Chapter Text
It sounded like something out of Varric’s steamier novels, but it wasn’t meant to be. Carver Hawke had been pining after Merrill for years, and now – with a little bit of help from Isabela, of course – they were together. Carver always avoided any questions in the Gallows about whether he had a ‘special lady’ or not – for him, for years, there had really only ever been one lady worth thinking about, only one lady he’d ever regarded as special. And quite aside from the problems of bringing up that the lady in question was one of his mage brother’s companions, the lady in question – a Dalish elf, no less, though Carver personally didn’t mind about that – was a mage.
But it wasn’t just the fact that she, like his brother, was an apostate that Carver – if he was doing his duty – should be capturing and turning in to the Circle, into the Gallows with the rest of the mages where they could be kept under full Templar supervision and control.
No. There was also the fact that she was a blood mage, on top of everything bloody else. Here he was, Ser Carver, warrior and swordsman, Knight Corporal of the Templars in Kirkwall, striding through the alienage in full plate and armour to see Merrill – Dalish elf, former First to the Keeper of the Sabrae clan, blood mage. And it wasn’t her blood magic that had Carver in her thrall, oh no; it was her. Absolutely and entirely her. It had always been her. It always would be her.
He pushed away thoughts of what Knight Captain Cullen or Knight Commander Meredith would say to him if they found out if he was harbouring an apostate mage – a few, really, if you counted Garrett and Anders – or worse still, what they would actually do to him if they ever found out his lover was a blood mage, and of Carver’s entirely free will, at that – not that Merrill would use her blood magic to control his mind or Garrett’s, he was sure of that. He had made his choice, and was being discreet, and she knew the risks as much as he did. There was no going back now, although if Carver were to be honest, there was no way he – after pining for her for the best part of the last few years – would want to go back now.
He knocked on her door.
‘Merrill, it’s me.’
Even though they were now firmly dating, it didn’t stop Carver being nervous that she wouldn’t open that door to him. He idly twirled the large daisy he’d brought for her in his hand while he waited. Fortunately, he didn’t need to wait long; the door opened and Carver slid inside, closing it firmly behind him.
‘Hey,’ he said, smiling shyly at her.
‘Ma vhenan,’ Merrill breathed, in that singsong Dalish accent he loved so much. Carver slipped his gauntleted arms around her; the metal of his armour made his already brawny arms and torso so much bulkier than they already were, and next to his clumsy metal plate she was so small, so slight. Cradling her gently so as not to crush her thin petite frame against the full weight of the metal plate, Carver kissed her dark hair, breathing in its scent.
‘Mmmmm,’ Merrill hummed happily, her face pressed against his breastplate, where the flaming sword of the Chantry etched on it represented every reason why he shouldn’t be here. ‘I do love a man in uniform.’
Carver laughed, and held her back slightly so he could look at her face. ‘You’ve been spending time with Isabela again, haven’t you?’
‘Well, maybe,’ said Merrill, her wide, forest green eyes sparkling at him, ‘but you do look so handsome in your Templar armour, ma vhenan. Though I think you look handsome anyway,’ she added cheerfully, ‘and I do so enjoy looking forward to seeing you.’
‘Me too,’ Carver said, smiling. ‘Here. I got this for you.’ He held the daisy towards her, and she took it, smiling herself, blushing slightly; cheeks going a lovely shade of pink under the delicate vallaslin across her pale face, like pencil on porcelain. She was beautiful, thought Carver, and he was a very lucky man.
‘Ma serannas,’ she breathed. ‘Thank you, Carver. It’s very pretty.’
She tiptoed to kiss him on the cheek, which instantly went hot under the soft touch of her lips, and set the daisy down next to a small table by the door, which had a wooden halla carving on it. The halla carving had been a gift from Garrett, Merrill had told him the last time he was here; Carver had felt a pang of jealousy that his brother had given her something she proudly displayed so prominently in her own home, but Merrill had pointed out that she thought it was a very nice carving and a thoughtful gift from a good friend, and saw no reason to get rid of it, so it was staying. Besides, Garrett was gay. And with Anders, anyway.
‘Now,’ she said, turning back to him with a grin on her face, ‘let’s see you out of that armour, shall we?’
