Summary: Bethany and Carver lean into each other in the wake of Bethany nearly being taken away.
Relationship: Bethany Hawke/Carver Hawke
Tags of note: Dry humping, codependency, underage sex (the twins are 13)
For @dafuckedupshipsweek with the prompt "codependency".
Bethany was only thirteen when she was nearly caught by the Templars. Her father kept her against the wall, his hand clamped over her mouth, as the group of Templars stepped through the cobblestone streets with heavy boots, the thud of leather against stone echoing in Bethany's ears just as sure as her heartrate picked up in her chest.
Malcolm peeked out towards the street as the Templars spoke amongst themselves.
"That Hawke mage and his daughter are supposed to be in this town," one exclaimed. "Andraste's breath, the fact he was able to breed with a damned Free Marcher noble…"
Happy Friday! I've got a nasty little prompt for you today, or maybe not nasty! Up to you! But "You don't want anyone to find out, do you?" For Carver/Hawke?
Thank you for the prompt! This is short, but I didn't know how to continue it. For @dadrunkwriting
My Hawke in this one is Wysteria, who uses she/her pronouns.
Content Warnings: Underage, Incest
DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT
When Carver slips into Wysteria's bed late at night, she's expecting it. Their father is gone on a trip with Bethany, leaving Carver and Wysteria alone at the house with their mother. Wysteria wishes she didn't know why her father took Bethany and no one else, but she does. Of course she does.
Carver is sixteen years old and he kisses like he's desperate for it, like he needs Wysteria's lips to survive. He breathes her in, muttering soft reassurances against the freckled flesh of her neck even as he sucks and bites hard enough to hurt. She'll have to wear high collars for the next little while.
At a particularly sharp bite, Wysteria lets out a gasp. Carver shushes her softly.
"Shh. You don't want anyone to find out, do you?" Carver murmurs and she knows what he means. Their mother is asleep in the other room and too much noise could wake her, leading to the discovery of two of her children in such a compromising position.
Wysteria shakes her head and bites her lip, imagining the scandalized look on their mother's face if she caught them like this. She'd cry and scream and demand to know how this all began, but Wysteria wouldn't be able to answer. All she knows is that she'd do anything for her little brother.
Look, I can ignore all of Dragon Age 2's many problems because the characters and story are phenomenal. What I can't ignore is that my Hawke can't romance her adorable little sister. Absolutely unforgivable.
Gonna do my fem mage Hawke and brocon Carver for this one!
♡: There had been tension between Carver and Hawke for a few years, after their father died but before the Blight. Heated eye contact, touches that lingered just a bit too long, Hawke having hookups in places where she knew Carver would see, maybe even some light touches and almost kisses in the middle of the night. But nothing actually happened until they were in Kirkwall, sharing a cramped bed in Gamlen's house so that their mother could have her own bed.
♤: Gamlen walked in on them once and he gave them leering looks and made vague comments about it until they moved out. He never breathed a word about it to anyone though, to his credit.
Hawke's companions all find out at different times. Some of them respond better than others, but none of them truly understand. They didn't get Hawke's relationship with Carver in the first place, why she was so devoted to him even when he was such a brat, and this just made it even more confusing. They support her though and will take that secret to the grave if she asks them to.
Leandra and Bethany never find out. It haunts Hawke and Carver late at night.
¤: It scares them. They know the consequences of being discovered; Hawke's reputation in the city would be ruined, Carver would be kicked out from the Templars, they'd probably have to run away entirely to escape the stares and whispers. But even with that, they wouldn't trade their sibling relationship for anything. They can't imagine a world where they didn't always hve each other, a world where Carver didn't have his big sister taking care of them when their parents couldn't, a world where Hawke didn't have her baby brother protecting her. It would be easier if they weren't related, but the loss of that relationship wouldn't be worth the benefits.
(also known as, “When Carver eavesdrops on bad flirting and can’t. fucking. handle. it.”)
"Is this how people dress in the Circle?" she asked, hoping not to seem rude.
"No, they wear robes. This is more of the style mages wear in Tevinter, though not as ornate," he answered, looking down at his coat. "These are samir feathers," he said, pointing to them. "Mages made use of their benefits long before the Chantry."
"The gold matches your... hair," she said awkwardly, gazing up at him from the cot she sat on. She meant to say eyes, but stopped herself.
They called him Hawk, so they did not leave him deep in the forests, or sink him deep into the marsh. Elder Rurig built a bonfire, slowly and laboriously, moaning to the sound of the drums. They all moaned, intermittently, as they went about their tasks; the drums kept time, a dirge played by Dimseers in trance, their calloused hands as rhythmic as a metronome.
