Tag: anders

spicyshimmy:

it’s so clear sometimes—in moments like these—how much varric loves him. he loves all of them, of course, fenris swathed in wry but difficult shadows, aveline always hard and bright as polished armor, merrill with a quiet, wicked grace, bethany bringing sunlight and carver sullen but not without promise, and isabela quick as the tides and arch as a curved dagger. even choir boy has those clear sky eyes, and hawke—hawke has all the good lines. but anders has this face, the face, a whole damn collection, soft throat bare, brow knit above his long nose, lips that sometimes, sometimes, someone helps remember how to smile. and it’s what varric always gives him: his own friendship, absolutely; a helping hand, now and then without fanfare; a story, so his voice will be heard; and an introduction to hawke, the love anders has needed for a long, long time. 

spicyshimmy:

the first picture is so ‘why yes, hawke, i would like to spend the night at your place–and here i thought you’d never ask.‘ 

and the second is so ‘what do you mean the dog sleeps in the bed with us? …your bed? with us in it?

spicyshimmy:

i just love his soft neck. it’s so vulnerable, so bare, so pale, without even a proper collar–just the high shadow cast by the pauldrons and that strange, off-color swath of cloth beneath, not even a shirt, part of the patchwork that holds him together. a little bit from here, a little grabbed from there, whatever comes to hand; bandages to mend split seams and dusty feathers and old buckles. repurposing old cloth. reinventing the man who wears it all.

and he isn’t handsome, not classically so; his brow is too high and his nose too long and his chin neither soft nor hard, lines here and there from frowning or rubbing the skin in thought, over and over old grooves with his thumb. he has that flush in the cheeks and the stubble on his chin, relics from a past that yet lingers; the latter is all about indecision, neither a full beard nor a clean shave, and the former is from a boyhood he never really had and so clung to for long after he should. it’s about heritage, about complexion, just as much as it is about personal blushes and personal reasons for blushing.

but he has moments, so many moments, angles changing, perspective shifting, settling into his space with a bowed head, heated words or hopeful promise or even a moment of flirtation–when hawke can’t resist it; when hawke kisses that long, soft neck, perhaps marked already with kisses from the night before; when anders draws the pauldrons away and opens a simple shirt-front with freckled hands, and hawke’s hands come up slow but no less eager to replace them. 

spicyshimmy:

anders is talking, but hawke is focusing on that knit brow, thinking i’ve done something wrong. i’ve left the socks unfolded. he caught the mabari on the bed after i promised i wouldn’t let him in anymore for snuggle-time. i accidentally used a manifesto page as a napkin at dinner. i made a naughty mage and templar joke without realizing it. i must have flirted with varric again. because anders is doing the mean-eyebrows look and someone’s going to be sleeping in the study tonight. meanwhile, anders is thinking, where is that smell coming from? is that me? do i just smell like darktown all the time now? does hawke smell me? does hawke smell me and still love me anyway? and also i have got to change these feathers.