#carvill

[chicinsilk]

Jacques Griffe Haute Couture Collection Fall/Winter 1954-55. A short evening dress in gathered tulle and embroidered ribbons. Evening sandals from Carvill. Decor by Madame Andrée Higgins. Jardin des Modes December 1954.

Jacques Griffe Collection Haute Couture Automne/Hiver 1954-55. Une robe du soir courte en tulle froncé et rubans brochés. Sandales du soir de Carvill. Décor de Madame Andrée Higgins". Jardin des Modes décembre 1954.

[ghilan-maim]

So, I found this in my Google Docs, completely finished but never posted. It's a few years old, and the first time I ever really tried to write any sexual content. It's not super explicit but I read it and thought it was kind of cute so I'm deciding to post it!

Rating: Mature Words: 1266 Fandom: Dragon Age 2 Ship: Merrill/Carver Hawke Tags: tickle fights, first time together, admission of love, established feelings, vague timeline, playful sex, no plot just vibes

They don't know how they got there, rolling about on her shabby bed like children pinching and tickling away at one another. When they came up for air, Carver's flat on his back with Merrill perched on his thigh — a laughable sight for their size difference, he hadn't been distracted by the heaving of her chest and the pink to her cheeks. She can’t help but giggle as she looks down on him. Merrill's thoughts are Carver, Carver, Carver as she leans forward, practically topples onto him, the length of her body pressing against his.

He thinks her lashes are impossibly long, when green eyes gaze at him from underneath a curtain of them. He thinks lips are sweet, when they brush against his and neither can say who it is but before long they're grappling at each other anew, a more mature push and pull than before. Merrill's gasps and moans are a melody against his lips as he grabs her hip, holds her in place just as she straddles his waist, pinning him in place. He didn't know if he expected innocence or experience, but there is something unhesitating in the way she moves her hips against him.

Not practiced, perhaps, but not afraid. "Carver.." Her voice pulls their eyes together again and her hand splayed on his chest feels almost like a brand — hot, searing but it's not pain. Just a jolt south that her eyes seem to follow and he blushes for a moment to match the flush creeping up under her vallaslin. Nod, nod, it's all he can do and her hand is slower now as it traces downwards, her body shimmying down as well and brushing against his suddenly quite sensitive guest under his breeches.

"Merrill," He all but gasps as she undoes the laces there, pulls him from his pants with something like curiosity in her wide eyes. The words that fall past her lips garner a chuckle, his palm smears across his face because of course she would say something like that. It's perfect, nothing like the way the ladies at the Blooming Rose tried to be sexy at every turn.

He didn't want that. He wanted Merrill, callused palm against sensitive skin exclaiming on a giggle, "Not such a little Hawke after all." with him half-hard in her hand. For her part, Merrill didn't falter long. She experimented with the way she moved her hand up and down, removing it only to spit in her palm and get a groan from Carver in the process. He tried not to think it was cute when she just gave a musical laugh in response.

With her hand working him harder by the second, Merrill fluidly lays her body alongside his, leg hiked over one of his and face buried in his neck peppering kisses there. For a moment, he's frozen. The sensations she's giving him are a lot and he's thought about her — Maker, how he's thought about her. But youthful excitement wins out over any lack of experience they both might have.

He turns his head to capture her lips, angles their bodies so that his free hand can explore the dips of her body as she lays there on her side. It's awkward but she practically jolts when his hand touches her ass and he takes the way she molds herself closer as a good sign. Merrill feels wanton for the display but it's hardly a shame-filled thought. Rutting against his thigh for the hope that she might brush against the sensitive bundle of nerves hidden between her thighs.

She pushes against him as his hand slides her tunic up, "On your back, vhenan," and oh what a thrill it is when he heeds her command effortlessly taking her with him. With her tunic discarded to the side, she's near frantic to work off her leggings, to feel skin on slick skin. His hands come to help and when they hear a rip, there's a pause as wide green eyes meet wide blue.

