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Hawke was a bit cautious about their relationship at first. Not for her own sake, but because Merrill was having enough trouble getting along in the Alienage without being labeled a 'shem-lover' on top of it. The first time she forgets herself is at the Hanged Man. It was a wild night, Hawke and company celebrating their first dragon kill at the mines. Hawke, steadily encroaching on Black-Out Bluff, grabbed Merrill as she walked past, pulled her into her lap, and kissed her soundly while the local vagrants cheered. Hawke then returned to her game of Wicked Grace, her strong arm keeping Merrill pinned in her lap, while Merrill herself alternated between blushing and beaming for the rest of the night.
The next time was the night the Templars took Bethany away to the Circle. It wasn't an immediate thing, to run to Merrill for comfort, but an urge that built up throughout the day like a coming storm. She'd watched silently as the Templars took her baby sister away, stood her ground as her mother cursed her, kept her clenched fist at her side when Gamlen jeered at her. When she left, she told Aveline, Sebastian, and Anders to 'fuck off,' and waited for Fenris, Varric, and Isabella to replace them. She didn't need their sympathy and didn't want to be comforted. She craved cold, cathartic violence and crawled into Lowtown to do it. When they found a batch of slaver, Hawke carved a bloody path through them, the others more to keep her away from civilians than to help her in the fight. When it was done, when she was covered in more blood and gore than a butcher's shop, she sent the others away and drug herself to the Alienage, for once not caring when the elves flinched at the sight of her. Merrill opened the door after the first knock, gasped, immediately went into Hawkes' arms, and squeezed as tightly as she could around Hawke's thick, armored frame. She ignored the blood, even as it started to soak through her own clothes, and returned Hawke's desperate, consuming kiss. She gently pulled Hawke into her humble home and whatever passed between them after remains secret.
The third time is less public, but perhaps the most significant, as it was a confession of sorts to their friends. Hawke, along with Varric, Isabela, and Merrill, were traversing Sundermount, on some simple but dangerous task that promised decent coin. They dealt with a few brigands, a small pack of Tal'Vashoth, and an unnecessarily large spider, an eventful but ultimately typical day. When they made campe that night, Merrill gave Hawke a nervous, excited glance, bit her lip and then looked back to her own bedroll. Hawke huffed fondly, gathered up her things, and noisily dropped them next to Merrill's, the openings to their bedrolled faced toward each other. After a quick meal, Hawke gathered Merrill in her arms and started reading, her posture as relaxed as that of the mabari on her other side. Merrill, blushing again, settled into Hawke's side, reading her own book. After a few minutes, the elf forgot their amused audience and settled against Hawke with a familiarity that suggested many nights spent similarly in the Hawke estate. Varric, for once, said nothing, but shared an amused glance with Isabela as he took the first watch. Isabela's restraint barely made it to morning though and she spent the trip back to Kirkwall loudly 'whispering' to Merrill all sorts of suggestions for her and Hawke. Hawke herself kept a stoic eye forward, on the trail, but Varric caught the small smirk that kept tugging at her lips, the first of its kind since Bethany was taken.
~|~
Merrill sometimes forgets how strong Hawke is. She knows Hawke's bigger than she is, most humans are, but she gets so caught up in that its *Hawke* that she forgets Hawke is big even for a human. Kirkwallers spit out "Fereldan giants" anytime the burlier folk bump into them, but Hawke's broader even than her countrymen, heavy muscles in her arms, shoulders, and back from swinging that massive sword. Anders once said that Hawke was born in the wrong era - that, had she been born a bit earlier, she could've been a warlord. Varric just laughed and replied that, if she'd wanted it, she would be one now. Isabela smirked and fell at Hawke's feet, playing the damsel in distress, while Hawke just cursed as she nearly tripped over the pirate. Merrill asks her about it later, if she wants to be more than 'Serah Hawke,' but Hawke just laughs, low and warm, the sound trickling up Merrill's spine.
