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Reblogged from spicyshimmy  172 notes

the end

spicyshimmy:

It wasn’t that Varric had no more stories left, no more inspiration. He had plenty. Like that time Hawke went through his Black Fox phase, or Merrill finally got her griffon. Like the months they spent in Tevinter, the summer they weathered on Isabela’s ship—‘Isabela’s ship now,’ she said, ‘and that’s what makes it Isabela’s ship’—and all the costume changes along the way. The scarf in Hawke’s hair, the piercing in Hawke’s ear, the one Anders got to match and the one Fenris refused to get. The stray kittens. The letters from Aveline. The slavers they took care of. The problems they solved, the trouble they caused, the bad ale that made them sick as wardens after the taint, the whole Exalted March thing Varric said was too dramatic to be believed, and the wyvern Hawke rode that one time, claiming afterward it made his thighs all sore on the insides. 

‘Although if I’m not used to it by now…’ he added, eyes still sparkling, a streak of silver hiding in his beard. 

Varric didn’t mention it, so long as Hawke didn’t mention the streak of silver hiding on his chest.

Finally, there were the hills they ended up in, right back at the beginning, making the usual jokes about the Free Marches, doing their best not to mention the City of Chains. It was there on the horizon, behind them now instead of anywhere else, when Varric said he wasn’t writing it all down, that he hadn’t been for a long time. 

‘All stories have to end somewhere, Hawke,’ he said, while Hawke pretended the disappointment wasn’t personal and Varric pretended he wouldn’t miss it, too—or that he wouldn’t keep coming up with damn good lines, putting them down on scraps of vellum, promises not quite made and never kept, all those tales he wasn’t meant to tell. 

Reblogged from spicyshimmy  175 notes
spicyshimmy:

syberfag:

cheer up guys it might never happen

I.
He’s ached for the man for three years, practically lived with him for twice that long. They’ve collected all the rubble and all the refuse and all the shit—literally—that life in Kirkwall gathers, sand in their boots and dust in their pauldrons. They’ve woken each other in the night on purpose or by accident, a thrash here or a nightmare there, sleepless hours or sweaty ones. Always someone snoring, always someone leaving the door open so the dog gets in. They’ve watched each other put on their boots in the morning, so intimate a thing, chest to back, one last embrace, stubble tickling stubble, the corner of a jaw just begging to be kissed and shoulders begging to be squeezed. 
That doesn’t mean Anders isn’t still full of surprises. 
He sits down hard on splintered wood in the wake of everything, no more than a flutter in his pulse and that dread silence reeling internal—as though the ground is still shaking beneath his feet, the heat still bright at his back, the smoke still heavy on the air.
They’re discussing him now. They’ll discuss him for a long time after, and realize, yes, they always saw it coming. 
Anders knows Hawke—deeper than dread silence, deeper than the flutter in his pulse, with years of aching and years of loving, each quick fit of anger, each slow burn of pain, the betrayal of loss he couldn’t prevent and rubble he couldn’t clear away. No hand falls against Anders’s begging shoulders, and the smoke carries on the wind to caress the corner of his jaw. 
He’s ached for the man, lived with the man, healed the man and protected him. His fingers twitch on top of his knees with the memories, with the surprises, with his whole world blown open—and his dread silence always internal, breath fluttering with his pulse, chest too small and too big for anything. 
That doesn’t mean Hawke isn’t still full of surprises. 
He sits down hard on splintered wood, right in Anders’s long shadow, and holds both of Anders’s hands in only one of his. 
II.
He’s known the aches and the compulsions—which Anders once said was the sum of him, really, unless you counted a feather collection and a bit of the Taint. 
‘What about a pillow?’ Varric said. 
‘What about a smiting spirit?’ Isabela added.
‘What about a handsome profile?’ Hawke concluded, and their noses brushed together before they kissed that night. 
Some would question the wisdom of the Champion. As though they didn’t always, what with one thing and another, the blasted wreckage left in their wake, Varric’s stories making everything seem so much bigger than it was—even for the small people who stood before it and realized how small they suddenly were. Or how small they always were, or ever would be, or might not get the chance to be again. 
That was the way of it, a relatively little feeling in a Thedas that grew ever bigger, the narrowed focus on one man—a collection of feathers and aches, a pillow and a spirit and a long nose. And all the muscle in between, the warmth, the need, the trembling hands and the high brow and the hair mussed in the morning, the whole truths and the half lies and the laughter like accident, poorly calculated, utterly mistimed. 
Anders tried it when he woke that morning, dark circles beneath his eyes, but even Hawke couldn’t muster the old energy for the one task that came naturally to him. He’d laughed before he fell from blood loss by the Arishok’s side; he’d laughed in the Gallows courtyard when they left it behind; he’d laughed when even Isabela didn’t, when even Varric gave him a look like he might want to try not being so himself for a change. 
Anders couldn’t laugh without Hawke, not for long—and Hawke couldn’t laugh, not without Anders. They sat together as they always had, whether it was on a bed in Hightown or a felled tree somewhere between Ostwick and Wildervale, or an overturned crate after the blasted chantry became the blasted chantry. 
‘What if I call harder?’ Hawke asked.
When he covered Anders’s hands, he found it was his own fingers that were twitching. 