It's decidedly unsexy, the little snort of a laugh she gives but he laughs too and Carver is glad again of how much better this is. Merrill is glad of someone who will accept her quirks, even in moments like these. But quirks don’t distract from the fire in their bellies for long and Merrill is straddling his hips anew, both bare at the waist as she settles herself atop him.

It’s not the sensation he’d been wanting, but it still gets a groan from him to feel her wet folds envelope his underside. When she works her hips — tempoed twists and twirls — he sits to hold her as she finds her pleasure giving him plenty in turn. The sounds from falling past her lips are delicious and he’s greedy to taste them, covering her mouth with his so that every gasp she makes falls into his lungs.

Neither can say how long they sit there, entwined with only the noises of their moans and bodies moving against one another. Carver’s so close when her hips jerk and sweet elven sentiments reach his ears. Merrill’s breathing is hard, like she’s coming down and he wants to see her reach that peak more closely next time.

Laying them down, Merrill almost gives a whine as he tucks himself behind her back, extricating them from their embrace and leaving them both feeling chilled from the loss of warmth. “Carver, you haven’t —” He shushes her only to be met with her wiggling her bottom against his hardness.

He groans a “Merrill” that sounds almost a growl if her little meep is any indication. It doesn’t stop her movements — slows them, perhaps, to a slow rotation before the dip at the small of her back deepens and he feels her wetness against him again. If he needed any more invitation, Merrill isn’t hesitant to give it.

She reaches behind her to guide him in and they both sigh as he delves into her warmth. He stills, a moment, adjusts himself to the sensation of her walls around him. Tight and hot, he breathes her name as his hips start to work a slow, steady rhythm.

Merrill’s hips chase every beat, a low moan falling past her lips as she chases the steady fastening of his movements. Before long her back is pasted to his chest, one arm reaching behind her to hold his neck, the other between her thighs hastening the pleasure he’s giving. “Carver — vhenan,” She sighs and he wonders again what exactly that word means as he drives faster into her, harder as one arm holds her close.

When she tightens around him, gasps so hard he knows she’s breathless, he just continues on. Merrill can feel herself moving around him, the wave of pleasure crashing in her gut as her toes curl and her head falls back against him. She can tell how close he is by the erratic movement of his hips, riding on the aftershocks of her orgasm when he spends himself on her thigh with her name on his lips.

She can’t help the mischievous sort of giggle she lets out and he just sighs, half post-orgasm sigh and half exasperated. “Maker, Merrill —” a moment, a breath, “What’s vhenan mean?” It sounds clumsy on his tongue, which he expects is why he gets a little snort and a louder giggle.

A touch too exuberant given their — ehm — exercise, she turns to him with a broad smile: “My heart, Carver. Ma vhenan.”

[hollyand-writes]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

In this chapter, Tamlen briefly calls to check on Mahariel, while the de Launcet girls follow Carver back to the Hawke Estate (much to his annoyance), and are delighted to learn Merrill and Mahariel will leave the next day. 

Title: A Chance Engagement Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Chapters: 29/? Pairings: Eventual Carver/Merrill, background F!Mahariel/Tamlen, other pairings not revealed yet because of spoilers   Other characters: Marian Hawke, Bethany Hawke, Leandra Hawke, Isabela, Tamlen, Fenarel, Female Mahariel, Keeper Marethari, Sabrae Clan, Arishok   Other tags: Alternative Universe - Regency, Pride & Prejudice References, Bethany and Carver Hawke Live, Pride & Prejudice AU, Fluff and Humour  

Summary:

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, Lady Leandra Amell tried to impress upon her three children, that a single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife. However she hoped this wisdom would be received by her offspring, Lady Amell was dismayed to find that it had not had the effect she intended.”

Regency AU. When Miss Merrill attends the Kirkwall public assembly ball, the last man she expects to engage in a dance is Carver Hawke – a single man who has just come into possession of a large fortune. This chance meeting, however, sets them both on a path they never expected.