The Chasind dragged, as if their limbs were too heavy, as if their bodies were weighted with stones. Someone would murmur a bit of song as they prepared Malcolm’s body, the words slurred, and then they’d subside.
Leandra slept fitfully in the wailing tent, sometimes waking to weep, but the energy of the tribe pressed down upon her, too, and mostly she just lay, the tears leaking unbidden from her eyes.
Bethany and Carver held each other and rocked, their eyes closed, their heartbeats slowed to the rhythm of the drums.
Elijah chopped and hacked at drywood for Rurig, his jaw clenched so tightly it gave him a headache, his eyes burning because he scarce remembered to blink.
Soon it would be nightfall.
Twilight bloomed slowly in the Mire, not so much a sunset as a dull waning of light and clarity. Shadows spread and rose, like a blanket billowing over a freshly-made bed. The drums still kept time. The Dimseers opened their mouths when attendants pressed sopping-wet cloths to their cracked lips, and they let the precious droplets drip onto their tongues and slip down their throats, but they gave no other sign that they were conscious. Their rheumy eyes stared straight through all things, and their calloused hands kept time.
The tribe gathered, shuffling, moaning. Elijah carried his father to the pyre, tall and defiant. Elder Rurig came forward with his torch. The fire caught the ring of gold around Elijah’s pupils, and Rurig gazed into those blazing eyes for a long moment before grunting, as if satisfied.
Elijah laid Malcolm, Hawk, in his bed of drywood and brush, and Rurig set it ablaze.
The drums picked up, just a little. Leandra burst from the tent with a cry, her arms outstretched as she ran stumbling for the pyre. Elijah clenched his fists and dug his heels to prevent himself from intercepting her, from carrying her away from the fire. This was how it must be.
As she fell to her knees, the flames licked her hair, her face, and she turned her face up to them, sobbing.
The tribe sang, shedding the weight they’d carried all afternoon, throwing it off their shoulders as their lungs filled with air and their hearts filled with song. They sang the dirge fervently, beating their chests in time with the drums, rocking, swaying. Elijah stood stock still until Bethany and Carver flanked him, and pulled the song out of him with their hands.
The fire rose higher and higher, filling the marsh with the smoke and the scent, masking Malcolm’s burning body in its white-hot heart. Leandra wailed, and the Hawk-children sang, and the tribe moaned, a primal call and response that demanded even the participation of the wild. Marsh wolves lent their eerie howls, and even the toads sounded mournful.
Suddenly, Leandra stopped, and gasped, and stared rapturously at the swirling smoke rising from the center of the pyre. “Mal,” she whispered hoarsely, her hands fluttering up as if to catch him.
Elijah, his arms around his siblings, watched the smoke briefly form the shape of wings.
The marsh seemed ominously quiet after the Dimseers ceased, dropping quietly into unconsciousness as the ritual wound down. They would awaken ravenously hungry and thirsty, and would be plied with thick cuts of blackened meat and salted duck eggs and sharp, nose-opening cheeses. The whole tribe would eat well, replenishing their bodies and spirits after the catharsis of the ritual, and rejoicing in the goodness of being alive.
Tonight, Bethany tended sweetly to their mother, and Carver to Elijah.
He had barely wept all week, but now he could not stop, his big body quaking with the effort, and Carver held him, rocked him, poured magic into him in cooling waves, as Eli was feverishly hot. A torch had been passed to him in his father’s death, and he did not want it -- tonight, he did not want it. In time, the torch would fit into his hand and heart as naturally as if it had always been there. Tonight, it simply burned him, softened him, melted him into putty in Carver’s hands.
In the darkness Carver sat in Elijah’s lap, wrapping his legs and arms around him, resting his head on Eli’s shoulder. His hands moved in big, slow circles, soothing, and Eli’s hands gripped him, fiercely. When Carver kissed his cheek, Eli turned his face into it hungrily, into Carver’s rare and beautiful sweetness, the uncommon gentleness with which Carver handled him. Open-mouthed, Carver accepted his pain, swallowed it, and it streamed out of him in his own silent tears.
They mourned Malcolm, but they also mourned the change in them that Malcolm’s absence brought. They mourned their youth, and they feared their future. And they loved each other, so much it hurt, so much that this dread knowledge that they could lose any of each other at any time made them hungry for each other’s embrace, for the security and familiarity of each other’s touch. Elijah and Carver wrapped themselves around each other in greedy, youthful, defiant love, and did not let go of each other, even when, hot and spent, they fell into exhausted sleep.
