Carver thinks that Darcy is trying to take Bethany's place.
Darcy's pretty sure that the feelings she has for Hawke aren't very sisterly.
Slight AU in that Carver doesn't catch the Blight in the Deep Roads. He is my salty son, and I love him.
The breakfast conversation is more lackluster than usual, and no one can blame Darcy's customary morning slump because she's wide awake and shoveling eggs into her mouth as fast as she can without risking asphyxiation.
"Darcy, Orana will make you more eggs," Leandra says.
"Mm'goo 'anks," Darcy gets out around a mouthful.
Carver gives her an unimpressed look across the table. It's actually a little less severe than the I-wish-you-would-die-in-your-sleep look that he was aiming at her previously.
Darcy finds this to be patently unfair.
She certainly didn't decide to take an indefinite vacation to Thedas's most depressing city. Although, to be fair, she's not sure how the rest of this world stacks up to Kirkwall, because she doesn't exactly have the resources or the know-how to leave. Honestly, if an inter-dimensional portal had to spit her out anywhere, it could have been a little more discerning. Darcy's always had a thing for fantasy settings, but this place is like a sad adult fantasy novel. She could've landed in Narnia. Or Middle Earth. Or literally anywhere that doesn't subjugate mages, elves, and other assorted peoples. She thinks she could really put her degree to good use here if she wasn't absolutely terrified of dying from either plague or rando-mercenaries.
The plague thing is particularly upsetting, because everyone here knows someone who died from Thedosian Super Plague aka the Blight. Anders doesn't have nice things to say about the only known "vaccination" for the disease, and Darcy really hopes that Jane rips through time and space to find her before the magical super-flu sweeps back into town. Until then, she'll suffer through being the most hygienic person in Kirkwall—possibly in Thedas.
"Ah, good morning beloved family. Darcy." Hawke has far too much hip-swagger for this early in the morning. He kisses his mother on the cheek as he passes the head of the table.
Darcy shoots Carver a see-you-dick-I'm-not-included-as-family look, still hunched over her eggs. It probably just comes off as a disgruntled hamster impression, as her cheeks are still overfull, but she hopes at least her ire translates.
"Beth once had a pet nug that looked remarkably like that," Hawke says, poking one of her cheeks. He pulls a chair up next to hers and settles in, already reaching for the fruit bowl.
Darcy is having a hard time swallowing without choking. Hawke, big as he is, is impossible to ignore. He's not quite pressed against her, but his long leg knocks into hers under the table when he shifts, and his elbow brushes her arm when he reaches for a sweet bun. Darcy can feel a blush rising, and she's not sure she can blame his too-close body heat, although the man is a furnace.
And, honestly, the table is far too big for them to be having these kinds of space problems. Hawke is a giant and a menace, and Darcy is absolutely furious that she in any way finds his man-spread appealing.
She doubts Carver would find her true intentions—if they could be called that, because she really doesn't intend anything, she's just over here existing and having feelings—any more acceptable than her perceived ones. She feels decidedly unsisterly toward both Garrett and Carver, but for vastly different reasons.
Hawke plops half of his bunch of grapes on her plate.
"Eat up, nugglet. We have plans tonight." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Leandra sighs.
Darcy prays to the gods of soft sciences for strength.
"Plans," as it turns out, just means that Darcy gets stuck at a sticky table at the world's seediest bar. She doesn't have to sample any of the other bars in Thedas to know that The Hanged Man is scraping the bottom of the barrel, despite what Varric says.
"You're looking a little wan, pet. Something keeping you up at night?" Isabela smirks. "Someone?"
"Yeah, Carver has a lot of pent up emotion," Darcy says, voice dry. "You know how it is."
Varric snorts from across the table.
"Oh, the baby Hawke!" Isabela crows. "If you get them while they're young and impressionable, you can groom them into a fine bed partner." She leans in, playing at being discrete, although her voice is pitched for the whole table to hear. "Does he channel all that rage into—"
Hawke arrives with the drinks during their exchange. He looks… horrified.
"OH, LOOK. I've returned with everyone's drinks. Which I bought. For my friends." Hawke sets the pints down with more force than strictly necessary. Isabela's sloshes a bit. She doesn't look like she minds the light beer bath.