Carver smirked at her. He pulled off his metal gloves, his blue eyes on her green ones all the way, burning, yearning. For her part, she was standing back from him, her arms crossed, a smirk on her own face, watching him. Watching him strip for her. He removed his shoulder plates, the corrugated metal – almost spiky, really – clattering to the ground; his flaming sword breastplate followed shortly after. He continued to keep his eyes on hers, still smirking, still watching her, watching her as she watched him. He stepped away from his armour lying on the wooden floor, and removed his gauntlets, watching her as he unbuckled the straps, letting them fall to the ground, pulling his shirt and vest over his head, flinging it towards the floor as well. A small noise came from Merrill’s throat at the sight of his broad, muscled, bare chest. His smirk grew even broader, unmistakable in its intent. He undid and flung off his skirts in a similar fashion, and now in his underclothes, started to walk over to where she stood with her mouth slightly open in desire, his eyes still burning into hers, and took both her hands in his, rubbing his thumbs lightly over the thin scars.
‘Happy now?’
She nodded.
‘Ma serannas,’ she said, breathlessly. She lifted her hands from his, and smoothed them over his pectorals and biceps in wonder and awe. ‘Creators, you’re beautiful.’
‘So are you.’ He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips. She jumped up on tiptoe to reach him, and flung her arms around his neck; Carver responded by crushing her body to his, free to do so now he no longer had his heavy metal armour on, and kissed her again, deeper this time, her mouth yielding to his, their tongues touching, tasting, exploring each other, and oh Maker, it felt so good. She felt so good. She tasted so good, and Carver wanted her, wanted all of her. Her small breasts pressed into his chest through the rough green tunic she was wearing, and Carver held her closer, held her tight, reluctant to let her go even though he was burning, his body was on fire.
Their lips broke apart, and, panting, Carver touched her forehead to hers.
‘I love you, Merrill,’ he panted, and it didn’t feel like it would be enough. ‘Maker, but I love you.’
‘I love you too, Carver,’ she said, equally dazed, still catching breath herself. She reached up to kiss him again, and Carver drank her in again as if he would die of thirst without her. She was dragging him backwards while her mouth was on his, and Carver, desperate, wanting, hard, followed her all the way until they both fell onto the bed. Carver loomed over her, still kissing her, and propped himself on his elbows and knees while Merrill tugged at his smallclothes, the front of them caught on his erection. He stopped briefly to squirm out of them, groaning in relief as his cock sprang free; he fell back onto the bed on his side while Merrill wrapped herself around him, his erect length slapping against her clothed thigh.
‘Your turn,’ he panted, sitting up with her; she released himself from his arms and stumbled off the bed. When she had righted herself into a standing position, Carver leaned forward, resting his elbows onto his knees for a better view. ‘Strip for me.’
Giggling, Merrill slid off her scarf, and proceeded to do the same with her tunic, sleeves, and leggings. She wasn’t particularly slow, or seductive, or teasing about it – not like the prostitutes at the Blooming Rose used to strip for him, years ago – but Carver appreciated it anyway, this giggly jerky striptease she was doing for him. He just loved seeing her move, really; loved seeing her. And he could tell she knew he loved watching her, and now she was purposefully slowing down her movements for him, revelling in his hungry gaze, revelling in his bare cock stretching out towards her as he watched. He swallowed hard when she was down to her black and gold Dalish undergarment; it reminded him of a corset, though it was clearly not as tight or painful-looking. Not that she needed a corset – the undergarment hugged her curves in all the right places.
Then she was standing fully naked before him. Carver licked his lips, and Merrill blushed and giggled a little. He reached out and pulled her towards him.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ he told her in an awed voice, as he pulled her into his lap and nuzzled her pointed ears.
‘You’re not so bad yourself, Ser Carver,’ she replied, blushing a little more. She slipped off his lap and onto the bed, and Carver followed, kneeling between her open legs, taking in the sight of her, naked, on the bed. His eyes followed his hands travelling hungrily over her body, touching her face, her breasts, her belly, down to her thighs – whatever he could reach. She sighed happily, watching him watching her. Carver smiled back at her; it had taken them a while to get to this point, to get to the point where the sheer size of him in comparison to her didn’t terrify her – but Carver had always tried to be gentle with her, always tried to take things at her own pace, always been so anxious for her to be completely happy and comfortable with him, that she’d stopped being so anxious about him herself.
The others might say Carver was a tit, and Carver might be grumpy and surly with them, but he’d always been sweet on Merrill. And the bedroom was no exception to that.
And speaking of tits… Carver bent down to kiss and lick her nipples, first the right one, then the left, swirling his tongue around each of them after a soft kiss. She squeaked and wriggled a little in pleasure, and brought her hand up to run through his dark hair. He looked up at her.
‘Liked that, did you?’
