of fear seem to heightnen her every nerve. The kiss is deep, probing, like Cullen is taking her for his own instead of merely exploring her. Her breath hitches at the soft journey of his free hand; her entire awareness narrows down to his palm sliding her low cut top down, revealing her breast to the cold air. His fingers are soft at first to draw a soft sound from her, but that pinch makes her moan (louder than the muted attempts at speech), and then she’s giving a sharp cry when he tugs her nipple hard enough to ache.
Maybe it’s shameful, and it’s definitely a heady kind of helpless (that she can’t stop him; can’t even say a word of her own will), but the pain sends a lighting bolt of feeling straight to her cunt, and she has to grind back against him.
There's that little gasp, the sharp intake of breath when he touches her, but she doesn't try to pull away. She only presses herself closer, hips against his own, against the hard bulge of his cock. It was like this before, although they were both drunk and fumbling, her hands everywhere.
Now it's his turn, and by the Maker he means to take every advantage of it. He wishes he could move down, to catch that nipple, swollen with attention, into his mouth, catch it between his teeth. She liked that before, before the piercings. He can't resist letting his hand expose her other breast, his fingers teasing, gently, over her nipple, it's little metal bar, flicking at it and ignoring the fact the robe is slipping off her shoulders.
"These are new. Do they make you more sensitive?"
The piercings clearly do. He can see it in the way she reacts, she likes it. So he does it again, pinching and rolling the dusky pink flesh against his thumb. He can't help it either, the rush of power, the thrill of knowing that she likes this, as bad as it is. It's wrong, he knows. But she rocks her hips like a bitch in heat, and it's been such a long time since he wanted someone as much as he's wanted her.
She makes a frustrated noise (almost muted) at his question and tries to answer- it’s probably futile, but she doesn’t know how long a Silencing lasts, and keeps hoping that this next time her voice will come. Once again, all she manages is a faint ghost of a thing, a little mewl that makes her feel even smaller and more helpless than she is.
The answer is yes, the piercings do make her more sensitive, obvious in how she tosses her head and shivers. His power over her deigns to allow a high pitched keen that escapes against her will; a reluctant, embarrassed sound that's nonetheless far quieter than she meant. In truth, Marian hates this. She hates being powerless, hates not knowing what he’ll do next, hates that she can’t so much as purr out a yes or demand her body back. She hates the way Silencing makes her feel: small and thin and chilled, as if he’s taken a spark from her and holds it hostage in iron hands. But she can’t stop him, can’t communicate in any way. All she can do is moan too-softly at his rough treatment and turn her head away.
Then she notices- the front door. It’s still open a little. Marian’s eyes go wide and she looks at him, barely-there whimpers and futile struggling her only language of distress.
Cullen knows they didn't shut the door. He's been able to feel the chill of the night air since they started but he's not about to move there now to shut it. He's not about to pull away, not when she's still moving against him, squirming like that.
"If you don't make much noise, no one will know you're getting fucked."
She doesn't have much choice in the matter but that's why he's said it, groping over her again before the hand moves down further. The thin robe seems hardly there at all. He can feel every rib, every raised scar, every jut of her hipbones. He wants to kiss every inch of her, catch her skin between his teeth to make her gasp but he can't release her hands. He can't trust her.
Instead he'll distract her, from the door, from everything apart from him.
His fingers trace over her again, without the damn robe in the way. Over the sensative nipples, over her stomach and down. It's not difficult to slip between her thighs, to let his fingertip tease over her clit, feeling her body react.
Her mouth falls open in shock at his blunt, filthy answer- not to mention the absolute presumption of it. Cullen has already decided to fuck her, and she has no say in the matter. It shouldn't make her shiver, it shouldn't ignite a low ache between her legs, but it does. Even if the thought of being caught, being seen (being caught fucking the Knight-Captain by someone she knows, never live it down, lose all their trust-), getting fucked in front of an open door- the thought fills her with dread, makes her strain against his grip, but she knows she has no choice.
Then, oh Maker, he's touching her more, running that broad hand over her body possessively in a slow journey that draws every ounce of her attention. Marian feels as if she's straining from the anticipation of it.
When he finally touches her, finally - after three years of teasing, of tension, of distance, of memory, of wanting - her hips jerk and her back arches, mouth falling open. The moan would have been loud, wanting, a wanton cry of need, but it catches inside her and comes out as a tiny little wavering mewl.
He's waiting for that, the buck of her hips, the strangled moan. He wants her to like this, even if it is only her body reacting; she'd never chose this under normal circumstances. But he remembers how much she liked it rough before, although it was nothing like this. This is cruel, almost, but he can feel how wet she is now.
His fingers circle over her clit again, once, twice, enjoying the shiver in her, before he dips his fingers into her dripping cunt. It's only for a moment before his hand pulls away, and it goes to the tie of the robes. It takes one brief tug to have the fabric fall open like a flower, revealing every inch of her body.
"Spread your legs." He instructs so he can fuck into her properly, sinking those fingers into her again, rough and quick.
