Smoke and ashes

accidentalxxx:

I don’t know why i did this. I’m sorry, ok - please don’t hate me.

TW - implied character death.

***

She was a mother; she had a son. They couldn’t take that from her, though they had taken him.

They couldn’t take her memories.

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I’ve been waiting years for a fic like this.

spicyshimmy:

It is still a thrill to turn and see you beside me.
Varric thinks about what the lines are, the necessary refrains to make a life into a story and a story into a song. Where to skip and where to linger. A few long years pass in the blink of an eye but a single moment, a tired apostate turning to catch sight of the sunlight in an old friend’s hair—now that’s worth mentioning.
You’ve been a good friend. Better than I deserve. 
Because that’s the trouble—when you’re talking about the past; when you’re making yours the business of working with history. Can’t grease a paragraph’s palm the way you bribe a Carta boss and, when enough has blown up behind you, sometimes you find cause way out ahead of effect. Which came first, the griffon or its egg? 
It’s still a thrill. 
Anders, turning and turning… In the sunlight like fire? As they climb ever higher? To a friend he admires? Till his neck starts to tire? ‘Help me put up my mage flyers?’ Back and forth over the same pathways, saying the same things. Until they feel like blood traveling through veins. Branching apart, coming together again. Beating around the underbrush in circles. Anders’s mouth quirking at the corners, dimples set against stubble like furrows in the white sand of the coast, pinched brow turning into love. They say it starts in the heart but the eyes have it, and the eyes are closest to the brain.
Better than I deserve. 
‘Which came first, Blondie?’ Varric asks. 
‘Justice or Vengeance?’ Anders replies with a wince. 
‘Did I ask that?’ Varric shakes his head and chuckles. ‘I mean who comes first. Isabela’s question, you know, but I have to admit, she represents a pretty fair cross-section of my reader base.’ 
Anders turns to glance Hawke’s way. Furrows in the sand. Cause follows effect. And the effect Hawke has on Anders is cause for a story called love, made up of bad puns and old boots and someone, always, calling bullshit. 

spicyshimmy:

It is still a thrill to turn and see you beside me.

Varric thinks about what the lines are, the necessary refrains to make a life into a story and a story into a song. Where to skip and where to linger. A few long years pass in the blink of an eye but a single moment, a tired apostate turning to catch sight of the sunlight in an old friend’s hair—now that’s worth mentioning.

You’ve been a good friend. Better than I deserve.

Because that’s the trouble—when you’re talking about the past; when you’re making yours the business of working with history. Can’t grease a paragraph’s palm the way you bribe a Carta boss and, when enough has blown up behind you, sometimes you find cause way out ahead of effect. Which came first, the griffon or its egg? 

It’s still a thrill. 

Anders, turning and turning… In the sunlight like fire? As they climb ever higher? To a friend he admires? Till his neck starts to tire? ‘Help me put up my mage flyers?’ Back and forth over the same pathways, saying the same things. Until they feel like blood traveling through veins. Branching apart, coming together again. Beating around the underbrush in circles. Anders’s mouth quirking at the corners, dimples set against stubble like furrows in the white sand of the coast, pinched brow turning into love. They say it starts in the heart but the eyes have it, and the eyes are closest to the brain.

Better than I deserve. 

‘Which came first, Blondie?’ Varric asks. 

‘Justice or Vengeance?’ Anders replies with a wince. 

‘Did I ask that?’ Varric shakes his head and chuckles. ‘I mean who comes first. Isabela’s question, you know, but I have to admit, she represents a pretty fair cross-section of my reader base.’ 

Anders turns to glance Hawke’s way. Furrows in the sand. Cause follows effect. And the effect Hawke has on Anders is cause for a story called love, made up of bad puns and old boots and someone, always, calling bullshit. 

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

Autumn is coming.

Merrill would’ve been spring; Isabela was all summer. Aveline was the hard edge and the blow of winter, but Anders was the falling leaf, light on the air, buffeted by wind. To the untrained eye, it might look like one lost feather trying, on its own, to fly. 
But even the pauldrons he’d sewn for himself years ago hadn’t been the wings he was looking for. 
‘Now what do you suppose he’s thinking about, Hawke?’ Varric asked. 
‘Composing a short story, are you?’ Hawke replied. ‘I’d think you’ve been inside his head more than I have. …What do you suppose he’s thinking about, Varric?’
‘Falling leaves,’ Varric said. 
‘Fluffy kittens,’ Hawke replied. 
‘Burning towers.’
‘Ropes made of senior enchanters’ voluminous smallclothes.’ 
‘Deep water.’
‘Deep Roads.’ 
‘Fireballs.’
‘My balls.’
‘Dusty taprooms and abandoned barns,’ Varric said. ‘Electricity tricks. Lost opportunities. Last chances. Maybe, even, the look in your eyes when you think I don’t know exactly what you’re thinking about.’
‘I’m easy, Varric,’ Hawke replied. ‘I only ever think about one thing.’ 
‘You only ever think with one thing.’ Varric sighed. ‘And there’s a difference.’
Bandages worn fine and soft and thin with time. Dry grass and brittle branches like broken bones. The tops of the trees reaching to the sky. Over and over, they followed their cycles, bark paling and peeling with frost, until the sun stayed longer above the dappled leaves. The ache of what came from down below stretched taut against what called from above. The peace, the prayer, and the whorls in the tree-trunk. The sound the leaves made, whispers of regret and gratitude, sorrow and joy, when they fell. A few of them stuck between the feathers, until you couldn’t tell the difference anymore. 
*
His eyes didn’t have to be open to feel the sunlight, a strong oak between his shoulders like Hawke’s chest at his back, and the grip of Varric’s big hand as he shook him awake. ‘Blondie,’ he’d say, ‘it’s time to keep moving.’ 
And the breeze picked up, scattering dry leaves in brief flight, skittering higher and higher above the ground. 
He’d been dreaming, he thought. But he couldn’t remember what it was about—and anyway, he was awake again now. 