Morning would find Elijah Hawk-child on the porch with a knife in one hand and his shorn locs in the other, a look both morose and defiant on his Malcolm-like face, and Carver would hit him and shout and spit invective, and he wouldn’t know why he was so angry but he would know that in that moment he hated Elijah, and Elijah would let him hit and shout and spit invective and would later accept the stony silent treatment that would divide them for weeks after... but for now they slept, entwined.
Aurelia’s July Challenge 2017 - Day 17 (1) - Garrett/Carver
„I just came home to you crying while watching a movie, please tell me what‘s going on.“
//I know that the Hawkecest is something most people don’t really agree with, so for you weirdos out there that are like me I wrote this, and for all of you who’d rather skip this there’ll be a second drabble coming up tonight, so you have something to read as well~
He hated how weak he was, he hated that he had started crying in the first place. But it was even worse that Garrett had found him like that, crying into his sleeves and wiping his snot into them as he pretended to watch that stupid romance movie on TV. Maybe he could have fooled most people, tried to tell them that he was secretly a sap who always cried over movies, but not Garrett.
Garrett knew he cried differently when it was really about the movie. So instead of making some jab at him for being such a sap, he frowned and sat down next to him.
„Please tell me what‘s going on.“ No jokes, no teasing, no trying to make light of things. As if he knew that something was going on.
„It‘s nothing“ Carver sniffled, even though he knew he wouldn‘t get through with that even as he said it.
„Nothing doesn‘t look like this, brother“ Garrett told him and picked up the blanket from the couch to wrap it around Carver‘s shoulders.
„Mother had Peaches over when I was at hers for tea… and she‘s trying to tell me how nice she‘d be. Tells me how she wishes for me to find someone all the time. That she‘d even be happy if I‘d find a nice man, that she doesn‘t want to judge...“ He heard Garrett sigh next to him, and he knew that Garrett knew just as well as him where this was going.
„I can‘t tell her, Garrett. I can‘t tell her that I already found someone. That I know who the fucking love of my life is and it‘s my own bloody brother!“
He hadn‘t realised that he‘d started crying even harder until Garrett‘s strong arms wrapped around him to hold him tight. Those strong arms he loved so much…
„You truly must be upset to call me the love of your life to my face“ he heard a raspy voice from above his head, and it told him that Garrett wasn‘t quite unaffected either.
„It‘s true though. You know I‘m a closeted romantic anyway“ he grumbled through his sniffles and earned himself a pat on the head.
„That you are. And no, you can‘t tell her, but that doesn‘t mean that you can‘t be happy… we‘ll never be able to tell anyone, but we can still have a good life together, Carver. It‘ll just be… harder.“
Carver sighed and pressed even sloer to his brother. „Yeah, harder and nastier and everyone will keep asking why we still live together and don‘t have partners and if we break up we‘ll still be brothers and it‘ll all go to shit.“
„Yes it will. Yes it will. But that doesn‘t matter to me, because in return for those troubles I get you, my very own closeted sap of a brother with the sweetest ass in all of Thedas.“
Carver grumbled and attempted to swat Garrett away, but his wrist was easily caught in his big brother‘s hand. He looked up and stared straight into those eyes that were so similar to his own and yet so different.
„Your own closeted romantic, as if you‘re not secretly the most romantic of them all“ he retorted and gave a little huff. „It was you who took us on that couple boat cruise with candle light dinner last year for our anniversary, remember?“
„Yes, I remember“ Garrett murmured, and got a faraway look in his eyes for a few moments.
„You were so handsome that day with that flowercrown in your hair...“ He still had a picture of that night as his phone background, Carver knew. He always pretended it was to annoy Carver, but Carver knew better.
„I love you too, big brother“ he murmured and leaned over to kiss him on the lips. Garrett was right. It would be a lot of trouble to be with the Champion, in more ways than one, but it would be so, so worth it.
Hawke noticed that Bethany had something wrong. She had started to walk slower, ever slower, and complained about dry lips. She resisted the urge to cuddle her to sleep, to wrap her arms around her and rock her around like she was still just her baby sister and not a grown woman, but she could not deal with Varric and Fenris' questioning, concerned looks. And so she kept her distance, as much as she didn't want to. She wanted to believe she had something other than the blight, something that was fixable, something that would not have her in the same situation as Aveline, what felt like eons ago but had only been nearing two years.
This wishing could not change the course of things, which she found out quickly as Bethany collapsed onto the cold, dark stone of the Deep Roads. Hawke cried out and settled over her, looking at the dark lines quickly overtaking her face. She was gorgeous, even in this state, half-rotting, so gross yet so lovely. She did not want to let go of her, did not want to have to say goodbye to her sister. She clung onto her.
For day 1 of @dragonagesapphicweek with the prompt "doomed yuri".
