It really wasn’t my fault. It had never been my intention to begin what happened. He was my brother, and I loved him, even when he drove me mad ... but sometimes there is only so much someone can take, and I cracked. I lost my mind, briefly ... but when I came back to myself, I couldn’t find it in myself to regret what had happened.
It started with a job gone wrong. We were hired to track down a stolen artifact. I don’t even remember what it was, now, but I’d taken Carver, Varric, and Isabela with me to some dank, Maker-forsaken warehouse in the docks when we were, surprise surprise, ambushed by blood mages. What else is new? It’s Kirkwall. There are blood mages everywhere in Kirkwall, it seems.
I tried to neutralize their magic, to protect everyone, but I took a frost spell in the face unexpectedly, and I let the barrier slip. Just a tiny loss of concentration, but that’s all it took. Carver was burned, a fireball igniting the fabric of the tunic he wore under his armor, and the skin on his arm blistered and blackened before I managed to douse the fire. Varric put a bolt through the forehead of the offending mage as I hurried to my little brother to see what I could do.
And compared to me, he was little. But then, I was a bit freakishly large, so everyone was little compared to me. Carver’s not inconsiderable six feet and warrior’s build was nothing when I had six inches, and probably forty pounds of muscle on him.
“Fuck!” he shouted. “Garrett, you asshole!”
“Here, let me just-”
“Screw you! I’ll get Anders to heal it. You can barely heal a papercut – I don’t need you making your mistake worse.”
And he stomped off to go see our friendly neighborhood healer, muttering about brothers and mages in rather rude terms under his breath.
I watched him go, guilt warring with irritation inside me.
“Don’t worry about the kid. He’ll be fine,” Varric assured me. “Besides, he should have known better and ducked. That fireball didn’t come as a surprise to anyone but him. Junior’s got to start looking around more in battle, Hawke.”
“You can’t blame the kid when he’s got much more interesting things to look at than ugly mages.” Izzy giggled, gesturing at her rather ample – and bare – cleavage. And she wasn’t wrong; my awkward brother did love to stare at the pirate’s ... assets.
I rolled my eyes, starting to search through crates and boxes. After half an hour of fruitless pillaging, I swore. “And after all that, the fucking thing isn’t even here.” I sighed. “So much for the ten sovereigns that asshole promised me.”
“Don’t worry about it, Hawke. First round is on me. Let’s go back to the Hanged Man.”
I followed my dwarven companion sadly back to the shithole of a tavern we spent most of our evenings at, eventually drinking enough that I passed out on the floor of Varric’s room.
The next day, when I stumbled home somewhere between still drunk and hungover, my mother started in on me. “Garrett, I don’t have so many children that you can afford to not protect them,” was where she started. She spent the day doting on her ‘darling Carver’, treating me like a total jerk. Uncle Gamlen just laughed as my mood deteriorated more and more as the day went on. Between solicitously checking Carver’s burns – healed without even a scar, not that it stopped him from whining about it – and bringing him home-baked treats, I felt completely ill ... and then began the veiled remarks about Bethany, as if her dying was also my fault.
And in truth, I’ll never stop feeling guilty about that. No matter how many times Aveline tried to convince me there was nothing I could do, I saw my poor, beautiful sister being grabbed and crushed by that ogre every damn time I closed my eyes, and had for the past year. There was no one who loved Bethany more than me; no one who missed her more. If I’d just been stronger, faster, smarter ... But there was nothing I could do about it now, not that that prevented Mother from piling on the guilt pretty much every time she saw me.
Finally having enough, I retreated to the room – little more than a storage closet – that I shared with Carver, flopping down on the bed and escaping from my guilt, and my family, to the Fade.
The next morning, Carver was still asleep when I woke early, and I crept into the kitchen to make myself something to eat since I’d gone to bed without supper. Gamlen wasn’t home – hadn’t made it back from the Blooming Rose the night before, I assumed – and Mother was just leaving to head to the Chantry for services. With a few rude remarks about my lack of piety, honorability, and general worthiness, off she went, leaving me alone in blessed silence.
Until Carver woke, of course. When he learned that Mother wasn’t home, his whining switched from pleas for attention to passive-aggressive attacks aimed at me instead. Once I’d brought him his breakfast, helped him with his tunic, and listened to him grouse for an hour about how much pain he was in, I’d finally had enough.
“Carver, I swear to the Maker, if you don’t shut up...”
“What are you going to do, big brother? Let me get hit by another fireball?” He was struggling with his belt, trying to work it through the loops on his trousers without using the one arm, holding the one that had been burned awkwardly in front of him like it was still in agony.
I’d had worse burns before. I knew once Anders had finished healing them, the pain was almost gone. He was just being a big baby.