READ FROM THE BEGINNING ON ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN  

On finding Mahariel awake, and able to actually walk a little around her room, Merrill was most delighted; and it was agreed that Mahariel would actually join the family for the day with Merrill’s assistance, although she still had to be careful not to move much; and that the two elven women would return to Sundermount on the morrow. A servant was called to help Merrill bring Mahariel to the drawing room, where Mahariel had her books and her needlework to keep her occupied on the sofa, and a note was dispatched to Sundermount to inform them that they would be coming home the following day.

The answer, when it came, was most favourable: Tamlen himself came to see them when the Sabraes received their message, having just arrived home himself with the eluvian – the old, ornate elven mirror he had gone to see. However, it appeared to have broken in transportation and needed fixing; but that aside, Tamlen assured them, it was as impressive as he had been informed it would be. Both Mahariel and Merrill were glad to see him, and he was assured to see them both well and clearly not mistreated by the shemlen – though he winced over Mahariel’s sprained ankle as he examined it, and was pleased (and, from what Merrill could discern, most surprised) to hear that Mahariel had received every possible care and attention she could have hoped for. As Tamlen had not long arrived back himself, he declared he was fatigued and in need of relaxation at home; and he therefore did not stay long, despite Miss Hawke’s charming efforts to persuade him to stay for more than one cup of tea. 

Read more on AO3...

[hollyand-writes]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Posting this up before my flight abroad for New Year ✈️ Happy 2019, all! ❤️ 

Title: A Chance Engagement Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Chapters: 25/? Pairings: Eventual Carver/Merrill, background F!Mahariel/Tamlen, other pairings not revealed yet because of spoilers   Other characters: Marian Hawke, Bethany Hawke, Leandra Hawke, Isabela, Tamlen, Fenarel, Female Mahariel, Keeper Marethari, Sabrae Clan, Arishok   Other tags: Alternative Universe - Regency, Pride & Prejudice References, Bethany and Carver Hawke Live, Pride & Prejudice AU, Fluff and Humour  

Summary:

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, Lady Leandra Amell tried to impress upon her three children, that a single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife. However she hoped this wisdom would be received by her offspring, Lady Amell was dismayed to find that it had not had the effect she intended.”

Regency AU. When Miss Merrill attends the Kirkwall public assembly ball, the last man she expects to engage in a dance is Carver Hawke – a single man who has just come into possession of a large fortune. This chance meeting, however, sets them both on a path they never expected.

READ FROM THE BEGINNING ON ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN  

Merrill closed her eyes, breathing as fast as her heartbeat was racing. She had never really seen any man in such a state of undress before, and the sight had been such a shock – and of all men, why did she have to walk in on these two? If only she had asked a servant to direct her! – or even asked one of the Hawke sisters to accompany her! Why had she thought she would be able to find her own way by herself when she couldn’t even find her way through Kirkwall if she needed to?

The door opened; Merrill jumped in surprise, and squeaked. Sir Carver emerged, red-faced, untidily attired; but decent enough to face her this time.

‘I’m so sorry!’ Merrill started again, and the words felt inadequate to express how deeply sorry she felt. ‘I really didn’t mean to walk in on you! I didn’t know that was the ballroom, I am so sorry, I cannot believe I’ve been so stupid, I—’

‘Please allow me to interrupt you, Miss Alerion,’ he said. ‘I simply would like to know why you found yourself in the ballroom just now.’

Merrill looked up at him. Sir Carver was looming over her, hard blue eyes boring into her, and he was so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body. She took a deep breath. ‘I got lost.’

‘You… got lost.’

‘Yes. I picked these flowers from your garden—’ she indicated the bouquet in her hand, ‘—with your sisters’ permission, for Mahariel, to cheer her up; and I was merely trying to take them back to her room before I rejoined your sisters and Isabela.’

Sir Carver said nothing, but continued to gaze at her most searchingly, almost as if he were looking for something else from her; and Merrill started to feel annoyed. 

Read more on AO3... 

[asaara-writes]

A Christmas prompt for you, if you’ve got time to do one (and if you feel like it, of course)! Carver/Merrill, number 38 from that list... :-)

“Last Christmas, you broke my heart. But I’m still not over you.”Whew, right on time! It’s 11:48 p.m. on Christmas day in the UK as I’m posting this. :D I hope you won’t mind this little piece of incredibly trope-y, convoluted drama.

