Garrett's side of the bed is cold.

Darcy's a little too bleary to really comprehend what that means—other than a general sense of disgruntlement—before she curls into her own warm spot and drifts back off.

She wakes again some time later to a weight settling next to her.

"Good morning, love."

"Mmph."

Mornings are not good. They are to be endured.

Preferably in bed.

Asleep.

A hand—presumably belonging to her early-rising bed partner—brushes a clump of hair back from her face.

"You're so lovely like this."

Darcy cracks one eye open, because even half asleep, she can smell that bullshit.

"What?" Garrett says in response to her gritty-eyed glare. "I'm partial to pillow creases."

"Wha' time issit?" Her mouth is mush, and she will not apologize. It's too early, and he's too… much. Just. Too much.

Even after a month or so of making like bunnies at every opportunity, Garrett hasn't lost his appeal. It's really unfair because Darcy sometimes wants to hit him, but somehow the action morphs into a kiss halfway through the execution, and things tend to just… progress from there.

The monster has been getting positive reinforcement for all of his bad jokes, and he's becoming unbearable.

"Not quite eighth bell," Garrett says. He's still stroking her hair, and Darcy has almost forgotten that she asked a question.

"Mm," she sighs, turning her face back into the pillow. She must've drifted onto his at some point, because it smells a little like metal and ozone and that shampoo that he says makes him smell like the inside of The Rose.

"Hey, hey, none of that. C'mon, I have a surprise." He's shaking her gently, and she curls tighter.

"'S too early."

Nothing good happens before ten.

A sigh. "You would not believe the trouble I've gone through to orchestrate this."

There's a brief moment of silence wherein Darcy thinks that maybe she's off the hook, but Garrett is nothing if not persistent, and apparently whatever he has planned for this ungodly hour is very important to him. There are hands weaseling under her back and knees, and she's suddenly airborne and blinking.

It occurs to her that she spends a lot of time being carried in this relationship.

(She's kind of into it.)

"Nooo," she says, stretching her arm toward the retreating bed. (Though she supposes she's the one who's retreating.) At this point, though, her heart isn't really into it—and Garrett knows it, damn him—and he tucks her in close.

"I have tea hot and waiting."

She huffs, but grins a little into his shoulder. The man must really be magic if he can wake her up and still wrench a smile from her. He smells nice—clean, mostly—and he's warm enough that she doesn't mourn the loss of the coverlet.

They make it downstairs and Darcy has enough presence of mind to wonder where the rest of the household is as Garrett hooks a foot around a dining room chair and settles her into it. She slumps forward a moment before what she's seeing registers.

"I might've… secured us some privacy for the morning." Garrett sounds uncharacteristically shy.

There's a little vase of flowers on the table—flowers that have obviously been arranged by an inexpert hand—and a small spread of delicacies. Some of the sweet buns look a little misshapen.

"Did you… make me breakfast?"

"Er, well—Orana might've taken pity on me. I'm helpless with baking." He's still standing, like an awkward, overly-large puppy looking for approval.

She tugs him down and kisses his stupid, beautiful face.

"You are ridiculous and I love you, Garrett Hawke."

The declaration isn't a new one; they've both been pretty candid with their feelings, and Garrett bandies the word "love" around as a pet name in front of God and everyone. So why they're blushing now is anyone's guess. Darcy supposes it's because they're both besotted idiots.

God, but she really does love him.

(And maybe she should start saying "Maker" now.)

"You might rescind that after trying these." He motions to the plate of pastries. "Some of the damage was already done before Orana stepped in."

"How long have you been up?" Darcy purposefully chooses a lopsided bun. She survived years of untoasted poptarts, and those weren't even made with love.

"Long enough." He half shrugs, staring with trepidation as the sweet bun nears her mouth.

She takes a bite.

The moan that escapes isn't entirely theatrical, but if her reaction is going to make his face do that, she might have to break out her porn star impression.

"Mm—Maker, Garrett." She licks the glaze from her bottom lip. "I don't know who you killed for this much sugar, but their death was not in vain."

She doubts the sugar was actually hard for him to come by; it's a rarer commodity in Thedas than in her world, but he's well off, and they're not exactly wanting for food and spices. However, food in this world isn't as loaded down with sugars and artificial flavorings, so when it's used to any degree, it's noticeable. Garrett, in his kitchen fumblings, must have doubled down on the sugar content.

A happy mistake, she thinks.

"I know you don't know what a donut is, but this is probably as close as it gets without being fried." She takes another bite. "'S like cake," she says around a mouthful.

Garrett relaxes, then swoops in for a kiss. When he pulls back, licking his lips, he makes a face.

"Tastes Orlesian," he mutters.

"Heaven forbid," Darcy says. She doesn't know what it is about these people and Orlesians—the look of disgust there is implied—but they have some serious beef. As far as she can tell, they're just… French.

Actually, come to think of it, those attitudes exist in her world, too.