spicyshimmy:

syberfag:

cheer up guys it might never happen

I.

He’s ached for the man for three years, practically lived with him for twice that long. They’ve collected all the rubble and all the refuse and all the shit—literally—that life in Kirkwall gathers, sand in their boots and dust in their pauldrons. They’ve woken each other in the night on purpose or by accident, a thrash here or a nightmare there, sleepless hours or sweaty ones. Always someone snoring, always someone leaving the door open so the dog gets in. They’ve watched each other put on their boots in the morning, so intimate a thing, chest to back, one last embrace, stubble tickling stubble, the corner of a jaw just begging to be kissed and shoulders begging to be squeezed. 

That doesn’t mean Anders isn’t still full of surprises. 

He sits down hard on splintered wood in the wake of everything, no more than a flutter in his pulse and that dread silence reeling internal—as though the ground is still shaking beneath his feet, the heat still bright at his back, the smoke still heavy on the air.

They’re discussing him now. They’ll discuss him for a long time after, and realize, yes, they always saw it coming. 

Anders knows Hawke—deeper than dread silence, deeper than the flutter in his pulse, with years of aching and years of loving, each quick fit of anger, each slow burn of pain, the betrayal of loss he couldn’t prevent and rubble he couldn’t clear away. No hand falls against Anders’s begging shoulders, and the smoke carries on the wind to caress the corner of his jaw. 

He’s ached for the man, lived with the man, healed the man and protected him. His fingers twitch on top of his knees with the memories, with the surprises, with his whole world blown open—and his dread silence always internal, breath fluttering with his pulse, chest too small and too big for anything. 

That doesn’t mean Hawke isn’t still full of surprises. 

He sits down hard on splintered wood, right in Anders’s long shadow, and holds both of Anders’s hands in only one of his. 

II.

He’s known the aches and the compulsions—which Anders once said was the sum of him, really, unless you counted a feather collection and a bit of the Taint. 

‘What about a pillow?’ Varric said. 

‘What about a smiting spirit?’ Isabela added.

‘What about a handsome profile?’ Hawke concluded, and their noses brushed together before they kissed that night. 

Some would question the wisdom of the Champion. As though they didn’t always, what with one thing and another, the blasted wreckage left in their wake, Varric’s stories making everything seem so much bigger than it was—even for the small people who stood before it and realized how small they suddenly were. Or how small they always were, or ever would be, or might not get the chance to be again. 

That was the way of it, a relatively little feeling in a Thedas that grew ever bigger, the narrowed focus on one man—a collection of feathers and aches, a pillow and a spirit and a long nose. And all the muscle in between, the warmth, the need, the trembling hands and the high brow and the hair mussed in the morning, the whole truths and the half lies and the laughter like accident, poorly calculated, utterly mistimed. 

Anders tried it when he woke that morning, dark circles beneath his eyes, but even Hawke couldn’t muster the old energy for the one task that came naturally to him. He’d laughed before he fell from blood loss by the Arishok’s side; he’d laughed in the Gallows courtyard when they left it behind; he’d laughed when even Isabela didn’t, when even Varric gave him a look like he might want to try not being so himself for a change. 

Anders couldn’t laugh without Hawke, not for long—and Hawke couldn’t laugh, not without Anders. They sat together as they always had, whether it was on a bed in Hightown or a felled tree somewhere between Ostwick and Wildervale, or an overturned crate after the blasted chantry became the blasted chantry. 

‘What if I call harder?’ Hawke asked.

When he covered Anders’s hands, he found it was his own fingers that were twitching. 

Reblogged from peruvianlilybloom  64 notes
shotguninfinity:

hamburgerjack:

stormdragon:

eviltwinofme:

Well, I had to do SOMETHING! haha. XD Just had to get a cardigan shot in before the week was up…haha

I am not fully awake yet to process this. But I like how it was the first thing I saw.