It is a little bit cruel, the way he touches her clit like that, the way he draws out a reaction from her so wanting, so wet. It's cruel that for as good as the tease of his fingers feels, she can only manage a delicate whimper so soft she barely hears it herself.
He strips her naked in one swift moment, leaving her shivering in the cold air. Another soft sound passes her lips; she can't stop glancing nervously at the door, hoping nobody passes by and sees. Maybe they won't. Maybe they'll only see Cullen, broad and warm and beautiful, so imposing that he covers her slim form completely, and nobody will see her. But despite her mixed feelings, despite her discomforts, despite how badly she wants the ability to tell him to stop, she can't. Even if she could make him stop, she's honestly not sure if she would.
Cullen speaks again, a delicious order in a voice so commanding that she finds herself obeying before she has time to think about it. All the better; the sudden intrusion of two fingers, big and thick and too much too soon, makes her shudder and gasp with a soft, embarrassingly high-pitched moan.
"Good girl," He murmurs, right in her ear as she does as she's told. It's surprising, how quickly she does it, how obedient she is to the command, but he makes nothing of it. In fact, just those two words are enough, fingers roughly fucking her while his teeth catch at the lobe of her ear, a sharp nip.
He presses a little closer, grinding his cock into her hip, just to try and ease some of the ache. Maker he wants to bury himself in her, fuck her raw, but he has control, he can hold that back. At least, for the moment.
At least while his fingers sink into her, slipping in easily, his thumb brushing once more across her clit, toying with it. The whimpers, soft and subtle, drive him absolutely wild. She's so loud, always the noisest person in any one place, always drawing all attention to her, to have her here, in front of the open door, naked, legs spread, breasts out and heaving, it does something to him he can't deny. He can't help but nip again at her shoulder, in lieu of everything else he could be getting his mouth on.
Those two words make her shiver and let out a tiny sound in his ear, a heartbreakingly fragile little thing that breaks off into a series of soft, wordless moans. Maker, from his fingers fucking her open to the nip at her ear, the way he grinds against her, she's hungry for him already, hips rocking in little jerks against his rough fingers.
Then he touches her sensitive little clit again, and it's all she can do to just toss her head and force out the softest cry of pleasure, the wanton feeling of it sounding vulnerable and needy when so very small. It goes nicely with the way she shudders when he bites her, sagging in his grip as her knees go weak.
The grip on her wrists has relaxed, only keeping her arms above her head at this point but as soon as she slumps, the hold is there again, to keep her against the wall, to keep her upright.
She is so wet, trembling slightly under his fingers, he can feel her clit throb for him and it's intoxicating. The softest noises, the desire in her forced out in such a pathetic little cry. Fuck, it's almost too much. His cock is so hard for her, he wants to sink in to her cunt, fill her, hold her against him like he did before. And he wants her to whimper as he comes in her.
"I'm going to fuck you, Hawke. Fuck that wet little cunt. I know you want me to. I can feel how much you want it."
And with that he pulls his fingers from her, from her clit, swollen with need. He pulls his cock free, stroking the lenght of it, breath a little ragged before he fucks into her, fingers closing on her hip. He should pick her up, let her slide down into his cock and pound her agains the wall. He should, despite the fact it leaves her hands free. But at this point she seems so desperate to be fucked he's going to risk it.
He grabs her thighs, lifts her and grinds his cock into her, almost growling at the heat of her around him.
The filth coming out of his mouth is so unexpected that she just gasps silently, cunt aching under a sudden tide of want. She hisses in displeasure at the loss of his fingers but there's no time to dwell. His cock is out, magnificent and gorgeous, and before she has time to think he's pushing inside her.
That first stroke makes her whine high in her throat, a bit louder than the sounds of before. The angle is all wrong, too shallow: bad for deep fucking but perfect for driving her absolutely wild. It's almost a relief when he picks her up. She slides down his cock with a low, lusty moan and wraps her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, and holds onto him tight. At the growl, deep and wonderful, she fists a hand in his hair and groans, "Oh, fuck"
Wait.
Her eyes snap open and she rears back a little, looking at him with a smile. Her voice is still faint, still coming back to her, but she manages a quiet, "Maker, that took forever."
If there was any doubt at all, any moment where Cullen was concerned that the aching lust in him was not returned in equal measure, the way she holds onto him dispelled it. She doesn't try to wriggle away or punch but holds onto him for dear life and there is barely a better way she could say please yes than this.
He fucks into her as she devours him, the fingers in his hair making him buck harder. He wants to make her groan and whimper and shiver, to mewl hopelessly as he uses her.
And then she speaks. He thought the silence would last longer.
"Did I ask you to speak, slut? I don't have a use for your mouth right now."
This time the Silence is less powerful, there's no fear in it or panic. He sees it sap her voice away again and fucks into her harder, using the wetness of her cunt to push deeper into her. And then when he's all the,way in, as deep as he can be, the movements become lazy, rocking of his hips, letting her feel that stretch.
"What the fu-" Her angry outburst ends too soon; she gasps raggedly like the air is being ripped from her lungs, and the rush of cold flooding her tells her that her magic is gone again.