"How about instead, you be the wise Hahren-" the elven word sounded strange, but so charming in Hawke's Fereldan tongue, "-and I'll be your brutish, shem bodyguard?" Hawke sets her book down, a familiar gleam in her eye.
Merrill's breath catches, still embarrassed when Hawke focuses on her like this, "A guard, like a mabari?" she tries to joke, her breath already a little weak.
Hawke grins, all teeth, and slips from her plush armchair to the floor. She stalks toward Merrill on all fours, the plush velvet of her house robe hissing against the carpet. The gesture is any but submissive, though she imitates a coy look as she stops at Merrill's feet. "Maybe not a mabari..." she challenges, leaning forward and sliding calloused hands up Merrill's leggings, "...but I'll happily fulfill whatever task m'lady asks of me."
Merrill forgets to breathe for a second and tries to come up with something clever to say. Hawke, always patient, lets her take her time, her hands making idle patterns on the outside of her thighs. Giving up on being clever, Merrill blurts out, "I want you to strip," her blush a delicate counter to the bold words.
Hawke just grins and rocks back onto her ankles, wandering hands withdrawing to pull off the sash at her waist. Hawke isn't particularly graceful, nor does she try the sort of flourish Isabela probably would've, but Merrill admires her just the same. The sash falls to the ground, as does the velvet outer robe she shrugs off. That leaves her in just her too-tight, worn-thin undertunic, cloth breeches, and soft house boots. Hawke tugs her tunic off over-head, arms flexing and bunching as she does so, and throws it across the room. "May I stand to discard the rest, Hahren?" she asks.
Merrill feels a new heat course through her chest and arms as she realizes Hawke wants to continue the game - this new thing of control more arousing than she would've guessed. "Um, yes." Merrill crosses one leg over the other, an obvious imitation of their pirate friend's imperious posture.
Hawke stands, the move structured if not fluid, then leans forward to remove a boot, her heavy breasts swinging freely, breastband as always discarded in the house. The first boot is pulled off and tossed aside, then the other, and Hawke wiggles her toes in the carpet as she straightens again. Brushing a hand over the front of her breeches, she gives the leather tie a few teasing tugs before actually opening them. Merrill sits forward as Hawke leans to pull one long leg out of the breeches, the muscles in the other flexing and arching as she maintains her balance. Finally, the other leg is freed and Hawke stands still, gleaming in the firelight in just her smalls.
Merrill's seen Hawke naked before, of course, but she isn't sure if she's ever really looked at Hawke like this. Some things are instantly familiar - the varterral bite on her shoulder, the dragon-fire burn on her left side and hip, the thick scar where a bandit spear pierced her thigh - but Merrill would swear she never noticed how crisp Hawke's tanline was or how the muscles in her stomach flexed as she shifted her weight. Merrill jumps a bit, realizing how long she's been staring, but Hawke just gives her a reassuring smile, so it couldn't be too bad.
Hawke's grin suddenly deepens, too much like it does right before she sucker-punches someone, clasps her hands behind her back, and stretches, doing all sorts of delicious things to the muscles on her arms and chest. Merrill's throat dries at the gesture, but it also sparks a memory of something...filthy...Isabella had once whispered to Fenris. Finding her voice, she says "Stay like that," stands up, and walks over to Hawke. She reaches around Hawke's waist, channels a bit of magic, binds Hawke's clasped hands together with thick vines, and gently pushes on Hawke's shoulders until she's kneeling on the plush carpet. "Is that okay?"
Hawke tugs at the binds, testing their strength but not trying to escape. "Good, better than good. But we should have a word."
"A word?"
For the first time of the night, Hawke's tanned cheeks flush, "A, um, safeword. Something other than 'stop' or 'no,' since those can slip out."
Oh. "Oh," her voice sounds thin and surprised even to her own ears. She'd heard about that kind of thing before, from Anders that time, recalling some wild romp from his days in Fereldan. "Um...how about elendrilan?"
Hawke shakes her head, "It’s gotta be something I can say - and remember."
