Title: Blood, Lyrium, & Justice
Fandom: Dragon Age II
Pairing: Hawke/Anders (M/M)
Warnings: SPOILERS, NSFW, CRACK
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.
Just a random smut drabble.
I- ~ ~ ~ -I
The flask uncorks with an audible pop, ocean blue liquid with a silver sheen cresting against the sides as Hawke swirls it - a fine wine - bottleneck braced between two fingers. A slight tilt of the wrist finds thick, sticky drops of lyrium cascading over the lip, splashing against a bare chest. They linger, caught in a tangle of dark hair before slipping free, a streak of blue left in their wake as they settle along Hawke's abdomen. Another tilt, and the next drops fall against his throat, sliding down a sleek expanse of skin as Hawke angles his neck, tense lines allowing lyrium to gather above his pulse point.
It's a tease, and while he isn't sure what possessed him to experiment, the outcome is exactly as desired.
Anders' grin is almost feral, eyes narrowed in a familiar bout of lust before a pulse of magic radiates across the room. It's near blinding, an electric blue-white sparking across his skin, and no sooner can Hawke reopen his eyes is there a body flush against his own, thin lips locked against the lyrium pooled along his throat. Heavy breaths escape his lungs as the air is all but forced from his chest, calloused fingers tracing the pattern of cracks which split throughout his lover's skin. He hears a groan rattle-out from behind blunt teeth as they scratch against his neck, the voice a deep baritone, ethereal as it echos.
"Justice" Hawke hisses, teeth clenched tight, a harsh nip to the underside of his jaw the only response.
Magic floods his senses, pulling him under as his vision bleeds out, head heavy as the spirit above him ravishes both body and soul. Hawke can feel it, the familiar presence of something not quite him pushing against the folds of his consciousness, ever subtle as it probes at his mind; seeking permission where it has already been given.
And there it is, arcane power unstoppable as it consumes him, threatening to scald him from the inside out; coursing through veins and exploding as it dances across sensitized skin. The flask of lyrium lays forgotten, discarded when fingers began to spasm in untold pleasure, clutching as nails drew blood along fade-torn skin.
It is only remember when their positions reverse, and Hawke drinks the addictive, viscous liquid from between cracked, glowing skin, tongue darting out to tease the erogenous streaks.
That night, all that can be heard are low, near ghostly moans of pleasure.