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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]

====

“—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 #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

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 5 years

Text

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 #soulrebel writes: patreon #reblogs and likes are appreciated and welcome!#thank you!

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 5 years

Text

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 #soulrebel writes: patreon #reblogs and likes are welcome and appreciated!!#thank you!

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 5 years

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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 #soulrebel writes: patreon #reblogs and likes are appreciated and welcome!#thank you!

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