Damn it. "Right..." she looks up, to the high ceiling of Hawke's estate, "-chandelier?"
Hawke smiles encouragingly, "That works," and then her voice drops low, "What now, Hahren?"
"You...stand vigil."
"What?"
Merrill smiles and steps away, incredibly pleased with herself as Hawke unconsciously tries to follow her, stopping only when Merrill taps her shoulder. "Stay."
Merrill backs up to the armchair and strips herself, too eager to waste time teasing. When she is finally naked, she drops into the armchair, squirming a moment at the sensation of soft velvet against her bare skin. Hawke stills entirely, taking deep breaths that make her chest heave so temptingly, but Merrill keeps herself where she is. Her control is tested again when Merrill throws a slim leg over an armrest and runs a soft touch up from her sternum to her throat.
This is heady and new, watching and being watched, touching herself like this in front of Hawke. Hawke who, she just realized, is starting to look a little frustrated. Merrill wonders how far she can push before Hawke breaks the vines. She tries for a teasing tone and falls a little short, but Hawke's breath still catches as she drags her right index finger down her own throat, through her collarbones, across the flat valley between her small breasts, over her sternum, and down her stomach. She stops just about the small, dark thatch of hair and Hawke actually *whines* at her.
"You sure you aren't a mabari?" There it is! The playful, flirting, clever thing everyone else is so good at! She almost giggles in self-pride, but Hawke's eyes narrow, promising all kinds of sweet, sweaty retribution later.
But, for now, she's still still and quiet. Merrill, feeling even bolder, drifts her hand lower, playing with her curls but not touching anything beneath them. She raises her left hand to her mouth and sucks in two fingers, tilting her head back as she remembers how much Hawke loves her throat. She releases them with a pop that echoes in the harsh quiet of the room and immediately moves them to a pert nipple, tugging and rolling it as her other hand finally ghosts along her slit.
Hawke groans and Merrill can see her flex and strain against the vines, before she remembers the game and visibly forces herself to relax. She feels powerful, in a way she never expected, teasing Hawke like this. But Hawke's eyes are burning into her, so she leans back again to break the line of sight, running her hands over herself, into herself, like she did so many nights in the Alienage. Her left hand switches nipples as she plunges two fingers harshly into herself, the slight embarrassment she still feels fading as Hawke groans again.
Merrill loses herself in it, the feel of her own hands, the weight of Hawke's stare, the soft slide of velvet on her back, the crackle of the near fire. She curls her fingers up, groans herself, and nearly jumps when Hawke growls, "Vhenan," at her in a ragged, impatient voice.
In a sudden bout of daring, Merrill drags the moment out, meeting her fingers with shallow thrusts from her hips. When she returns her left fingers to her mouth, sloppily licking at them and showing no signs of stopping, Hawke finally breaks.
"Please, Merrill."
A small, new, unfamiliar part of her wants to continue this, but the majority of her is screaming to unleash Hawke. Removing both hands from herself, she drops them in her lap as she re-crosses her legs. Her tone is an imitation of stern, "You'll have to do it yourself."
Hawke looks confused, wild-eyed, and a touch desperate. It’s a new expression on her, which encourages Merrill to say, "I won't release you. If you want out, if you want to touch me-" damn it, her voice quivers on the last two words, "-you have to free yourself."
Hawke smiles again, catching on, and strains against the vines. Merrill watches, chewing on her lip, squeezing her legs together for that little pressure as Hawke, bronzed and muscled and just so *Hawke* flexes and pulls, bringing all her strength to bear. When the ropes break, they snap and fling across the room as Hawke, unbalanced by the release, falls forward onto her knuckles, arms still straining and flexing. She looks up at Merrill through a curtain of blond hair and then surges forward, trapping Merrill between herself and the chair.
"I-" Hawke's voice is low and pitched, warring between affection, lust, and frustration, "-am going to wreck you, you little tease."