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

Autumn is coming.

Merrill would’ve been spring; Isabela was all summer. Aveline was the hard edge and the blow of winter, but Anders was the falling leaf, light on the air, buffeted by wind. To the untrained eye, it might look like one lost feather trying, on its own, to fly. 

But even the pauldrons he’d sewn for himself years ago hadn’t been the wings he was looking for. 

‘Now what do you suppose he’s thinking about, Hawke?’ Varric asked. 

‘Composing a short story, are you?’ Hawke replied. ‘I’d think you’ve been inside his head more than I have. …What do you suppose he’s thinking about, Varric?’

‘Falling leaves,’ Varric said. 

‘Fluffy kittens,’ Hawke replied. 

‘Burning towers.’

‘Ropes made of senior enchanters’ voluminous smallclothes.’ 

‘Deep water.’

‘Deep Roads.’ 

‘Fireballs.’

My balls.’

‘Dusty taprooms and abandoned barns,’ Varric said. ‘Electricity tricks. Lost opportunities. Last chances. Maybe, even, the look in your eyes when you think I don’t know exactly what you’re thinking about.’

‘I’m easy, Varric,’ Hawke replied. ‘I only ever think about one thing.’ 

‘You only ever think with one thing.’ Varric sighed. ‘And there’s a difference.’

Bandages worn fine and soft and thin with time. Dry grass and brittle branches like broken bones. The tops of the trees reaching to the sky. Over and over, they followed their cycles, bark paling and peeling with frost, until the sun stayed longer above the dappled leaves. The ache of what came from down below stretched taut against what called from above. The peace, the prayer, and the whorls in the tree-trunk. The sound the leaves made, whispers of regret and gratitude, sorrow and joy, when they fell. A few of them stuck between the feathers, until you couldn’t tell the difference anymore. 

*

His eyes didn’t have to be open to feel the sunlight, a strong oak between his shoulders like Hawke’s chest at his back, and the grip of Varric’s big hand as he shook him awake. ‘Blondie,’ he’d say, ‘it’s time to keep moving.’ 

And the breeze picked up, scattering dry leaves in brief flight, skittering higher and higher above the ground. 

He’d been dreaming, he thought. But he couldn’t remember what it was about—and anyway, he was awake again now. 

spicyshimmy:

urdnotkassa:

hawke and the dragonling pet/companion he totally should have had
and he raises him and he grows into a strong drake and hawke loves him even though he can’t fly and he sets bad guys on fire for his papa

‘anders. anders, this is our baby, anders.’
‘he lights things on fire, anders. he already takes after you.’ 
‘our baby just burned your pauldrons to a crisp, anders. he has a sense for fashion just like his father!’
‘yes he does. who does? you does. oozy doozy does.’
‘anders, just think of him like a cat. …with wings. …and scales. so, like a cat, but a flying lizard.’
‘yes! exactly! like a dragon! dragons are the cats of the air!’ 
‘what do you mean you won’t sleep in bed with a dragon? you’ve slept in bed with me plenty of times before.’ 
‘and you’ve sucked on my fireballs.’
‘…if you know what i mean.’
‘you see, i was referencing my legacy. my secret staff. my amell family jewels.’
‘well, the dragon likes my jokes.’ 
‘don’t ask me how i can tell. a father just knows.’
‘yes he does. oozy doozy does.’ 

spicyshimmy:

urdnotkassa:

hawke and the dragonling pet/companion he totally should have had

and he raises him and he grows into a strong drake and hawke loves him even though he can’t fly and he sets bad guys on fire for his papa

‘anders. anders, this is our baby, anders.’

‘he lights things on fire, anders. he already takes after you.’ 

‘our baby just burned your pauldrons to a crisp, anders. he has a sense for fashion just like his father!’

‘yes he does. who does? you does. oozy doozy does.’

‘anders, just think of him like a cat. …with wings. …and scales. so, like a cat, but a flying lizard.’

‘yes! exactly! like a dragon! dragons are the cats of the air!’ 

‘what do you mean you won’t sleep in bed with a dragon? you’ve slept in bed with me plenty of times before.’ 

and you’ve sucked on my fireballs.’

‘…if you know what i mean.’

‘you see, i was referencing my legacy. my secret staff. my amell family jewels.’

‘well, the dragon likes my jokes.’ 

‘don’t ask me how i can tell. a father just knows.’

‘yes he does. oozy doozy does.’ 

Anders and Fenris at the Rose

Fenris hates the need for this, to meet in such a place as the Rose. He hates seeing Anders dodge drunken fools who thought he could be bought like the other men and women who paraded around in much less clothing. Fenris stays in the background and waits for the one who agreed to do this for them, a frequent patient at the Darktown clinic. He dislikes sitting there, cloaked and without his armor so as not to be as easily recognized. Like Fenris, Anders has left his usual coat behind, wearing a simple tunic shirt and breeches. He’s even loosened his hair and Fenris has a hard time not going to him to run his fingers through it. He sees through half lidded eyes, through his white hair as Anders purchases a bottle of wine which is the signal they had agreed on. His eyes darken as a man saunters up and pulls Anders close. Fenris tries desperately to fight the urge to pull them apart, even knowing that it was all just an act.

Fenris waits until they’ve disappeared towards the back, holding on tight to each other as lovers would, before following them to the farthest room, growling for the man to leave them. Fenris pins Anders against the closed door, covering his mouth with his, needing to devour him. Anders returns in kind, kissing him just as roughly, involving teeth and tongue, with that desperate need to pull away only for moments of air. Anders places his hands on Fenris’ chest briefly before Fenris grabs them and lifts them up above the mage’s head.