“The mulled wine smells really nice, doesn’t it?” Merrill says, throwing a handful of dried cranberries into the hearth-cake dough. She’s wearing a headband with rattan halla antlers and a hand-knit sweater, now powdered with a layer of sifted flour. “Hawke said it was your father’s recipe.”

Carver shrugs as he stirs the mulled wine. The cinnamon sticks and vanilla pods swirl in the saucepan, the flesh of the orange slices purpling. “If ‘throw the spice mix into cheap wine and simmer it’ counts as a recipe, then yes.”

“Oh.” Milk splashes on the table as she dribbles some into the dough. “Still, it’s quite different from the version I grew up with. We’d just use the same spices as for the hearth cakes: ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg, so no anise or orange peel, with honey or maybe some puréed dates or even a chopped apple and—sorry,” she says with one of those thrice-damned giggles of hers that just make him want to sweep her off her feet and kiss her. “I’m rambling.”

“You are,” he concurs, more harshly than he intended, regretting the words the instant they’re out of his mouth.

She laughs again, but it’s a little strained this time. “That—that wasn’t very nice, now, was it?”

“You said it first,” he retorts. Maker damn it, why can’t he just apologise instead?

“I did, yes. Sorry. I’ll just shut up now.” And she does, kneading in perfect silence before flouring the tabletop—and it’s worse, of course it’s worse, with that silence thick as the dough between them, only filled with the rustle of the wine simmering on the stove and the slow back-and-forth of the rolling pin.

Carver throws an agonizing look towards the doorway, hoping to see his sister return. Void, he’d even take Fenris’s scathing remarks if it meant a distraction.

How long does it take to set up a bloody trivet, anyway?

Just his damn luck. Taken hostage by the mulled wine, doomed to watch it simmer while Fenris and his sister are busy getting everything ready to bake the hearth cakes … and only then does it occur to him that it must’ve all been on purpose. Of course his sister would invite only Merrill and him early, then find a way to leave them alone together in the same room. Minding everyone else’s business is just what she does, romantic, meddling fool that she is.

But Carver feels, oddly, most betrayed by Fenris. Not that there’s much in the way of friendship between them for Fenris to betray—and maybe this is what makes it doubly frustrating: that Fenris—Fenris, with his bloody puppy eyes and his bloody flannel shirt and his bloody rolled-up sleeves—now thinks himself happy enough to meddle into other people’s affairs. And why wouldn’t he be? The way his sister is glowing, she probably expects a marriage proposal before the night is over (now wouldn’t that be mortifying?), or she’s expecting, period, and—

And why does that bother him?

Bloody mulled wine. Bloody hearth cakes. Bloody Satinalia.

“So,” Merrill starts, staring down at her rolling pin, “will you ever tell me why you’re angry with me, or are we just never talking to each other again?”

“I’m not angry with you,” Carver mutters.

Her eyes snap up from the dough. “No? Your face just fell the instant I walked in here, and you’ve been a grump since!” Her rattan antlers shake as she continues flattening the dough with more force than necessary. “Creators, and to think that I used to believe that—that there was something between us, but clearly that was all in my head, and—”

“Then why’d you go and kiss Isabela last Satinalia, then?” he snaps.

He remembers it well: Merrill’s cheeks as red as the berries hanging above her head, laughing and breathless after the other woman had practically licked her way into her mouth while everyone else ogled, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

Merrill blinks at him. “Bela spent the entire night under the mistletoe! She kissed everyone.”

He scoffs. “Not me!”

“So you’re angry with me because I kissed Isabela and you didn’t?”

The electric guitar and jingle bells from ZITHER!’s Satinalia album start streaming from the living room speakers, and Carver lets out a bitter laugh. Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse. “No—and I said I wasn’t angry—it’s just that …” He sighs. Might as well just say it: it’s not like he could have any less of a chance with her at this point, anyway. “Isabela got a kiss with tongue and everything, and I got a peck on the cheek.”