"Oh, hello, Hawke. We were just discussing your nubile brother and his prowess in—"
"Finish that sentence, Bela, and I will not be picking up your tab tonight." Hawke inserts one foot in the small gap between Darcy and Isabela. There's not even enough space for one of his legs, let alone his whole person, but he seems determined to wedge himself into the spot to prevent the conversation from continuing. (As if that would deter the pirate.)
"You're picking up my tab?" Bela asks, falsely sweet. She's not moving over for him.
"Only if you drop this topic."
Darcy realizes that Hawke will absolutely sit on their laps before he concedes. She scoots down the bench because her nerves can't handle a lapful of Garrett Hawke right now.
Isabela pouts at her. She wouldn't mind a lapful of Hawke.
"Spoilsport."
It's unclear whether she's referring to Darcy or Hawke.
"You okay there, Blossom?"
Varric's initial nickname for her was "Bubbles" due to her compulsory hand washing, but Darcy informed him that she's always been more of a Blossom. The reference was lost, but the name stuck.
"Never better," Darcy says, though her voice is about an octave higher than normal.
She straightens her features into something a little less glazed. She's an adult, dammit, and she's seen shirtless gods; she will not be undone by a scruffy human with personal space issues. Darcy takes a bracing gulp of ale.
Eugh.
She's been to college parties, and this is still the worst beer she's ever had the misfortune of drinking. She's not convinced that the barkeep isn't cutting it with some… less savory liquid.
Varric looks ready to meddle—he's too sharp not to have picked up on her little problem—but she's saved by the arrival of Fenris. Everyone's focus shifts.
Darcy reflects that she has, once again, found herself on the periphery of a team of heroes, courtesy of Garrett Hawke. For all that she's tremendously grateful for their hospitality, she's less confident in her ability to stay out of firing range here. There's no high-tech security system in the Hawke mansion, and with the frequency that Isabela forgets to use the front door, Darcy's pretty sure the chance of getting offed by window-climbing assassins in the night is significantly higher. Even here in public, Darcy can feel the prickle of eyes on their little group. She feels marginally better tucked in next to Hawke, but this is literally the Dark Ages. If someone gets in a lucky strike, she's down for the count. No one knows shit about medicine here, even if they do apparently have magic that somewhat negates that.
(She's skeptical.)
"—eady to lose some of Hawke's hard-earned gold, Blossom?"
Varric is asking something. Darcy assumes it has to do with the cards he's shuffling.
"I don't have anything to bet." And she has no way of competing with either Isabela or Varric. If Merrill was here, she'd have neither a hope nor a prayer of winning a hand. Where Varric and Isabela play like rogues, Merrill wins by guilelessness. It's actually much more disarming.
"Nonsense," Hawke says. "You're with me."
He slides some coins her way.
"The family that plays together stays together," Isabela sing-songs.
Darcy shoots a look at Fenris, the only person not goading her into playing, but he just raises an eyebrow and sips his wine. He's the wine uncle to Isabela's vodka aunt, Darcy thinks. He's also decidedly unhelpful.
"I can't believe you're encouraging me to lose your money, Garrett."
"There are worse ways for it to go," Hawke says with a grin. He taps his glass against hers, their shoulders touching. "Drink up. Tonight's on me."
Darcy lifts her eyes and her tankard to the ceiling. She's going to need to power through several more of these if she wants to forget about the way his stupidly blue eyes catch the dim light of the tavern.
The multiverse is a cruel, cruel mistress.
Hawke is drunk.
"Darcy—stay close. I don't wanna kill anyone tonight, and you look far too tempting over there."
Hawke is so, so drunk.
"Garrett, I'm not going anywhere. You're the one weaving around like a drunk chic—" Darcy hiccups. "—ken."
She might be a little intoxicated, too.
"I am not a chicken." Hawke reels himself back in, and tucks an arm around her like a big, heavy, human stole. "I am a Hawke."
Fenris snorts off to the side.
"Are you—was that a laugh, Fenris?"
"No."
"I think it was. You think I'm funny."
"I think you are drunk."
"I think you're probably right," Hawke says with a theatrical sigh.
"I am."
Fenris is accompanying them back to Hightown, which makes Darcy feel a mite more secure, although she's a little past the point of caring about trivial things like safety.