The son of a bitch Silenced her again. Called her a slut then Silenced her.
Marian gapes in outrage for a moment, before the slow slide of Cullen's cock draws another soft whimper from her. It just pisses her off; that little noise didn't sound angry, or outraged, or strong. It was a delicate, weak, soft thing. So is the one that comes next, pulled out by is slow push and the intoxicating stretch inside her.
It feels incredible, and part of her wants nothing more than to enjoy it, but she's mostly furious. That he could insult her, violate her with that Silence for no good reason, then lazily fuck her like nothing was wrong makes her temper flaring. With a faint, frustrated grunt, she does the only thing she can: fists a hand in Cullen's hair and yanks with all her strength.
The tug on his hair is hard and it hurts. It hurts enough for him to grit his teeth against the desire to curse. Control. It's the thing he has and she does not. He bites again, hard on her shoulder, until her hold on his hair relaxes.
It's only then he starts to move, cock throbbing as he picks up the pace, the thrusts deep into her, keeping his mouth on her shoulder, on her neck, leaving bright welts in his wake.
She feels so good, hot and tight around him, the noises small and broken. He,wants more of those noises, and despite how angry she might be with him, her legs are still tight around his hips and her cunt still wet.
"Don't pretend this isn't what you want, slut. You want to be fucked, you want to come with my cock in you like you did before. Of course you do. That's what you've wanted since I got here."
To her credit, she tries. She tries to yank his hair so hard she might just rip his head off. She tries to push him away. She even tries to squirm her legs away from his grip. But he's so much stronger than her that it's practically pointless, and soon it all becomes moot. Marian has never understood how, but when someone - anyone - bites into her shoulder like that... after a few seconds the tension drains from her, the strength, and she goes boneless in his arms, the hand in his hair falling away limply. His reward is her keening softly, long and low and helpless.
It pisses her off. She's still angry, she still wants to shove him away and scream, but she can't. She's helpless to do anything but sink into his grip and let him fuck her, let him draw out faint whimpers and tiny little moans that barely pass her lips. All she can do is squirm under his hateful words, turning her face away as if she could hide from what he's doing to her.
But there's no hiding the soft whine that slips out, or the flush in her cheeks.
The way she moves is maddening. Yes she struggling, vaguely fighting but there is no real effort to it, no drive. It just buries his cock deeper into her, makes him throb. The fighting ebbs soon though, leaving her just holding onto him again, just. But his grip on her stays tight, holding her to him, and the bite becomes a series of kisses over that tender red mark.
But the way his cock pounds into her doesn't let up, fast and wicked into her cunt. It feels so good, just as before but all the more intense for the ruined whimpers and groans.
He can't keep this up much longer, not with the way his balls ache. The blush on her face drives him onwards, the trusts growing to an almost frenzied pace.
The pace picks up and so does her strength, weak and cold as she feels under the Silence. Her hands wind tight around his neck again - more for something to hold onto than out of any real tenderness - and cards fingers into his hair, gripping tight for anchor and just to make him ache. Every kiss over a tender bite mark stings, drawing another heartbreakingly soft whimper from her.
But it's his cock that drives her wild. The relentless pace soon has her writhing against him, clawing at his back, locking her legs behind his waist. Every time she opens her mouth it's to cry out her pleasure, but sound only comes out about half the time- and even then, what sound she can manage is faint and ruined. If she had her voice she'd be near to screaming right now, and she looks like it, but as it is she can only helplessly mewl like a kitten as he fucks her.
And there, that's it. The nails that score down his back, through the layers he's still wearing, sends a hot bolt through him. She loves this, wicked filthy thing that she is, she wants more.
His breath is harsh now in her ear, as he gets close.
"See why I have to keep you quiet? That door's wide open. Do you want your neighbours to hear? Do you want them thinking you'll fuck any man that comes to your door?"
He fucks into her again, harder this time, lets his grip shift to her ass, grabbing hold of her cheeks. It's a gorgeous ass, round and firm in his hands, and he can't help but squeeze as he pounds into her.
"Next time," He says, nipping at her ear, "Next time I'm going to have you from behind. Press that beautiful face into the wall. Make sure you can't make any noise at all when I fuck your ass."
His words send a surge of heat through her, and she has something to say about it, but once again when she opens her mouth all that comes out is the softest, faintest little whimper.
So she makes another achingly tiny sound and bucks against him as much as she can, tightening a hand painfully in his hair and shuddering at the thought of the wicked things he wants to do to her. She's getting close too, though perhaps not as close as he, and she seems aware of the effect she has on him when she leans in close to press a harsh, sucking, biting kiss to his throat and whine softly against his skin.
Now the harsh grip in his hair and the bite, that's what he expects from Marian Hawke. He likes the cowed, broken groans and the whimpers that tumble from her lips in lieu of groans and screams. But the bite especially makes fore burst into life through his veins, makes his cock and balls throb harder than before.
He should resist it, the waves that go through him as he bucks into her again. But why? Why should he hold back from taking what he wants? So he let's go, sinking in to her well-used cunt again and spilling inside her, hissing out a curse as he does so.