Fenris lets his other hand roam slowly down Anders’ chest and feels him tense when he pauses at the top of his breeches, a sure sign that was is he wants. He yanks, feels a tie snap with his impatience. He jerks them down off his hips before he shoves his hand inside the mages smallclothes to grab his growing member. Anders moans into his mouth as he begins to stroke him vigorously. Fenris grows frustrated by the restrictive clothing but knows that if he stops so will Anders who was beginning to sound close to his release. He kisses his way down to the mage’s throat, grazing him softly with his teeth, enjoying that Anders is having a hard time trying not to cry out. Soon Ander jerks, hands clawing the wall, back arching as he cries out.

Now spent, he catches Anders as his knees buckle and presses his body against the wall. Fenris knows he’ll soon recover, feeling slightly foolish for his actions in needing to remind Anders that he is his. Earlier his first desire was to have had Anders on his knees as soon as the door closed but seeing how others had vied for his attention… frustrated him. For the lengths they went through to keep what they had between them a secret.

He would prefer to take things slowly, to enjoy the time they had together. This time when his lips met Anders, they are softer, less demanding as they help each other undress, caressing skin while discarding clothes into piles at their feet. Anders brushes his fingers across the lyrium across his skin, slowly licking and nipping at his neck before wrapping his arms around Fenris.

For all his intentions, they never quite make it to the bed though in truth they rarely do. The much needed vial of oil, specially crafted by Anders, is on the nearest table to which he motions to with the slightest tilt of his head. It’s always warm when he pours a portion of it onto his palm, no doubt from some secret additive Anders had long perfected. Anders draws him in for another kiss before taking the vial and pouring some on his palm as well. He doesn’t use it on himself but instead reaches for Fenris, causing him to hiss from both the warmth of his hands and gentle stroking he’s started. Finally Anders pulls back and turns to face the table, lowering his torso onto the surface while Fenris runs his fingers down his spine.

As impatient as Fenris is feeling, he is still gentle once he starts, not wanting to hurt Anders, who whines and pushes his hips back. Soon he inserts another and Anders looks over his shoulder at him. Fenris knows that look, adding another briefly and watches as Anders arches his spine. When Fenris can’t contain himself any longer, he removes his fingers and takes a firm grip before he slowly pushes his way inside. He digs his fingers into Anders hips, knowing he will not last as long as he wants, wanting to make every thrust count. Anders no longer tries to be quiet and his moans only get louder the harder and faster Fenris moves within him. Finally he yells, his whole body tensing as Fenris soon reaches his own climax.

Fenris leans gently against Anders. Both men are covered in sweat, but make no move to part right away. Instead, he whispers something he knows Anders does not understand as they both try to catch their breath.

Thank you, dirtyanonsofthedas anon.

Now I shall carry on grinning at this.

dirtyanonsofthedas sent: Fenris snarled at the mage and slammed the door to his home behind him. There, he waited. An hour passed and there was a soft knock. Almost ripping the door from it's hindges, Fenris yanked it open to reveal a smiling mage. "Fooled them, I think," Anders said before stepping in and closing the door behind him. Fenris nodded sharply before shoving Anders against the door frame and encasing his lips in his. His hand wandered to the bulge on the mages trousers, and he growled as he tugged them off.

Thank you, I shall resume flailing over this. :D

spicyshimmy:

jambandit:

Part two of stormdragon’s new request! ovo Assassin Hawke and Anders chatting~

The feathers were an interesting touch. 
But then, all the broken ones—a thief from the Flanders countryside who was too kind for her own good; a mercenary recently escaped from the house of his master, golden tattoos hidden under his armor and hood; an ex-third-prince of somewhere or other who wore the Virgin Mary’s pious face upon his belt; a terrifying redhead determined to clear her father’s good name; a pirate who flirted too much with Bethany when they had cause to pass through the Blooming Rose—came to Hawke eventually. 
He knew their gifts. 
Now and then, he gave them new ones, little presents to suit their personalities. 
‘Oh, Hawke, what a beautiful book,’ Merrill said. ‘Was it very hard to steal it from the library?’
‘How lovely and light jewels feel on the skin when you haven’t paid a single florin for them,’ Isabela said, tucking the boat charm between her breasts. 
Gloves for Sebastian to keep his fingers clean; fine quill pen and stiff paper for Fenris to practice writing on; a shield for Aveline, taken from a ship bound for France. 
But for Anders…
That was more difficult, until Hawke recalled the feathers. ‘Do you mean to build wings?’ he asked, tucking a few more into Anders’s pauldron, but the furrow in his brow could have meant a smile or a frown. ‘Soon enough, you’ll be certain to fly away.’ 
‘Not all of us were born thinking that we could,’ Anders replied. 
When Hawke visited Varric—‘I was thinking, Hawke,’ Varric said, after their customary embrace, ‘of going for something more classical… Like da Tethras, for example’—the challenge was set. 
‘I don’t want to know how it works,’ Hawke said. ‘Only that it does. You see, I’ve met someone who wants very badly to fly.’
‘Well, it won’t be cheap, I’m afraid,’ Varric replied. 
Why else, Hawke thought, would he have stolen all his gifts for his little assassins-in-training, if it weren’t for the exorbitant prices Varric levied on him, including the discount for close personal friends? 
‘No feathers today,’ Hawke told Anders at last. ‘But I did come across a pair of wings that reminded me of you.’
That night, they flew together. 
Hawke only crashed twelve times. 

Lawl, Hawke. Then again I did just as badly with the flying machine, at least I got past that part.

spicyshimmy:

jambandit:

Part two of stormdragon’s new request! ovo Assassin Hawke and Anders chatting~

The feathers were an interesting touch. 

But then, all the broken ones—a thief from the Flanders countryside who was too kind for her own good; a mercenary recently escaped from the house of his master, golden tattoos hidden under his armor and hood; an ex-third-prince of somewhere or other who wore the Virgin Mary’s pious face upon his belt; a terrifying redhead determined to clear her father’s good name; a pirate who flirted too much with Bethany when they had cause to pass through the Blooming Rose—came to Hawke eventually. 

He knew their gifts. 

Now and then, he gave them new ones, little presents to suit their personalities. 