It wasn’t pink, it was Used-to-Be red. Anders didn’t exactly like washing clothes or reading the instructions and there was a reason why all his clothes were faded, patched and torn.
Hawke had been livid, but then he realized he could make a statement about masculinity and clothing and how if someone wanted to challenge his Mars-ness they could eat a fist and stay jealous of his epic beard.
Anders giggled and yawned, reaching beneath the waistband of his boxers for a scratch.
His boxers were old too and instead of getting new ones, Hawke had put a patch on them.
In the shape of a kitty.
Anders didn’t care if liking kittens made people think twice. He let Hawke put kitty patches all over his clothing. Girls liked it actually and asked where he “bought” them from.
That made him laugh.
Buy.
Anders got all his things second hand or from donation bins after he traded some of the things he had and any patches were made from old clothing that was too used to donate.
He believed in recycling.
If he could make his own clothes, he would, but Hawke said unless he found a way to spin wool from kitty hair, he could not have an alpaca, yak, or any sheep.
Of course in revenge Anders told Hawke he couldn’t have any birds… and to please stop feeding the pigeons because the pigeons brought crows and the crows brought other birds and Anders swore he saw one of those city hawks the other day, eyeing their balcony fire escape thingie…
They grew herbs out there.
“Man of mine, WHERE IS MY SWEATER?”
“YOU OWN A MILLION DAMN SWEATERS!”
“You know the one I mean!”
“Why do you always need the one I have!” he whined, going into the bedroom. “Seriously, seriously Hawke, just wear one of mine.”
“Yours are too tight. And have paint on them and ink and cat hair.”
“Your have cat hair and Hawke hair.”
“Yours have holes!”
“Yours have stretch.”
They looked at each other, Hawke raising a brow, Anders raising a brow.
“Touche.” they said together and Anders walked away, sipping his tea.
“NICE ASS!” he heard Hawke call from the bedroom.
Anders giggled and went to his painting space.
He loved that man.

“…he could not have an alpaca, yak, or any sheep…”
If thinking of Fenpaca whenever the word Alpaca comes up on tumblr is wrong, I NEVER WANT TO BE RIGHT

shotguninfinity:

hamburgerjack:

stormdragon:

eviltwinofme:

Well, I had to do SOMETHING! haha. XD Just had to get a cardigan shot in before the week was up…haha

I am not fully awake yet to process this. But I like how it was the first thing I saw.

It wasn’t pink, it was Used-to-Be red. Anders didn’t exactly like washing clothes or reading the instructions and there was a reason why all his clothes were faded, patched and torn.

Hawke had been livid, but then he realized he could make a statement about masculinity and clothing and how if someone wanted to challenge his Mars-ness they could eat a fist and stay jealous of his epic beard.

Anders giggled and yawned, reaching beneath the waistband of his boxers for a scratch.

His boxers were old too and instead of getting new ones, Hawke had put a patch on them.

In the shape of a kitty.

Anders didn’t care if liking kittens made people think twice. He let Hawke put kitty patches all over his clothing. Girls liked it actually and asked where he “bought” them from.

That made him laugh.

Buy.

Anders got all his things second hand or from donation bins after he traded some of the things he had and any patches were made from old clothing that was too used to donate.

He believed in recycling.

If he could make his own clothes, he would, but Hawke said unless he found a way to spin wool from kitty hair, he could not have an alpaca, yak, or any sheep.

Of course in revenge Anders told Hawke he couldn’t have any birds… and to please stop feeding the pigeons because the pigeons brought crows and the crows brought other birds and Anders swore he saw one of those city hawks the other day, eyeing their balcony fire escape thingie…

They grew herbs out there.

“Man of mine, WHERE IS MY SWEATER?”

“YOU OWN A MILLION DAMN SWEATERS!”

“You know the one I mean!”

“Why do you always need the one I have!” he whined, going into the bedroom. “Seriously, seriously Hawke, just wear one of mine.”

“Yours are too tight. And have paint on them and ink and cat hair.”

“Your have cat hair and Hawke hair.”

“Yours have holes!”

“Yours have stretch.”

They looked at each other, Hawke raising a brow, Anders raising a brow.

“Touche.” they said together and Anders walked away, sipping his tea.

“NICE ASS!” he heard Hawke call from the bedroom.

Anders giggled and went to his painting space.

He loved that man.

