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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 5 years

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Winner Takes All

A commission for @cullenvhenan: pure fluffy, sweet, smutty feelings between Josie and Cullen.

5,342 words, rated E.

“You’re trying to seduce me,” he murmured, raising his glass. Cullen hesitated, struck with nerves, with the possibility of being wrong, with the knowledge that he had just flung himself off a precipice to which he might not be able to return. Something somewhere around his navel clenched painfully tight. “Are—aren’t you?”

After his embarrassed, naked escape from the Herald's Rest following an eventful game of Wicked Grace, Cullen goes to Josie for his clothes and gets so much more than he bargained for.

Read on AO3 here

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“Never bet against an Antivan, Commander.”

Josie’s words rang in Cullen’s ear as he resolutely focused on his never-ending paperwork. The look of sheer delight on her face had sent a wave of heat—wholly unrelated to the drinks he’d been convinced to take—to burn across his cheeks; it had yet to abate, even an hour later, after their little group had disbanded to finish off the night on their own accord.

He stopped, struck by an overwhelming thought: had it been simply the light, or had Josephine’s eyes always been that deep, that molten as when she leaned across the table toward him?

A stiff, cold breeze snaked into his office to ruffle his work and interrupt his musings. Damn him, now his paperwork was askew, and he only had himself to blame for not securing the door against the night’s chill. Cullen’s frown grew only deeper as he corralled his paperwork, using nearby books to weigh down the stacks before striding to the door.

The chill stole beneath the thin barrier of his clothes, a sharp reminder of the loss of his fur surcoat and mantle. Josephine had set no terms to her taking his clothing and armor, and, fool that he was, Cullen gave no thought to it, either; he’d only focused on making it back to his tower office with as few people witnessing his embarrassed flight as possible.

“Josie is a reasonable, honorable woman,” he mused aloud, looking out at the fortress’ main body. “Surely she can be persuaded…” Cullen pondered the hour for a moment; they all had their work, the Inquisitor’s advisors, and each admitted—albeit reluctantly—to keeping late nights and early mornings to keep up with it all.

She’d be awake, Cullen concluded. It wasn’t unheard of for her to be working long after midnight. The matter settled, he stole into the night, taking care to properly close the door behind him before making toward the keep proper.

The rotunda was empty, with only sconces of magical veilfire to light his way. It always gave Cullen an uneasy feeling about his middle. He crossed the room with hurried steps, eager to get into the more earth-born light of the braziers of the Great Hall.

“Surprised to see you in public so soon, Curly. Here to listen to the show?”

Varric’s words caught him by surprise as he came through the door. Cullen turned to find Varric at his customary table, warmed by the low fire behind him. “The show?” Cullen asked.

“Give it a minute,” was the enigmatic reply. Varric returned to his writing under Cullen’s confused gaze.

“I need to—”

“I'm sure it can wait. You’re going to wanna hear this, I promise. Would I lie to you?”

“Frequently,” Cullen said, frowning, but he stayed at Varric’s insistence. “What exactly am I waiting for?”

Varric grinned. It reminded Cullen of a cat, one who knew where the cream was kept and only waited on its own terms. “You’ll find out soon, I expect.” Varric’s smile turned conspiratorial, flinty. “She plays after she’s had an exceptionally good day, I’ve noticed. And having witnessed her triumph in all its glory, I’d say today falls in that category, easy.”

Cullen shook his head. “You have the peculiar habit of opening your mouth and not actually saying anything.”

“So I’ve been told! It’s a writer thing,” Varric said, his laughter booming through the quiet hall. “It comes with the territory.” He cut off his own chuckles with a raised hand and, hushed, said, “Oh, here we go. Go on, get closer.”

He shooed Cullen toward the far side of the hall with a wave. Cullen followed, nonplussed; did the Inquisitor play an instrument in the middle of the night? Members of the night staff busied themselves as he passed, offering furtive glances at his muttered greetings.

Then he heard it—the trilling of strings, an eddying of music that seeped into the Great Hall. It wasn’t from the Inquisitor’s tower, he realized, but from the open door to the corridor that led to Josephine’s suite and the War Room.

“Oh,” he murmured under his breath, awed. It was beautiful, a slow-quick-slow melody that caught Cullen at his breastbone and pulled him forward. He slipped through the door and padded to the similarly open door of Josephine’s office, his booted footsteps providing a neat counter time to the melody.

She was laughing when he reached the door, bright peals of happiness that shone golden in Cullen’s imagination. He spied into the room as if compelled. Josephine sat on the edge of her desk, feet propped daintily on a chair, dressed only in a dark blue chemise and his fur mantle. A dark lacquered lute lay across her body as she plucked at its strings, hands moving in graceful concert. She hummed when she didn’t laugh, occasional words forming.

“You can come in, if you’d like, instead of spying through the door like a boy,” Josephine said, between one laugh and the next, turning her gaze to where Cullen stood. He pushed open the door shamefacedly.

“I didn’t—I mean, it wasn’t—good evening, my—Maker’s breath. Hello, Josie.”

“Good evening, Cullen.” Her hands stilled but she didn’t get up, eyeing him appreciatively. Her smile fanned an ember of heat in his gut. “What brings you so late?”

“I didn’t know you played the lute.” Cullen focused on the instrument, on the way her hands curled around its form. She shrugged; the elegant motion brought into stark focus the way her bare shoulders were clothed only by his mantle. He resolutely tore his eyes from the sight and shifted on his feet nervously.

“All the Montilyet heirs are masters of at least three instruments.” Josephine set the lute on the desk beside her and slid gracefully to her feet. “I prefer the violin, and I play the pianoforte, as well. Do you play an instrument?”

Cullen shook his head. “Never had the opportunity. Honnleath had an occasional minstrel visit, but we were—are—a farming village.” He sat at her invitation and watched as she moved to a nearby cabinet to produce glasses and a dark bottle of brandy. Cullen raised a brow.

Josephine smiled. “Nightcap?”

“At this hour?” he said, though he nodded all the same. The liquid shimmered like molten gold in the light.

“It’s night,” she defended with a laugh. Josephine handed him a short glass and clinked them together in a wordless toast before perching on the desk once more. “So what did bring you down from your tower, Commander?”

He sipped at his brandy and tried—and failed—to stifle a low groan of appreciation at the rich taste. Cullen cleared his throat at the burn that scorched across his face. “I, ah. I had hoped to see you if you were awake. You had said, before, that I am always welcome...”

“And here we are.”

“And here we are,” he echoed. Cullen watched the way her throat worked around a delicate sip of her drink. “I…” He trailed off when she shifted, the thin fabric of her gown falling lax over her lap to drape across her thighs.

And Maker, her thighs. And hips. And calves, bared to his gaze. And her upper chest, and her throat, and… Maker’s breath.

“Cat got your tongue, Cullen?” Josephine teased, and he blushed bright red, he could just feel it. She drained the last of her drink and set it down somewhere to her side. “Would you like a lesson?”

“A—a lesson?”

“On the lute.”

Cullen darted his gaze between Josephine’s face—Maker, don’t stare, he told himself, only at her face, she’s a lady— and the instrument in question. “Sure,” he said weakly, suddenly breathless at the way she moved from her perch. He scooted the chair backward at her instruction and let Josephine arrange him before draping the lute in his lap.

It could have been a wriggling, hungry dracolisk for all he cared. He wasn’t focused on the thing.

Josie stood behind him, leaning over him in a way that pressed her breasts against the blade of his shoulder. She took his hands and positioned them over the neck and body of the lute. “You play it like this,” she murmured as she flexed his fingers for him. Together they plucked out discordant chords and she smoothed them into something angling more toward musical. “See? Just like that.”

His mouth twisted in a slight frown as he stared down at their joined hands. Her fingers were so slender, so graceful compared to his own, rough from work. Cullen could feel the way a callous threatened her dominant hand, no doubt the result of her duties.

Cullen’s mind wandered without him. What would her fingers feel like dragging along his skin?

“—and see,” she murmured, her breath warm against the skin of his cheek, “this is how you would play this chord.” Josephine shifted his hand along the strings at the lute’s neck and tapped his free hand to strum. The noise came out closer to what it meant to be that time. “See? You have the idea. Just like that.”

“I always strive to be a quick study,” he said absently, warmed by her light praise. Cullen shivered when she stepped away.

“Another brandy?”

Cullen didn’t look up, instead plucked out another set of mostly-jarring notes. “Are you trying to get me drunk, my lady?”

“It’s brandy, Cullen. A man such as you…” she trailed off on a soft sigh.

He looked up. Josie’s hazel gaze raked over his body without shame. Cullen could feel the weight of her study, the way his skin felt too tight beneath his clothes, his blood rushing in his ears. “Such as me?” he prompted, tongue-tied and restless. Cullen set the lute carefully on the desk.