‘Oh, Hawke, what a beautiful book,’ Merrill said. ‘Was it very hard to steal it from the library?’

‘How lovely and light jewels feel on the skin when you haven’t paid a single florin for them,’ Isabela said, tucking the boat charm between her breasts. 

Gloves for Sebastian to keep his fingers clean; fine quill pen and stiff paper for Fenris to practice writing on; a shield for Aveline, taken from a ship bound for France. 

But for Anders…

That was more difficult, until Hawke recalled the feathers. ‘Do you mean to build wings?’ he asked, tucking a few more into Anders’s pauldron, but the furrow in his brow could have meant a smile or a frown. ‘Soon enough, you’ll be certain to fly away.’ 

‘Not all of us were born thinking that we could,’ Anders replied. 

When Hawke visited Varric—‘I was thinking, Hawke,’ Varric said, after their customary embrace, ‘of going for something more classical… Like da Tethras, for example’—the challenge was set. 

‘I don’t want to know how it works,’ Hawke said. ‘Only that it does. You see, I’ve met someone who wants very badly to fly.’

‘Well, it won’t be cheap, I’m afraid,’ Varric replied. 

Why else, Hawke thought, would he have stolen all his gifts for his little assassins-in-training, if it weren’t for the exorbitant prices Varric levied on him, including the discount for close personal friends? 

‘No feathers today,’ Hawke told Anders at last. ‘But I did come across a pair of wings that reminded me of you.’

That night, they flew together. 

Hawke only crashed twelve times. 

Lawl, Hawke. Then again I did just as badly with the flying machine, at least I got past that part.

ohmercyme221:

The prompt here is ‘Loki and Anders, father’s day’, from Stormdragon. Thank you again for this! It was fun to write. Also, in case it matters, it’s totally my hc here that Loki is THE Loki, just post-Avengers. ;D


He leaned heavily on the counter, thick sweater padding him from its chill, and stirred the cup of coffee in front of him in an outright pout. The cream slowly mixed and bled in with the dark liquid, consumed, drained, depleted; the thought depressed him, and he ended up letting it grow cold. Then again, everything felt depressing and cold, today.

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I am going to sit here and giggle for a bit. Do you know how long I have been waiting for a Loki and Anders BFF fic. Let me tell you it was long.

spicyshimmy:

jambandit:

Assassin!Hawke for Shimmy! xwx
I might play around with his outfit more later but I’m happy with it for now vwv`

The night Garrett lost his father was the night before he began to grow his beard. All that he had wished to ask, to learn, to embrace and—likely, in his stubborn way—to reject was now nothing more than the reflection of moonlight on the water, and not the moonlight itself. It was gone as any ripple ate the one before it and fed the one after.
Rain on the glass; unshaven face that, in the moonless darkness, caught a mirror just so, and turned a man into a ghost. 
Garrett didn’t speak of Father again—but he carried Father’s blades with him and, hardened by their bloodied edges, let them do the speaking for both of them. He learned the lesson that it was better to strike rather than to strike back and only Bethany saw him, dry-eyed and quiet, touching the well of empty ink on Father’s desk the evening before they escaped Firenze. 
Papers unsigned, soon to be collected. The hush in the house settling with the dust and the spilled ink as they fled in the night—and the flirtations along the way that ended in embraces, lips swollen from Garrett’s rough beard. 
Mother couldn’t look at him. Carver did, but only as a prisoner gazed on a warden—and not the one who brought food at mealtimes, either, but the one who held the keys and let them make music when he stirred, the sound of freedom singing through the bars. 
What did a boy do without a father?
He became a man. 
How did a boy become a man?
He learned to climb. 
One hand over the other, blisters at night that Bethany uncurled Garrett’s fingers from hiding, and gently cleaned while telling him what he already knew. That he was acting like an idiot. That she’d take Father’s blades herself if she suspected Garrett was going to lose them. 
It was Ezio Auditore—who also knew what it was to climb, not because he wished to reach new heights but because the ground in which his father was buried no longer held any meaning—who drew Garrett into the fold. And it was there he met the pirate, the lost slave, the storyteller, the ex-templar, the outcast, and the exiled prince. Misfits, all of them, the last in their merry band a man who could hardly be described, much less explained. 
He collected feathers from the rooftops and squinted even in the shade, the stubble on his cheeks and jaw neither father’s beard nor son’s bare face. 
No, Garrett discovered as he climbed. Anders was the place between—where the moonlight met the water and kissed the waves. 

spicyshimmy:

jambandit:

Assassin!Hawke for Shimmy! xwx

I might play around with his outfit more later but I’m happy with it for now vwv`

The night Garrett lost his father was the night before he began to grow his beard. All that he had wished to ask, to learn, to embrace and—likely, in his stubborn way—to reject was now nothing more than the reflection of moonlight on the water, and not the moonlight itself. It was gone as any ripple ate the one before it and fed the one after.

Rain on the glass; unshaven face that, in the moonless darkness, caught a mirror just so, and turned a man into a ghost. 

Garrett didn’t speak of Father again—but he carried Father’s blades with him and, hardened by their bloodied edges, let them do the speaking for both of them. He learned the lesson that it was better to strike rather than to strike back and only Bethany saw him, dry-eyed and quiet, touching the well of empty ink on Father’s desk the evening before they escaped Firenze. 

Papers unsigned, soon to be collected. The hush in the house settling with the dust and the spilled ink as they fled in the night—and the flirtations along the way that ended in embraces, lips swollen from Garrett’s rough beard. 

Mother couldn’t look at him. Carver did, but only as a prisoner gazed on a warden—and not the one who brought food at mealtimes, either, but the one who held the keys and let them make music when he stirred, the sound of freedom singing through the bars. 

What did a boy do without a father?

He became a man. 

How did a boy become a man?

He learned to climb. 