Darcy sips at her tea—a bit over-steeped, but not unpalatable—and glances at the eldest Hawke out of the corner of her eye. She's awake now, and fully cognizant, and she knows his game.

"So, why kick the others out?" she asks, placid as can be. "Surely we could have had breakfast in bed and avoided all of this."

Garrett picks up an apple and tosses it hand to hand, not looking at her. It's quite a feat; he's still turned in his chair so that his knees are pressed to her thigh, fully facing her.

"I, ah, didn't want witnesses for my culinary shame," he says, still looking away.

"Is "culinary shame" what they're calling it now?" She catches his eye and raises a brow over the rim of her cup. "In my day we just said "fucking over the table.""

The apple stops exchanging hands. Garrett looks a little sheepish.

"I wasn't actually going to bring it up."

"Uh-huh."

"You were half awake! I just wanted this to be… nice."

Darcy makes a lewd gesture with her tongue and cheek, and Garrett rolls his eyes, unable to keep the grin from his face. He pecks her forehead.

"Enjoy your breakfast. I slaved for it. It was a labor of love."

He turns in his seat to start loading up their plates. She watches for a moment, considering.

"You know, I feel like time could be saved if I ate while you bent me over the table."

A grape rolls off of the serving platter.

"No one is—Darcy I didn't mean for this to—" Garrett is tense, which is ridiculous, and Darcy nudges his ankle with her toes. His posture loosens slightly.

"This isn't about me," he says, looking at her. "Really."

She picks up the stray grape and presses it to his lips. He takes it, lips brushing over her fingers.

"I know," she says, almost gently. "Which is why you're going to eat me out first."

Garrett looks a little like he's been hit over the head. He blinks dazedly before seeming to recover, pushing the fruit to the side of his mouth and popping it with a growing grin.

"I love you."

"I know."

He doesn't get the Star Wars reference, but that hardly matters when he shoves their plates to the side and hoists her onto the table. He doesn't bother with her nightgown, just shoves it up to froth around her waist, and throws her legs over his shoulders.

"The sight of you kneeling does things to me," she says, going for "saucy," but landing on "winded."

"So I see," he says, dragging a thumb through her already-damp (fuck) folds. He presses a kiss to her inner thigh. "Where are your underthings, wench?"

"Vaporized. Poof." She flexes her fingers like an explosion.

Really, she's been a little embarrassed about the quantity of underwear she's sent to poor Orana to wash lately. More pairs showed up in Darcy's drawers like magic about a week into their relationship. Thoughtful, but… awkward.

Garrett "hmm-s," and bends closer, spreading her legs to accommodate. The view of his dark head between her thighs is enough to make her ache for attention, heart pounding where his hot breath blows over her.

"Brace yourself, love."

It's all the warning she gets before he puts his tongue and lips and teeth—oh god—to work. Darcy throws her hands out behind her, knocking utensils and dishware aside if the clanking is any indication, and makes a strangled sound.

It's a bit surreal to be spread out on the Hawke breakfast table while Garrett Hawke is two fingers and a tongue deep inside of her, but it's one morning ritual she could really get behind. Shafts of sunlight cut across their forms, and Darcy feels like an X-rated Renaissance painting.

Garrett puts his mouthiness to good use, licking a stripe up the cleft of her, pausing to tongue slow circles around her clit. His fingers in her are steady and relentless, and her toes are already curling as the heat in her abdomen builds. She nearly clamps her thighs around his ears when he closes his lips around her clit and tugs with the barest hint of teeth. His resulting chuckle is one she feels all the way up her spine.

"When we—ngh—redecorate," Darcy pants, "we should have this scene painted."

Garrett looks up without pulling away, blue eyes through dark lashes. Darcy is a little gutted at the sight. He makes a sound—question or agreement, she's not certain—and the vibration of it scatters her thoughts. There's a crinkle to his eyes that suggests a smile.

Garrett withdraws his fingers, still crooked so that they drag at her in ways that make her squirm. She nearly voices protest at the loss, but then his hands are on her ass, pulling her to the very edge of the table. Her legs fall open wider, heedless of the fact that they are in the dining room and she's facing a doorway, and she's falling back on her elbows because her traitor wrists have given out, and Garrett uses the new angle to absolutely wreck her for oral sex from anyone else for-probably-ever. He pulls her to his face, and gods, she's going to have beard burn, but it's too good, never stop—

Her back arches, head thrown back, as his fingers reenter the fray, thumbing her clit as his tongue spells out magic words inside of her. There's a pressure building, and Darcy can't say for sure whether Garrett is actually channeling magic, or whether it's her own body reaching its peak, but when it breaks, she nearly shakes apart in his hands. Colors bloom and burst behind her eyelids.

"Oh God—oh Maker—oh God—" She doesn't know whether she's praising or swearing, but Garrett is definitely grinning into her as he draws out her orgasm.