"Bad girl." He breathes, voice rough. "Should I even let you come?"
He doesn't stop though, his hips still rocking into her, the pace slower but still deep, at least for the moment.
Those last savage thrusts draw ruined whimpers from her, and more harsh kisses to his throat- but when he speaks, she draws back and looks at him- really looks. Her eyes are lidded with lust, cheeks flushed pink, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. He's still moving inside her and her lips part on a tiny, pitiful mewl of pleasure that doesn't at all reflect the screaming desire inside.
Her mouth works silently, frustrated as her hands work in his hair, gripping the back of his neck. Only one in three attempts actually has her making noise, and those soft and broken, but it's clear how emphatic she is on this. She needs to come.
She's a complete mess, and he didn't appreciate before how much of a turn on that is. Lips swollen and wet, flushed, her hair all over the place, sticking to her brow and her cheeks. The very fact she can't voice how much she wants her orgasm does terrible things to him, stirring him all over again, and he almost wants to pull out now, leave her wanting and desperate, but he can't be that cruel to her. Not when her fingers are knotted so tightly in his hair.
So he fucks into her again, with renewed vigour, his own hands grasping her ass again, nails biting into the round flesh.
"Come then." He grunts, "Show me how much you liked getting fucked with the whole of Hightown watching."
She gasps raggedly and clutches at him, one arm gripping around his shoulders so tight it has to hurt, but Hawke is so very far from caring about that. No, all she cares about is his cock inside her, the velvet voice snarling filth in her ear, the stubble rasping at her cheek and his strong hands on her. Maker, it feels so good- clinging like a limpet with one arm, she snakes the other hand between their bodies to touch herself, fingers making light quick circles around her clit. That last little burst of feeling pushes her over the edge: she arches her back and clamps her legs around him like a vise as she comes hard around his cock, making a shivering, mewling cry, ruined and pitiful, into his ear.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for knightcommander
Well. It went down like a lead balloon, and the rest, as they say, was history. That little fuckery put the stamp on her burning hatred of Templars, and their lingering attraction sealed his fate as an unwilling participant in her ongoing game of Flustering Templars. The really fun part was flirting with him (and other Templars) outrageously, knowing they couldn't respond, while more or less flaunting her apostate status from behind the protection of her noble status.
The best part? Flirting by day while working against him by night. Fucking Mage Underground, fucking Templar blond-headed toadie. Whatever. Marian refuses to let it bother her; he's just another mistake and another brainwashed, power-hungry, hateful jackass in a can. Like all shitty people in armor.
She has more important things to do. Ser Alrik and his "Tranquil Solution." Thankfully they find that Alrik was alone in his quest, at least with regards to Meredith and the Divine. Still, the day is an exhausting one, and she and Anders both return to their homes (after a long, lingering hug goodbye) ready to pass out. However, being the healthy individual that she is, she chugs a weird little stamina-rejuvenating potion that perks her right back up, then settles into the letters on her desk, in the hopes of finding something that will give her another deadly errand to run tonight.
The letters can wait. She'll march into the Gallows and throw them in Curly's face tomorrow. Tonight, she's too full of piss and vinegar to even consider sleeping. She needs a fight.
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Including him. He should know better. He should have the strength and focus to ignore whatever lingering desire he has, a weakness of the flesh, and do his job. She just makes it so difficult when she swaggers into the Circle courtyard like she owns the place, with those lips pulled up into a smirk. He knows he shouldn't think so, but for the life of him, he's sure his own personal Desire demon would look like Marian Hawke.
The night air isn't even cold enough to distract him as he heads to her home. The events of the evening should have, but Hawke has just proved to him again that she is not as evil as she sometimes appears. Most evil, misled. A risk to everyone in the city. A law unto herself...
But Alrik was wrong. Alrik deserved what he got, in the end. They can not carte blanche perform the Rite of Tranquility on every mage. It's not the first time someone has suggested such a thing. And while it might make their lives easier... no. It's not practical. There are moral implications. They need the mages, in the event of a war. It is not a black and white solution to the threat of Possession.
He needs to speak to Hawke. That is the be-all and end-all of it. She can't keep taking matters into her own hands, yes, but in truth, she has done the Order a favour. She needs to stop getting involved with things that don't involve her, with things that are best left to the Templars. The more she gets involved, the more likely it is that they will have to act. She'd be better off in the Circle, Maker knows, but if he drags her then, his life will be hell. He knows that and he wants to avoid it.
Before he knows it, he's at the tall double doors, hand raised and the knock echoing around the porch.
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Which is why she doesn't hesitate, or throw on a longer robe, before rushing to the door. Hawke throws the door open, expecting Anders or Fenris, expecting Isabela in some legal mess or even some envoy of the Viscount whining about Qunari.
What she sees... What she sees stops her dead in her tracks. The Knight-Captain (that's what she calls him in her head, to avoid the name he gave her that night - Cullen, Cullen, the sweet, sexy, clever boy from back when). His face is everything she hates about the Templar order, and every reason why she keeps fighting. The person trying to singlehandedly destroy the Mage Underground, Meredith's toadie, a hateful shit. She still remembers the day he all but said she isn't a person. After this shit with Alrik, his is the last face she wants to see.