One hand over the other, blisters at night that Bethany uncurled Garrett’s fingers from hiding, and gently cleaned while telling him what he already knew. That he was acting like an idiot. That she’d take Father’s blades herself if she suspected Garrett was going to lose them. 

It was Ezio Auditore—who also knew what it was to climb, not because he wished to reach new heights but because the ground in which his father was buried no longer held any meaning—who drew Garrett into the fold. And it was there he met the pirate, the lost slave, the storyteller, the ex-templar, the outcast, and the exiled prince. Misfits, all of them, the last in their merry band a man who could hardly be described, much less explained. 

He collected feathers from the rooftops and squinted even in the shade, the stubble on his cheeks and jaw neither father’s beard nor son’s bare face. 

No, Garrett discovered as he climbed. Anders was the place between—where the moonlight met the water and kissed the waves. 

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

Hawke dragonsurfing because Nick Boulton was asking for a kitesurfing Hawke.

‘Do you ever wonder,’ Anders asked, in a bedroom both he and Varric had become far too familiar with for—Anders had to hope, despite all the flirting Hawke engaged in with his favorite dwarf—their own separate reasons.
But Hawke, pale from the loss of blood, murmured something through the haze of necessary sleep. ‘Try the blade,’ it sounded like, his hand lifting from the sheets, and both Varric and Anders reached for it, Hawke’s bruised fingers twitching as Anders’s, in turn, began to glow.
‘I wonder plenty,’ Varric replied, his voice a low, dwarfy whisper, Hawke almost smiling around the blood stains in his beard. ‘Like how many times I can use the word ‘bilge’ in one chapter, for example. If that was a tooth in my stew or just a misshapen piece of gristle. Why all the templars I manage to like seem determined to die. Why we can’t all just get along; why we have to make a choice when the issue’s just so complicated. Why so many of the places we go look exactly the same, and who keeps leaving trash all around Kirkwall… Blondie, the day I stop wondering is the day I join the other piles of bones in the Free Marches.’ 
‘I meant about Hawke,’ Anders began. 
Varric chuckled. Hawke wriggled, then winced, the healing wounds across his chest angry and purple with bruises around the torn flesh. 
‘Don’t even get me started on Hawke,’ Varric said.
‘About what he’s dreaming, specifically.’ Anders let his palm fall against Hawke’s cheek, mostly his beard, Hawke’s blood staining his hands. That wouldn’t be all. There’d be more, so much more blood, before— 
But Hawke’s breath warmed the pulse at Anders’s wrist. The bloodstains faded and the warmth remained. 
‘Something good, I hope, after accepting to dual the Arishok. If anybody deserves it, it’s Hawke. And if the Fade’s kinder to him than he is to himself…’ Varric shook his head. ‘You know, Blondie, call it the romantic in me, but I’d bet good coin that he was dreaming about you.’ 
‘Not about a pillow of golden chest-hair?’ Anders asked. 
‘So long as it’s not about family and fire,’ Varric replied.
Hawke’s mouth twitched at the corners. His fingers tightened around nothing. 
(His dearest friends, who knew him better than anyone, even those flaws he tried so carefully to hide, would never imagine where he went when he was dreaming. ‘Tidal wave,’ he called, the spray of the water on his face, the heat of the sun on his scars, while the dragon carried him across the ocean a second time—and, this go ‘round, Carver wasn’t there to ruin it by being sick over the wings. A man was all right as long as he still had his childhood dreams, no matter how little else survived the ride.)

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

Hawke dragonsurfing because Nick Boulton was asking for a kitesurfing Hawke.

‘Do you ever wonder,’ Anders asked, in a bedroom both he and Varric had become far too familiar with for—Anders had to hope, despite all the flirting Hawke engaged in with his favorite dwarf—their own separate reasons.

But Hawke, pale from the loss of blood, murmured something through the haze of necessary sleep. ‘Try the blade,’ it sounded like, his hand lifting from the sheets, and both Varric and Anders reached for it, Hawke’s bruised fingers twitching as Anders’s, in turn, began to glow.

‘I wonder plenty,’ Varric replied, his voice a low, dwarfy whisper, Hawke almost smiling around the blood stains in his beard. ‘Like how many times I can use the word ‘bilge’ in one chapter, for example. If that was a tooth in my stew or just a misshapen piece of gristle. Why all the templars I manage to like seem determined to die. Why we can’t all just get along; why we have to make a choice when the issue’s just so complicated. Why so many of the places we go look exactly the same, and who keeps leaving trash all around Kirkwall… Blondie, the day I stop wondering is the day I join the other piles of bones in the Free Marches.’ 

‘I meant about Hawke,’ Anders began. 

Varric chuckled. Hawke wriggled, then winced, the healing wounds across his chest angry and purple with bruises around the torn flesh. 

‘Don’t even get me started on Hawke,’ Varric said.

‘About what he’s dreaming, specifically.’ Anders let his palm fall against Hawke’s cheek, mostly his beard, Hawke’s blood staining his hands. That wouldn’t be all. There’d be more, so much more blood, before— 

But Hawke’s breath warmed the pulse at Anders’s wrist. The bloodstains faded and the warmth remained. 

‘Something good, I hope, after accepting to dual the Arishok. If anybody deserves it, it’s Hawke. And if the Fade’s kinder to him than he is to himself…’ Varric shook his head. ‘You know, Blondie, call it the romantic in me, but I’d bet good coin that he was dreaming about you.’ 

‘Not about a pillow of golden chest-hair?’ Anders asked. 

‘So long as it’s not about family and fire,’ Varric replied.

Hawke’s mouth twitched at the corners. His fingers tightened around nothing. 

