Attack of the Fenpaca

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

When all else fails, Anders’ dick rescues the day (◡‿◡✿)

With Anders’s fingers in Hawke’s hair and his lips pulled wide, all possible lines run through Hawke’s flushed span of attention, each one better than the last.

Turns out the best part of the sandwich is the meat.

Don’t worry, I’ll get to the buns next, but you’ll have to turn over…

Haha, get it? Turn over, turnover…

It’s in keeping with the food and food products theme.

Sigh. Everyone’s a critic.

Tell me, Anders, is this how they polish a staff in the Circle?

Could use a dash more seasoning, to tell you the truth.

What sort of vintage would you suggest with a big meal like this?

Hmphg Hurghgm mfrph.

Now imagine how much easier this would be if you wore a skirt like any other mage.

I would drown us both in blood if it would keep you safe. …There, now you see how that can be a terrifying image, especially in regards to intimate acts, don’t you?

Varric’s hiding in the closet—what do you say we invite him to have a lick or two?

Are your eyes closed?

Are you sure?

How many fingers am I holding up your—

All right, your eyes are absolutely, positively closed? This isn’t a sela petrae not-quite-the-truth-of-the-matter situation?

Well, in that case, I regret to inform you that it’s the mabari licking you, not me.

Ow.

That hurt.

You have excessively bony knees—has anyone ever told you that?

They’re like weapons in the middle of your legs.

Cute, rosy weapons.

Remarkable how I can do this and talk so much, isn’t it?

I love the way you laugh when you—

Like it’s such a surprise that anyone could make you feel…something. Something better.

And the only punishment you have to suffer for it is the conversation.

Which isn’t so bad, all things considered.

But, Hawke supposes, the best things are always left unspoken.  

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

SILLY BABBUS <3

A GUIDE TO SMOOCHING AN APOSTATE ON THE RUN
Read This, It Has Naughty Bits

• Chances are, if you know an apostate on the run, and he’s wearing feathers of any kind, then he’s going to have a long nose and a face that doesn’t know when it’s smiling.
• Don’t worry. You can get around the nose without losing an eye or anything else handsomely important—although an eye patch, now there’s an idea—and even if there’s stubble, a soft, semi-smiling, silly mouth is the best sort for kissing, especially on the run.
• Not while running, though. 
• You’ll definitely lose an eye if you kiss while running.
• That nose is a classified weapon. Disturber of the peace. Wanted from Nevarra to Cumberland for various acts of blatant destruction. 
• NOTE – kissing an apostate on the run is less lonely, disturbed, pathetic, slobbery (if only by a slight margin) and whiskery than mabari kisses.
• NOTE – try not to bring up the mabari while one tongue is in another mouth. 
• Apparently it ruins the mood.
• …More than other topics such as: bomb feces, possession, handsome elves, curious dwarves, how Donnic trims his sideburns and whether or not he does the same on his chest and other areas, sandwiches, salamanders, and phallic tubers.
• NOTE – still, despite cranky faces, apostates on the run love phallic tubers. 
• NOTE – countryside blessed with a bounty of phallic tubers.
• NOTE – suggest manifesto topic be changed to the plight of the phallic tuber. 
• NOTE – perhaps a thousand and twelve things might cross your mind while you are kissing an apostate on the run. Where he’ll sleep. What he’ll dream of. The nightmares you share, just never completely. Whether he’s comfortable; if he knows what comfort is. If you’ve forgotten, too. If the smile is only a memory, a shadow, an echo. A reflection in muddied water. Something to do with muscles more than medicine. Who’s healing whom, and whether or not the city you loved is on fire again, and how many more miles and miles it’s going to be before you rest your weary boots at the foot of a cozy bed, and find a weary chest to rest a weary head. 
• But then, of course, you close your eyes.
• And your noses battle like wooden practice swords. 
• And you kiss, for a while, beneath a blushing sun. 

spicyshimmy:

ZEVRAN ARAINAI’S VERY IMPORTANT REASONS AS FOR WHY HIS WARDEN SHOULD LEAVE FERELDEN FOR GOOD AND TRAVEL IMMEDIATELY TO A SUPERIOR COUNTRY SUCH AS ORLAIS
A Very Important List. Read At Once. Burn After Reading, Then Meet Me In My Tent.

