crappy dragon rider Hawke doodle
It wasn’t being a dragon, so it had to be the next best thing.
Sometimes, the wind aching over the Silent Plains, Hawke closed his eyes and actually believed he was flying.
Or falling. The two were remarkably similar and involved the same amount of flapping.
The best part of riding was never having to keep to the roads—the remnants of the old Imperial Highway splitting the Plains in two like the halves of a broken heart.
That was a good one. Hawke would have to tell the miserable dwarf shacked up in Cumberland to finish his ‘great Thedasian novel’ all about it the next time his dragon took him in that direction.
‘You know, writing’s a lot like riding a dragon, Hawke,’ the dwarf said once, nursing a cup of steaming spice tea that did nothing for the dark circles under his eyes.
‘No it isn’t,’ Hawke replied. ‘The only thing like riding a dragon is… Well, riding a dragon.’
‘If I wrote that down, it’d come back with an editor’s marks all over it.’ Varric snorted. Big hands. Big heart. But not, Hawke wagered, one to appreciate the flying, much less the falling part of it. ‘Sounds too much like the truth. Everybody’s out there seeking bullshit.’
‘Good luck with the writing,’ Hawke said.
He headed off the next morning, scales rubbing the leather at the insides of his thighs raw and soft, keeping the sand from his eyes by pulling his goggles down. There’d be another race—and he intended to win it. Bring the coin back to Mother; ignore the scowl in Carver’s eyes because he’d only thought of flying and couldn’t accept the falling part.
Yet all the great hunts were so last age. Hawke had been born into the wrong time, or Hawke was wrong when the time was right, but he couldn’t imagine himself anywhere else than caught between the pulse of the Minanter and the Fields of Ghislain, the open spaces unscarred by any trifling roads.
The wind on the plains. The sand in Hawke’s beard, in his mouth. The long ride, flying for the sake of flying and landing only when it was time to fall.
And, now and then, picking up something lost, abandoned—unwanted or broken—along the way and off the beaten path.
His mount, his friend, his beast—he called her Champion—smelled him first, nostrils flaring with the stink of unlit fires. ‘What is it, girl?’ he asked her.
There, on the fields, a single form. He looked very dead, like an enormous bird who didn’t know the way of flying and who thought, mistakenly, it was all falling in the end. Who had flown to fall—instead of falling to fly. Hawke eased Champion closer and dismounted smoothly, his shadow landing first, his boots second.
‘I think I’ll call you luck,’ he said, easing the stranger into his arms. ‘Or fate. I can never decide… How did a bird like you get all the way out here?’
‘Are you going to eat me?’ the stranger asked. ‘Am I dead?’
‘Not quite,’ Hawke replied. ‘You were found by a Hawke, not a vulture.’
crappy dragon rider Hawke doodle
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.
also a disgruntled cat
Anders in modern clothes.
The jacket didn’t fit him right. The boots appeared to have been involved in a terrible accident, attacked by something with claws—or taken off someone else’s feet while they where sleeping behind the laundromat. But the jeans…
The jeans were perfect.
‘Just waiting for my load to finish,’ the stranger said, Garrett holding the laundry in his arms in front of the two machines that were occupied—and the eight others that were currently out of order.
‘When was the last time I heard that,’ Garrett replied.
Wrong answer. Very stupid. Completely typical. Could he blame the heat? Perhaps a disease of the brain. A terrible flu-like virus that was currently sweeping the country, known as Footus In Mouthus—that was the Latin name.
‘And the answer to that would be just now in the laundromat,’ Garrett added. ‘For clarification.’
‘No, no,’ the stranger said. The bootlaces had definitely been chewed. ‘That was very…punny of you.’
‘Haha,’ Garrett said.
‘Yes, well,’ the stranger replied.
It didn’t have to be awkward. The key to that, Garrett had learned, during a short adolescence and close observation of his completely hopeless brother, was not to feel awkward. And then, it really didn’t matter if you were, because it was in the past or someone else’s problem or just an illusion, the man behind the curtain, a reflection in the rear view window, or a stain the family dog left on a couch pillow so you had to turn it over in order to keep anyone from noticing.