"Breakfast feast," he says when he finally raises his head.

"What?" Darcy is more than a little glazed, blinking into the sunlight.

"That's what we'll call the painting. "Breakfast Feast."" His beard and the entire lower half of his face is shining with her arousal.

"Oh my god, Garrett." Darcy covers her eyes. She can't help the laugh that burbles up, because he's terrible and perfect and hers, and lets him pull her into a seated position. He draws her into a messy kiss, all tongue and hot, open mouths. He tastes like tea and her, and Darcy is drunk on it all.

"Are you going to bend me over the table now?" she asks against his lips.

"Can you even stand?" He huffs out a laugh.

She can do more than that.

"Garrett."

"Yes, dearest?" His voice says he already knows what's coming.

"The correct answer was, "Yes, Darcy.""

He runs a hand over his mouth, eyes rolled skyward.

"Yes, Darcy," he parrots. His expression changes from exasperated to sly, then, and he leans in. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

He has her flipped before she registers the hands on her waist, and his thigh shoves between hers even as she scrambles for purchase.

"This okay?" he asks.

She doesn't know how to tell him that she's unreasonably excited by his rough handling.

"I won't break," she says, and grinds back against him.

His fingers dig into her hips and he laughs, his voice dipping a shade darker.

"Let's see if we can work up a proper appetite."

He kicks her feet out wider and leans back for a moment, freeing himself. One of his hands rucks her nightgown back up, gripping it at her hip. Darcy wiggles her ass a little in invitation. He gives it a pinch, barely enough to spark pain, and then the heat of him is back against her. He kisses the side of her neck.

"If it's too much—"

"You will be the first to know," Darcy says.

He presses at her entrance for a fraction of a second before his hips snap forward, sheathing himself fully. She gasps, bearing down.

"Maker, you're like a vise," he grits out.

She tries to move, but Garrett is a wall at her back. His free hand drifts down between her legs and he circles her clit with two fingers.

"Garrett." It's not a whine, because Darcy Lewis doesn't whine.

"Shh, I have you."

And then, blessedly, he moves.

While he doesn't treat her like spun glass, Darcy has always had the impression that Garrett shows a certain level of… restraint in their encounters. That's fine by her, generally; Garrett's a big guy, and she doesn't want to be sore all the time.

But sometimes a girl just wants to be drilled into a table.

The pace he sets is nearly punishing, and Darcy struggles to find a rhythm. She does, finally, matching him thrust for thrust, and the angle has her seeing stars. She's stretched and full, and so wet that each drag of Garrett's cock makes an obscene noise that echoes through the room. She thinks the table is shifting.

She knows her hips are bruising, but she can't bring herself to care.

"Ah—ah, Garrett—" She can't quite vocalize what she wants—what she needs—because she's spiraling too far, too fast, but not quite there—

Garrett adjusts his stance and drives back into her, panting in her ear.

"Better?"

She can only nod, head bent, palms pressed flat to the table.

Garrett shifts the hand at her hip to press low against her front, just above where her hips meet the wood of the table. Her muscles flutter under his touch, and the pressure of it has her wondering if he can feel the way he moves inside of her. The thought of it—anatomically improbable as it is—has her spilling over, crying out in relief as the bubble of tension bursts.

Garrett mutters a string of half-incomprehensible praises into her ear as he loses control, the snap of his hips turning jagged and uneven.

"Beautiful—so good—you take me so well—"

He falls apart at her back, and the feeling of him coming in her with a rush makes her quiver with sparking aftershocks.

They lay panting in the afterglow, Garrett draped across her back, bracing the majority of his weight on his forearms.

"That was…" he says, a bit hoarse, "amazing."

"Best yet," she mumbles, still floating somewhere in the stratosphere. She'll waft down eventually.

"And think: the day has only just begun." He nuzzles into her hair before straightening and pulling out of her with a warm gush. "The joys of rising early."

Darcy sits up, looking at the wreckage of the dining table.

"They're going to run us out of the house," she says.

At least nothing is broken.

"Not if we run them out first." Garrett waggles his brows, wetting a cloth napkin and running it gently it over her thighs and sex. "I think Carver is about ready to join the Templars to get away at this point." He laughs.

"When are they expected back, anyway?" As sexually liberated as Darcy is, she really doesn't want to see Leandra like this.

"Not for a while." Garrett shrugs. "I'll take care of this—you go clean up. I'll salvage some breakfast and bring it up."

She's pretty sure she put her elbow in a sweet bun at some point, but other than that, the food looks intact. She, however, is a mess.

"You don't mind?"

"Darcy, I just ravished you—twice—and it's not even ninth bell yet. I wouldn't mind if an army of rabid qunari burned down half the city." He smooths her skirts across her thighs and pecks her nose. "I think I can deal with a little clean-up."

She pulls him back for a proper kiss, warm and lingering.

"Good morning," she says.

And it is.