For a moment Merrill is quiet, cutting out snowmen and trees into the dough, then placing them onto the iron griddle. “Isabela didn’t kiss you because she agreed not to,” she confesses in an undertone, “and I know it wasn’t my place at all to ask but I just … I didn’t want to stand up against her of all people, you know?” Carver blinks, then looks up from the saucepan. Merrill is flattening the leftover dough with her rolling pin to cut out new shapes. “And I kissed you on the cheek because—because I didn’t know if you’d even want me to kiss you, and then you gave me the cold shoulder for an entire year after that, so it seemed an awful lot like I was right to wonder.”

She clasps the handle of her griddle and starts towards the doorway. Carver tosses his wooden spoon on the stovetop. “Merrill,” he starts as he goes after her, “wait.” Her eyes drop to the griddleful of hearth cakes when he catches her by the shoulder. “Listen, I—I’m sorry. I jumped to conclusions, and—Maker, I’m an arse, aren’t I?”

“Quite,” she chuckles.

He clears his throat, the back of his neck burning. “Well, for the record, I wouldn’t have minded a proper kiss. Still wouldn’t, in fact.” Merrill looks up at him, eyes wide but opaque for all that they glimmer in the string lights. He runs a nervous hand through his hair. “If it’s not too late.”

She tilts her head. “But it’s still early.”

“I meant—if I haven’t ruined my chances with you.”

Movement catches his eye. From behind the second-story banister, his sister is pointing to something right above their heads. She thrusts a thumb up at him before disappearing out of sight when Fenris lifts her by the waist and removes her from her hiding spot.

A new sprig of mistletoe is hanging from the same spot as last year. Merrill’s gaze flits upwards, following his, and her lips stretch into a smile that sets her green eyes aglow. “Only if we get to kiss when we’re not under the mistletoe, too.”

Carver grins. “I think I’d like that,” he replies, bending down to meet her lips as she rises up on tiptoes.

[asaara-writes]

#13 for,..... a rarepair that you ship? :)

13. “A kiss we had to wait for” for Carver/Merrill, since I wrote them once before and a few people asked for more. :D NSFW under the cut!

Carver has gotten taller, somehow, and broader; elves may have built Merrill’s house, but before him none of Hawke’s shemlen friends had to bend forward to avoid knocking their forehead on the doorframe. His shoulders almost touch the frame when he steps inside, wearing his Grey Warden armour and the widest grin she’s ever seen and—Elgar’nan!—a beard, and she’s not even certain it’s him until her name rumbles out of that wide chest of his.

Merrill jumps into his arms without thinking, then feels herself fly as he lifts her off the floor and spins her around before putting her back down like she weighed nothing. She laughs as she staggers on her feet, breathless.

He catches her by the arm to steady her. “Sorry, it’s just—it’s good to see you again, Merrill.” He breaks into another grin, a bright half-moon that sends his eyes shining, and that’s already twice as many as she’s seen him give in the year before the Order took him.

“You look well, Carver,” Merrill says, then points to his chin. “Can I—touch it? I’ve never touched a beard before.”

“By all means,” he laughs as she reaches up to scratch the cropped hairs on his chin. It’s—coarser than she expected. “Still a work in progress, though. Do you like it?” he asks, rubbing his chin and upper lip.

“I—think so, yes. It makes you look very … very human.”

He laughs, balancing his battle axe against the wall. “Well, better than the alternative, I suppose.”

Everything in her house looks small with him in it. For a moment she thinks, wildly, that the chair will collapse right under his weight as he sits at her table, but it holds despite a creak of protest. He unstraps his plated gauntlets while she puts a kettle on the stove and arranges a few hearth cakes on a plate, praying to Sylaise that they’re not stale.

“Those are delicious,” he says around a mouthful, then dusts the crumbs off his beard as he tells her of Weisshaupt and the Anderfels, of the desolate landscape there, all in broken, jagged cliffs and crags, of the cold nights that bite, warded off by laughter and ale and tales from all over. He has another tattoo now, a griffon, he tells her with no small pride.