She giggled and nodded. Carver put his head back down and lapped at her breasts again, moving lower, running his tongue along her smooth belly, kissing a spot just above her belly button, worshipping every inch of skin he could. He moved his lips and tongue lower, lower, until he reached her pussy – until he met Merrill, Carver hadn’t known elves were completely hairless everywhere – where he swiped her tongue over her clit, making Merrill gasp. She smelt faintly of spices down there, he thought, running his lips and tongue over her labia, circling her clit, teasing her, making her moan, until he eventually sunk his tongue into her soft wet pussy, his hands around her hips and buttocks to hold her in place. Merrill moaned something in Dalish Carver couldn’t understand, but he carried on, tonguing her inside and out, feeling her quiver – whether in nervousness or pleasure, or possibly both, Carver couldn’t tell – but Maker, he loved this, loved tasting her, feeling and hearing her moans and sighs, feeling her getting all wet for him, hearing her calling his name. Carver moved one hand from her hips to underneath her so that he could slide his thumb into her pussy as he tickled her clit with his tongue for a bit, then moved back to her entrance where his thumb had been. His erect cock strained with his own excitement, but Carver told himself he could wait. As far as Carver was concerned, Merrill would always come first.
And, just like a promise fulfilled, she did. Merrill came – hard, if her body was any indication – her thighs clamping around him, pressing his ears flat against his head, while she moaned and cried out her pleasure above him, her pussy contracting and releasing around his tongue, which Carver held as still as he could as she rode out her orgasm. When he was satisfied that she was completely sated, Carver emerged from between her legs, her wetness all over his lips and chin and jaw.
‘Good?’
She nodded, breathing heavily, still smiling. ‘That was amazing, ma vhenan. Just give me a minute, and I’ll take care of you.’
Carver moved to lie on the bed next to her, revelling in her praise, pride swelling his chest. He licked his lips, savouring the taste of her on his face, the telltale sign of her pleasure. He turned his head to kiss her, but was surprised that she had already sprung away – and was now on top of him, straddling him over his thighs. She had that sly look in her eye that told him she was definitely rearing to go.
‘Hmmm, I can tell you’re ready,’ she chirped, looking at his erect, weeping cock. She took it into her tiny hands, running her thumb over the head, a fond expression on her face.
‘I’ve been ready for you for a while, love,’ he said, feeling the colour rise in his cheeks.
‘I know,’ she answered. She bent down and kissed it, giving it one last, fond look before moving her body up his, lining her hips up with his, and sinking herself slowly, ever so slowly, onto his cock. Even through a haze of lust and desire, Carver watched her face with concern, searching her features for any sign of discomfort – humans were much bigger than elves in pretty much every department, and the last thing he wanted was to cause her pain. She screwed up her nose in concentration as she sunk down, impaling herself on his shaft, but then her expression smoothed, and she smiled beatifically at him.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
She nodded.
Carver thrust into her gently, his hands on her hips to steady her. She leaned forward and placed her own hands around his strong, big arms, gazing at them admiringly; for Carver’s part, he simply admired the view. She was so wet and tight and hot, and it was everything he needed as well as everything he wanted. She moved her hips in time with his, undulating along with his thrusts, her little breasts wobbling ever so slightly; and Carver, gaining confidence, relaxing in the knowledge that he wouldn’t be hurting her, thrust harder, enjoying the sensations of her on him, enjoying having him inside her. He closed his eyes, thinking of his cum inside her pussy, and his own milky ooze seeping out of her wet elven slit. It drove him wild with desire, and he wanted nothing more than to fill her cunt up, fill her pussy with so much cum it would ooze out of her for days. He shouted and thrust harder, his eyes flying open to look at her; she was bouncing on top of him with a look of pure ecstasy on her face, and he knew he drove her crazy as much as she drove him crazy. Her eyes were on his flushed and sweaty chest, her own chest was shining with sweat, rising and falling rapidly with her gasps, and she was so beautiful Carver couldn’t stand it; he fucked her, hard. He came with a shout, pushing her down hard on him, thrusting deep into her pussy as he spurted. A little cry of ‘oh, Carver!’ escaped Merrill’s lips, and he thrust again and again, cock filling up her pussy with his hot wet cum until he was finally spent, and Merrill collapsed forward onto his chest. They lay like that, exhausted, sweaty, panting, unable to move or talk, until Carver's gradually softening cock eventually slid out of her pussy.
Eventually, Merrill rolled off him, lying on her side, her body flush against the flank of his torso, propping her head up on one skinny elbow to look at him.
‘Carver,’ she lilted happily. ‘That was beau-ti-ful.’
Carver, feeling happy but slightly sleepy, silently put his arms around her. He just wanted to hold her for a bit, to hold onto this feeling, the post-coital afterglow he shared with the woman he adored. To the outside world, they might be a templar and a blood mage, a human and an elf; but in this room, here and now, they were just Carver and Merrill, a man and a woman in love.