Nobody else knew it was there. Garrett’s little secret.
‘You might have to clean the filter out a bit after,’ the stranger added. ‘It’s the fur, you see.’
‘Are you a werewolf?’ Garrett asked. ‘Or just…very hairy?’
‘I have cats.’ The stranger paused. ‘I’m Anders.’
‘I have Footus In Mouthus,’ Garrett replied. ‘I’m Garrett.’
Anders spray-painted the walls of the old train tunnels and showed Garrett where all the treasure down there was—lost wallets, dropped change, abandoned shoes. And when Garrett asked him to see his tunnels again sometime, maybe finish a load or two, he even smiled. ‘Footus In Mouthus can be very serious,’ he added. ‘You should visit the clinic sometime.’
‘Only if you promise to heal me,’ Garrett said, rubbing the creases in the back pockets of his jeans.
SHIMMY THIS IS PERFECTION.
WHAT IS THIS BLOOD MAGIC
FROM BOTH OF YOU
oh man, I got so inspired by this
had to draw something
(I’m at work so I can’t really clean this, so you get MESSY SKETCH)
i kept picturing a just-barely-homeless Anders being fed a rare hot meal by upwardly mobile Hawke
who doesn’t care that Ander’s jeans have holes and his old ragged coat’s from the salvation army
just that he’s so thin you could fit two of him in it
original drawing the ficlet above was based on here:
Anders as cat
woman, as prompted by stormdragon.
So, about this I “might” obssess over a prompt thing? This did it.
Must upload before fussing with it more.
(uploaded it once, got eaten by tumblr, fussed with it some more, upload again)
Of course this happened so fast, and of course it did manage to get serious. Not that I mind or anything. But crack is impossible for me, I’ve tried it so much.
Oh well! Anyway, based on stormdragon’s (really, really fun!) prompt; “Anders and Bruce Banner in anger management.”
A man with breath-taking anger management issues, Stark had called him. And it fit better than he’d care to admit.
He knew breathing techniques, had practiced self-awareness, at least understood the premise behind meditation - though he could never quite pin it down, always a thing dancing just beyond him - and had tried nearly every other thing he could think of. The conclusion had seemed at last to take himself away from stress and strain, but even that hadn’t worked. What he had taken himself away from only came looking for him again, with dark eyes and fiery hair and seemingly a bad habit of flirting with danger.
I have been waiting for this in any form. Thank you for writing it. I loved it. But I am too busy fangirling over this to be able to coherently convey my feels. /ExpectmoreAvengerandDragonagecrossoverspromptsfromme
Dear god I actually colored something
Warden Anders from an AU RP I’m doing, woo~
I just realized how many Anders feels this gives me. So Anders + Robin Hood inspiration crossover, go go go!
The location, questionable. The passion, fallible. The words, imprecise. The voice, overeager. The sentiment, skewed. The risk, strong. The reward, negligible.
The determination, consumptive.
Ensconced in a space ill-suited to the task - the damp got into everything, into his clothes and his papers, into his hair and his ink, into his very skin, until he felt better suited to clamber into the walls for his rest rather than the cot he had designated - and ill-lit as well, he nonetheless worked. And too often his work was tireless, the only break a hasty brush of hand across eyes no longer the bright honey they ought be, a smear of ink only serving to draw attention to a growing pallor.
But the words would not stop, for they could not. And when his inkwell ran dry or his quill snapped, or when his patience wore too thin for this meager substitute to action, even then the respite was paltry, short-lived inevitably and shorter still for his impatience to be back to the task at hand. Such was his conviction that if he could simply find the right words, find the phrase that would turn ears, find the saying that would stick in heads that he might kindle the passion he was sure lay dormant in the heart of every man, might blow to flame a flickering spark.
So he need only find the words, then.
It would seem a simple task, of turned thoughts and sentences sketched, of considerations and vocalizations - but no such simplicity volunteered, and he was offered only the insatiable search, the raw well of doubt, and the blinding flare of such determination as he could no longer divine belonged to he or the spirit to so inhabit.