He thinks he’s found his place, out of his sister’s glorious, golden shadow.

The kettle whistles. She pours the steaming water over honeybush leaves and pieces of dried orange rind, rummages through her cupboard for a mug that isn’t chipped or crazed.

“Your mirror,” Carver blurts out. “It’s gone.”

Merrill looks over to the spot where the Eluvian used to stand, before she ran her staff through the glass, before Hawke and Varric disposed of the pieces while she held her knees to her chest. The Carver she remembers would have said something just to fill the silence, but now he waits, patient, until she speaks: “I couldn’t fix it myself,” she starts, “and a—a demon offered his help. I took precautions, but Mahariel—my Keeper—she—” Her voice dies at the back of her mouth, and underneath the wound is raw, held closed by still-fragile threads of half-mended flesh that threaten to snap.

“I’m sorry. Say no more if you’d rather not.”

She takes a breath to unknot her throat and blinks the sting out of her eyes, glad to have his back to him. “I think she tried to drive the demon away before I could get there, but she ended up getting possessed instead,” she continues once she’s regained her composure, carrying the two mugs of tea to the table. “Everyone had been telling me for years what a fool’s errand it was, and I didn’t see it until—until I killed her.”

The last few words draw a crease between his eyebrows. “Merrill, you didn’t kill her. You couldn’t have known.”

She stares down at his hands, too large for the mug. She thinks of Master Ilen, somehow, of the little toy halla he would carve for the clan’s children. “Didn’t I? If not for me, she’d still be alive.”

He blows on the plume of steam rising from his mug before taking a careful sip. “You know, I used to blame everything on someone else. My sister, most of the time. It was easier than admitting that I could change things. That maybe it was my own fault. And if I’ve learned anything now, it’s that everyone’s responsible for their own actions. Same goes for you, and your Keeper.” He shrugs. “Alright, so maybe restoring the mirror didn’t work out, but confronting the demon was her decision, not yours. You said yourself you took precautions.”

She raises her face to look at him. If she tries hard enough she can still see the broody young lad who would argue with Hawke for the mere sake of it, who would lament his fate and blame it on the Amells and his sisters and Kirkwallers and mages, but now— “You’ve changed,” she says.

Carver runs a hand through his hair. “I, uh. Let’s say that the Order has changed my view on a great many things. We have to do whatever it takes to stop the Blight and the ‘spawn, and sometimes that means—well. Things that wouldn’t sit well with the common folk, I reckon. We even have a couple of blood mages in our ranks, and they can handle themselves. You made it easier for me to accept them, I have to say.” He sighs, and the steam of his mug parts, swirling around his breath. “Truth be told, I’ve been thinking a lot about you,” he finishes, his voice nearly lost in the soft white plumes.

Warmth rushes to her cheeks, and not only from the heat rolling off her cup of tea. An ache blooms somewhere under her breast, both tender and sweet, the same that Hawke used to stir when she would lean close, smelling of leather and roses, and Mahariel before her, smelling of earth and blood and wild berries.

And suddenly she’s tired—tired of things passing her by, wind-swift then gone, tired of closing her hand only to find naught upon her palm. Before she knows it, she’s standing between his thighs, fingers curled around his short, rounded ears, and pressing her lips to his.

His breath hitches under her mouth, but he doesn’t question it; instead he melts into the kiss as though he’d been waiting for it—and he was, she supposes, because now she knows for what it is the heaviness that weighs down his gaze when it sweeps her, the heat that guides his hands around her waist as he pulls her to him. He has a scent all his own, she finds out, like sun-warm metal and dusty roads and sea salt, and he tastes like honeyed tea and oranges, like the cloves and nutmeg of the hearth cakes.

Clinging to his shoulders, she throws one leg over his thigh, then the other, and straddles him without breaking the seal of their mouths. The plate and studs of his armour are rough and ragged through the thin cotton of her trousers. His grip is firm, strong, his fingers sneaking under the hem of her shirt to caress the small of her back. She tilts her head back so that his mouth falls on her throat where her heart pulses, and he moans, a low, deep sound that rumbles down her neck and fans out between her parted legs.