“...It would take more than a snifter or two of brandy to get you drunk, I would expect, even after a night such as this.” A blush stole over Josephine’s face and hit him like a punch to the gut. She busied herself in pouring out another drink and returning his somehow stolen glass. “To victories hard-won,” she murmured, tapping the rim of her glass against his.

Cullen watched from over the rim of his snifter as she draped herself along the edge of the desk once more. Maker, but she was graceful, fluid and lithe. And the way she stared back at him, a deep smile curling her mouth as she drank…

“May I be candid, Josie?” Cullen’s stomach clenched in knots.

She nodded and set her drink aside. “I would greatly appreciate it.”

His fingers shifted on his glass. He studied the way the brandy swirled in the snifter. “Sometimes, when you look at me… I’m not sure how to interpret that. If I should at all.”

Josie leaned forward. The neckline of her nightgown gaped with her movements, and the light played along the curves of her body. “Oh? And how does that make you feel?”

“...unsure.” The admission fought against the wariness that grew in his chest. Cullen resolutely kept his eyes on his glass as she settled. “I had misunderstood some things earlier in life, as a youth. Misinterpreted intentions. Hurt myself and—and my friend, with what I didn’t understand.”

Cullen searched Josie’s face, wishing he could divine her intentions from the curve of her smile and the brightness of her eyes. She urged him to continue with a wave of her hand. “You’ll say things, things I would expect to hear… elsewhere,” he hedged. “From someone else—to someone else—and…”

“And, Cullen?” Josie prompted, voice soft.

The words came out softer than he liked. Josie’s gaze turned sharp, focused, as it roamed his face. She slid from her perch and stood before him; a shrug had the fur of his mantle slip carelessly down her shoulders to catch at her elbows and reveal the creamy skin it had hidden.

Josephine raised a dark brow. “Is it working?”

The nerves that had knotted in his belly melted away. A bolt of heat lanced through him, blood rushing to his ears and pounding loudly. Cullen’s mouth went dry at the deliberate sway of Josie’s hips. He wanted to reach out; she was so close he could touch her, he could—

But he could, now, Cullen realized; she had all but admitted to her advances.

“Maker, yes,” he breathed, and the words brought a smile to Josephine’s face to rival any brilliant sunrise.

“Good,” she murmured. Josie stepped forward into the vee of his thighs and cupped his face in her hands, uncaring of the day’s growth that surely scratched against her soft palms. “I would hate for all this to have been in vain.”

Her mouth was silk-soft where it met his own, gentle in her demands. Cullen’s hands rose to her waist and she made a pleased noise that caught between them. Josie licked delicately at the seam of his mouth; he opened to her on a strangled whine.

The first slick touch of her tongue against his sent a rush of fire through his veins to pool at his groin. Josie tilted his head to plunder his mouth, her hands moving to clutch at his shoulders, and she pressed further into him, climbing into his lap as best as the chair would allow. Cullen gasped when she rubbed herself against the rapidly-growing hardness of his cock trapped within his breeches. Josie only seemed to become more insistent at the noise, biting at his bottom lip and rocking into him.

“Josie,” he groaned, hands lowering to grip tight on her hips through his stolen fur coat. He rutted into her, tentative in spite of her determined motions. Cullen felt the shape of her smile against his mouth. “Josie, wait—”

Josephine pulled back, eyes bright and hungry as they swept over his face. Cullen’s gaze caught on the plumpness of her mouth, the slick shine of her lips, the heaving of her chest. Her fingers squeezed at the meat of his shoulders.

“Yes?” she asked, voice husky, the sound of it going straight to his throbbing cock.

“I—I must confess something before this goes… wherever it goes.” His face flared up with a red-hot blush that almost distracted him from the way she shifted in his lap, pressing herself fully against his groin. Cullen struggled not to turn away from her gaze. “I’ve not done this very many times,” he explained, closing his eyes. “It was—a long time ago, the last time, and I fear... “

He trailed off, embarrassed. It has been since Kirkwall—before he was promoted to Knight-Captain under Meredith’s leadership and had every waking moment consumed by the weight and responsibilities of his position. He and another Templar had met only on two rushed, furtive occasions before risk and discomfort grew too great to ignore. Even before that, Cullen hadn’t had the opportunity, living in a dorm full of young men at Kinloch Hold, and yet another before that at the monastery at which he trained.

“How long, if I may ask?”

“Ah, some six, maybe seven years.” Josephine stilled at that, and his enthusiasm wavered. “I...” he tried, his hands lifting from her hips when she made no move to respond. “I don’t… If you don’t want...”

Josie searched his face, a frown pinching at her dark brows. “Cullen,” she murmured, “do you want this?” Her hand rose to gesture between them. “Truly want this, between us?”

Cullen’s mouth grew dry. “Yes,” came his breathy response. A slow smile curved across her lips. He couldn’t help the noise that escaped him when Josie leaned forward to take his mouth for her own, full, deep, and filthy in her possession.

“Then it doesn’t matter, all that came before,” she murmured against his lips. Josie nibbled at his bottom lip and pulled before releasing. “Come to bed?”

Cullen dipped his head to chase after the kiss. “Maker, yes.” His arms wrapped around the small of her back and in a smooth motion, he rose to his feet, one hand tucking under her arse and the other urging her legs to wrap around his waist. The quick motions jostled a startled laugh from her, breathy and high. Josephine clung to him as Cullen ate up the distance to her bedroom door.

They were a tangle of mouths and limbs by the time they hit the bed, Cullen sparing barely a thought to close the door behind them. Josie pushed him to recline against her pillows and his senses were filled with her—her scent, her touch, her taste, the sounds she made into his mouth. Cullen cupped her breasts in his hands, thumbs finding the stiff peaks of her nipples and rolling them gently between his fingers.

It was the right thing to do, he decided when she gave a broken moan and straddled his lap, the silk of her nightgown and his mantle riding up her thighs. Josie laid her hands over his own. She directed his movements, trailing their interlaced fingers over the thin fabric that separated them.

“Like this,” she gasped, arching into his touch. Cullen gave a tentative squeeze that grew sure at the noises she made. “Yesss,” she hissed.

Emboldened, Cullen leaned up and drew Josephine fully against him, one hand dropping to grip her hip when she rubbed against his clothed cock. His fingers teased at the hem of her gown before roaming to find her bare beneath the silk.

Josie rolled her hips and arched back, pulling a rough noise from Cullen’s throat. He bent his head to take one of her nipples into his mouth, licking through the fabric of her nightgown and pinching the other between his fingers. Josie’s hands flew to his head and she buried her fingers in the unkempt curls of his hair.

“Just like that.” Josie’s low moan grew sharp when Cullen scraped his teeth over her breast, catching on the pebbled nub. She tugged at his hair and the sensation sent a cascade of fire to sweep through him. His skin felt too tight, too hot under her, his clothes chafing and restrictive.

“Josie, Josie, Josie—”

He chanted her name like a prayer against her skin. Cullen’s hand at her hip tightened its grip as she bucked against him, and he could feel the heat of her core through the linen of his trousers as they rut together. He shifted to drag both hands under her gown to cup and squeeze the generous softness of her arse. “I—please,” Cullen begged, unsure of what exactly he was asking for, only knowing she could—and would—provide.

She only fumbled for his hand in answer. Josie urged Cullen to tip his head back with a tug on his hair, biting into his mouth at the same time she brought their linked fingers to slide down her belly to the vee of her thighs. He moaned around her tongue and brushed his thumb against the swollen bud of her clit. Cullen couldn’t help but buck into her at the way she trembled against him.

“More,” she demanded, hand tight around his own. Josie leaned back and directed two of his fingers to her slick entrance. They locked eyes. She shifted and impaled herself on his hand, never breaking eye contact.

Cullen had to bite his lip to keep from coming in his breeches just at that, from the feel of her tight cunt around his fingers. It took a moment but he found a rhythm in the grinding of her hips, stroking in time with her. They tumbled backward, still tangled Cullen braced his weight on his forearm beside her head, her dark hair spilling like ink across her sheets, and thrust his fingers harder into her yielding body.

He swallowed Josie’s cry, slotting his mouth across her own. His thumb stroked her clit as he curled his fingers to press against her walls. Her hands raked down his back, nails digging light furrows through his shirt. Josie shifted, legs spreading impossibly wide, wider, and suddenly she keened. Her pelvis rocked against his hand and urged him harder, faster.

“Just like that, just like that,” she groaned. Josephine trembled beneath him. “Dios mio, Cullen, more, more, more.”

He pulled away, earning a dismayed cry, before tugging her to the edge of the mattress. He knelt at the floor and caught her knees in his hands. “I want,” he started, watching her rise to lean on her hands, “I want to taste you.”

Josie parted her thighs and he gave a needful sigh at the sight of her, slick with need. He pulled her further toward him and draped her legs over his shoulders. Her heels pressed into his back in her insistence.