So she looks at him for a few seconds, without a world, then closes the door in his face.
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Hawke seems to have no such desires.
"I know about Ser Alrik."
And that's all she gets before he forces the door open and steps inside. His first concern is that she's armed, but it's immediately obvious that she's not holding a weapon, her staff is out of reach and... and there's nowhere in that outfit that you could conceal anything. It barely conceals Hawke, especially when her chest rises and falls with anger.
"I know. About what you did."
He forces himself to say, stepping forwards, so that less of her is in his direct vision, so he can focus on her face. Not a happy face.
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Shit. This is it. It has to be- the final straw that spells the end of her freedom. She steels herself for the fight she's about to start and snaps, "While we're talking about Alrik, there's a lot more to know about what he did."
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"Will you listen?" He snaps back. "I know. I know what he was doing. I was there when you killed him. You did the right thing. He was... he was half-mad. What he was doing was wrong. I'd followed him to try and put a stop to it, Hawke."
And she'd beat him to it. With her usual flare for trouble and ending things messily.
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Her eyes flick down and up again over him. No armor. Basic Kirkwall-after-dark weaponry. The- shit, the same outfit he wore that first night. Her brows furrow at the memory and she meets his eyes again, a sassy hand on her hip matching the expectant look in her eyes.
"So? What time-wasting bullshit excuse will be my pleasure tonight?"
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"Perhaps I would have known sooner if you had come to us to tell us. You so delight in telling us when we do something wrong."
He shouldn't, but his hand moves by instinct, against her shoulder, and forces her back. The fabric of what she'd probably call clothing is incredibly soft on his fingers, probably expensive, almost certainly not from Kirkwall.
"I'm not here for excuses Hawke. You should have come to me. You can't just murder Templars when you feel like it. You and your homeless sewer friends aren't a judge or jury."
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"Is it really murder when they attack you?" Not just attack. He'd turned on her, eyed her up and down, and sneered oh yes, the apostate whore. I know exactly what will happen to you. Don't worry, we'll leave you alive.
In retrospect, she supposes she should thank him. Without that extra bit of disgust and fear, who knows if they would have had the proper motivation to destroy Alrik and his men so completely. It's a double edged sword: the same unsettling encounter that made her dangerous in a fight makes her even more reckless with her words now. Instead of saying something more sensible, she looks up at him, determinedly meeting his eyes, and says, "Please, like Templars get a judge and jury when they do something wrong. All they get is forced retirement."
Her eyes glint dangerously as she narrows her eyes. Cullen, of all people, telling her this? As if they haven't all heard the rumors about him. "Or, if they're really lucky, they get transferred and promoted to Captain."
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This is no longer about Alrik. It should be but then she starts on him, her jabs go too close to home. For a moment he isn't in Kirkwall, he's in the Tower Circle. The warmth isn't due to the summer sun on the grey city stones but because of the fires burning, consuming Templar and Mage alike. Instead of Marian Hawke biting at him he hears the demons in his hears, trying to find a way in. There's bodies everywhere, friends, Templars he trained with. The Mages he protected and will betrayed him.
He makes a sudden movement, grabbing her with both hands and turning, forcing her into the wall.
His word come through gritted teeth and they hurt. He would have preferred to be at the Tower. Alive. With the Mages he liked and his Knight-Captain.
"When we get things wrong people die. Good people. Children. Old ladies who were kind. They die because we trusted Mages. Because we thought you wouldn't be so stupid. But you're power hungry and rash. And that's why I'm here."
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Shit. She's really stepped in it. Especially by the haunted look in his eyes; that's not the face of a man entirely rational.
"I had to do something," comes her fierce answer. Why didn't he understand that she couldn't leave it to their useless ranks? "Do you even know what he was trying to do? Other than all the rape."
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There's a painful truth he's avoiding. She's right, Ser Alrik had been unpleasant and unusual and so many of the female Templars avoided him. But they'd been slow to act. Too slow. But that isn't to say he wouldn't have believed her. Hawke doesn't tend to get things wrong.
He relaxes his grip, seeing the fear. Not by much. But he won't let her go. He doesn't trust her and she doesn't trust him.
"He was going to make that girl Tranquil." He knows that. He read the man's journal, the various drafts of plans and letters. He'd burnt what he'd found, not that it helped any of the others.
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"He was going to make all of us Tranquil. We had to act. We had to see if it was true. Could we really have expected Templars to care?"
Marian doesn't know what she expects by asking. Maybe it's a taunt, but part of her doesn't think so. She practically holds her breath for his response (partly because each heave of her chest presses against him so-), nerves strung out at what he might say.
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He wasn't going to let all the Mages be turned into Tranquils. They wouldn't do such a thing to the alienage elves and the Mages are... they are people. He was wrong, angry, when he'd said they weren't.