Garrett is incredibly warm, and he smells a lot better than the street they're on, despite the strong scent of cheap booze on his clothes.
"You smell like flowers," Garrett says into her hair.
Fenris's cough is definitely not a laugh in disguise.
"I bathe," she says, for lack of anything better to say.
"I know. You're very…" He pauses, searching for the word. "Meticulous."
"Er… sorry?"
Do they have water bills in Kirkwall?
"No! No, I like it. It's nice. You're nice." He squeezes her a little in emphasis.
Holy biceps, Batman. Darcy was under the impression that Hawke, as a mage, doesn't do much heavy lifting, but the arm around her shoulders and the solid pec pressed against her face beg to differ. She's met Captain fucking America and she wasn't this weak.
Of course, Captain America didn't save her from certain death, clothe her, feed her, house her, and subject her to shitty puns on the regular.
Hawke is like the strangest cross between Steve Rogers and Tony Stark—and yet entirely his own person—and Darcy is a thirsty, thirsty woman.
Before she can respond with something stupid and alcohol fueled—like "We could conserve water together"—Hawke stops her.
"Big puddle of ick," he says, gesturing to the greasy stretch of wet cobblestones before them.
It is a big puddle of ick, but Fenris is already skirting around it, and Darcy is about to point that out when Hawke just sweeps her into his arms like a small parcel.
"I'd hate for you to get wet just yet."
Darcy nearly swallows her tongue.
"Yet?"
"Mm, yeah—oh. Maker. I didn't mean—I meant before your bath. Not that I don't think, uh—" Hawke has stopped mid-puddle.
Darcy can't stop the laugh from burbling up, although she feels a little sick at his evident horror.
"You're a bad person," he mutters.
He catches up to Fenris, who has slowed, but not stopped. Darcy thinks the elf is smirking, but it's hard to tell in the dark.
"Hawke doesn't want me wet, Fenris." Darcy's a little too drunk to be ashamed about dragging the reticent warrior into their… flirtation? Is this flirtation? She's flirting, certainly. Probably in vain.
"So I hear."
"He'd rather I was bone dry."
Hawke makes a strangled noise.
She doesn't expect Fenris to respond, so his answer is doubly surprising.
"That is generally considered bad form."
"You are terrible friends," Hawke says. "It's true what they say: no good deed goes unpunished."
"I am unsure how you would know," Fenris drawls.
Darcy can't seem to stop laughing.
"Oh, you're on fire tonight." Darcy tries to poke the elf's shoulder, but Hawke has stepped away. "I like sassy Fenris."
Hawke mutters something about betrayal.
They're in Hightown at this point, and nearing their respective homes.
"Shall I leave you here, or do you require further assistance?" Fenris asks.
Darcy doesn't miss the wry tone. She doubts Hawke does, either.
"I can handle her," Hawke grumps.
"I am thoroughly handled."
Fenris shakes his head and turns without another word.
"You can let me down. I promise I'm not as impaired as you." Darcy boops Hawke's nose because it's right there, and he's so tall, and she's not sure when she'll have another chance. The temptation is too great.
Hawke stops at the gate, but doesn't release her. He dithers for a moment.
"You—Carver—it's none of my business—well, it sort of is, but not really because we're all adults, but—"
Darcy can feel her whole face wrinkling up because if he's asking what she thinks he's asking—ew.
"Your brother thinks I'm an evil shrew who's trying to erase your sister's memory."
The mention of Beth—in regards to her death rather than her life—seems to sober Hawke a bit.
"That's stupid. You're not—it's not the same. At all."
Darcy knows this, and doesn't want the association, but the vehemence in his voice still makes her wilt.
"I know. I'm sorry." She's sorry for a lot of things, but mostly that his sister is gone. She wriggles to get down.
"No, that's not what I—" Hawke sighs.
Darcy realizes that she's not getting down unless he releases her, and his hold hasn't slackened.
"Darcy, do you like it here?"
The question is unexpected, and what's even more unexpected is that Darcy doesn't have an immediate answer.
"I like… aspects of 'here,'" she says, thoughtful. The ale makes her thoughts a bit slower, but the question feels like an important one, so she rallies herself. "I miss home, and I'm useless—more than I was back home, even—and Kirkwall is kind of a shithole—"
She can feel Hawke tensing around her.