(His dearest friends, who knew him better than anyone, even those flaws he tried so carefully to hide, would never imagine where he went when he was dreaming. ‘Tidal wave,’ he called, the spray of the water on his face, the heat of the sun on his scars, while the dragon carried him across the ocean a second time—and, this go ‘round, Carver wasn’t there to ruin it by being sick over the wings. A man was all right as long as he still had his childhood dreams, no matter how little else survived the ride.)

spicyshimmy:

kilography:

from frikadeller’s Bara Beefy Buff Anders and spicyshimmy’s accompanying dialogue:

an apostate named hawke working tirelessly to continue his father’s legacy in the sewers of the city of chains… joined by a crass, flirtatious elf desperate to escape the restrictions of her clan’s lifestyle and an awkward pirate who just can’t hold her liquor or tell a convincing lie; a pious, chantry-fearing dwarf and a silver-tongued scoundrel of a third prince of starkhaven; hawke’s righteous brother, now kirkwall’s guard-captain, and a sulky redhead with a massive chip on her shoulder; not to mention an ex-slave whose very shadow brings sunshine, whose smile lights up even the darkest tunnels of the deep roads…

‘Are you certain of this, brother?’ Carver asked. 

‘Only if you’re beside me, Carver,’ Hawke replied. 

‘Then you’ll have to do this your own way.’ Carver paused, newly polished Kirkwall guard insignia practically blinding on his chest. ‘…Of course, if you do need help now and again, remember—I stand for all of us.’

‘Yes,’ Hawke said. ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

*

‘I don’t know how I feel about this, Hawke,’ Varric said. ‘Meeting with a foreign apostate who wants your help traveling the Deep Roads for fame and fortune? Sounds like one of those trashy romance books Merrill’s always reading to me, and you know how I feel about those.’

‘You think they’re dirtier than Darktown,’ Hawke replied.

‘Maker save us from the sins of bad fiction,’ Varric agreed, a blush spreading over his chest as he tugged his collar closer together.

‘The real sin is you keeping that chest hair under lock and key, big boy,’ Sebastian said, slinging an arm around Varric’s shoulders. ‘The only man among us to rival that fearsome pelt is Hawke—and I’m afraid he’s far too high-maintenance for me.’

*

‘All I want to hear is if we’re going to crack some sodding heads together,’ Aveline said, ‘or are we going to stand around talking about how wonderful Hawke is some more? We’re wasting our time here—as always.’ 

Maybe Hawke shouldn’t have pulled her adorable pigtails quite so often when she was younger, or mentioned her freckles every time they met. It seemed to have made her grow up so…cranky.

*

Merrill was teaching Isabela about body shots in the Hanged Man. 

Varric murmured a verse from the Chant of Light, stepping over a puddle of something unsavory with a flare of his nostrils. ‘You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.’ 

‘Tell me you’re all here for the body shots,’ Merrill said. ‘I’ve finally taught Isabela how to bluff, poor little gull.’ 

*

‘The sun,’ Fenris said, walking barefoot upon Kirkwall’s hot, hard earth. ‘It is…quite pleasant today.’ 

‘You said that yesterday,’ Aveline replied.

‘And the day before,’ Sebastian added. 

‘And the day before that,’ Merrill agreed. 

‘Who’s looking at the sun?’ Anders asked. ‘I mean, I know I’m new to this merry band of misfits, but where did Fenris find those leather pants?’ 

‘They were a gift from Hawke,’ Fenris replied. ‘He saw them in a barrel and thought of me.’ 

‘I love Kirkwall,’ Anders said. 

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

BARA BEEFY BUFF ANDERS
IDK IDK
YOU GUYS
SUFFER WITH ME

the story could’ve gone a lot differently. maybe cassandra called bullshit one too many times and varric finally capitulated. ‘you want the true story, seeker? i’ll give you the true story.’
a mage named anders who fled the circle and the wardens after, hardened from a life spent on the run and fighting darkspawn, makes his way to kirkwall—paying his passage with manual labor and an electricity trick taught to him by an old friend…
an apostate named hawke working tirelessly to continue his father’s legacy in the sewers of the city of chains, running a mage underground to rescue the victims of knight-commander meredith’s unjust regime, the shadow of the gallows stretching all the way to the wounded coast…
and a desperate alliance made in an attempt to rescue an old friend of anders’s and a close contact of hawke’s from inside, karl thekla, whose hair was most certainly not gray at the time…
joined by a crass, flirtatious elf desperate to escape the restrictions of her clan’s lifestyle and an awkward pirate who just can’t hold her liquor or tell a convincing lie; a pious, chantry-fearing dwarf and a silver-tongued scoundrel of a third prince of starkhaven; hawke’s righteous brother, now kirkwall’s guard-captain, and a sulky redhead with a massive chip on her shoulder; not to mention an ex-slave whose very shadow brings sunshine, whose smile lights up even the darkest tunnels of the deep roads…
will they be able to make it out of kirkwall in time, or will they succeed only in burning the place to the ground? just how big were anders’s biceps? and just how often did he and that sunshine-and-kittens elf flirt with each other along the way?
(stick with me, seeker, and soon enough, the word ‘bullshit’ is bound to lose all meaning.)

lawl.

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

BARA BEEFY BUFF ANDERS

IDK IDK

YOU GUYS

SUFFER WITH ME

the story could’ve gone a lot differently. maybe cassandra called bullshit one too many times and varric finally capitulated. ‘you want the true story, seeker? i’ll give you the true story.’

a mage named anders who fled the circle and the wardens after, hardened from a life spent on the run and fighting darkspawn, makes his way to kirkwall—paying his passage with manual labor and an electricity trick taught to him by an old friend…

an apostate named hawke working tirelessly to continue his father’s legacy in the sewers of the city of chains, running a mage underground to rescue the victims of knight-commander meredith’s unjust regime, the shadow of the gallows stretching all the way to the wounded coast…

and a desperate alliance made in an attempt to rescue an old friend of anders’s and a close contact of hawke’s from inside, karl thekla, whose hair was most certainly not gray at the time…

joined by a crass, flirtatious elf desperate to escape the restrictions of her clan’s lifestyle and an awkward pirate who just can’t hold her liquor or tell a convincing lie; a pious, chantry-fearing dwarf and a silver-tongued scoundrel of a third prince of starkhaven; hawke’s righteous brother, now kirkwall’s guard-captain, and a sulky redhead with a massive chip on her shoulder; not to mention an ex-slave whose very shadow brings sunshine, whose smile lights up even the darkest tunnels of the deep roads…

will they be able to make it out of kirkwall in time, or will they succeed only in burning the place to the ground? just how big were anders’s biceps? and just how often did he and that sunshine-and-kittens elf flirt with each other along the way?