Merrill obliged him for a bit, but it seemed she had other ideas, wriggling out of his arms and sitting bolt upright by his head.
‘Although I don’t know if it’s a human thing,’ she carried on, as if they hadn’t just lain in silence in each other’s arms for a while, ‘but I am absolutely soaked down there. Look, Carver,’ and she turned to face her groin at him, which, Carver noted with satisfaction, was thick with white cum, ‘it’s just gushing out of me. How do you humans just produce so much?’
Carver chuckled. ‘I don’t know, Merrill. I’m not sorry for making a mess of your pussy, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Oh, no, not at all, ma vhenan,’ she said, ‘it’s just so – so – so gloopy! And so much of it! Elgar’nan,’ she scooped up a runny blob of it on her index and middle fingers and examined it, ‘I know you’re a big man, Carver, but where do you store all this stuff?’
Carver wasn’t sure what to say to that. ‘I – I don’t know, Merrill. Maybe some of us produce more than others?’ He felt himself blush, nervous now. ‘Is it – is it a bad thing?’
Merrill cocked her head, seemingly considering something else. She licked her fingers, a thoughtful expression on her face; even though they’d just fucked, Carver found himself going even redder at the gesture.
‘Erm… how do I taste?’ he blurted out.
Merrill nodded, sucking her fingers. ‘Good,’ she chirped, once she took her fingers out of her mouth. ‘I like it.’ Then she looked at him, and upon noticing his red face and ears, her face took on an expression of concern. ‘Oh, ma vhenan, I’m so sorry,’ she began, ‘I said something wrong again, haven’t I?’
‘No! No,’ he stuttered, feeling like he was nineteen years old again and tongue-tied in her company as usual. ‘You’ve said nothing wrong.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Oh! Right,’ she laughed. ‘That’s good.’
Carver, relaxing again, just smiled at her.
‘And this time I definitely haven’t missed something dirty, because we’ve just spent an afternoon doing dirty things.’
Carver laughed. ‘Yes, we’ve definitely been doing dirty things.’
‘I like doing dirty things with you very much, Carver.’
‘We can do them as often as you want, Merrill.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Me too.’
Merrill jumped off the bed, leaving a slight cum trail behind her. When she turned around, she had a slightly worried look on her face.
‘Carver, ma vhenan –’
‘What is it?’ Carver sat up.
Merrill twisted her hands in front of her breasts nervously, and took a deep breath. She looked a little afraid – maybe it was just nerves.
‘I know you – you probably won’t like this, so – don’t feel you have to say yes!’ she said, holding her hands up as if in protest, ‘– but I had been wondering,’ she went on, slowly, unsteadily, tentatively, ‘if – maybe one day – I could use magic in bed.’
Carver stared at her.
‘Not blood magic!’ she exclaimed. ‘Nothing dangerous, and nothing that will hurt you, I promise. It’s just that – Isabela said – she met Anders at some place called The Pearl in Denerim, and – well, there are things mages can do in bed apparently…’
‘Merrill.’ Carver exhaled, with a shaky laugh, partly out of relief and understanding, but partly to interrupt her before she could plant an image in his head of Anders and Isabela together. ‘Why would I not like it?’
Merrill looked at him as if he was stupid. ‘Because you’re a templar,’ she answered, and Carver really wished in that instant that he wasn’t, just so he could see the worried frown disappear from her face. ‘Because you’re a templar and magic is – well, templars are not supposed to like magic very much, are they?’
‘Templars are not supposed to hide the existence of apostate brothers and girlfriends either,’ Carver told her, ‘let alone willingly sleep with blood mages. It’s not as if I haven’t known all this time that you’re a mage, Merrill.’
Merrill relaxed again. ‘So – so you’d be OK with it?’
Carver considered it.
‘If Isabela says it’s worth trying, and I suppose as long as it’s safe, and not something the others will feel on me later back in the Gallows, then –’ He sat up straight. Maker, he thought, but why is she always so impossible for me to say no to, on anything? He took a deep breath again.
‘All right, Merrill. If that’s what you want. I trust you.’
Merrill smiled, relieved, and sidled her naked form into his lap. Carver automatically lifted his arms and put them around her; he could never resist an opportunity to touch or caress her – Maker knew there was so little opportunity to do so out and about in Kirkwall, with both of them being what they were – and leaned in to trace the vallaslin on her cheekbones with his lips.
‘Thank you, ma sa'lath,’ she whispered, leaning in to his body, nestling her face against the touch of his lips. ‘I won’t do anything you don’t feel uncomfortable with, I promise.’ She suddenly sat up straight, and clapped her hands. ‘I’ll ask Anders if he knows any dirty spells!’