But still he toiled, and still he bartered coin for ink and parchment rather than bandages and wool, traded heated words with they who might oppose and words sometimes equally heated with they who supported but only observed, a distance erected by caution, and he so unmindful of any more damage as might befall him.
His only thought on late nights - cold with waning dusk or colder with waxing dawn - was the perseverance that had driven him to this state, and had thus backed him into this corner; the passion that had taken a stand and a stake, and driven it deep, laying a claim unshakeable. And if he thought of other - of strong, warm hands, of the grip of new muscles, the shift of new flesh, the heat of new exhalations - then even they were disturbed by this passion so raw, this need so uninhibited. And all was disturbed by his commitment that, much as he might break, he would lay the first step for a world no more broken.
So rise and rise again, might mages become men, and men become more.
“It’s ironic because he says ‘no force on this Earth’ but Justice isn’t from Earth cause he’s like from another dimension. In the Fade. Hahahahaaa…hee. Hum. It was funnier inside my head,” ~ carrinth
S203: “On the Wings of a Hawk”
In which Hawke pleads for help to save her sister, Bethany, from an enigmatic prison known only as ‘The Gallows.’ Anders proves less than enthusiastic, revealing to Justice a very different side to the usually carefree coroner.
In my mind, the Corpse Justice (fake) TV series plotline roughly follows DA2 as in a majority of the stories revolve around magic (or lack thereof). Some things have been changed or simplified. e.g. there’s only one Circle tower, Kirkwall is a city within Fereldan, etc.
…Actually no, not really, now that I think about it. But it is about mages.
Later, you know Justice will be hiding in cupboards and stuff, trying to convience Anders to join Hawke’s just and true mission. Like, Anders is in his kitchen and reaches to open the top cupboard for a box of cereal and there’s Justice sitting inside:
“YEAJHAAHRGGGHHOLYMAKERSBALLS! How are you even in there??”
Oh God, foreshadowing!
YOU BETTER GET BACK TO TENDING THOSE HORSES BEFORE ANDERS’S BODYGUARD JUSTICE SEES YOU
Hawke smells of sweat, of sunlight, of hay, not of rose petals in water or brandy in the glass, or powder or soap or after-bath oils. There’s a fleck of dust in his beard, something that looks like a stalk of wheat caught in the rough hairs at the corner of his jaw, but the way he rubs the horses down after a ride makes the calluses on his fingers almost disappear.
After that, Hawke smells of horses, and there’s no way to make that nice, no way to make it proper or pleasant—no matter what handkerchief Anders holds over his nose, it’s still something he ought to want to wash off at the end of a long day.
But Hawke takes care of the horses, and Anders loves his filly; he named her Ser Trots-a-lot when he was younger, before he knew there was a right way and a wrong way for everything, and Justice—so tall then—cast shadows with his frowns.
Anders should have named her Lady Slippers or Chantilly Lace.
‘Ser Trots-a-lot’s all done now, if she’s to your liking,’ Hawke says, a hand braced on the muscles beneath her mane, powerful and sleek. The muscles beneath Hawke’s rolled-up sleeves are powerful and sleek, too, sweat flecking the dark scattering of hair, and for the first time Anders imagines rubbing him down—somewhere private, in the little cottage the Hawkes own on a far-off corner of the grounds—twin spots of color raised high in his cheeks.
SORRY LMFAO OMG…i’m so sorry…i just woke up and i have no judgment control…
OH MY GOSH THIS IS SO CUTE OH MY GOSHkdfskjfhsjkfsf;s sdf;s
NEVER APOLOGIZE you beautiful human being;A; never ever I LOVE THE CONTRAST BETWEEN THEM and the smells and oh gosh sob never stop
western doctor anders for shimmy’s lovely fic <333
EDIT: OH GOD WHAT DID I LINK I AM SO SORRY DJSDFKFKSDFDSKFJDS MY CLIPBOARD FUCKED UP
thank you guys who came to the ls it was awesomely fun c’: also thank you for the ideas
esp the one regarding anders’ bandana hoho cami