Cullen buried his head between her creamy thighs. His tongue traced over her folds, lapping up the musky wetness. It was surely clumsy, a motion he’d only read about in some of the pornographic books he’d confiscated during his tenure at Kirkwall, but he was eager to learn to please. Josie raked the fingers of one hand through his hair, twisting into a loose fist, and adjusted him. He sucked at her clit and brought his fingers back to delve into her cunt. Josie spasmed, her thighs tense against his neck.

“Again,” she demanded breathlessly, rubbing her clit against his mouth. He acquiesced, lips tight around the hard bud, pulling gently before lapping the flat of his tongue from her entrance to her clit. “Harder—Maker, Cullen, tesoro, please—!”

He eased a third finger inside her. It was an awkward angle but the shattered moan she gave was worth it. Cullen worked her clit with his tongue and pumped into her. His cock throbbed and ached, weeping into his smalls. He forced himself to ignore it and swirled the tip of his tongue in time to the thrust of his fingers.

Josie’s rocking grew steadily more erratic. Her heels dug painfully into his back and her thighs quaked. She clenched around his fingers, hot and wet and fluttery. Josie used his mouth, her hands holding him still as she ground her clit against his tongue. She shook and bucked and he could only fight to keep up.

Cullen chanced a look up her body. Her eyes were molten glass behind half-mast lids and her mouth twisted into a wordless cry. The fur of his mantle cascaded down her curves and something in him twisted. He doubled up his efforts, moving faster, harder, against her, pulling mewling moans from her with every twist of his hand.

The trembling of Josie’s legs suddenly turned into a full-body clench as she came, her calves trapping Cullen against her. Josephine bucked into his mouth, rubbing insistently along his tongue. Her cunt was a vise around his fingers and he worked her fluttering channel eagerly, matching her erratic movements as best as he could.

She slowed against him, chest heaving, and a tug at his hair urged him away. Cullen looked up to search her face, rosy and glowing and sweat-slick with pleasure. He opened his mouth to speak only to be cut off by another tug of his hair.

“I want to ride you wearing only your fur coat.”

She all but pulled him onto the bed. Her industrious fingers plucked at the belt and lacings of his breeches. Josie licked into his mouth and moaned, stealing the taste of herself from his tongue. “Yes?”

Cullen’s rough curse was smothered between them. He nodded emphatically and pulled off his shirt without thought. Cullen raised his hips to help her shimmy his breeches and smalls down his thighs. His face grew hot at the way Josephine watched when his cock sprang free, insistent and heavy against his stomach. A thick drop of precome welled at the tip under her gaze.

“Oh,” she said, softly, rocking back on her knees to just stare at him. Her hand rose to her mouth. “Cullen…”

Cullen dropped back from the heights of pleasure-induced mania and back into reality. He only barely kept himself from squirming; his hands curled into fists at his side. Cullen knew the map of his body, with its hills of scar tissue and valleys of gouged-out flesh healed over. A grotesque mimicry of the Order’s blazing sword lay burned into the center of his chest—a hard-won survival against the Desire demon that had tempted him at Kinloch and changed his life forever. She— it— took what was most holy to him and made it an abomination. It was not a perfect recreation anymore; Cullen had picked and scratched and torn at his healing skin in his madness, unwilling to let even the feeblest of healers attend to his hurts after the Warden set the Circle to rights again.

Cullen watched Josephine’s face, waiting for the inevitable—disgust, sometimes, pity most often. His heart hammered in his throat. He should leave, his nerves screamed, loud like alarm bells in his ears. Josie traced her eyes over the network of scarring across his chest and shoulders. His stomach threatened to crawl to his ankles.

“You’re so beautiful. May I?” Her hand stretched out to just above his skin, close enough to feel the warmth of her fingers. He nodded and gave a strangled whimper at her touch.

She was careful in the way her fingertips skirted the edges of the worst of it. Her other hand came to rest on his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles into the skin there as she explored. “Do they hurt?” Josie asked, half-fascinated in her quiet study.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “They ache sometimes, but other injuries demand my care and attention more often. The worst of it is the sword.” Cullen hesitated. “The life of a Templar is not exactly how I had imagined it as a boy. But the scars themselves do not hurt when touched,” he hurried to add when she lifted her hand away. He grabbed her wrist, pinning her hand to his abdomen. “Josie, I… Please, don’t stop.”

She bent down to brush her lips against his own in a whisper-soft kiss. “Only if you promise me to say if they hurt,” Josie murmured. “One word and we can stop.”

Cullen brought his hands to burrow into the loose waves of her hair. “I promise.” He urged her closer, deepening the kiss once more.

The mattress shifted as Josie moved, draping herself so that they touched everywhere, chest to chest, hip to hip. He swore into her mouth at the drag of silk against his cock when she rolled her pelvis. Any flagging that had happened with the thoughts of the past quickly resolved itself and he throbbed, hot and aching, trapped between them.

“Josie,” he gasped out. She pulled back, rising to her knees, and he followed. Cullen let his hands drift intently up her body, memorizing every curve and dip and hollow as he did. Gently, he pushed the fur of his mantle off her shoulders and let it pool around them in a soft hush.

Josephine, with a deep, pleased smile, pulled at the hem of her nightgown. Cullen’s cock twitched unconsciously at the reveal of her thighs, at the way the silk dragged up the soft skin of her belly. She pulled it up over her head and in half a breath she was wholly bare to him. Josie tossed the garment aside, uncaring of where it landed.

“Andraste’s grace, you are… You are exquisite.” Cullen let his hands wander, no longer kept away by the shield of her dress. His fingers smoothed over the lines of her arms, her ribs, her hips, everywhere at once. She rubbed against the muscles of his thighs, her own trembling. Cullen could feel the hot slick of her arousal where they touched.

“Less talking and more action, Commander,” she said breathily. Josie pulled the mantle back on; the coat, many sizes too big, cascaded around her like water. “That’s what you say during our meetings, isn’t it?” Her gaze raked along Cullen’s body with a nearly predatory gleam.

His hands rose to her hips and she pushed him flat. Josephine straddled his hips with a pleased noise and rocked against the hard line of his cock. He watched, fascinated and breathing heavily, as she worked him with short, teasing strokes against her mound. A deep pink flush stole across her face and he rutted into her, hands tight where they cupped her hips.

“Josie, I—nngh!”

She groaned his name, low and deep. Josie leaned forward on her knees. With a deft hand, she aligned him under her, stopping just short of breaching. She swore in rushed Antivan. “Still a yes?” Josephine asked, searching his face. “Because we—”

He pulled her down and swore as he entered her. Cullen quickly slid a hand between them to hold himself, pinching at the base to stave off an embarrassingly early end. Josephine settled herself in Cullen’s lap, slowly taking him to the hilt.

“Oh,” she moaned, her voice like honeyed thunder. “Oh, Cullen, yes, yes, yes.”

When she began to move Cullen saw stars.

Cullen raked his fingers over her thighs as she rode, lifting herself above him only to fall again in long, sinuous movements. Every thrust into her threatened to be his last and he could only hope to last long enough. Josie ground into his lap with every downstroke and murmured his name under her breath.

It was dizzying. He shifted beneath her, bending his knees plant his feet into the forgiving mattress. Cullen dug his fingers into her hips with bruising force and thrust into her tight sheath. “Josie,” he gasped out, gutted, the word more a wounded noise than a proper name. She bent to brace herself against his shoulders and pushed back into every thrust, driving him deeper with every roll of her hips.

He gave a strangled whine. “I—I can’t, I’m going to—”

Josephine shuddered atop him and arched backward over his knees. Her hand delved between her thighs to stroke her fingers quickly over her clit. “Come for me, Commander,” she demanded. “Come, Cullen.”

Cullen groaned. He bucked into her with a handful of faltering thrusts until the clenching of her cunt swept him over the edge. Cullen gave a low, drawn-out moan as he came, clutching her tightly to him and burying himself as deep as he could. She followed shortly after with a triumphant shout that echoed on the walls, squeezing tight around him as she shook.

Josie collapsed against him, gasping for breath, hot and sweaty and wearing a satisfied grin. Cullen panted into her hair and wrapped his arms tight around her back over the fur coat.

“Maker,” she laughed, shaky and light, “why haven’t we done this before?” Josephine peppered his face with puckish kisses and nipped playfully at his chin. “We shall simply have to make up for lost time.”

He swore under his breath at the hungry edge to her words. “Give me a minute,” he muttered with a smile. “Need to catch my breath, but then I’m all yours.”

“Just a minute, then.” Josie dragged her fingers over his pecs to tease at his nipples. “I intend to hold you to that.”

Cullen raised his hand to cup her cheek. “You can hold me however you’d like, my lady.” His thumb brushed the kiss-swollen edge of her bottom lip. “For as long as you’d like.”

Her happy laugh trilled between them, only to be lost in another kiss that bled into the next, and the next, and the next.

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 5 years

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Mutual Pining [4/?]

March’s monthly story, as voted on in my Patreon poll. Posted late due to health complications last month.

Check out my Patreon and consider joining my private Discord server to hang out!

