Title: Relapse
Fandom: Dragon Age II
Pairing: Hawke/Carver (M/M)
Warnings: Brotherly Incest
Disclaimer: Dragon Age belongs to BioWare. I'm only an obsessive fan.
A/N: I don't have a Beta, so I apologise for any typos or nonsensical ramblings.
What it says on the tin. Brotherly incest between Hawke and Carver. Yes, I'm that depraved.
I- ~ ~ ~ -I
It's the familiar look in his brother's eyes that sets Carver off; a subtle, near-wild gleam lined by a voracious hunger not seen since their years in Lothering, and one he had almost forgotten. It's just a glance in his direction, ever inconspicuous as it lingers just a moment longer than it should, unspoken words hovering above them with an almost oppressive, suffocating weight. Carver knows that it's only he who sees them, only he who's capable of reading that knowing gaze - for it's one Hawke reserves only for him - and he responds almost instinctively as understanding dawns; fingers twitching of their own accord while nostrils flare, scenting the almost arcane musk that chokes the room. He feels it uncoil in his groin - a sly, roving heat - crawling underneath skin and circulating through veins as Hawke brushes past him, a moment of friction so brief Carver can't quite convince himself it ever occurred. He groans inwardly, swallowing around the lump that's taken up residency along the back of this throat, watching with an almost twisted anticipation as his brother passes by.
He waits before following, idle and awkward as he counts the seconds in hushed, bated breaths; allowing a convenient amount of time to pass before an unsteady hand reaches for his freedom. It's a game long practised, and one he knows well; a relapse to a time before, and he questions, if briefly, why once again he descends so readily into this depravity. He never encounters an answer, for that, he is oddly grateful.
Cool night air hits his skin, and he inhales in a stutter, mind clear, before stepping out into an abandoned Lowtown, winding his way towards one of many gritty, rundown alleys scattered throughout the slums.
Out-of-sight and out-of-mind, and a heartbeat later finds a warm, insistent body flush against his own, back pressed against grime-covered brickwork as dry, cracking lips part against his neck. The back of Carver's skull cracks against stone, head tilting as blunt teeth worry the sun-touched skin of his throat with an almost frenzied pace. His brother never was one for slow, patient exchanges, and Carver knows they have gone far too long without this, whatever it may be. He wets his lips almost nervously, broad shoulders tensing as a slick tongue slides along the underside of his jaw, tasting the sweet sweat it collects in its path. It stops just shy of a fleshy lobe, and Carver's will falters, unable to the contain the undignified grunt that escapes him when moist, near scalding breath caresses his ear.
"Brother..."
It's hissed out through clenched teeth, a weak whimper so uncharacteristic of Hawke it's almost startling; familiar snark and mocking tone all but drained - replaced by raw, overpowering need.
Need which only he could sate.
A stubble covered jaw scratches against a bare cheek, and finally the overwhelming taste of his brother crashes against him, drowning him in an intoxicating rush of sensation; undeniable, wanton lust that rips the air from his lungs and strength from his knees as a dizzying onslaught of vertigo crumbles all but basic thought. It's heavy on his tongue, the unmistakable flavour of his brother; all ash and smoke, earthy and – Andraste help him – heady, utterly addicting. Carver's lips part, tongue now demanding, taking from Hawke all his brother has to offer, and even that which he doesn't. He finds his fingers tangled in Hawke's hair, seemingly of their own violation, before he's pulling, forcing his brother's head back, changing the angle as he straightens, height used to his advantage as Carver commandeers the kiss.
His free hand claws at Hawke's exposed shoulder, fingertips digging into flesh as his tongue slides between the folds of his brother's; a half halfhearted duel as Carver plunders the depths of a willing, pliant mouth. There's sure to be bruises, along lips and pale skin, but he can't bring himself to care as a soft, near-pained moan escapes Hawke's throat, hungry as he all but begs for more, melting against Carver with a quick shift of stance. Cloth covered erections collide in blissful agony, and sounds of passion are pulled from Carver's own lungs, breathless as his brother submits against his forceful ministrations; breaks against his will and raging, taught desire pooled just below the surface. A desire which he fought against so desperately, tried so futility to purge from memory for far too many years. And always, he realized, it would be he who took, he who could never be sated, despite how wholly he devoured his brother, longing, terse touches and all.
Carver can only moan - a strained and rumbling echo - as his head drops back against the alley wall, eyes heavy-lidded as he watches his elder-brother slide to his knees, eyes taking on a mischievous glint against the low light of dying lanterns. Deft hands make quick quick of shoddy trouser fastenings, and Carver decides there is nothing greater than the sight, and eventual pleasure which wracks his body next.