• We will never again run out of cheese.
• Likely we will be able to sell the dwarf and buy jewelry. 
• Jewelry is far superior in company and visual impact to the dwarf.
• As are dung heaps, blistering corpses, and Toadistair, Morrigan’s dear, sweet, warty pet. 
• We may well take Wynne, and she will wear a low-cut dress, and we shall all be better for getting better acquainted with her bosom!
• There are chairs in Orlais, I believe. And real houses with roofs and windows, and beds and fireplaces, and fur rugs that are more than a freshly-slaughtered bear!
• Romance.
• Intrigue.
• Erotic masks!
• Erotic masquerades!
• Wynne’s bosom!
• The bosom that is Wynne’s!
• Are you not yet convinced?
• For let me tell you of something…more.
• Something obscene.
• Something delightful.
• The Orlesian corset.
• Laces pulled taught; boning stiff; hugging the slim and attractive mid-section of a ready and willing elf of all trades, already in such a fine mood from all the windows and the beds and the bosoms, wearing nothing but that single garment…
• …and a dainty pair of some noblewoman’s attractive footwear…
• …and there will be no dogs…
• …or toads…
• …or dwarves…
• …and perhaps, if you are very, very naughty, you may remove, inch by inch, snug curve by snug curve…
• …the attractive footwear.
• (But I shall leave my corset on.)

moodymarshmallow:

Zevran, the ever-beckoning, he of heavy lids and empty heart, would laugh to see the word “love” on the Warden’s lips, had he not nearly died for it.

He was dying every day since setting foot in the filth that was Ferelden, surrounded by mud and dog and the Maker-forsaken Warden. The Warden who did horrible things, like accept him, and want him, and truly care for him.

It would have been so easy to be the Crow, the liar, the rake, anything but Zevran, anything but the empty shell that once held a man and now rattled when shook as though it was filled with dried up bones. Rivani seers could shake him out, read that rattle like chicken bones, look into his eyes and see the hollows behind them, see the desperate want for something to make him whole.

But he was safe—the Warden was Fereldan, and every Antivan fishwife knew that Fereldans knew nothing but how to raise a good dog and make piss-water weak ale, so what did he have to fear?

Zevran, the fool, he of self-sustaining lies and infinite doubt, remembered he was alive when the word “love” fell from the Warden’s lips.

Death had suited him better, fit like an old pair of leather boots, broken by the weight of ages, by a thousand steps away from what they made him, from what he was supposed to be. But it was a convenient lie—a way to fool himself into thinking he was unyeilding steel, rather than fragile skin and hollow bone.

Rinna had known he was lying.

Taliesin knew too.

And now the Warden knew.

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

disco inferno XD

LIST OF NEW RULES FOR COMPANIONS OF THE CHAMPION—HERETOFORE REFERRED TO ONLY AS CHAMPANIONS—TO FOLLOW BECAUSE THEY ENJOY FOLLOWING ME 

1. Anders, hit my every cave entrance with a few fireballs, would you? People are expecting drama and drama they shall get.
2. Try not to singe any more facial hair off, while you’re at it? I’m starting to think you’re actually looking to hit me, though that can’t be right. 
3. Every carta thug from here to the Wounded Coast knows your aim is dismal. 
4. Fenris, I’d like you to roar and not stop roaring. It makes me feel…majestic. Invincible. 
5. Also, it scares the enemies into wondering why I’ve brought a shrieking elf to a knife fight, and I like to keep them on their dastardly toes. 
6. Merrill, you can always say something that sounds impressive and poetic. Something about my history.
7. You can mention the mud, but make it… I don’t know, shall we say glorious?
8. Or you can strangle my enemies with thorny vines. That works too. Whatever you’re in the mood for, really. 
9. Varric, I’ve written a champion’s theme song for you to whistle to set the mood.
10. Everybody loves a whistling dwarf.
11. I love you, Varric.
12. Isabela, I’ve designed a Champion of Kirkwall hat and flag for you to sail under. 
13. No, no no, that isn’t a penis. 
14. You say that about everything. 
15. Sebastian, would you move just a little bit to the right and step just an inch or so closer so I can—
16. Ah, yes. That’s good. Keep this exact distance from me at all times. 
17. Because otherwise my reflection in your polished breastplate goes all warped and silly and we can’t have that. 
18. Carver, you’re a tit!
19. Aveline, you can—
20. Why are you looking at me like—
21. New rule: A little less conversation, a little more action, please.
22. And I, Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, will ‘cease to wear’ my ‘smalls on my head as though I am looking to make my arse a hat.’ 

hamburgerjack:

frikadeller:

FACEBEAVERANDERS.jpg

TYVM.

Dwarven ladies began to flock behind Anders, he had no idea why. Then the larger admirers appeared, human and Elvhen women who love bearded men and detested the lack of fiercely bearded Dwarven males above ground.

He could run, but he couldn’t hide.

“LET US TOUCH YOUR FACE!”

“MAKER NO!”

Anders barred the doors of the Hawke estate, trying to find sanctuary inside and that’s when he saw Hawke.

Sitting in his high backed chair near the fire the other Mage looked at him.

“So, you’ve grown a beard.”

“Well I just decided not to bother with shaving and -.”

“Welcome.”

And then Hawke got up and approached him slowly with a ring in his hand.

“Welcome to the League of extraordinary Hawke’s beards.”

“But… I’m not a Hawke -.”

“My father had a beard like this world had never seen. And I inherited its glory. I’d always hoped Carver would… grow one, but… he’s never liked following my footsteps. So it’s on you now.”