"—But it's the people that make the place. You and your mom and your friends make me feel… like a person. Carver is a salty bitch, but even he's not all bad."
Hawke huffs out a little "true."
"So, yeah, 'here' is alright."
She could go for some flush toilets, though.
Hawke thinks about her response for a moment and seems to come to some kind of decision, because he nods and uses one hand—no big deal, just carrying a full-grown woman in one arm—to unlatch the front gate. He marches—struts, really, because he's Hawke and his legs are ridiculous—to the bench near the door. He sits down, and as a consequence, drapes Darcy across his lap. She can't help but notice that his armor-lite (a leather jerkin that may or may not be enchanted) is much more accommodating than his usual gear. (Darcy has always been under the impression that mages are cloth-wearers, but Hawke always seems to have pointy bits attached to him.)
"I like you here," Hawke says when they're situated.
"Well that's good, because this could be a very extended stay."
Jane's smart, but she's only one small human brain in a vast multiverse.
"It's selfish of me to say so, but I hope it is." Hawke has one hand on her thigh to steady her, and his thumb is stroking the material in a most distracting way.
"Oh?" She's staring at his mouth.
"You are—and Varric would hit me for the cliché, but you are different. I find myself more drawn to you as time passes, and the thought of you leaving is—" Hawke has drifted ever closer to her, and there was hardly any distance between them at the start. His gaze flickers down, mimicking her own.
"I want to kiss you." The words whisper over her lips, a phantom kiss.
"Then kiss me," she says, a little too breathless to sound properly exasperated.
He cups his unoccupied hand around her jaw, the palm broad enough to cradle her head and still leave a thumb free to press against her bottom lip.
"You know you can say no," he says. "You don't have to—my house is open to you. Always."
And oh, for heaven's sake, she appreciates the gesture, but she knew that already because Hawke is probably the patron saint of Kirkwall. (It goes to figure that any saint of Kirkwall would have to be a little battered and bloody, with somewhat flexible morals.)
She kisses him because he takes too long and she's had a fire burning low in her gut all night.
It's a sweet, brief kiss—certainly more brief than Darcy wanted or intended—and they separate.
"This angle is terrible," Hawke says.
"We should relocate."
"Did I mention that I find your intelligence very attractive?"
"Ooo, no, tell me more," Darcy says as he gathers her back to him and lopes toward the door.
She should really use her legs at some point (and any visions of wrapping her legs around his waist should be shelved until the appropriate time) but this makes it easier to run her hand through Hawke's—Garrett's? should she use his given name now?—too-long hair. She drags her nails along his scalp with just enough pressure to make him shiver.
"Maker—let me open the door first."
"I will die of bitter old age before you get around to kissing me properly, Garrett Haw—"
But then the door is swinging open, and Darcy's spine is pressed to the foyer wall, and she's getting to live the fantasy of straddling Garrett's waist while he leaves hot, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw.
"And they call me mouthy," he breathes in her ear.
"You—ah—are mouthy," she says. "What do you call thi—"
It's pretty clear that she's not going to get a full thought out again tonight, because he descends on her mouth like a man possessed. She doesn't even mind the taste of bad ale when it's on Garrett's lips.
When he licks into her mouth, she thinks he might draw back a bit, let her take the lead, but he seems to have every intention of meeting her (somewhat unintentional) challenge. His hand at her jaw winds into the hair at the nape of her neck and tugs, and she gasps into the new angle of the kiss.
A wandering hand—not all who wander are lost, she thinks wildly—rucks up her skirt enough to palm her bare thigh just above the knee. His skin feels hot enough to burn, and oh, what interesting callouses.
Garrett shifts his focus to the soft skin of her throat, letting her pant, corseted bosom heaving. He trails down her neck and exposed chest—and there is a lot of exposed chest—leaving the skin flushed and pink. Darcy thinks Hawke beard burn becomes her.
And oh, she is going to look ravished tomorrow.
There's a sound like a mabari choking on its dinner, and Darcy looks across the foyer to see, not Woofric, but Carver. The youngest Hawke, mouth full of midnight turkey leg, stares in undisguised horror at the pair of them.
"Uh, Garrett—?" Darcy jerks her head in a "we have company" motion.