“…he could not have an alpaca, yak, or any sheep…”

If thinking of Fenpaca whenever the word Alpaca comes up on tumblr is wrong, I NEVER WANT TO BE RIGHT

Reblogged from peruvianlilybloom  164 notes
hamburgerjack:

brushfireshenanigans:

choowy:

cardigan anders for shimmy c: 
what’s in that cup? hemp milk maybe

Oh my gosh…. this is just way too frickin’ adorable… I can’t even deal……

“Hawke? Want some tea?”
Hawke turned over, his hair all over his head, his eyelids drooping in protest against wakefulness, and his mind trying to figure out why he was awake when it knew and he knew they’d only gone to bed a few hours ago.
Anders hadn’t gone to bed so neither had he. He liked to stay up with the man and watch him paint or watch him talk out his own manifesto, yelling at the paper, jabbing his pen in the air, balancing it on his lip, and rushing to the shelves for the thesaurus.
Of course, his body had given up the good fight and he’d collapsed in their undone bed, surrounded by cats and hypo-allergenic sheets, fair trade or something he didn’t remember, but he knew people were being paid for their work and they weren’t a mass factory thing.
Anders was wearing his sweater. Again. The dark red one with gold colored yarn in it.
It was impossibly covered in cat hair and smelled like smoke, paint and garlic somehow.
His eyes wanted to close, but he sat up anyway. “Mmm yeah. How long -what time is it?”
“I finished a few minutes ago! I was really caught up! I was talking about our demands as humans and how those Temps -how the police state doesn’t have a right to us!” he sat down on the bed, Anders putting an arm over him, holding the cup still so he could sip.
“And then I was going to ask you something and I didn’t realize you’d come in here. I didn’t know you were tired, I know you wait up, I’m sorry.”
Hawke’s eyelids fluttered as he sipped.
It was deliciously hot. He could taste the honey.
It was warm all over good and a cat stretched and protested behind him.
“Ohhh that’s good.”
“We’ll go to bed after this cup.”
“…Mmm.” he leaned against the man, rubbing his face on his middle, catching sweater and cat hair full on. He hummed and Anders sipped and they sat there together.
It wasn’t even dawn.
Yet.
“Hawke?”
The man had gone back to sleep and Anders laid him back, the cup almost empty, but not quite.
He put it on their cinder block nightstand and rolled into bed with him, shooing cats and snuggling under, his head under Hawke’s chin.
Hawke snored softly and Anders hugged him.
That was the sound a Hawke made.

hamburgerjack:

brushfireshenanigans:

choowy:

cardigan anders for shimmy c: 

what’s in that cup? hemp milk maybe

Oh my gosh…. this is just way too frickin’ adorable… I can’t even deal……

“Hawke? Want some tea?”

Hawke turned over, his hair all over his head, his eyelids drooping in protest against wakefulness, and his mind trying to figure out why he was awake when it knew and he knew they’d only gone to bed a few hours ago.

Anders hadn’t gone to bed so neither had he. He liked to stay up with the man and watch him paint or watch him talk out his own manifesto, yelling at the paper, jabbing his pen in the air, balancing it on his lip, and rushing to the shelves for the thesaurus.

Of course, his body had given up the good fight and he’d collapsed in their undone bed, surrounded by cats and hypo-allergenic sheets, fair trade or something he didn’t remember, but he knew people were being paid for their work and they weren’t a mass factory thing.

Anders was wearing his sweater. Again. The dark red one with gold colored yarn in it.

It was impossibly covered in cat hair and smelled like smoke, paint and garlic somehow.

His eyes wanted to close, but he sat up anyway. “Mmm yeah. How long -what time is it?”

“I finished a few minutes ago! I was really caught up! I was talking about our demands as humans and how those Temps -how the police state doesn’t have a right to us!” he sat down on the bed, Anders putting an arm over him, holding the cup still so he could sip.

“And then I was going to ask you something and I didn’t realize you’d come in here. I didn’t know you were tired, I know you wait up, I’m sorry.”

Hawke’s eyelids fluttered as he sipped.

It was deliciously hot. He could taste the honey.

It was warm all over good and a cat stretched and protested behind him.

“Ohhh that’s good.”

“We’ll go to bed after this cup.”

“…Mmm.” he leaned against the man, rubbing his face on his middle, catching sweater and cat hair full on. He hummed and Anders sipped and they sat there together.

It wasn’t even dawn.

Yet.

“Hawke?”

The man had gone back to sleep and Anders laid him back, the cup almost empty, but not quite.

He put it on their cinder block nightstand and rolled into bed with him, shooing cats and snuggling under, his head under Hawke’s chin.

Hawke snored softly and Anders hugged him.

That was the sound a Hawke made.

http://media.tumblr.com/2c0da3ff20f7a92891d0ed26b2fd36f3/tumblr_inline_ndemxoEq221qcl0cr.jpg