“Hawke, what are you -.”

Hawke put the ring on his finger. “To Comb, to Care, to Caress. That is our motto.”

“Did you make that up right now -.”

“It’s up to you now.” Hawke hushed, putting his finger on Anders’ lips and backing away.

He backed up all the way to the stairs and all the way up the stairs and all the way to his room and shut the door.

Anders looked down at the ring and up at the way Hawke had gone.

He was going to shave IMMEDIATELY.

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

FACEBEAVERANDERS.jpg

TYVM.

REASONS WHY ANDERS GREW THE BEARD

• Finally realized that shaving is an injustice against facial hair. 
• Sold his last razor for more manifesto vellum. 
• Growing it out in memory of Karl Thekla. 
• Obviously he needs a fluffy face to match his fluffy shoulders.
• Thought Hawke might notice him if they had more in common. 
• A necessary disguise; the templars of Kirkwall will never recognize him now. 
• Spent too much time aching, not enough time shaving. 
• Justice is hard. But Justice also likes chin scritches. 
• Hawke left a mysterious bottle from the Black Emporium mixed in with the healing potions…
• Aveline also drank from it and sprouted a glorious pair of mutton chops that rivaled Donnic’s. 
• Fenris drank it too, but wouldn’t say where his hair had grown.
• Made a bet with Varric on one of his better days about how quickly their hair grows. (Varric’s chest-hair now braidable; Anders wouldn’t mind Varric braiding his beard in return.)
• Learned Hawke is ticklish. 
• …Especially on the insides of his thighs. 
• Thank the Maker for Isabela. 
• Don’t tell her he said that.

moodymarshmallow:

frikadeller:

celebrating Hawke’s badonk wheeeeeee! 8D

Even if there had been a thousand other times, even if they had already made use of every flat surface in the manor, even it Fenris’ extensive tattoos stopped being just short of shocking, he would still feel the uncontrollable gnaw of desire every time the gauntlets came off. 

It had been Fenris’ hands, of all things, that made him all jelly-legged and foolish, and though others would argue that Hawke was often foolish, the sight of those long, straight lyrium lines traveling from wrist to perfect fingertip always left him filled with slack-jawed silence. To think that under those gauntlets all he had was hands, not claws, not talons, just callused fingertips that knew just how to find the spot between the shoulder blades that sent wracking shivers down his spine. 

There was never a real power struggle, though sometimes they played at it, growling and grinning, testing and teasing, until inevitably Hawke was on his back, guiding Fenris down on top of him, and they both knew that there had never been any other possible outcome. Sure, it was a bit bumbling the first time, if only because Hawke thought that Fenris might expect or want something different, but there was a certain kind of relief in realizing you fit together perfectly with someone without any adjustment. 

There were kinks, of course, and not the fun kind, but they smoothed them out with determined tenacity. Patience might not have come easy, but after six years, it definitely came. 

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

celebrating Hawke’s badonk wheeeeeee! 8D

Fenris had not voiced a concern nor any misplaced desire for aid, yet one topic of conversation led to another, and what had been a simple game of guess the length of Varric’s longest chest hair turned without warning to sharing their presents for Hawke—who had reached an age not currently at public disclosure. 

Whatever the number was, Hawke would still behave as though he were a boy of seven. If nothing was to change, then what what reason did they have for giving?

‘Nothing,’ Fenris had said. 

‘Nothing,’ Varric repeated.

‘Nothing?’ Isabela asked.

‘Oh,’ Merrill said. ‘We sound just like a chorus!’

As it so happened, she had a pair of red socks with dragon wings knitted into the sides and wrapped in brown paper. Isabela had a book of naughty poetry with ‘original illustrations.’ Varric had a signed collection of his rarer works; Aveline had a sense of humor few knew about, which explained the relief of copper marigolds. ‘Since he always likes to bring it up,’ she said. 

‘I’d give him a life safe from the templars, if I could,’ Anders said.

And so would Fenris—safe from all things, in all alleyways, with all manner of weapons. 

Sebastian had lit candles in memory of Hawke’s sister and mother. Varric admitted later he also had a nice pair of new boots straight from Ferelden, and Isabela had illegal Rivaini brandy, and Fenris might have suggested it seemed they had already thought of everything—which again left nothing for him.

‘Well,’ Varric said, ‘there is one thing… But it won’t be easy. Not for you. Anyway, I know it’s something he doesn’t have already.’

Had the dwarf been more like Isabela, Fenris would have expected ‘put a bow on your special sword and have done with it.’

But this, here, unlayering the shirt from Hawke’s shoulders, lowering the waistband of Hawke’s trousers over his hips, ignoring the Hightown heaviness above the traveler’s broad belly muscle, was how Fenris offered his naked returns of the day.

‘Maker,’ Hawke said, Fenris’s knees on the insides of his thighs, scar to scar, ‘Fenris, are you…smiling?’ 

Even something could come of nothing.