And that gave me an idea. “You know what? If you’re going to act like a child, I’m going to treat you like one. Go ahead, baby. Whine one more time, and see what I’ll do about it.”
“Screw you, Garrett. It’s not my fault it hurts. If you hadn’t...”
I didn’t get to hear the rest of what he said. Between his whiny tone, and all of my family needing me to do every fucking thing for them while complaining the entire time that I wasn’t doing it the way they wanted me to, I’d had it.
Like I said, I cracked.
Before he knew what was happening, I had snatched the belt out of Carver’s hand, pulling it free of the couple of belt loops he’d worked it through, causing his trousers – threadbare, and much too large for him, as they were hand-me-downs of mine – to fall, baring his ass to the room. I grabbed his uninjured arm, levering it behind him and pushing until he sprawled face-first down on the mattress in front of him, naked ass in the air and bollocks swaying in the breeze. “You know what, Carver? If you want to talk about pain, I’ll show you pain. You were too young when Father died to know what this feels like, but I’m going to show you how he used to deal with me when I whined about nothing.”
I’d loved my father as much as the next kid, but especially knowing the risks I faced as a mage, and not being the most patient man in the world – not to mention the stress we were under, with two toddlers, two apostates, and Mother constantly fleeing from the templars – his wrath was swift and terrible at times. Father had died when the twins were still small, and Carver had never seen that side of him.
Another thing that was my fault, apparently. Like I should have known that he was going to go off alone ... Shaking the thoughts out of my head, before Carver could react, I swung my arm back, gripping the doubled-over leather belt tightly, and applied it to Carver’s posterior with a vengeance.
He shrieked, writhing on the bed trying to get away, but I didn’t give him the chance – I tightened my grip on his uninjured arm, pressing him down on the mattress firmly, and did it again. And again.
My size was finally good for something, I decided, as I realized it wasn’t terribly difficult to hold him down. Carver was strong – he was a warrior, after all – but I was no slouch either, training with Aveline and Fenris whenever possible to keep my body in peak condition, and the extra weight I had compared to my little brother meant he didn’t have much chance of squirming out of my grasp.
I spanked him with the belt over and over, turning the skin on his ass a violent red; he shouted for a while, before finally breaking down into sobs, begging me to stop. A misplaced blow landed between his legs by mistake, and I saw the skin between his anus and his balls swell up and turn bright red. It suddenly dawned on me the blatant sexuality of the situation I found myself in: holding a man down, his ass bare to my gaze, his balls and cock hanging down below, his legs separated by the corner of the bed he was prostrate over. I’d always been rather dominant in bed – not that I’d ever used violence with sex, but just a bit decisive, bordering on domineering – but this was new territory for me. And it was exciting. Every squirm jiggled the round globes of his ass, made his cock and balls wiggle, and I felt my own cock harden inside my trousers in response.
I changed my aim, then, deliberately striking the sensitive tissue around Carver’s back door, grazing his perineum and scrotum with the belt periodically, and while his hoarse screaming increased in volume each time and that should have bothered me, I just got harder.
When I finally dropped the belt and switched to caressing the welted skin, Carver didn’t even move, just lying there and heaving great big, wracking sobs into the mattress. I was mesmerized by the pink skin, criss-crossed by brighter red lines, and I spent a few minutes tracing the welts with my fingers, stimulating occasional gasps and shudders from Carver as I hit an especially sensitive part. Unable to resist, I leaned down and trailed my tongue along the darkest of the lines as my fingers followed another to the orifice I was now fixated on. He said nothing as I prodded lightly at the opening to his ass, only holding his breath and letting it out with a stuttering rhythm.
I stood up again, finally somehow at peace with what I was about to do, despite how entirely wrong I knew it was. I could have stopped then, and claimed it as some sort of ‘head of the family’ punishment, and I doubted Carver would ever have mentioned it to anyone. I could have, but I didn’t want to. I wanted more. What can I say? I told you I lost my mind.
Summoning some magic from the Fade, I pressed my hands against his ass again, allowing healing to sink into the damaged skin. I was nowhere near competent enough at healing to reverse what I’d done, but I eased the bruising and the pain slightly as my hands explored each tender line. Carver breathed out a sigh of relief, still strangely silent and no longer struggling, as though hoping to avoid incurring my wrath any further.
But it was too late for that. I wasn’t angry any more, but I wasn’t about to stop, either.
I used another small bit of mana summoning some grease into my palm, and I dropped my pants silently, applying the oily substance to my substantial cock. What? It turns out often things are proportionate. Someone my height isn’t likely to have a twig between their legs, in my experience. I greased my cock until it practically dripped, before shifting behind my little brother and gripping his hip with one hand. He flinched, assuming I was going to cause more pain; he wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t the way he expected, or so I imagined.