He can feel her heart beat hard and fast, and he can't help it. Part of him from years ago remembers hungry kisses, remembers the press of her against him. He kisses her again, pressing even inch against her. Maker help him, she gets right under his skin.
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A sharp burst of need draws a sound from her, and that noise breaks whatever trance letting her get lost in this. Andraste's tits, what is she doing? She's letting him overpower her, kiss her, drag her away from the actual point. It takes some effort to break the kiss - with how forceful he is - but it has to happen.
She marshals her hatred and her wits, letting the anger flare back naturally as she glares at him. The effect is only slightly undermined by her kiss-swollen lips.
"Excuse me for not trusting the man trying to personally enslave every mage in the Free Marches."
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She pulls away and snarls at him, like an animal trapped. It's horrific, a beautiful facetwisted with bile and hate, almost demonic. He pulls his head back, almost expecting her to try and bite him.
"No one is trying to enslave anyone-"
It's when he's pulled back that he sees them. The faint lines in the tanned skin, scar lines. They could be from anything but he knows they aren't. He's seen scars like that before. At the Tower. On corpses.
It makes the blood warmed up from the kiss go ice-cold.
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It doesn't take long. He's staring at her arms, and it hits her like a thunderbolt what it is that's gotten his attention. The look in his eyes, the blood draining from his face- he's figured it out.
This is it. Her nobility and money don't matter anymore: she knows with a cold certainty that all she is now is a blood mage alone with a templar. Armor or no armor, backup or no backup, Cullen has only one choice. So if she panics, it's with the good reason that she knows she's only seconds away from the terrible moment he decides to act. If she doesn't fight him off, get him away from her now, she'll never get the chance again.
So she panics, eyes going wide and heart racing, and starts summoning as powerful a blast of magic as she's ever used. Maybe it's a mistake to go for the big guns - they take longer - but only by a few seconds. Only a few seconds longer. The air crackles from the raw strength of it even while the mana is still gathering in her palms.
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The spell tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it, fuelled by sheer panic and memories of the Tower. He's become very good at Silencers. Very good. And this one may be one of his best. It hits her hard, because they're so close, enough to knock the growing magic right out of her.
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So when the Silence hits her, it's the first time she's ever felt it. She's had her magic dispelled before, but this is nothing like it. The magic doesn't just dissipate from the air, it rips out of her violently, taking the air from her lungs and the warmth from her blood with it. She lets out a shout of surprise- that cuts off mid-yell, as suddenly as if her throat were cut, and sags in his immovable grip.
She can't help it. It's terrifying. Disconcerting, to be made so very helpless so quickly. Her first instinct is to struggle in his arms, for a moment, before realizing the futility. Her second is even more pointless, to open her mouth and try to shout- in anger, for help, she doesn't even know.
Everything in her tries to scream at him. All that comes out is a soft, pitiful whimper.
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Her yelp it painful, but the sudden end is worse. But she's there, she's safe- from harming him and from being harmed, at least while he can gather his thoughts. Not easy when she twists and turns and nearly grinds against him. If he were in armor, he'd hardly feel it, but like this it's almost too much. He presses her back again, to try and stop the movement, using his weight to pin her hips.
"Stop that."
It comes out as an order. He's scared, he's falling back on training, on how this should work. She's not a Circle mage but there's something in the tone, something that demands obedience. The sword on his belt helps too, the pommel not the only hard thing pressed against her.
It's the whimper. It goes straight through him, by-passing his brain and shoots down his spine, warm and tingling, spreading heat into the pit of his stomach.
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There’s nothing she can do. Unthinkingly she makes to speak, but the soft, helpless sound that comes out reminds her of her forced silence. There’s nothing for her to do but breathe too hard, waiting for his next move.
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"Blood magic? Hawke..." He begins, but he knows she can't answer. He knows that. "You throw yourself into such stupid, reckless, dangerous things, and I don't know if you realise it most of the time. But Blood Magic? Even for you Hawke, that's... Maker."
It's impossible not to lean down and catch her mouth again, to try and relieve that moment when all this could have worked out, all animosity could have been forgotten. How can he forget what he knows? How can he just go back to being angry with her for rushing headlong into things?
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So she lets him kiss her and kisses back, utterly at a loss to what the next moment might bring.
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One hand stays tight on hers, his fingers easily confining both her wrists, and the other moves down. Between them, over her chest, to rest across her racing heart. He can't help the thrill that runs through him as his fingers find her nipple, the strange hard bar through soft flesh that he has to pinch.
His hand works almost of its own volition, slipping easily beneath the loose robe even as his breath hitches, tracing around the piercing, fingers catching and giving a snap, quick tug.
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Maybe it’s shameful, and it’s definitely a heady kind of helpless (that she can’t stop him; can’t even say a word of her own will), but the pain sends a lighting bolt of feeling straight to her cunt, and she has to grind back against him.
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Now it's his turn, and by the Maker he means to take every advantage of it. He wishes he could move down, to catch that nipple, swollen with attention, into his mouth, catch it between his teeth. She liked that before, before the piercings. He can't resist letting his hand expose her other breast, his fingers teasing, gently, over her nipple, it's little metal bar, flicking at it and ignoring the fact the robe is slipping off her shoulders.