Garrett glances back long enough to roll his eyes, then grips Darcy under her ass and shifts their weight to carry her bodily past his horrified brother and up the stairwell.
"Take smaller bites, brother," he calls back.
They reach the top of the stairs in fewer strides than Darcy thinks should be possible.
"Bedroom?" He looks a bit uncertain.
"Only if you intend to finish what you started." Darcy knows now that Garrett responds favorably to implied challenge.
He doesn't disappoint.
The trip from stairwell to bedroom is slowed by Garrett's insistence on pressing her against two more walls—and it's not that far—to kiss her breathless. He kicks open the door to his room, uncaring of the four other people who sleep in this house, and has her back pinned to the red coverlet of his ridiculously garish four poster in less time than it takes her to think "this is a ridiculously garish four poster." But, really, this set up is straight out of the Hogwarts: A Housekeeping catalogue.
"I feel like I'm in a brothel," Darcy gasps into his mouth.
Garrett slips his hands from beneath her thighs, hooking under her knees and spreading them to settle heavily between her legs. She bites off a groan and wonders vaguely if he can feel the heat of her even through all their layers.
"The décor or the treatment?" he asks. He has to stifle a moan against her throat when she digs her heels into the mattress and rolls her hips to meet his. He's hard and straining against his trousers, and if she grinds against him—just—right—
Her back arches.
"Yes." It's an answer on several counts.
Garrett mutters an oath and lunges back to her mouth. His hands roam up her waist, firm even through her corset, and Darcy's breaths come shallow and quick. Her ribs flutter like and caged bird and Darcy—
Darcy can't breathe.
"Garrett—mmph—the corset—" She's actually panicking a little, her head spinning from a dizziness that has nothing to do with arousal.
Garrett pulls back to see her face. His lips are red and swollen, and Darcy has to admire her handiwork even through her discomfort.
"Oh, I should have—here, I have you," he says, though his hands hover, unsure where to begin.
Darcy's always been a fan of layers, but even she can see the problem. Her skirts are pushed up, falling around her thighs in a tangle of fabric. There are laces and buttons and far too many yards of cloth.
"I think you should just forego all these clothes, honestly," Garrett says.
"Orana would cry."
"Yes, but it would be so much easier to bend you over the breakfast table." He grips the hem of her overdress and drags it up, her under layers sliding up her thighs a bit with it. "Just imagine: the sun streaming through the windows, me feeding you bites of sweet bun with one hand and fucking you open with the other."
"Garrett."
"Yes, dear?"
"Fucking take off my clothes."
They both struggle with her heavier overdress for a moment, before Garrett manages to find and utilize the buttons—how long ago had they been drinking?—and strip it over her head. There's a breathless moment of laughter when her narrow sleeves catch on her upper arms and Garrett has to do triage with the elbow lacing and free her from her smothering prison. She's left in her corset and stockings and shift.
Garrett makes an irritated sound low in his throat.
"You look lovely in this, but I'm going to take it off now." He means the corset mainly, but she's about ready to set all of their clothes on fire. He's a mage, right? That's within the realm of possibility.
Garrett plucks at the front closures before giving up with a skyward glance.
"This is ridiculous. Sit up, love, I'm going to ruin your lovely underthings."
Darcy chokes on a laugh.
"You really will make Orana cry."
He makes a derisive sound and then helps her sit up to tug the laces out of the back entirely. Darcy's sure the whole thing is going to have to be relaced, but that's a tomorrow problem. At least he kept it all intact, despite his words.
She takes her first deep breath of several hours, and Garrett leans in to steal it from her. He fills his hands with the soft flesh of her waist and hips, slides his palms up to cup the undersides of her breasts, thumbs rolling her pebbled nipples. She aches where he touches, and has to close her eyes against the wash of feelings when he leans forward to lave at her nipples through the fabric of her shift.
Darcy reaches for his front, looking to run her hands over his prestigious abs, to slip her hands into his pants, to do something—but is rebuffed by the fact that he's still in all of his clothes.
"Why are you still dressed?" she grouses. She presses the heel of her hand against his trapped erection in retaliation.
Garrett thrusts shallowly into her hand, a surprised "ah" rumbling up from his chest.
"Ladies first," he says, a bit gutted, but he strips off his jerkin and shirt, both of their shoes having already been lost to the fray.