“Merrill,” he pants, blue eyes glazed under the furrow of his brow, “you know I have to return to Weisshaupt after this.”

“I know,” she says, simply, because there’s nothing else to say.

He rises to his feet then, holding her to himself while she hooks her legs around his waist, and carries her to the small cot in the adjacent room. It takes seconds for her trousers and shirt to be swept off and dropped to the floor, but his armour has to be peeled off layer by layer, buckles and leather straps uncovering laces and clasps. His chestpiece clangs to the floor, followed by his plated tassets, his chainmail and leathers, and finally he kicks off his boots to crouch between her legs, the bed groaning under his weight.

His skin nearly burns as she trails her fingertips along the mabari tattooed on his chest and the raised scars on his shoulder blades, but hotter yet is his mouth, chasing the warmth of his breath on the taper of her ear, her neck, the tips of her breasts. Her insides clench in anticipation under the strained laces of his trousers when his teeth graze her nipple as it tightens between his lips. He takes his time, kissing each rib, swirling his tongue around her navel, sucking on a hipbone on his way down to her center. Her legs part as his tongue brushes the knot of flesh atop her entrance, sending a ripple of warmth through her, and then he starts kissing and licking until she has both of her hands threaded in his hair and can’t help the cries that pour out of her mouth, until she surrenders to the wave of pleasure cresting over her with a great shudder.

Carver is grinning at her when she looks down her heaving breasts, tugging the laces of his trousers loose. “I’d say I must be dreaming,” he starts, his cock hot and hard on the inside of her thigh, where the scratch of his beard left a pleasant burn, “but Grey Warden dreams aren’t anywhere this pleasant, usually.”

“And neither are blood mage dreams, so this isn’t one of my dreams either,” she replies, giggling.

Carver kisses her again, his lips slick with her arousal. She throws her legs around his hips to welcome him inside her, and goes soft in his arms when he stretches her open and fills her up. He slips one hand under her body, almost lifting her up the bed to draw her even closer until she can’t even tell where one starts and the other ends. Then he starts sliding back and forth inside her, slowly at first, and faster, and faster, watching her face for tells, shifting his hips when she bites her lip and thrusting deeper when she arches under him. Before long, heat is coiling up inside her again, taut as the bowstrings of her clan’s hunters. At last it comes loose with a twang that reverberates to the very tip of her toes and makes them curl in pleasure, and she pulses around his cock, pulling him over the edge soon after her.

It takes some effort to lift her eyelids once she’s returned to her senses. Carver is above her, bright-eyed and flushed, his heart hammering against hers. “Maker’s breath, Merrill,” he sighs, his voice hoarse and thick as he brushes her cheek with his thumb, “you make me wish I could stay.”

And Creators, but she will miss the weight of his hips against hers, the twitch of his cock deep inside her, even the itch of his beard on her neck. “It’s alright,” she whispers, running her fingers along the outline of the griffon inked on his shoulder. “You have a whole world to keep safe.”

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

MUTUAL PINING

As seen on Patreon, now on AO3 in its entirety!

Additional tags: First Times, Long-ish leadup, Friends to Lovers, Camping, Getting Together, templar!Carver, Act 2, Explicit Sexual Content, Carver loves and protects mages okay, I'm not hearing any slander about my boy, there was only one tent: a remix of 'there was only one bed'

Words: 19,925

Published: 10/31/19

A week of shore-leave turned into an impromptu camping trip with Merrill, and Carver made the mistake of not checking when Isabela and his sibling helped pack the bags. It had all the essentials, Bela swore, except for one thing:

It only had one tent.

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[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

Patreon Update: Mutual Pining ch. 5 [Excerpt]

I somehow deleted the entire folder of my Mutual Pining fic, so I’ve been rewriting the chapters I had finished and the last one. Here’s a Patrons only excerpt for chapter 5!

Mutual Pining, Chapter 5

Carver Hawke/Merrill

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