"These are new. Do they make you more sensitive?"
The piercings clearly do. He can see it in the way she reacts, she likes it. So he does it again, pinching and rolling the dusky pink flesh against his thumb. He can't help it either, the rush of power, the thrill of knowing that she likes this, as bad as it is. It's wrong, he knows. But she rocks her hips like a bitch in heat, and it's been such a long time since he wanted someone as much as he's wanted her.
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The answer is yes, the piercings do make her more sensitive, obvious in how she tosses her head and shivers. His power over her deigns to allow a high pitched keen that escapes against her will; a reluctant, embarrassed sound that's nonetheless far quieter than she meant. In truth, Marian hates this. She hates being powerless, hates not knowing what he’ll do next, hates that she can’t so much as purr out a yes or demand her body back. She hates the way Silencing makes her feel: small and thin and chilled, as if he’s taken a spark from her and holds it hostage in iron hands. But she can’t stop him, can’t communicate in any way. All she can do is moan too-softly at his rough treatment and turn her head away.
Then she notices- the front door. It’s still open a little. Marian’s eyes go wide and she looks at him, barely-there whimpers and futile struggling her only language of distress.
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"If you don't make much noise, no one will know you're getting fucked."
She doesn't have much choice in the matter but that's why he's said it, groping over her again before the hand moves down further. The thin robe seems hardly there at all. He can feel every rib, every raised scar, every jut of her hipbones. He wants to kiss every inch of her, catch her skin between his teeth to make her gasp but he can't release her hands. He can't trust her.
Instead he'll distract her, from the door, from everything apart from him.
His fingers trace over her again, without the damn robe in the way. Over the sensative nipples, over her stomach and down. It's not difficult to slip between her thighs, to let his fingertip tease over her clit, feeling her body react.
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Then, oh Maker, he's touching her more, running that broad hand over her body possessively in a slow journey that draws every ounce of her attention. Marian feels as if she's straining from the anticipation of it.
When he finally touches her, finally - after three years of teasing, of tension, of distance, of memory, of wanting - her hips jerk and her back arches, mouth falling open. The moan would have been loud, wanting, a wanton cry of need, but it catches inside her and comes out as a tiny little wavering mewl.
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His fingers circle over her clit again, once, twice, enjoying the shiver in her, before he dips his fingers into her dripping cunt. It's only for a moment before his hand pulls away, and it goes to the tie of the robes. It takes one brief tug to have the fabric fall open like a flower, revealing every inch of her body.
"Spread your legs." He instructs so he can fuck into her properly, sinking those fingers into her again, rough and quick.
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He strips her naked in one swift moment, leaving her shivering in the cold air. Another soft sound passes her lips; she can't stop glancing nervously at the door, hoping nobody passes by and sees. Maybe they won't. Maybe they'll only see Cullen, broad and warm and beautiful, so imposing that he covers her slim form completely, and nobody will see her. But despite her mixed feelings, despite her discomforts, despite how badly she wants the ability to tell him to stop, she can't. Even if she could make him stop, she's honestly not sure if she would.
Cullen speaks again, a delicious order in a voice so commanding that she finds herself obeying before she has time to think about it. All the better; the sudden intrusion of two fingers, big and thick and too much too soon, makes her shudder and gasp with a soft, embarrassingly high-pitched moan.
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He presses a little closer, grinding his cock into her hip, just to try and ease some of the ache. Maker he wants to bury himself in her, fuck her raw, but he has control, he can hold that back. At least, for the moment.
At least while his fingers sink into her, slipping in easily, his thumb brushing once more across her clit, toying with it. The whimpers, soft and subtle, drive him absolutely wild. She's so loud, always the noisest person in any one place, always drawing all attention to her, to have her here, in front of the open door, naked, legs spread, breasts out and heaving, it does something to him he can't deny. He can't help but nip again at her shoulder, in lieu of everything else he could be getting his mouth on.
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Then he touches her sensitive little clit again, and it's all she can do to just toss her head and force out the softest cry of pleasure, the wanton feeling of it sounding vulnerable and needy when so very small. It goes nicely with the way she shudders when he bites her, sagging in his grip as her knees go weak.
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She is so wet, trembling slightly under his fingers, he can feel her clit throb for him and it's intoxicating. The softest noises, the desire in her forced out in such a pathetic little cry. Fuck, it's almost too much. His cock is so hard for her, he wants to sink in to her cunt, fill her, hold her against him like he did before. And he wants her to whimper as he comes in her.
"I'm going to fuck you, Hawke. Fuck that wet little cunt. I know you want me to. I can feel how much you want it."
And with that he pulls his fingers from her, from her clit, swollen with need. He pulls his cock free, stroking the lenght of it, breath a little ragged before he fucks into her, fingers closing on her hip. He should pick her up, let her slide down into his cock and pound her agains the wall. He should, despite the fact it leaves her hands free. But at this point she seems so desperate to be fucked he's going to risk it.