"You could lose the trousers," Darcy says, trying for a conversational tone.
"I could," Garrett says, equally pleasant. He doesn't reach for his laces. Instead, he tips her back into his pillows, and kneels over her, the hem of her shift wrapped in one fist. His eyes bore into her own as he slides the fabric up and up and up, looking for hesitation, or possibly just enjoying the way her face blushes and eyes shutter in arousal.
When the shift is fully stripped and discarded, Garrett sits back and sweeps his gaze over her body. Darcy arches her back a little and raises a brow as if to say "Like what you see?"
He does.
"I want a painting of this, right here, in the front hall," he says. "I want everyone who steps into this house to see what I'm seeing right now, because this—" Here he makes a broad gesture over her languid form. "—is a fucking gift."
"Isabela would approve."
"Isabela wouldn't be allowed inside. Or anyone else, actually. It's very sad. I'll have to move everyone out and redecorate entirely. Painting of you in the hall, statue of your bust in the parlor—"
"Sounds garish."
"Very. But then I get to enact my plan of having you on every surface of the estate." He leans forward. "Twice."
"Big talk from a man who hasn't gotten around to having me on his bed—once." She cants her hips a little at the end because she can, and because Garrett is so chatty she's afraid her breasts will start to sag from old age before they get around to the actual deed.
It's the right thing to say, because his hands are shoving her knees apart, and his fingers are hooking into her underwear before she can take her next breath. The pad of one thumb strokes just along her folds, not applying pressure.
"You are soaking," he says, and she can feel it rumble through the knee he has pinned to his chest.
"And you said you didn't want me wet," she says, voice wavering.
"Darcy, I wanted to reach under the table and finger you breathless in front of the Maker, my friends, and the seedier half of Kirkwall for most of the evening." He grips her underwear and yanks, and the side seams rip clean through. "I wanted to lift your skirts and find you hot and slick and half as desperate to have me as I've been to have you."
Garrett bends to lay a kiss on the inside of her knee.
"You didn't sound very sure of that earlier."
Where is that tongue-tied Hawke now?
"I was drunk and half hard and you were in my arms making sexual innuendos. You expect a lot from a man." He idly swipes a knuckle through her folds.
"Ah, Garrett—"
"Did you need something?" he asks, applying pressure to her clit.
"Preferably," she grits out. "For you to pick up the pace."
He tuts in mock censure, but slips a finger into her on his next pass through her folds. He drags it in and out, maddeningly slow, and the rougher edges of his callouses feel divine. The grin he gives her when she keens is pure self-satisfied male.
"Have what you wanted?" A second finger joins the first, and he curls them as he thrusts, finding the spot that nearly makes her levitate with pleasure, and doesn't falter from it.
"Gah—Garrett, please—" She's bearing down on his fingers, muscles tightening, pressure building low in her belly. She's so obscenely wet and ready that it doesn't take much effort for him to work in a third digit.
"Don't be shy, love, let me hear you," he says when she tosses her head back and bites a knuckle to keep from waking the whole household. He quickens his pace, fingers hitting there, there, there—
"Garrett—Hawke—oh gods—"
She flies apart, one hand on his shoulder, the other on the wrist that is still thrusting, driving her higher, higher—
Darcy nearly wails her completion.
"I had you pegged for a screamer," Garrett says, satisfied.
His fingers curl again, once, and Darcy jerks, oversensitive. The wet sound his digits make when he draws them out would make Darcy blush if she wasn't already fifty shades of pink and sated. As it is, she's sprawled indecently before him, limp-limbed and languid.
She's never leaving this bed.
"Garrett?"
"Mm?"
"Take off your pants."
"I do like that I never have to question what you want."
He's unlacing himself now, though, and when the fabric sags enough that he springs free, Darcy discovers the real reason for Carver's general saltiness towards his brother. His cock is lovely—flushed and weighty—and Darcy shoots a brief prayer of thanks to any deity who may be listening. She half sits up so that she can take Garrett's almost too-hot member into her hand, shifting the foreskin back and swiping her thumb over the tip. Precum smears over the skin, and she gives a little tug. He jumps in her hand.
"Dar—Darcy." Her name ends in a groan that she feels to the tip of her toes.
It's his turn to throw his head back in pleasure, and Darcy strokes him a few more times, until he grips her wrist in warning.
