That kiss before the final battle ;_____;
they didn’t know whether they’d make it or not and I’m just jhydhhfjgshgdhgds FEELS
Just postin’ this again since the original was deleted
i will never NOT love this. Milli you are the chocolate cake of my taste in humor. /dying
What Fenris Is Thinking
- As difficult as it is to take the armor off, it is so easy to put it back on again after.
- And well I should have known this.
- The heat from the fire is…
- Much like the heat from Hawke’s hands.
- A warmth undeserved. A comfort unearned.
- Lingering upon the flesh as…
- As other things linger.
- It is his face I wished to see, and other faces I saw in its stead.
- But there was heat.
- All fires burn. Some, swifter than others, leaving nothing but ash in their wake.
What Hawke’s Thinking
- I’ve no idea how I got all that complicated armor off.
- And it was dark—even with all the glowy bits, I never even got the chance to see everything there was to see.
- Too much glow in some places, in fact. Almost went blind a few times down there.
- And how did he put it back on again with only one pair of hands?
- He says he isn’t a mage, but there’s some sort of magic going on here.
- …Don’t mention magic.
- This looks grave enough as is.
- A testament to how rusty you are, Hawke.
- Never an easy cure for brooding, I suppose.
- Or deep, long-lasting sadness one carries with them no matter where they go.
- Hidden or locked up in a private safe-box in a corner of the bedroom—it’s all the same thing in the end.
- Ah well. You’ve faced worse with less armor than you have on now.
- Once more into the fire. All things burn.
In case someone missed my por— err, erotic pic.
Right in the alley, how… tawdry.
Okay, not that I’m speaking from personal experience or anything, but the Isabela “boots and nothing else” look is actually quite comfortable.
I WAS REDOING MY MAKEUP AFTER A PHOTOSHOOT AND WANTED TO WEAR THE BOOTS IRL BUT WAS TOO LAZY TO CHANGE OUT OF THEM BECAUSE THAT SHIT TAKES TIME OKAY
Close your eyes, and I’ll kiss you; tomorrow, I’ll miss you—
‘Too close to poetry,’ Varric muttered. ‘Needs a poorly tuned lute and a bard with funny hair and then it’ll work.’
You must remember this: a kiss is just a kiss—
‘Rivaini’s naughty poetry’s rubbing off on me,’ Varric said, and sighed a deep sigh.
Kiss me, Hawke thought, and you will see how important I am—
‘Now that’s a little too melodramatic, even for you, you old womp mallet.’
‘You need kissing. Badly,’ Hawke said, looking deep into Anders’s eyes. ‘That’s what’s wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.’
‘…Closer,’ Varric said. ‘Sounds almost familiar, though.’
How did it happen that their lips came together? How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill? A kiss, and all was said.
‘If that prose gets any purpler…’ Varric paused to take off his spectacles, to rub the bridge of his nose. ‘You’re going to need Blondie to heal it like a bruise, that’s what. You’re going to match Hawke’s decor, and then he’s never going to let you leave.’
‘I’d rather kiss a Wookiee,’ Anders said.
‘…I don’t even know what a Wookie is,’ Varric told the vellum; after that, the page was finished, over, done with, ruined by babble—but then again, when wasn’t it?—and he tossed it into the fire. Time to start fresh. In the embers, rebirth. In the ashes, flames could ignite. …Or something like that.
Since the invention of the kiss, there have only been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.
‘Huh,’ Varric said.
‘Needs more tongue,’ Isabela told him, chin suddenly on his shoulder. ‘More biting. More dueling lips and scraping beards and teeth.’
‘They’re kissing each other, not having a midnight snack,’ Varric replied.
‘Just think of it like this: Hawke imagined Anders tasted like the very best sandwich he’d ever had…’ Isabela’s laughter ghosted like fire over Varric’s jaw. ‘I’d offer more, but then I’d have to start charging you a percentage in royalties.’
Varric could never tell her this, but actually…Isabela was onto something.
Later, in the dead of night, flames ignited in the quiet ashes:
That day, Anders was amazed to discover that when Hawke was saying ‘Want a sandwich,’ what he meant was, ‘I love you.’ And even more amazing was the day Anders realized he truly wanted that sandwich.
there’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting;
it’s luring me on as of old;
yet it isn’t the gold that i’m wanting
so much as just finding the gold.
it’s the great, big, broad land ‘way up yonder,
it’s the forests where silence has lease;
it’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
it’s the stillness that fills me with peace.
- robert service
hawke thank you for letting me doodle on you with my new gold paint
When you’ve slain dragons and burned cities and watched cities burn, and when you’ve flown with dragons and chatted with dragons and done favors for dragons and built cities and loved cities and left them behind; when you’ve known twins and slaves and demons and viscounts and viscounts’ sons, princes of a sort and pirate queens and more demons; when you’ve scattered white lilies and found fathers in ruins and loved and learned; when you’ve made fortunes and changed fortunes and found fate and followed no one—well, then, what more do you want than what you’ve earned?
That’s why Varric doesn’t do the things so much as he talks about them or writes about them or closes his eyes to see them again, that landscape on the backs of his eyelids the same way other dwarves etch runes into stone. These are the things that happen to other people. All the grand adventures they live before they leave. Long before.
Nobody can be a champion. They’re either on their way to becoming a champion or they used to be a champion, you know. It’s once upon a time, to be continued, the end. It’s Hawke at dawn, rising before the others, eyes like gold and thinking about gold. Eyes like sovereigns and thinking about sovereign tricks. Eyes like sleight of hand and fingers working in the eerie in-between, chapped fingertips and swollen knuckles and stiff bone.
His time. That brief moment. Championing.
Now you see it; now you don’t.
‘I’m thinking about fireflies,’ Hawke says. ‘They’re gold, too.’
‘I’m thinking about your chest hair,’ Hawke says. ‘The greatest treasure of all.’
‘I’m thinking about the fuzzy little patch between Anders’s legs,’ Hawke says. ‘A treasure trail, I believe it’s called, and perfect for a man like me.’
Dragons hoard their hoards. Dwarves beat their stone. Humans are doomed to be champions before and after the fact—looking ahead or looking behind, searching and searching for someone’s lost gold.
I love how your drawings are able to capture all of the life and emotion, as well as all of the context of a singe moment. Your art is never just the subject matter, there is just so much that you can read into each piece. I love the way that you can use postures and stances (especially between subjects) to show so much feeling and emotion that you don’t even need to let facial expressions, but when you do the emotion is equally powerful.
The composition of each of your drawings is divine, and the lines and colours are so subtle and soft. There is so much detail in each and every one of your drawings. In the clothing particularly and don’t get me started on the backgrounds. They are to die for and I am sure there are a number of us who are incredibly jealous of your level of dedication and execution. They are worth every second that you put into them.
Have faith in your abilities, Taki. You are bursting with talent.
Thank you Takityphoon!
anders tells a single, unforgettable lie—but hawke is a liar through and through, if not outright then by obfuscation. when does he ever show that depth of sincerity in his eyes? how quickly does it disappear, followed by deflection, a distracting joke, something to keep the shaky thing safe and far above the sleeve? oh, hawke knows all about loving people but not about how to love them; what he knows is how to lose them, and how to pretend he wasn’t really trying to hold on. and anders isn’t much better, never quite able to look at it, always taught it’ll disappear the moment he gives it a name. love. the impossible happiness. the joy and the fear; the pain. but there they are anyway, two guarded, broken, magic people, touching what can’t fit in their hands, kissing each other beside the flames. and they’ll stay that way, too, until the day they die. fools and lovers. anders and hawke. now that’s a love scene.