Merrill shrinks back into the chair, hands digging into the armrest, as Hawke stills, waiting for the little not that means she’s good to continue. When she gets it, she grabs Merril by the throat and lifts her out of the chair, raising her up to her own eye level as she stands. “Now, what I am I going to do to you?” Hawke smirks when Merrill shudders, thighs clenching, and slowly lowers her back to the ground, turning her around so her slim back is pressed against Hawke’s broad chest.
Hawke uses her right hand to gently grab Merrill’s chin and left her head up and back, exposing the slender column of her throat and keeping her face in sight. A little precaution, as sometimes Merrill gets too eager to please and lets Hawke push lines she shouldn’t. Her face now holds nothing but open lust, so Hawke turns them both to look at the nearest wall, “Maybe I’ll pin you there, hands up, legs spread, while I take this-” she grabs a handful of Merrill’s cheek, lifting it enough to make the skin tug on her folds.
Merrill pants, but doesn’t respond, canting her hips back and Hawke, silently asking for more. Hawke twists them to look back at the chair, “Or should I throw you back here and keep you there until you’ve soaked through it?” she moves her hand forward, ghosting past her lips to tease the wet curls.
“But maybe,” she tilts Merrill’s face up as she slips her middle finger inside her, pointer lightly rubbing her clit, “-maybe I’ll sit you on that banister and make you hold yourself up while I consume you.”
Merrill sighs, the almost-bruising grip on her face a sweet contrast to the hand pumping between her legs. “I, um, ohh…” Merrill’s voice trails off, too caught up in all the sensations to respond. Hawke releases her jaw and moves her hand up into Merrill’s short black hair, firmly pinning her in place as she leans down and bites harshly on the side of Merrill’s neck while pushing her ring finger inside her. Merrill’s toes curl into the carpet as she lets out a low keen, thighs trembling each time Hawke brushes that spot inside her. Hawke finishes the bite with a sharp suck, one guaranteed to leave a bright purple mark.
She takes on a chastising tone, “I need you to focus vhenan-” she drags her hand out slowly, “-or I’m going to do whatever *I* want.”
Merrill wants to respond, she really does, but she’s already frazzled from the earlier game and Hawke’s slowly breaking her with her hands and teeth. “I-” she starts, but it cuts off in a low moan when Hawke’s slick fingers brush against her other hole. Hawke’s “So be it,” is full of lust, victory, and danger.
Hawke’s lower hand abruptly withdraws, leaving Merrill gasping and thrusting at empty air. Using her grip in Merrill’s hair, Hawke pushes her toward the chair, releasing her at its edge, turning her around, and giving her a little push so that she falls into it. Hawke looms over her and gives her an appreciative whistle, then “Three fingers.”
She doesn’t wait for Merrill to respond or act, but turns away and picks up her discarded, worn tunic from the floor. Hawke smiles to herself as a slick sound and thin gasp echo in the room. Looking up, she scans over Merrill’s lean figure, long legs flexing in pace with her slender fingers, toes alternately curling and flexing as she obeys. She doesn’t have a thick layer of muscle like Hawke does, but that just let’s Hawke watch the way Merrill’s breath catches and staggers, the way her rib bones press against her skin with each exhale. Her scars aren’t so dramatic as Hawke’s either, but the fine lines on her hands, wrists, and legs are hard-earned symbols of her strength, just the same.
Hawke waits until Merrill’s eyes flutter close before ripping two large strips from her tunic. Merrill’s eyes fly open at the sound of tearing fabric, in time to watch as Hawke moves her legs over each of the armrests, then uses the fabric to tie her ankles to the wooden clawed feet that form the chair’s legs. When she’s done with the simple knots, Hawke drags her gaze along the inside of Merrill’s calf, thigh, to her apex, the up to meet her eyes. She smiles predatorily as Merrill flushes, squirming at her exposed position. Hawke brushes the back of her hand against Merrill’s knuckles, reminding her that she still has work to do, “Keep going, I’ll be right back.”