"Not like this, not like—ah—this," he says.
She laces her fingers through his and pulls him down to cover her. He braces himself on one forearm, hooking one of her knees over him, and reaches between their bodies to position himself.
"This okay?"
"So, so okay," she breathes.
He slides the head of his cock through her folds once, twice, teasing still, goddamn it, before catching on her entrance and pushing forward. The slow stretch of him is glorious, and when he bottoms out, she clenches around him, full and thrumming.
Garrett presses his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling.
"This is the closest to spiritual I think I've ever felt," he says, giving a shallow thrust.
Darcy rolls her hips and stutters out a laugh.
"Don't tell Sebastian."
They fall into silence, finding a rhythm. The slow, sweet slide of his cock stokes the heat in her belly back into an inferno, and her skin is slick with it. The pressure starts again at the base of her spine, and when Garrett's free hand drifts down to rub over her clit, she mewls.
"You make," Garrett pants, "the prettiest sounds."
He pauses to readjust, tucking both of her knees to her chest, then drives back into her, the gentle pace abandoned for quick, deep thrusts. Darcy would slide back on the sheets if it wasn't for the solid weight of him. She's keeping up a steady chorus of sounds—some of them are words, she thinks, like "please" and "Garrett" and "there"—and she's approaching the tipping point again, cresting toward oblivion.
Nearing his own completion, Garrett starts to pull out, his thumb still circling her clit, but Darcy stops him.
"No—it's fine—can't get pregnant—" She has an arm implant that, barring inter-dimensional weirdness, should stop that from being a problem.
Garrett is past questioning her, and redoubles his efforts for both of them, forearms planted on either side of her, lips at her ear, whispering filthy half-sentences and urging her to let go. He thumbs at her clit, and it's enough—it's more than enough—and Darcy is clenching, crying out—
"Garrett—"
He groans out a muffled "Darcy" and his hips lose their rhythm, stuttering to a halt as the warm heat of him spills into her. He drops some of his weight onto her, and Darcy pants, fully satisfied.
"You're right, that was divine," she says after they come back down a bit. She runs a lazy hand through his hair, nails scraping lightly.
"Mm, you're divine," he mumbles.
"Flatterer."
For once, she doesn't feel in a rush to get home. She has plans here, after all:
Sex on every surface of the estate.
Twice.
Darcy is fully cognizant at breakfast, and if that isn't odd enough, she's also chipper.
"Pass the bacon, Carver?" she asks sweetly.
Carver, for his part, isn't shooting anyone death glares or mouthing off. His behavior is strangely reminiscent of Darcy's the day prior; he is shoveling food into his mouth and studiously avoiding eye contact. He shoves the plate of bacon toward Darcy without breaking pace.
"Sweet bun, love?" Garrett extends one in his fingers, the look in his eyes devious.
"Certainly," she says, her voice equally light. She takes a bite, making sure to catch his thumb with her lips. "Mm, delicious."
The sound Carver makes is that of a dying man.
"Are you well, Carver?" Leandra asks, voice a touch wry.
"I—yes, excuse me." Carver shoves back from the table, leaving food on his plate for probably the first time in his life.
"Hmm," Leandra says in the wake of his leaving. "Well, at least you're both looking well this morning."
"Oh, yes. Very well." Garrett kicks his feet out in front of him, ankles crossed, nearly sprawling in the uncomfortable dining chair. He finishes off the sweet bun in his hand, winking at Darcy. "Successful night at the Hanged Man."
"I see," Leandra says in a tone that implies that she does, in fact, see. The look on her face is benign, though, and Darcy can see the thought as it blossoms: grandchildren.
Leandra finishes her tea and goes to attend to her morning duties—whatever those are—leaving Darcy and Garrett alone at the table.
"So," Garrett drawls. "This table. Fine workmanship. Well made. Sturdy."
Orana enters the room to start removing dishes. Darcy smiles at her.
"Not now, Garrett," she mutters.
"That's not a no," he continues when Orana leaves. He bites into an apple and smiles.
Darcy crosses her ankles demurely and cuts into her eggs.
That's not a no. It's only eight in the morning; doing anything before ten is a crime against nature.
"Eat your breakfast, Garrett," Darcy says, coy. "We have plans tonight."