(stick with me, seeker, and soon enough, the word ‘bullshit’ is bound to lose all meaning.)

lawl.

spicyshimmy:

choowy:

puppy love
also a disgruntled cat

Their first kiss was under an apple tree after brave Mr. Wiggums—likely never to be knighted for this kind of behavior—dropped from the top branch right into Anders’s waiting arms.
‘I told you I’d help you get him down,’ Garrett said.
Hawke. Like the bird. Making a nest with his family nearby—but able to fly away whenever he wished to. He was always a little too big for his clothes. 
‘You threw rocks at him,’ Anders replied. ‘That doesn’t count.’ 
‘Cats.’ Garrett rolled his eyes. ‘Any mabari worth its name would chase that rock and bring it back to you with some rabbit for dinner.’
‘What if you don’t like rabbit?’ Anders asked, soothing a hand between Mr. Wiggums’ flattened ears. ‘Besides, cats win because they purr if you rub them just right.’ 
‘Anyone can purr if you rub them just right,’ Garrett said. 
Anders’s heart dove from the branches of his ribs straight to the ground at his feet, but there was no one there to catch it, or hold it in their arms, or soothe a hand over his feelings until he forgot about the patches and the wrinkles and the clumsy stitching, all the parts that didn’t fit trying to make something that did. 
‘It’ll never work,’ Anders said. ‘You like dogs.’
‘I like you, too,’ Garrett replied, and he even made sure not to squish Mr. Wiggums when he leaned in. 
Warm lips. Apple tarts. Something a little like peaches. And always mud in Ferelden. 
‘You taste funny,’ Anders told him after, the color on his cheeks matching the color on Garrett’s nose. 
‘That’d probably be breakfast.’ Garrett shrugged. ‘It was really good. Father was making it. Well, if you ever get your silly cat stuck up a tree again, you’ll know who to ask for. I’ll be your champion anytime you like, Anders.’
It took days of hard work, but eventually Anders got Mr. Wiggums to do exactly as he needed in order to see Garrett Hawke again—the boy with the name and the mouth that made Anders feel like flying.
And everybody said you couldn’t train a cat. 

spicyshimmy:

choowy:

puppy love

also a disgruntled cat

Their first kiss was under an apple tree after brave Mr. Wiggums—likely never to be knighted for this kind of behavior—dropped from the top branch right into Anders’s waiting arms.

‘I told you I’d help you get him down,’ Garrett said.

Hawke. Like the bird. Making a nest with his family nearby—but able to fly away whenever he wished to. He was always a little too big for his clothes. 

‘You threw rocks at him,’ Anders replied. ‘That doesn’t count.’ 

‘Cats.’ Garrett rolled his eyes. ‘Any mabari worth its name would chase that rock and bring it back to you with some rabbit for dinner.’

‘What if you don’t like rabbit?’ Anders asked, soothing a hand between Mr. Wiggums’ flattened ears. ‘Besides, cats win because they purr if you rub them just right.’ 

‘Anyone can purr if you rub them just right,’ Garrett said. 

Anders’s heart dove from the branches of his ribs straight to the ground at his feet, but there was no one there to catch it, or hold it in their arms, or soothe a hand over his feelings until he forgot about the patches and the wrinkles and the clumsy stitching, all the parts that didn’t fit trying to make something that did. 

‘It’ll never work,’ Anders said. ‘You like dogs.’

‘I like you, too,’ Garrett replied, and he even made sure not to squish Mr. Wiggums when he leaned in. 

Warm lips. Apple tarts. Something a little like peaches. And always mud in Ferelden. 

‘You taste funny,’ Anders told him after, the color on his cheeks matching the color on Garrett’s nose. 

‘That’d probably be breakfast.’ Garrett shrugged. ‘It was really good. Father was making it. Well, if you ever get your silly cat stuck up a tree again, you’ll know who to ask for. I’ll be your champion anytime you like, Anders.’

It took days of hard work, but eventually Anders got Mr. Wiggums to do exactly as he needed in order to see Garrett Hawke again—the boy with the name and the mouth that made Anders feel like flying.

And everybody said you couldn’t train a cat. 

The Rumour Mill, Part II

ohmercyme221:

Finally, FINALLY done with the second part of stormdragon’s prompt, of Bann Ferrenly coming to offer better sanctuary to our dearest apostate.

Love these two, I seriously do.

Also, while the concept was Chateau Haine, I, ah, never played that DLC, and didn’t really want to overload on spoilers. So just a ton of headcanon!

Part I

AO3


“Orlesians,” he mumbled, and that about summed it up. Expensive, ostentatious, wholly unnecessary, and foolish. But - a small part of him nagged, an old part, one of very few - there was a time where he would have yearned for this, would have been entranced by fixtures and fine gowns, by affected speech and pleasures of wealth. “Small blessings,” another mumble, this more grim than its predecessor, lost amid the pressing crowd, the rush of heat and language and revelry.

He knew they weren’t here for idle pleasantries, not like the fools cocking about now, but it grated on him still, and he yearned to be back within familiar territory. Wished for the ragged comfort of a sparing home in his clinic, the damp smell of old life and older death, the faces he knew there.

He wasn’t doing much more than trying to blend in with the stone behind him when he felt the uncomfortable crawl of attention, that particular, peculiar sensation of being watched. Knowing himself an outsider here he refrained from glancing around, counseled himself to calm and seeming enjoyment of the proceedings. He pasted a soft, distracted smile on his face and hoped it would be enough to deter any interest or question, but felt still the gaze, the focus.