I fisted my cock, lined it up with his brown star, and shoved.
The wail that broke from his lips as the head of my cock breached him sounded more defeated than enraged; I wondered briefly if I’d been wrong about him having no idea what I was going to do. But then all thought was lost as I registered the delicious heat, the almost strangling tightness and pressure of his muscular ring squeezing around my most sensitive appendage. He was almost successful at pushing me back out of his sphincter, and I thrust my hips gently until the ridge below the head was through, wedging my cock firmly inside his ass.
Maker, it was heaven. I hadn’t had any action since before Kirkwall, and even my own hand was an infrequent thing, sharing a room as I did with Carver. I hadn’t even registered how desperately needy I was, how overwhelming the urge was to plow into him hard and fast and relieve the pressure in my aching balls. But I resisted, staying still for an agonizing few minutes until the desperation ebbed and my brother’s ass relaxed marginally around my stiff prick. Taking that as my cue, I began slowly moving, pressing a little bit further with each short thrust.
Watching my cock disappear into Carver’s ass was almost enough to make me come just from the sight alone, but I gritted my teeth and kept going until my hips pressed up against his bruised buttocks. His wailing had died off to a strangled whimper, a mantra of ‘please’ and ‘Maker, no’ under his breath each time I pressed forward, a pained groan each time I pulled out.
I kept going mercilessly, mind almost numb with the unexpected pleasure of plundering my brother’s back door; I leaned forward and licked the back of his neck, tasting his sweat and despair as I fulfilled myself in such an unholy way. Finally after several minutes of frantic fucking, I felt my orgasm creeping up on me; I gripped both of Carver’s hips, hammered myself home two more times, and then cried out as my cock jerked and spilled my seed into his hot, grasping ass.
It took several spurts to empty my balls, and I groaned in relief as I slowly pulled my rapidly deflating cock out of Carver’s forbidden entrance. He rolled sideways, pulling his legs onto the bed and curling up in fetal position without a word, and I laid down behind him, pulling up his blankets to cover us both. To my eternal surprise, he seemed to fall asleep almost instantly, despite my sticky cock pressed against his butt from behind and my arm thrown around his waist. In moments, his breathing had evened out, the shudders had stopped, and my violated brother was dead to the world.
I laid there for several minutes, trying to regret what had happened; I knew at some point I’d feel guilty – and indeed, would probably feel guilty while homeless after Mother learned what had happened – but the gravity of my actions hadn’t hit me yet. Not to mention I’d lived in fear of my parents learning about my unorthodox sex life for so long that I wasn’t sure how much fear or guilt I had left anyway.
Carver shifted in his sleep, and I took the opportunity to sneak out of the bed, quietly cleaning myself up with a cloth and the pitcher of clean water sitting at a washstand in the corner; I used magic to heat the water, and then came back to the bed to clean up Carver as well. I pressed some healing into the swollen tissue around his ass as I worked. He didn’t even move as I tenderly wiped my spend off his skin, only rolling onto his back when I was done, fully exposed from the waist down.
I crawled back onto the bed, uncertain what I was hoping for but not ready to walk away just yet; I leaned on one elbow beside him as he slept, gazing down on his semi-nude body. I gently undid the buttons on the tunic he wore, baring his chest to the room, and then examined him dispassionately. He was gorgeous, my brother; his body didn’t come as a surprise – privacy wasn’t a luxury we had, squeezed into the tiny lowtown hovel like we were – but that didn’t change what I saw. Bulging, firm muscles corded below pale, flawless skin; minimal chest hair, but a thin, dark, ‘happy trail’ leading down to the treasure below.
I’d never paid much attention to my brother’s cock, but I took the opportunity to ogle unseen. He was built like a slightly smaller version of me – in every way. In no way below average, his thick veiny cock was both shorter and slightly slimmer than mine, and it curved over and laid, limp, across his thigh. It projected from a thick next of dark curls, sitting above powerful, muscular thighs.
I don’t know how long I stared before the temptation to touch became too great. I reached out, at once excited and nervous, and stroked one finger along his length from base to tip. When I got no reaction, I became bolder, stretching my fingers around to grip his cock in a loose fist. It felt strange, holding a cock so like and yet so different from my own. A quick whisper summoned some more grease, and his cock firmed up and lengthened as I stroked his now slick length.
It didn’t take long before his eyes blinked open; he seemed confused, but then his gaze cleared as he looked at me and then immediately blushed and looked away. “Garrett...” he began. It occurred to me that he was the only person I knew who called me by my first name. All of our friends called me ‘Hawke’, and Mother avoided addressing me at all if she could help it. I liked hearing my name on his lips.