Title: Mutual Pining Relationships: Templar!Carver Hawke/Merrill Rating: E for eventual smut (will be marked) Summary: 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.

Notes: set somewhere in Act 2, and Carver’s been a Templar now a year and a half or so. Turns out, it might did end up longer than seven parts, these two keep surprising me.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

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“—and this is halla beard, but you might know it as goat’s beard,” Merrill chirped from her seat on the tree branch. Carver watched while she gathered up the stringy stuff. “It’s good for blood clotting and fevers and other things.”

“Is it good for keeping elves from falling out of trees?” he muttered, eyeing her critically.

She turned, a confused frown on her face, and wobbled, almost pitching herself off the branch entirely. Carver tensed and readied to catch her but she found her balance almost as quickly as she had lost it.

“What was that, Little Hawke?” she asked breathlessly.

Carver shook his head. “Nothing, Merr.”

“Oh, look, the spruce tips are ready, too! Here, catch these.” She dropped her current haul and stretched to pluck at the bright green branch tips around her. “These are good for food, you know,” she said absentedly, concentrating as she climbed up the tree in search for the best of the bundled needle-like leaves. “Makes an excellent tea, or added to salads. We sometimes pickle them in vinegar with honey and water. Delicious!”

He caught the tips as she tossed them down. “Wouldn’t it be better to collect more from each tree? Less climbing around and stuff.”

She shook her head and dropped down from the branches. “You don’t want to over-harvest,” she said. “We all have to live on what the forest gives us. Taking too much from one tree or bush could hurt it.”

He hummed noncommittally. Much different than farming; he remembered working for their neighboring homestead after his own household chores and the way the old widow would yell, reminding him and Eli to harvest and weed until the bare earth showed its scars. Ah, Ferelden.

Carver rolled his shoulders as Merrill peeked into the basket, rearranging her planty treasures. Satisfied, she retrieved their lunch from her travel bag, neatly slicing into the hard chunks of sausage and cheese before sharing.

“I can’t wait to get to the grove,” she said around a mouthful of sausage. “Varric says he got the original map from one of the Sabrae hunters a while back. I want to see what’s there!”

“You’ve never been to the place?” Carver couldn’t help the nervous falling of his stomach. She’d used string to find her way around Kirkwall for years, after all, and that was in a pretty straightforwardly-built city. There were only so many ways to get lost among all those stairs. A forest was a much easier place to get turned around and lost for days.

“It’s just the woods, Little Hawke. I know how to find my wa— Oh, listen, do you hear that? Sounds like a thrush!”

He shook his head as she rose to her feet and crept toward the birdsong, lunch forgotten. Ah, Merrill, he thought, smiling. Never change.

Carver watched her. She smiled, and laughed, and was animated in ways he rarely saw in Kirkwall. Rarely saw period, now, but especially in Kirkwall. She always seemed to breathe easier on the road in his memories.

“It looks like it’s going to rain tonight,” Merrill called over her shoulder. She pointed up through the tree canopy. “See those clouds coming in? They remind me of pregnant halla, all fat and heavy.”

He squinted up at the sky and the dark cloud layer rolling in before stowing her baskets. “We should get going, then. You said we’re only a couple hours away, right? Hopefully we’ll get there before the worst of it hits.”

Merrill bounded over to him, a handful of pale blue blossoms in hand. She slipped them into the top basket and Carver helped her shrug back into her pack, shuffling it against her back. “What are those good for?” he asked, picking up his own bag.

“Oh! Um.” She met his eyes, her own wide in surprise, and looked away, a blush stealing over her face. “They, um. They’re my favorite shade of blue.” Merrill took a deep breath and walked further into the forest. “It reminds me of you,” she said in a rush, not looking back.

He stood there, dumbly, hands still working on the clasps of his coat. “It what?”

—

They weren’t a mere two hours away from their destination, as luck (and a likely/definitely skewed map) would have it. The sky dumped buckets down on their heads well into the evening and soaked them to the bone, even despite the thick canopy overhead.

They came into a small clearing--no more wide than Carver’s bedroom at the estate, really, but big enough for maybe their tents and a fire, if they were careful. He scrubbed his hands down his face. “This better be it,” he grumbled.

They ducked into the less-drenched shelter of a tree before Merrill carefully retrieved her map, reading by the light of a ball of magelight hovering at her shoulder. “Looks like it! We should set up camp, I don’t know that we’ll get anything useful done tonight. Maybe the rain will stop soon.”

Carver peered up at the sky with a scowl and threw down his pack. ”I’ll set up the tents, you check for a source of fresh water. We can use the camp pot for rainwater, if it comes down to it, I guess.” Merrill created another ball of magelight and then scarpered off, shedding her pack far more gracefully than he did on her way.

“And don’t fall or slip or anything!” he called after her as she disappeared into the night, only to see a blithe hand-wave in response. “Right, tents. Get a move on, Carver.” He quickly untied the oilcloth coverings of their packs to retrieve the folded canvas tents—

And paused, brow furrowed.

No. No, no, no.

Carver pawed through his pack. It was big, and heavy, and that weight had been reassuring up until a minute ago. He set aside a neatly-corralled expanse of canvas, wrapped alongside the ropes and short sticks that would help make up most of the frame. A bundle of cloth laid beneath it, and when he messily unwrapped it he found Bela’s hip flask, a parcel of cookies, other sundry provisions, and a note.

“Dear Carver, get bent. Enjoy the tent! Heh, that rhymed, who’d’ve thought? Anyway. Love, Eli,” it said in blocky handwriting.

The ink dragged across the page and a new script, light and practiced, sprawled over the page.

“Ignore Eli, get Merrill bent, and maybe you’ll both feel better. Have fun! And don’t do anything I wouldn’t! Rum, Bela. (Rum’s better than love, don’t you think? More fun, anyway.)”

Carver crumpled the note--and its unsurprisingly juvenile sketch--in his fist and stared at the half-strewn traveling bags with growing horror-tinged embarrassment. He should have known better to assume any sort of goodness from those two, they were worse than magpies when they put their devious minds to something.

“I found the stream, just like the map said! We’ll be set!”

He gurgled something in response, fist pressed to his mouth for a moment. “Good, fine, good,” he called back. “Everything’s good. Yep. Good, good, good.” Carver mentally prepared a to-do list for the minute he got back to Kirkwall, with one highlighted, bullet-pointed item:

Absolutely murdering his sibling.

“Little Hawke?”

He would deny until his dying day acknowledgement of the squeak that burst from him at her silent arrival. “Everything’s good!” he said in a rush. “Good, good, good.”

Merrill tilted her head and looked at him, nonplussed. “Of course it is. Here, I’ll help!”

Together they set up their shelter, with the only hangup being finding fallen branches long enough to use as tent poles. Carver finished up tying the last of the knots to secure the canvas as she stowed their supplies.

“I don’t think Eli packed us the right tent,” Merrill said from within. She poked head out through the door flaps. “It’s a bit small. We’ll have to snuggle.”

What.

“Come on,” she said, when he hesitated too long. “It’s cold and wet out there, and soon to be warm and a bit drier in here. I can set a rune under us and keep the tent warm through the night, don’t worry! You won’t freeze, I promise!”

Her earnestness brought him back to the present. Carver shook his water-drenched bangs from his eyes. “Sure, sure. Wait, you can do that?”

Merrill laughed. “Of course! Why do you think Bela always wanted to share with me when we would be on the road together? I know how to do a lot of things,” she said, and her smile was a bit too sharp for her words, but he didn’t have the time to puzzle it out. Merrill pulled him inside, muddy boots and all, and tied the flaps closed against the rain. Her light hovered at the peak of the tent and bathed her in soft, silvery-blue hues.

“Watch,” she said, before crouching down and pulling back the ground cover. Merrill sketched some design into the loamy earth, something he couldn’t quite follow, and slapped her hands against it with a delighted smile. Soon enough steam rose from the ground, drifting lazily through the air as the tent began to warm.

“....huh,” was all he could say. That would have made years of adventuring with their band of misfits easier. “I figured Bela liked to share with you for, uh, other reasons,” he muttered thoughtlessly, shaking his head, and he clapped his hand to his mouth when he heard the words out loud.

Merrill laughed, bright and bubbly, though, so he didn’t make her mad. “Oh, she did,” she agreed sagely, “but I think it was mostly because we both hate being cold. Much easier to sleep when you’re warm, right? I always thought so, at least!”

….Right. Thinking about anything but that. Nope, very studiously ignoring… that.

“And the tent isn’t going to catch fire or anything in the middle of the night?” he asked instead, bringing the conversation back to something safe. Like a tent fire. Like a tent fire inadvertently caused by his mage companion, who so graciously cast some sort of spell to keep them warm, for his comfort.

Great going, Carver. Way to stick your foot waaaay in there.