Read More

Let me tell you now that I love you for writing this. I seriously love your Bann Ferrenly. You did far more than I could have ever done. (Yes, I did along time ago after the release of MoTA consider writing this myself. Glad I didn’t. It would have been no where as good as this.)

spicyshimmy:

fereldan-refugee:

Dammit, Anders! Why do you have to be so hard to draw orz. Why can’t I get your face to look right arghghafjsdfjkaksdfal ( ´Д`);;;; and LOL! that’s my poor attempt at drawing a tabby haha. Seriously, I’ve never drawn animals before so I’m sorry for the weird creature lolll.

‘I think it’s bound to be good for him,’ Hawke said, doing his best—which wasn’t very good—not to look jealous of ten pounds of ginger fur. 
‘Yeah,’ Varric replied, ‘but will it be good for the tabby? Not to mention my allergies…’
After Merrill had managed to fill the mabari’s head with delusions of Dread Wolf grandeur, she had to be kept away from pets; Fenris’s nose wrinkled and his lips pursed in a way that reminded Hawke of the cat’s first reaction to the way Darktown smelled. Aveline had said the creature would likely have more sense than most of Hawke’s friends and Isabela had called it duckling, of course, because she called other people kitten.
‘A pity elves don’t grow beards,’ Hawke said, sighing. ‘All Fenris needs are a few whiskers and a reevaluation of how he feels about fish and he and Anders might get along. With chin rubs and purring and little saucers of milk and everything…’
‘I think you need some sleep, Hawke,’ Varric told him.
Hawke thought Varric might be right, but telling him so would only go to his head, and even his broad shoulders couldn’t take any extra strain. 
It—she, as Anders kept pointing out—didn’t have a name yet, but it certainly enjoyed sleeping on Hawke’s house robes and getting fur all over them.
‘No, no,’ Hawke told it—her. ‘We’re not even on a first name basis yet. This is far too early in our relationship. Cats have no manners at all, do they?’ 
She slept on his pillow that night. Hawke woke the next morning with cat fur stuck to his lips. 
‘My Fereldan ancestors are turning in their graves,’ Hawke said. ‘Unless of course they’ve all been made darkspawn, in which case they’re turning in the Deep Roads, waiting for their hapless victims and getting all decompose-y.’
Anders looked up from rubbing the cat’s belly. ‘Did you say something, Hawke?’ 
‘Nothing of consequence,’ Hawke replied. ‘Say, Anders, why don’t you call her Manifesto? Have you seen my Manifesto? My Manifesto is shedding all over Kirkwall. Maker, no, my Manifesto just attacked an innocent bystander! Not right now, Hawke, I’m busy with my darling Manifesto. I’d already be used to hearing most of those things—and that way, you won’t have to teach me any new tricks.’
‘This is why Varric doesn’t let you help him name things, isn’t it?’ Anders asked. 
‘So many reasons,’ Hawke replied. ‘I was also thinking you might choose Cause. Have you heard my Cause lately? My Cause is making a dreadful racket…’

Just when I thought no one could top Anders in the bad naming category. lawl.

spicyshimmy:

fereldan-refugee:

Dammit, Anders! Why do you have to be so hard to draw orz. Why can’t I get your face to look right arghghafjsdfjkaksdfal ( ´Д`);;;; and LOL! that’s my poor attempt at drawing a tabby haha. Seriously, I’ve never drawn animals before so I’m sorry for the weird creature lolll.

‘I think it’s bound to be good for him,’ Hawke said, doing his best—which wasn’t very good—not to look jealous of ten pounds of ginger fur. 

‘Yeah,’ Varric replied, ‘but will it be good for the tabby? Not to mention my allergies…’

After Merrill had managed to fill the mabari’s head with delusions of Dread Wolf grandeur, she had to be kept away from pets; Fenris’s nose wrinkled and his lips pursed in a way that reminded Hawke of the cat’s first reaction to the way Darktown smelled. Aveline had said the creature would likely have more sense than most of Hawke’s friends and Isabela had called it duckling, of course, because she called other people kitten.

‘A pity elves don’t grow beards,’ Hawke said, sighing. ‘All Fenris needs are a few whiskers and a reevaluation of how he feels about fish and he and Anders might get along. With chin rubs and purring and little saucers of milk and everything…’

‘I think you need some sleep, Hawke,’ Varric told him.

Hawke thought Varric might be right, but telling him so would only go to his head, and even his broad shoulders couldn’t take any extra strain. 

It—she, as Anders kept pointing out—didn’t have a name yet, but it certainly enjoyed sleeping on Hawke’s house robes and getting fur all over them.

‘No, no,’ Hawke told it—her. ‘We’re not even on a first name basis yet. This is far too early in our relationship. Cats have no manners at all, do they?’ 

She slept on his pillow that night. Hawke woke the next morning with cat fur stuck to his lips. 

‘My Fereldan ancestors are turning in their graves,’ Hawke said. ‘Unless of course they’ve all been made darkspawn, in which case they’re turning in the Deep Roads, waiting for their hapless victims and getting all decompose-y.’

Anders looked up from rubbing the cat’s belly. ‘Did you say something, Hawke?’ 

‘Nothing of consequence,’ Hawke replied. ‘Say, Anders, why don’t you call her Manifesto? Have you seen my Manifesto? My Manifesto is shedding all over Kirkwall. Maker, no, my Manifesto just attacked an innocent bystander! Not right now, Hawke, I’m busy with my darling Manifesto. I’d already be used to hearing most of those things—and that way, you won’t have to teach me any new tricks.’

‘This is why Varric doesn’t let you help him name things, isn’t it?’ Anders asked. 

‘So many reasons,’ Hawke replied. ‘I was also thinking you might choose Cause. Have you heard my Cause lately? My Cause is making a dreadful racket…’

Just when I thought no one could top Anders in the bad naming category. lawl.