Hawke stands up and walks around Merrill, out of sight. Merrill can hear her approach and open the table on the far side of the room, rummage through the drawer, then a small “aha.” Hawke comes back into view, her underwear finally discarded, a stoppered glass vial in her left hand.
“Are you up for something new?” The teasing tone is gone, the question is serious. Hawke’s never serious, so Merrill swallows thickly before asking, “I, um, what is it?” After all, she’s enjoyed all the other things Hawke’s shown her…
Hawke leans in, raises her right hand, and curls it into a fist. “Do you think you can take this?”
Merrill goes a little crossed-eyed staring at the fist only inches from her face, her hand slowly to a sedate pace as she considers it, “Is that even possible.”
“Definitely.” That grin on Isabela makes Merrill nervous. But, on Hawke, it makes her stomach flutter. Hawke leans back a little, giving Merrill more space to think it over, “It might not even be an option, with my bear hands and your teeny hips-” she brushes a thumb along a sharp hipbone, grazing the arm that’s still working Merrill, “-but you’ve taken four fingers before.”
Merrill’s hand picks up the pace a little as she considers it, enjoying just the simple sensation of her arm against Hawke’s. “Could I...later...maybe...you?” She hates that even now she still can’t always say what she wants.
Hawke smiles, gentle and reassuring, “Vhenan, you can do whatever you like to me. You don’t have to let me do it before you get to.”
Merrill bits her lip again, “I think...I want to try.”
Hawke, beaming, leans forward, kissing up Merrill’s chest from her sternum to the hollow of her throat. As always, Hawke radiates heat, and Merrill’s skin warms under each of Hawke’s tender touches. Hawke leans forward fully, filling Merrill’s vision completely, and purrs into her ear, “Give me your hand and scoot forward.” Blond hair tickles Merrill’s ear as she eagerly complies, removing her hand with a soft squelch and presenting it to Hawke as she eases her hips further down the chair. Hawke takes her hand into her mouth, licking each finger clean as her own right hand makes lazy circles around Merrill’s entrance.
Hawke finally releases Merrill’s hand, grabs the vial again with her left hand, pulls the cork stopper out with her teeth, and spits it out of sight. She takes back her right hand and pours the open vial over it, generously coating her entire hand with the slick stuff. “We’re going to start slow,” she promises, kneeling down and sliding in only two fingers, the cool lube warming up quickly inside her. That hand is the only place Hawke is touching her, making Merrill hyper aware of the sliding, twisting fingers inside her.
There’s been too much teasing tonight. Merrill needs more, and asks for it with a soft, “please” that seems to echo in the house. Hawke smirks and leans forward, nipping at the rosy nipple as she adds a third finger. She sets a maddeningly sedate pace, seeming content to spend the rest of eternity on these slow, deep thrusts. Merrill can feel the difference of intent, how Hawke is more focused on stretching her than pushing her to the edge. She relaxes under the attention, enjoying the gentle kisses and rare nips Hawke is peppering across her torso.
“Are you ready for another?” Merrill replies a quick, eager, “Yes,” then hisses as Hawke adds her last finger, filling her and making the edges of her lips burn. Hawke gives an apologetic kiss to her trembling stomach and slows her pace even more, asking, “Are you okay?”
Merrill takes a shaky breath, then nods, “Yes, just...adjusting.” Her hands start to rise, then abruptly fall back down, “Oh. Can I...can I touch myself?”
Hawke looks up, an awed expression on her face, “You are too good for me,” she whispers, then says louder, “Yes, you may.” As Merrill lifts her hands to tug at pull at her own breasts, Hawke kneels down further, until she’s eye level with Merrill’s center, and gives her clit a sharp lick. She chuckles as Merrill jumps and moans, the sound reverberating into Merrill’s pelvis, then sets to licking around Merrill’s clit and entrance. At the same time, her hand starts moving faster, going deeper and twisting more on each thrust. The slight burn fades to a pleasant, full feeling, her own hands and Hawke’s quick tongue soothing that initial discomfort. As soon as her hips begin to rock back onto Hawke’s hand, Hawke pulls back, the loss of her tongue making Merrill whine in disappointment.