“Nope,” she replied, thankfully oblivious to his inner monologue and unintended insult. Merrill patted the groundsheet back into place and layered their bedding together into a thick pallet. “Won’t get hot enough to do that. It really just takes the edge off; it’s not like making a fire, more like… oh, like warming the blankets before you crawl into bed. The rune heats the earth below us to help insulate against the cold, which heats the tent a little, and our bedrolls will help trap that warmth to us. Most of the work will still be body heat, though.”

“Smart.” Carver turned away and began to peel off his layers. He was halfway through unbuttoning his vest when he caught her watching, unabashed. Carver blushed. “Do you mind?” he huffed.

“Hm? Oh!” She shook her head and turned her attention elsewhere. “Sorry. Modesty. What a strange idea!”

“Is it… not a thing with the Dalish?” he asked over his shoulder, hands stilled on his buttons.

“Not really.” He could hear her shuffling, then the sound of wet leathers. Carver trained his eyes, both physical and mental, to the canvas wall ahead of him. “Everyone has a body. They’re made for all sorts of things; work, play, pleasure—” Merrill’s voice stumbled for a second before righting itself again “--all very natural things. Nothing I, or anyone else, hasn’t seen before, so why spend the energy being shy and secret about it?”

“...huh,” he said, the word strangled in his throat. “Right. Well. Okay. I’m going to… get ready for bed now. So don’t look.”

She sighed behind him, and he could swear he heard a soft “you silly thing” in her gentle lilt but a quick peek over his shoulder showed her turned toward her own wall, busy with her bedtime preparations. Carver quickly traded his soaked clothing for a light tunic and a suspiciously soft pair of pants--Bela’s influence, no doubt.

Merrill’s penchant for fondling soft, touchable fabrics was well known, and Bela had been trying to “help” Carver “woo” Merrill for ages.

He added “murder the pirate” to his to-do list.

“Oooh, soft,” Merrill cooed quietly, as if on cue. Carver swallowed down a sudden rush of nerves and turned to find her, fully dressed, even, clad in a light shift. Her fingers crushed the fabric and she looked like the happiest damn person he’d ever seen in that moment. “Feel this,” she insisted, and closed the distance between them to thrust the material into his hands. “Isn’t it so pretty?”

He tentatively rubbed at the fabric and found that, yes, it was delightfully soft, something like a mix of silk and the lightest cotton he had ever felt. He also found that its hemline crept up her thighs when she wound his fingers into the cloth. Carver dropped his hands as if scalded.

“It’s really nice.” Like you, he almost said, and it was like another voice was in his mouth, trying to come out. It suits you. Now please take it off.

Fucking Maker, the earth could swallow him whole anytime now.

She smiled, and for a horrified moment he worried he had spoken it all out loud. “It's new! It's a gift,” she said, “from—”

“--From Bela,” he supplied with a groan, to which she nodded. Of course it was. Of course! “I’m going to die,” Carver muttered under his breath when she stepped away.

“What was that?”

“I said I’m going to bed, goodnight.” Carver all but dove into the combined bedroll. He rolled to his side and situated himself to give as wide a berth as possible for her. They’d shared a tent before but never like this.

Don’t make it fucking weird, he told himself.

Despite his good efforts, the bed was still somehow small enough that she plastered herself along his back after extinguishing her light. “We’ll have to snuggle,” Merrill reminded him, words muffled against his shoulder. “Body heat.”

“Right.” His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. “Should I roll over?”

“If you want.”

“Okay…” They shuffled until he was on his back and Merrill curled up into his side like she belonged there.

Blood mage, blood mage, his heartbeat reminded him. The warning had been loud in his mind before but now it was new once more, a vision of Knight-Commander Stannard’s rage-mottled face blistering into his mind’s eye.

“Remember to uphold the duties and values of the Order, even on your days off,” Rutherford’s phantom voice urged him.

Carver Hawke, who had shielded mages from Templars all his life, wrapped his arm around Merrill’s thin shoulders with a mental fuck you to the Gallows and let the sound of her pleased sigh send him to sleep.

====

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

#Carver Hawke #Merrill #Carvill #DA2 #Dragon Age 2 #fic: mutual pining #eventual s/mut #soulrebel writes: patreon #reblogs and likes are appreciated and welcome!#thank you!#this chapter ended up being longer than the last two combined #whoops #but I couldn't find a natural place to break it up!#whoops pt 2 #ocean writes

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 5 years

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Mutual Pining (3/7)

March’s monthly story, as voted on in my Patreon poll. Posted late due to health complications last month.

Check out my Patreon and consider joining my private Discord server to hang out!

It only had one tent.

Notes: set somewhere in Act 2, and Carver’s been a Templar now a year and a half or so. Turns out, it might end up longer than seven parts, these two keep surprising me.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

“You don’t have to come. I mean, if you don’t want to. You don’t have much time to spend in town and I’m sure you didn’t plan on spending a week in the middle of the woods…”

Carver nursed his mug of strong tea and took the pastry Merrill offered. He glanced back at his pack, which was so lovingly, and thus suspiciously, packed by his sibling and Isabela. She swore it had everything he needed, that she made sure of it.

“Don’t worry,” he said, only half a groan. Was the sunshine always so bright in the morning? He emptied his mug and poured another from the kettle Merrill had thoughtfully prepared. “Not like I have anything better to do this week.”

She stilled and he mentally kicked himself.

He could have just as easily said something like “Sure, Merrill, I have loads of free time, let’s go do whatever you’d like,” or “it beats being at home with the lovebirds.” Even something simple, like “I like the woods” would have been better. But no, he had to go and hurt her feelings, like an asshole.

Shit, what a way to start the day. He wanted to spend the time with her, he did. Carver had angled for any time with her he could get almost since the day they’d met... but Merrill was a friend--and a mage, and Carver had been a Templar now for over a year and a half. He had long accepted nothing coming of the crush he’d harbored; she was a good friend and that was enough.

But damn, of all the ways he could ruin this rare and impromptu stretch of alone time with Merrill, Carver didn’t expect “complaining and hungover while still at her house” before it even started to be it.

“Oh,” was all she said, softly.

Carver scowled into his tea.

“Lucky me, then, I guess, that you have the time.” Merrill belted herself into a knee-length coat and pulled a kerchief over her head, smoothing it over her hair and ears to ward off the chill of the autumn morning air. “You ready?”

He chugged his mug of too-hot tea and pulled on his heavy traveling pack. She gave him a distracted smile and strapped on her own pack, and they made their way out of the city.

---

She was uncharacteristically quiet on the journey. Not even her thin boots made much noise in the early morning, softly scuffing over the dirt and gravel of the Lowtown streets and then the dirt and gravel on the roads out of Kirkwall.

It didn’t get much better as the day wore on. They took a bend that drew them away from the expected shadow of the Sundermount and toward the wider Vimmark peaks, following the directions of a map frequently unrolled, consulted, and tucked once more into her belt. Even their lunch was a muted affair, another tin of Orana’s meat pasties from the night before eaten at the edge of a small stream.

“So where exactly are we heading?” Carver finally asked as the sun began to set. The road was long behind them and now they worked through a plain of hip-high grasses. Merrill stopped every few feet, carefully pinching off flowering stems between her fingers and handing them to him to lay in one of the woven baskets strapped to her back.

“Oh, there’s a grove up… well, somewhere, in the mountains.” She handed him another handful of plants before taking out her map again—one of Varric’s, Carver saw, familiar heavy script flowing over the rolled page. Her fingers walked over the thin lines and her gaze flickered from the map to the world around them and back again.

“Oh, we’re closer than I thought! Look,” Merrill said and turned to him, thrusting the map in his hands. She pointed out a sketched ring of trees toward the northeast. “See, here’s where we want to be, and here—” she traced her fingers back along a winding path through the mountains “—is where we are.”

“Merrill, this looks less like a map and more like a sketch I pawned off on Bethany to find ‘buried treasure’ with as a kid.”

Carver’s throat all but caved in as he spoke. His hands clenched at his side and threatened to crush the greens clutched in his fists. Bethany. He didn’t talk about her in the years since… everything... and he does now? Almost two years into Templarhood?

Would she understand, if she were here?

“Oh! Did she?” Her eyes were round, impossibly wide as she looked up at him. “Did you two find anything?”

He swallowed it down. “Just worms. Eli and Father used them and caught some trout. Mother nearly skinned us alive for the state of our clothes.”

Merrill smiled at that, the first of the day. “That sounds fun,” she said, a touch wistful. “Eli’s told me about her. She sounds really lovely, I’m sure I would have liked her.”

He huffed a short laugh and ignored the ache in his chest. “Yeah, I bet you would,” he agreed distantly. “Why don’t we—You said we’re close?”

She nodded. “We’re only a day or so away from the grove, I think. We should make camp here. Ooh, the stars will be so pretty, don’t you think?” Merrill looked up expectantly, urging the night’s stars to peek through the blazing sunset.

Carver only studied her face, tracing her small smile with his eyes. “Yeah, Merrill,” he said, “yeah.”

—

“Little Hawke?” Her hand brushed his arm and his hair stood on end along the path of her fingertips.