He grabs her thighs, lifts her and grinds his cock into her, almost growling at the heat of her around him.
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That first stroke makes her whine high in her throat, a bit louder than the sounds of before. The angle is all wrong, too shallow: bad for deep fucking but perfect for driving her absolutely wild. It's almost a relief when he picks her up. She slides down his cock with a low, lusty moan and wraps her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, and holds onto him tight. At the growl, deep and wonderful, she fists a hand in his hair and groans, "Oh, fuck"
Wait.
Her eyes snap open and she rears back a little, looking at him with a smile. Her voice is still faint, still coming back to her, but she manages a quiet, "Maker, that took forever."
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He fucks into her as she devours him, the fingers in his hair making him buck harder. He wants to make her groan and whimper and shiver, to mewl hopelessly as he uses her.
And then she speaks. He thought the silence would last longer.
"Did I ask you to speak, slut? I don't have a use for your mouth right now."
This time the Silence is less powerful, there's no fear in it or panic. He sees it sap her voice away again and fucks into her harder, using the wetness of her cunt to push deeper into her. And then when he's all the,way in, as deep as he can be, the movements become lazy, rocking of his hips, letting her feel that stretch.
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The son of a bitch Silenced her again. Called her a slut then Silenced her.
Marian gapes in outrage for a moment, before the slow slide of Cullen's cock draws another soft whimper from her. It just pisses her off; that little noise didn't sound angry, or outraged, or strong. It was a delicate, weak, soft thing. So is the one that comes next, pulled out by is slow push and the intoxicating stretch inside her.
It feels incredible, and part of her wants nothing more than to enjoy it, but she's mostly furious. That he could insult her, violate her with that Silence for no good reason, then lazily fuck her like nothing was wrong makes her temper flaring. With a faint, frustrated grunt, she does the only thing she can: fists a hand in Cullen's hair and yanks with all her strength.
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It's only then he starts to move, cock throbbing as he picks up the pace, the thrusts deep into her, keeping his mouth on her shoulder, on her neck, leaving bright welts in his wake.
She feels so good, hot and tight around him, the noises small and broken. He,wants more of those noises, and despite how angry she might be with him, her legs are still tight around his hips and her cunt still wet.
"Don't pretend this isn't what you want, slut. You want to be fucked, you want to come with my cock in you like you did before. Of course you do. That's what you've wanted since I got here."
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It pisses her off. She's still angry, she still wants to shove him away and scream, but she can't. She's helpless to do anything but sink into his grip and let him fuck her, let him draw out faint whimpers and tiny little moans that barely pass her lips. All she can do is squirm under his hateful words, turning her face away as if she could hide from what he's doing to her.
But there's no hiding the soft whine that slips out, or the flush in her cheeks.
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But the way his cock pounds into her doesn't let up, fast and wicked into her cunt. It feels so good, just as before but all the more intense for the ruined whimpers and groans.
He can't keep this up much longer, not with the way his balls ache. The blush on her face drives him onwards, the trusts growing to an almost frenzied pace.
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But it's his cock that drives her wild. The relentless pace soon has her writhing against him, clawing at his back, locking her legs behind his waist. Every time she opens her mouth it's to cry out her pleasure, but sound only comes out about half the time- and even then, what sound she can manage is faint and ruined. If she had her voice she'd be near to screaming right now, and she looks like it, but as it is she can only helplessly mewl like a kitten as he fucks her.
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His breath is harsh now in her ear, as he gets close.
"See why I have to keep you quiet? That door's wide open. Do you want your neighbours to hear? Do you want them thinking you'll fuck any man that comes to your door?"
He fucks into her again, harder this time, lets his grip shift to her ass, grabbing hold of her cheeks. It's a gorgeous ass, round and firm in his hands, and he can't help but squeeze as he pounds into her.
"Next time," He says, nipping at her ear, "Next time I'm going to have you from behind. Press that beautiful face into the wall. Make sure you can't make any noise at all when I fuck your ass."
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So she makes another achingly tiny sound and bucks against him as much as she can, tightening a hand painfully in his hair and shuddering at the thought of the wicked things he wants to do to her. She's getting close too, though perhaps not as close as he, and she seems aware of the effect she has on him when she leans in close to press a harsh, sucking, biting kiss to his throat and whine softly against his skin.
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He should resist it, the waves that go through him as he bucks into her again. But why? Why should he hold back from taking what he wants? So he let's go, sinking in to her well-used cunt again and spilling inside her, hissing out a curse as he does so.
"Bad girl." He breathes, voice rough. "Should I even let you come?"
He doesn't stop though, his hips still rocking into her, the pace slower but still deep, at least for the moment.
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Her mouth works silently, frustrated as her hands work in his hair, gripping the back of his neck. Only one in three attempts actually has her making noise, and those soft and broken, but it's clear how emphatic she is on this. She needs to come.
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So he fucks into her again, with renewed vigour, his own hands grasping her ass again, nails biting into the round flesh.
"Come then." He grunts, "Show me how much you liked getting fucked with the whole of Hightown watching."
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