She kisses the inside of a thigh as an apology, withdraws the rest of her hand, and coats it in more lube. “Are you ready for the last?”
Merrill nods shakily, taking in a deep breath as Hawke folds her thumb into her palm, and exhaling as she pushes in. This definitely burns and Merrill can feel herself stretching, straining, as Hawke pushes into her. Hawke’s left hand holds onto her hip to steady her, extending that thumb to slowly rub against her clit. Hawke murmurs reassuring things into her skin as Merrill begins to sweat. The sensation grows almost unbearable, then abruptly eases as Hawke’s hand finally pushes through.
She groans in relief, then moans in awed lust as she looks down and sees herself wrapped around Hawke’s wrist. Hawke is beaming, delighted, and kisses Merrill’s knee. “You are so fucking perfect,” she promises, flexing her hand. Merrill’s hips try to jump up, but are held in place by Hawke’s firm hand on her hip. “I’m going to start moving a little, and then I’ll speed it up. Is that okay?”
Merrill nods and Hawke leans forward, returning her lips to her clit and her hand relaxing on Merrill’s hip. She can feel Hawke pull her hand back and push forward in a gentle thrust, her wrist bones gently tugging at Merrill’s entrance without crossing it. She gives her a broad stroke of her tongue and repeats the thrust, but adds a slight twist at the end, dragging her knuckles across her inner walls. Merrill gasps, spreads her legs even wider, and brings her hands back up to her chest, alternately between harsh pinches and gently strokes on her nipples.
Hawke’s dedicated now, her face and hair covering most of their joining, but Merril can still see how her shoulder flexes with each pull, can feel her tongue breaking from her clit to chase along her edge. The thrusts are getting faster, but not harder, Hawke instead twisting at the deepest part of each thrust. Her fist fills and pulls at Merrill in a wholly foreign way and she can feel her orgasm building as the pain fades. Hawke is relentless, tirelessly working her with her hand and tongue, the tight, bruising grip on her hip the only waver in her focus. Merrill manages a lucky tug just as Hawke’s tongue swipes her clit and her knuckles graze her g-spot and she’s suddenly gasping, the edges of her vision blurring as her cunt clenches and pulses around Hawke’s hand. Something deep within her relaxes and she’s squirting warm fluid all over Hawke’s face and arm, soaking the chair underneath.
Hawke works her through her orgasm, steadily slowing her pace until she stops entirely as Merrill’s hips work through the last few pulses. Once Merrill’s hips still, she looks back up, face wet and gleaming, broken by a massive grin that even creases her eyes, “You are amazing.”
Merrill can’t muster the energy to feel embarrassed like she normally does when complimented, but lets out a tired chuckle as she waves at Hawke’s face. It takes her two tries to get through her cottonmouth before she can ask, “What about you?”
Hawke chuckles as she starts the slow process of easing her hand out, her other hand holding Merrill in place. “Only you would ask that after an orgasm like that.” Once her hand is free, she moves to untie one leg, “I’m perfect,” and the other, “-nothing is better than seeing you like that.” She helps Merrill stand, then sweeps her arms under her legs to carry her to upstairs. As Hawke turns, Merrill catches a glimpse of the red chair and the large, dark stain now covering most of its seat. “Oh no, I ruined the-”
Hawke stops and adjusts Merrill so that she can give her stern look, “You. did not. ruin. Shit.”
“But-”
“No buts! We’re going upstairs, rinsing off, and passing the fuck out.”
Merrill shakes her head, confused, “Bed? But you didn’t-”
Hawke looks a little exasperated, “Merrill. Let me take care of you.”
Merrill surrenders and lets her exhaustion overwhelm her. She vaguely notices as Hawke puts her in a warm bath and scrubs them both clean, and is already half-asleep as she’s set down into Hawke’s plush bed. The last thing she feels before surrendering entirely is the warm press of Hawke’s lips on her brow.