Carver stirred, blinking past the barely-there call of sleep. He turned in his bedroll to look at her in the scant moonlight. “Yeah, Merr?”

She chuckled. “Merr. I like that.” Her hand lingered where it laid on his forearm. “I wanted to say thank you for coming with me. I like having the company on these trips, and Bela’s been busy lately.”

“Yeah, Eli’s been eating up a lot of her time, among other things.”

He could hear the furrow of her brow in her voice. “...Does Isabela cook? I can’t imagine her and Orana working well together…”

Carver snorted. “Maker, no. Can you imagine it? What would she even make?”

“She burnt the tea when she last stayed over,” Merrill confided with a giggle. “I’m still not sure how she did that.”

“A woman of many talents, surely.”

“She is. Bela’s my best friend, you know,” she said, “and so helpful. Bela even helped me make sure I had enough room in my travel bag for my baskets when she walked me home last night! With you coming with me to help, I can gather so many more flowers and herbs!”

“Yeah, she’s—” Carver stopped, suddenly fully awake, and suddenly very suspicious. “Really helpful, isn’t she?”

“She is! Did she help you?”

“No—Eli did. Insisted on it, said they were soberer than me last night. I fell asleep almost as soon as we got home. Bela said she double-checked their work, though.”

“What a helpful sibling. I wish I…” She trailed off and drummed her fingers along Carver’s arm almost absentmindedly. “My family…”

Carver moved his arm to take her hand in his own. “Hey,” he said, “hey. You’ve got us. I know it’s not the same, but it’s something, right?”

Please say it’s something.

“Yeah,” Merrill murmured. He could just barely see the curve of her smile beside him. “I’ve got you, don’t I?”

===

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

#Carver Hawke #Merrill #Carvill #DA2 #Dragon Age 2 #fic: mutual pining #eventual s/mut #soulrebel writes: patreon #reblogs and likes are appreciated and welcome!#thank you!#ocean writes

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 5 years

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Mutual Pining (1/7)

March’s monthly story, as voted on in my Patreon poll. Posted late due to health complications last month.

Check out my Patreon and consider joining my private Discord server to hang out!

Title: Mutual Pining Relationships: Templar!Carver Hawke/Merrill Rating: E for eventual smut (will be marked) Summary: A week of shore-leave turns into an impromptu camping trip with Merrill, and Carver makes the mistake of not checking when Isabela and his sibling help pack the bags. It has all the essentials, Bela swore, except for one thing:

It only has one tent.

Notes: set somewhere in Act 2, and Carver’s been a Templar now a year and a half or so.

[Part 1]

===

Carver was halfway onto the boat with the handful of other knights when Rutherford’s voice rang out over the docks.

“Remember to uphold the duties and values of the Order, even on your days off,” the Knight-Captain said, eyes tight in the dying daylight. “You are still Templars of the Chantry, and I expect you to comport yourselves accordingly. I’d best not to hear any complaints about the lot of you during your leave.”

The warning settled heavily on the cool air. Rutherford was considered fair, and maybe he was, compared to their Knight Commander, but he was still a tight-ass and ready to ream his subordinates for anything even mildly ‘unbecoming,’ no matter how small the infraction.

Maker, that man needed a vacation. When was the last time he took leave from this marble and steel prison?

Rutherford uncrossed his arms but it didn’t look like anything unclenched. Poor bastard. “Maker watch over you all. I’ll see you back on duty in a week.”

Diligent murmurs of Yes, Knight-Captain swirled into the cool air. Carver gave a quick salute and rolled his shoulders before taking an oar. The creaking boat sped through the calm waters of the bay toward Kirkwall proper.

He focused on the burn in his shoulders. Good, honest work, different from hauling his weight around and hitting dummies in the training yard, better than being a tin escort for the young apprentices going to and fro around the campus. It reminded him of Ferelden, which in turn reminded him of his sibling and mother, which reminded him of—

He couldn’t think of her, of any of them, not yet. Not while still in Templar-mode and with Cullen’s eyes on his back.

The Kirkwall docks soon came into view, its lanterns growing brighter as the boat approached. A quick tie off and a rope ladder later, Carver waved to the boatswain as she set back off for the Gallows before turning to find Varric waiting for him.

Maker, he was a sight for sore eyes, a welcome friend after a month of the shit that was the Gallows.

“Hey there, Junior,” Varric called jovially, and just like that, he ruined it. Carver grumbled but let himself be pulled into a one-armed hug. “Still as surly as ever, I see.”

You’d be, too, if you worked the Gallows, Carver bit back. He chose this, he reminded himself. Chose it for Mother, and for Hawke, and for their cadre of assorted misfits that Hawke seemed to adopt like motherless ducklings and left behind on the Deep Roads expedition.

He might hate his job, but what he earned had paid for the back-taxes and bills for the Amell estate when Hawke was presumed lost. Had paid for supplies for Anders’ clinic and the Ferelden refugee cooperative. Had helped furnish Merrill’s small home in the alienage. Had even grudgingly bought a monthly tab for Gamlen at the Hanged Man, as loathe as Carver was to admit to the deed.

It was work, and he was good at it, even when he loathed it.

He grunted, instead, and let Varric take up his pack. “Damn, it’s good to be back,” Carver sighed as they set up for Hightown, “even if it’s Kirkwall.”

“It’s a shithole, sure, but at least it’s our shithole, eh? Come on; ditch the rust bucket you call armor and get on down to the Hanged Man. It’s Wicked Grace night, and I know you’ve got a fresh pocket of coin to lose.” Varric laughed at Carver’s agonized groan. “Oh, don’t give me that. If you’d just take my advice once in a while, you wouldn’t lose so badly.”

“The last time I took your advice, I found myself on my ass and up to my ears in dragon shit,” Carver said drily, “so excuse me for being cautious.”

“I dunno, kid--it worked just fine for me. Maybe you should clean your ears more often, to better get the full experience of my melodious voice.”

Carver shoved him and Varric laughed again. It was a pleasant sound, at least, and it wasn’t as sharp as it used to be, not as grating when directed his way. Maybe it was just him, or maybe it was all of them, but it felt like progress. The thought was a comforting warmth against the chilly air.

They gossipped--well, Varric did, in that way of his where he makes you feel like he’s doing you a favor for telling you something you’d find on the street a half-pace away. Soon enough the arbor gate of the Amell estate loomed tall over them.

“Home, sweet home,” Varric chuckled behind him. He set Carver’s oiled canvas traveling bag down on the front step. “Now come down to the Hanged Man, we’ll all catch up.” He paused and said with a sly grin, “Merrill said she’ll be there.”

Carver felt himself flush red-hot in the lantern light and ducked his head. “I’ll wrangle Eli and drag them with me. See you in a bit.” He chucked his hand against Varric’s shoulder, perhaps a touch harder than absolutely necessary, before taking up his bag and striding into the manse.

He was home now, it was safe to think of them. Merrill, Eli, Merrill, Anders, Merrill.

Merrill, Merrill, Merrill. His sibling and Anders could both shove it.

He waved a rushed greeting to his mother and trudged up the stairs, fighting the urge to strip away his armor with every step. Carver immediately shucked it all as soon as he entered his room; he traded it for a set of loose trousers and a tunic and threw on his father’s furred vest, heavy and solid in its quiet enchantments. The whole setup was familiar, comfortable. They told him he was home, far away from the stomach-turning dread that was the Gallows.

Well. Whatever. Carver had a week at home and he wasn’t going to spend it thinking about that place.

“Oi, jerkface,” he called as he walked out of his bedroom and made his way down the hall to Eli’s door. He knocked and spoke through the heavy oak. “You going to the tavern?”

A muffled oath and some rustling came from inside. “Carver!” Isabela cooed. “Welcome home, baby bird!”

“Oh, shove off with that,” he grumbled. “Drinks?”

She laughed and came to the door, wrapped in a sheet and face flushed. “Why don’t you go off without us? We’ll be down in a few--”

“Twenty!” came Eli’s disgruntled voice.

“--twenty minutes or so.”

“Disgusting,” Carver said blandly, rolling his eyes. “Don’t get your happiness everywhere, it makes us all wanna gag.”

“Don’t worry, brother mine,” Eli said, and Isabela laughed. “We’ll be sure to be blissfully miserable by the time we get down there.”

He turned away, shaking his head. He was glad for Eli and Isabela, he was--Maker knew one Hawke had to be happy in life, and he would defend his sibling in everything--but did they have to be so blatantly, stupidly obvious in their affection? Gross.

Carver made his way downstairs. He had better places to be.

===

[Part 1]

#Carver Hawke #Merrill #Carvill #Dragon Age 2 #DA2 #fic: mutual pining #eventual smut #soulrebel writes: patreon #reblogs and likes are welcome and appreciated!!#thank you!#ocean writes

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 5 years

Link

Hi friends!

I’ve posted a public update to my Patreon page, outlining some minor changes to pledge tiers.

