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.)

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.’ 

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.

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.

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

That kiss before the final battle ;_____;

they didn’t know whether they’d make it or not and I’m just jhydhhfjgshgdhgds FEELS

FEELS EVERYWHERE

/clings

He had thought—for many years—that the wolf and tiger were the only members of the chase. That the hunt was a shadow sewn to his heels; that freedom was the opposite of chains. He had thought that blood was cruelty and the sword was honest and the holes in his roof, the mushrooms in his floor, did not have to mean ‘home.’

Or that such a thing as home did not exist.

He had thought of travel. He had thought of the open sky. He had thought of the stink of fish in the hold of a bartered ship, the passage from Seheron to the Imperium, the creaking of the hull and the silence of a master’s smile. He had not realized how those memories had been carved into his flesh with pain greater than any other simply for the way it lasted.

That a house was an assembly of banisters and bookcases. That a story was simply a handful of words. That a man was merely muscle and hair and especially scars. Made, perhaps, like the weapon he chose, and wielded as such. Welded as such.

But the road he walks and the way he moves changes the angle of the shadow he casts. In the early dawn in the Gallows, it stretches thin over the cobblestone, nearly disappearing between the cracks. And Hawke, more than muscle and hair and especially scars, hands rough and stinking of fire, a chain twisted around Fenris’s heart and gut, is freedom already.

And perhaps Fenris’s opposite. He has heard those attract.

‘A goodbye kiss?’ Hawke asks, breathless after. ‘That’s not a vote of confidence, Fenris.’

‘A kiss in greeting, then,’ Fenris replies.

For on that day, they have met a new man.

spicyshimmy:

Slaves wear cuffs and chains until they need cuffs and chains no longer, the impression of the metal left against their wrists, heavier at their ankles now that they are gone. 

They do not need to cross the ocean in order to drown. 

Dockhands curse. Merchants cheat. Thieves steal and strangers lie. The sky covers them all and it rains regardless of the hour when the clouds gather at the wind’s behest.  

There is no line in the earth where one country meets another’s border. The change is implied rather than tattooed in the mud or drawn through the sand with the sharp end of a stick like scars.

Somewhere over the water, ships pass one another with full but tattered sails, the wood of their hulls creaking. 

Somewhere over the water, a slave is seasick. 

Kirkwall in the summer is too hot. In the winter, it is too cold. 

Though he does not wear his armor, the strips of leather are tighter now that they are gone. Fenris wears the red cloth around his wrist because the knot is his to tie, the weight familiar and unfamiliar in one cinched loop of cotton.

The dwarf has organized a betting pool—no small amount of coin bandied about—to determine ‘What the broody elf’s thinking about.’ 

‘Vile abominations,’ Merrill suggests. 

‘My hirsute physique,’ Hawke says. 

‘How much he hates us all,’ Varric agrees. 

‘How I’m the only one who doesn’t mind getting naked in front of the corpses he keeps around the house, I’d wager,’ Isabela says. 

The mage does not play along. 

‘How foolish we all seem,’ Aveline offers.

‘Thoughts beyond us, I believe,’ Sebastian says.

‘Cheese,’ Fenris replies without lifting his eyes. They have kept him on his toes, light on the balls of his feet, marked by his footprints on the solid ground beneath, and their laughter like the tide. 

Still waters do not always have to run deep. 

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

“THE EASTER BUNNY SHAT ALL OVER THAT SWEATER”

~Sven

Anders and ugly cat sweater and caaaatttttssssssss!!!!111

Garrett wonders when life became this strange, but only because he knows the answer: when Anders showed up wearing house slippers as though they were outside shoes, everything he owned stuffed unfolded into an old-fashioned suitcase with stickers all over it to places he’d never traveled. 

Someone else’s suitcase—and most of Anders’s things were someone else’s things. Borrowed or ‘borrowed’ or found, or ‘found.’ 

There wasn’t any room in Garrett’s closet. Now, there’s no room and too many ugly sweaters. 

Cat fur. Smelly candles. Books on tantric sex layered between romances from the library, still in their dirty plastic covers. ‘I like knowing who else read something before me,’ Anders explains, tugging out the card in the back. ‘I don’t know who they are, but I know who they were. You know what I mean?’

Garrett doesn’t. And he does. Another contradiction that doesn’t fit in the space Garrett doesn’t have but makes anyway. And it’s like wearing a sweater but no pants in the winter: as though half of you can be cold while the other half’s warm. How some cats behave as though they think they might like to be dogs. 

Or how some dog people don’t mind being pet like they’re a cat, chuffed under the chin by clever, slim fingers, hair on their belly ruffled and smoothed down, ruffled and smoothed down, until the urge to purr makes deep and fluffy sense in a primal and eternal way, bodies warm in a bed too small and just the right size for two. 

‘So,’ Hawke says, ‘I take it you like the sweater?’ 

‘So much,’ Anders replies, ‘that I don’t want to embarrass any other article of clothing by forcing a comparison.’ 

spicyshimmy:

REASONS WHY IT IS AWESOMER TO BE A HERO THAN A CHAMPION
A List of Personal Grievances by Hawke

1. Acclaim throughout Thedas—free drinks everywhere, not just on Champion’s Night at the Hanged Man.
2. Epic taproom ballads written about heroes; avant-garde experimental fiction written about champions. 
3. A hero’s dwarf has a proper beard. 
4. Party healer possessed by kind, benevolent, sock-knitting, large-bosomed spirit instead of moody fun-fudger. 
5. Zevran Arainai.
6. Can dress friends in whatever-you-please.
7. Especially Zevran Aranai. 
8. Woo-hoo whenever you like in tents: sexy sex tents.
9. Giant blocks of cheese everywhere!
10. Zevran Arainai.
11. Flirtatious elf vs. broody elf.
12. Elf willing to wear naughty Orlesian underwear at any time. 
13. Especially the see-through kind.
14. Seriously, Fenris, you could make my entire life vastly better by being more fashionably experimental.
15. Did I mention I’ve no family at all left and the tragic downward spiral of my life is in dire need of an emotional sort of healing?
16. Hero of Ferelden met Anders during his ‘Sparklefingers’ phase. Enough said.
17. Zevran. Arainai.
18. I love Isabela best because she invited me to watch him that one time he was in Kirkwall and he wore the Orlesian undergarments and it was the happiest day of my life—better than when I got my dog; better than when I got to sleep with all my Deep Roads coin; better than when Carver had that fever and called me ‘Mother’ and told me ‘I love you.’ Now that’s an elf who knows how to be friendly. Antiva must be so pleasant all the time: no one afraid to show a little leg, no one bothering to hide their murderous instincts or their hidden weapons, and by hidden weapons I mean elfhoods, and by elfhoods I mean elfroots, and by elfroots I think it’s obvious where I’m going with this.
19. Zevran Arainai.
20. I miss you, Zevran. I will always miss you.
21. …Are you jealous yet, Fenris?