The snapshot:

I've changed up my tiers! You may recall that I had three tiers: Proud Patron ($1+), which entitled patrons to all my patron-only posts; Fiction Fanatic ($5+), which entitled patrons to a monthly ficlet and priority placement for prompts; and Writing Wizard ($10+), which acted as a discount for 10% off my commission rates. All these tiers also allowed for patron-exclusive channels on my Discord server.

Well, I've changed that up a tad! I restructured the tiers as such:

Proud Patron ($1+): allows access to all patron-only posts and priority placement for prompts.

Fiction Fanatic ($5+): all the benefits of the previous tier, and entitles patrons for a monthly ficlet of up to 500 words long, as compliant with my commission information.

I've eliminated the Writing Wizard tier entirely. I might choose to offer periodic discounts in the future, but as this one wasn't an active tier, it isn't very meaningful at this assessment.

The post is available to the public and can be read in full at the link above. If you have any questions, feel free to contact me via Tumblr, Discord, or Patreon!

#soulrebel writes: patreon #patreon update

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 5 years

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Mutual Pining (2/7)

March’s monthly story, as voted on in my Patreon poll. Posted late due to health complications last month.

Check out my Patreon and consider joining my private Discord server to hang out!

Title: Mutual Pining Relationships: Templar!Carver Hawke/Merrill Rating: E for eventual smut (will be marked) Summary: A week of shore-leave turns into an impromptu camping trip with Merrill, and Carver makes the mistake of not checking when Isabela and his sibling help pack the bags. It had all the essentials, Bela swore, except for one thing:

It only has one tent.

Notes: set somewhere in Act 2, and Carver’s been a Templar now a year and a half or so.

[Part 1] [Part 2]

===

The walk to the Hanged Man wasn’t long, and it was made infinitely better by a basket of Orana’s meat pasties sent along with him. If the basket was lighter by three, it was no one’s business but his own and the stray cats that shared the crusts with him. Carver walked into the tavern to a wave of muted recognition and made for the stairs.

It still stung, that. The way people just lit up for Eli—the Hawke, though Eli themself didn’t seem to notice—whereas he was always in their shadow. Even the local recruits said Eli’s name in hushed, almost reverent tones, asking Carver about them and their growing legend.

Whatever. It didn’t matter.

He nudged open the door to the suite with his foot. Varric met him with a hard clap to his back and took the basket from him. Everyone was all smiles and in various depths into their cups. He sat and helped pass out the food.

Merrill was in the middle of a conversation with Aveline and Sebastian, gesturing wildly with her hands. She waved, distracted, and turned back to the others before snapping back to him so quickly she almost spilled her drink across the table.

“Little Hawke!” Merrill stood, nearly toppling her chair backward, and sped around the table, stopping just short of bowling him over. Her hand reached out to brush over his bracer shyly. “I—we—oh, welcome home!”

He felt his face heat up and his stomach flip-flop at the sight of her smile. “Hey, Merrill,” he said, willing his voice to keep steady only for it to wobble on her name. Varric laughed beside him and Carver stole his ale in revenge, draining the mug in short order and setting it heavily back down on the table. “It’s good to be back.”

“I imagine so! The Gallows never seems a friendly place when you or Eli describes them. That makes sense, though, doesn’t it? With a name like ‘the Gallows’ and all.” Merrill trailed off, bobbing her head uncertainly. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to be there, and—and you’re there all the time...”

“Give him a break, Daisy. He’s only home for the week, he doesn’t wanna talk about work.” Varric slid a fresh ale Carver’s way with a smile. “He wants to lose at cards, don’t you, Junior? Might actually stand a chance before Rivaini gets here.”

Carver scoffed and sat at the table, tossing back a long pull of the offered drink. Merrill returned to her seat and he could see her blush bright pink in the corner of his eye.

“Bela cheats, I know it,” he grumbled, turning back to the conversation, and Varric laughed.

Carver was glad when Varric dealt him in on the new round and they began the serious business of creatively losing their coin to Varric and Fenris. At this point, he would be better off just giving them the damn money from his purse, but at least Varric always made a point of buying off every other round or two. It made the experience bearable. Somewhat.

The conversation drifted as they played. Eli and Bela showed up, laughing and clinging playfully to each other, and the night stretched into long rounds of cards and ale.

“I shouldn’t have drunk so much, I’m going foraging tomorrow,” Merrill lamented at the end of the night, her words a bit fuzzy and slurred. “Sooo much to do!”

“Oh, we can’t have you going off all alone, especially not hungover,” Eli tutted. They turned a knowing look to Carver, who studiously avoided their gaze. “Why don’t you go with her, Carv? Protect her from the—the—the deer and other wild animals and such?”

“Yeah, big, scary deer, Hawke,” Varric snorted. “You know they’re only scary to you, right?”

Eli bristled and Carver bit back a smirk at the memory as the table erupted into drunken laughter. “It was huge, thank you, and had, like, fifteen points to its antlers. They have knives on their head, Varric. You’d be scared, too!”

The laughing only got worse at Eli’s protests.

They ignored it. Eli turned back to Carver and smiled, too big and wide to be any sort of genuine. “So it’s settled, you’ll go with our favorite flowery friend?”

“It’s really nothing, Hawke,” Merrill scolded, but the effect was lost with the way she blushed and warbled out the words. “I can take care of myself in the woods for a few days, I’m good at that!”

Carver looked from Merrill’s pink face to Eli’s own. There was something he was missing, wasn’t there? Eli wore that smarmy face they got whenever they thought they’d outsmarted or outplayed him, but he couldn’t see it this time.

“Sure,” he said slowly. Carver narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Eli before glancing back to Merrill. She looked like she was going to die as she slumped down upon the stone table and he watched, confused, as Isabela cackled and rubbed her shoulder.

“Great!” Eli’s clapping once again caught his attention. “Just great. It’ll be fun, I’m sure. Just like old times.”

Fenris gave a derisive scoff over his tankard of wine, which made Merrill hiccup out a soft wail. Bela only laughed harder and draped herself across Merrill’s back. Aveline shook her head in muted exasperation and Sebastian only pinched his nose before gathering up the cards strewn over the table.

“Just like old times,” Carver muttered, finishing his ale.

===

[Part 1] [Part 2]

#Carver Hawke #Merrill #Carvill #DA2 #Dragon Age 2 #fic: mutual pining #eventual s/mut #soulrebel writes: patreon #reblogs and likes are appreciated and welcome!#thank you!#ocean writes

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 5 years

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Whose Woods These Are

Characters: Alistair Theirin & Morrigan, Morrigan x Lyna Mahariel

Rating: G

Hiraeth: the link with the long-forgotten past, the language of the soul, the call from the inner self. Half forgotten - fraction remembered. It speaks from the rocks, from the earth, from the trees and in the waves. It's always there. [Val Bethell]

“Wardens.”

Snow had fallen like a thick blanket, muffling the Wilds into a frozen hush. Even the frogs he remembered from the last time they were here--what, almost three years ago now?--were silent.

Which made Morrigan’s voice only that much more grating.

“Morrigan! You’re a hard bitch to hunt down, you know that, vhenan?” Mahariel laughed and rushed forward, sweeping her into a hug that was more a hostage situation than a greeting, but Morrigan laughed and kissed Mahariel’s brow affectionately.

“Lyna,” she said, and Alistair frowned at the wide smile he saw grace her features. “I hear ‘tis ‘Warden Commander’ now.”

“Your hearing must be as good as mine, then, to get that news all the way out here. Creators, woman, how I’ve missed you.”

Read more for as little as $1 on Patreon

#Dragon Age: Origins #Alistair Theirin #Morrigan #Morrigan x Mahariel #Morrigan x Warden #F!Warden #F!Mahariel #Dragon Age #soulrebel writes: patreon #f/f #rated: g #fanfic #reblogs welcome and appreciated!#thank you!#ocean writes

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 6 years

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Discounted Commissions Sale!

Opening writing commissions for Voltron (Netflix), The Arcana, The Elder Scrolls, When the Night Comes, Castlevania (Netflix), and Dragon Age fandoms with a BIIIIG discount - a whopping 40% off until February 17th!

What I’m Selling:

Ficlets (up to 1000 words) for $6 (2 Ko-Fis)

Any rating

OC or canon characters (will need refs and info for OCs)

Will be working in batches of five at a time and will give you an estimated delivery date when you order!

Check out my Writing Tag for examples of my work!

Regular commissions rules apply.

DM me on Tumblr/Discord (ocean#0483) or email me at [email protected] to place your order!

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 6 years

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Opening Ficlet Commissions 1/28/19

Opening writing commissions for Voltron, The Arcana, The Elder Scrolls, When the Night Comes, and Dragon Age fandoms TOMORROW with a BIIIIG discount - a whopping 40% off!

What I’m Selling:

- Ficlets (up to 1000 words) for $6 (2 Ko-Fis)

- Any rating

- OC or canon characters (will need refs and info for OCs)

- First come, first serve; will be opening slots, filling, then opening more slots.

- Will probably be doing this for a week!

Check out my Writing Tag for examples of my work!

Regular commissions rules apply.

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 6 years

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Striking a Bargain

A commission for @kittenmarsh ! Thank you for your order, it was so pleasant to work with you! :)

Anders is on the run and finds himself in trouble... and in Flemeth's sights.

Characters: Anders, Flemeth, an unnamed daughter of Flemeth

Rating: T

Tags: past harm to Anders, but he gets better it’s okay, references to blood, post-DA2,

Words: 1,578

Read it on AO3!

He wakes up in bits and spurts, the Fade clinging desperately to his mind.

Sound, Anders registers first. Crackling leaves rattle the frayed edges of his consciousness like warning bells. Somewhere someone murmurs, the words garbled and indistinct. Soft footsteps draw near.

Touch, too, comes, in its own time. Fabric that chafes against raw skin. Gravity pressing him against the earth. The weight of his tongue in his mouth, how his hands curl at his side. Something burns along his abdomen when he shifts and he bites his lip; the barest touch of teeth on chapped, split skin is more violent than any Templar’s blade.

Blood trickles, and soon taste bludgeons its way to the forefront for recognition. Elemental iron, coppery and tangy and brackish on his tongue. The way the air has dried his mouth to rival the blight-born Anderfellan deserts.

“You’re awake. Good.” A voice. Someone is with him—Hawke? Not Hawke, no; Hawke stayed in Kirkwall, had armed him with the coat off their back and their own prized dagger and a threat-laced plea never to return.

He groans, throat hoarse from disuse, or perhaps overuse. He isn’t sure, it just aches in soul-deep agony.

“Wh—who…” He briefly tries to open his eyes, only to be met by a wave of nausea that crawls up his gullet like a demon. They close.

“Girl, the flask.”

“Yes, Flem—mother,” a second voice says.

Another sense kicks into gear: panic.

His heart creeps into his throat as he’s lifted by the shoulders, and whatever burned in his belly flares like the lava that floods the darkened floors of the Deep Roads. A bitten-off scream tears from his throat.

“Dramatic,” the first voice says, closer now, and he can’t bring himself to open his eyes to look. A flask is roughly pressed to his lips and dribbles water into his arid mouth, and he only saves himself from drowning when his throat convulses on instinct at the intrusion.

“Look at me, boy,” she says, the order clear, and he does when a hand grips his chin to force his face up.

She’s no different than when he laid eyes on her years ago, even though she wavers and splits into two before him. Eerie amber eyes peer dispassionately at his face, framed by the thick burnished metal headpiece at her brow. Her hair still rises like dragonbone from her face, somehow part of and separate still from her warrior’s crown. Her lips twist in a cruel smile.

“Flemeth,” Anders breathes, voice thin as a river reed as it scratches over his tongue. His gut quakes at her nearness.

“The very same.” Her eyes dart over his head, and she releases his chin. The flask returns and he is no better prepared the second time.

His gaze never leaves her.

“You remember me. Good. I enjoy people with their wits about them.”

She struts away and Anders tilts his head back to look up at the other woman, who eyes him with those same uninterested amber eyes. Another daughter, then? Or is this the one she mentioned when they met at the Sundermount altar?

He isn’t sure if he wants to know, all things considered.

“What to do with you…”

Flemeth’s idle musing catches his attention and sends his heart racing. Oh Maker, oh Andraste… She turns toward him, eyes bright and that knife-sharp smile creasing her features but never making it to her eyes.

“I have a bargain for you, boy,” she says. “Will you do an old woman the favor of hearing her out?”

Anders coughs and clears his throat. “Produce an old woman and I might,” he jokes weakly. She only arches a brow and he hurries to nod. “Yes, I’ll… I’ll hear your bargain.”

It might be a foolish agreement, but even sheltered Circle mages, raised far from the wilds of anywhere, know better than to trifle with the legendary Witch of the Wilds.

“Smart lad,” she says drily. “You’re dying. You know that, don’t you?” Flemeth comes closer, crouching once more to put them roughly face to face. “A run-in with some backwoods mage-hunter. Not even a real Templar. What a shame.”

“She didn’t know what she was doing,” he mutters. “She… I don’t think she knew what she was doing, and I didn’t want to hurt her.”

“But you did.”

“Yes,” he whispers. “To survive.”

Flemeth’s gaze goes curious. “You’ll do a lot to survive,” she observes, as if discussing the weather. “You and your passenger. But you didn’t heal yourself. Couldn’t. I can fix that, of course.”

His body still burns from the mage-hunter’s weapons, concentrated magebane and poison alike coating her blades and arrows. For as prepared as she was, she was sloppy. Anders’ hand rises to the arrowhead that still lies burrowed in his rib cage.

He closes his eyes. Her body rests somewhere in the forest, somewhere between her small town and here—wherever here is. He can’t quite remember, but it won’t be important for much longer.

“Magebane.”

She hums. “Tricky thing, that.”

“You said you had a bargain. If it’s something you want from me before I die, you might want to hurry.” His tongue is reckless, dropping words faster than his mind can weigh them for danger. “If it’s my heart you’re after, you’ll have to be disappointed; I’ve already promised that to another.”

Flemeth barks out a laugh, the sound jarring as it is melodious. “The pretty bird in the City of Chains. They’ve made it their own personal cage, haven’t they? Not that you didn’t help in that regard.” She chuckles again and he can hear the smirk in her voice. Her hand brushes his pauldron-clad shoulder. “Tell me, feather mage, would you do it again, if you could go back and change your little plans? Or would you fly away?”

Hawke? Would he…? Anders frowns. No, that’s not what she is asking. Justice swells at the edges of his mind, steadying the shake in his hands amid visions of blood-red light.

“Again. And again, and again after that.”

He opens his eyes and sees the Fade ripple and dance around them both.

“Good,” Flemeth says, voice terrible and echoing and vast, and the Fade swallows her whole, revealing only her glowing eyes and reaching hand.

A scream tears from his throat. Every mote of his being burns, unfamiliar magic forcing its way into his blood, pounding like a drum in time with his heart. His skin feels too small, too fragile, for the way she rips into his ribs with her talon-like nails.

An eternity later she rocks back from him and he slumps, breathless and half-dead against the woman who props him up. Flemeth examines the remains of the poisoned arrow with polite curiosity before incinerating it in her hand.

“Such a trifling thing, isn’t it?” she asks. “Bodies. So fragile, so restrictive.”

“So you’ve mentioned,” Anders garbles out. The lava fades from his flesh and he can feel the weak ebbing of mana once more, comforting and cool in his veins. He bats his hand weakly at the flask but it’s pressed to his lips once more. This time he’s able to keep himself from drowning on dry land, so it’s a small measure of progress.

The water is soon pulled away and he smacks his lips once, twice, relishing the feeling, before turning his wary eyes to Flemeth. “You said you had a bargain,” he said carefully, “and I’m assuming you just held up your end of it.”

She laughs again. “What a smart lad you are. I think I might like you.”

Knickerweasels.

“I have something I need you to deliver for me. Ah, what is it about you Fereldans making such good couriers?”

She manifests a length of finely wrought chain from… somewhere, and Anders isn’t sure he wants to investigate how. A nail scrapes along her palm to strike a shallow cut, blood welling at an alarming rate for how minor the wound is. She blows on her hand and it solidifies; a glancing touch with the chain and it becomes a pendant, a bloody ruby hanging freely.

“Another necklace,” he says glibly as she places it over his head, speaking again before he can catch himself. “Do I need to find more Dalish elves?”

“Just one,” she answers. “A Senior Enchanter in Cumberland. You’ll find him and deliver it for me, won’t you? Do an old woman this small favor?”

Cumberland. Where in the Void was he? He retraces his steps mentally, almost two months on his own. He had been going… north, then east. He thinks. He isn’t sure. “Where am I now?” Anders asks with hesitation.

“Good question,” she muses. “Where are you?”

With that Flemeth stands, brushing imaginary dirt off her armor. The woman beneath him, so still and complacent to her mother’s demands, shifts and helps him sit up fully. Anders watches as they step away—oh, he’s in a small clearing. When did he get here?

He raises his hands to his eyes against the brilliant flare of light that sweeps over him and in a breath, they are gone, a giant high dragon taking wing with what can only be described as an amused roar.

Anders surveys the clearing tiredly. He barely manages to set the barest of wards before he falls unconscious once more, one arm curled protectively over his ribcage and the other clutching at the amulet.

I’m hosting a discounted commission sale until 2/17/19! Check out my announcement here for more details!

Not interested in commissioning me but still want to support my work? Consider buying me a Kofi or reblogging my post!

#Soulrebel Commissions #Anders #Flemeth #Dragon Age 2 #DA2 #post-game #harm to anders #and then he's healed it's okay #dragon age #reblogs welcome and appreciated!#ocean writes

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