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varric’s got two versions of that fight. the one he gives to hawke later—all blood and bravery, bold blows and shattered stone, muscle matched by muscle and only a few spilled guts—and the real deal, the less flattering one. it’s not an attempt at bleak realism or even being gritty; varric’s always about the story first, not about its tricks. that doesn’t change the tale he tells the seeker any, a man hiding behind columns while his trusty mabari nipped at the arishok’s heels for hours; a man in need of a good healer, though as luck would have it, they happened to have one around; a man who looked at varric before, torn up and worn out, he let the fade take him for a while, and said: ‘you know me, varric. center of attention and loving every moment of it.’ 

and varric’s still not sure which version he likes best. maybe, he needs both to tell the truth, a lesson he could only learn in kirkwall. 

(Source: robynaddison)


you know, i’m honestly never going to get over this game. how every one of hawke’s triumphs is a tragedy, how each tragedy nurtures hawke’s triumphs, and how the juxtaposition of images—of past and potential, of power and helplessness, of rise and fall—is all right here. hawke’s history bleeds into his future, just like the city he loves, the city he champions. kirkwall is also built on old suffering; the blood spilled there long ago is a magic that rots even as it grows. it’s all about what they’ve buried, what they can’t leave behind. 

the view of the burning house set against the view of the city of chains—in the end, hawke is just like the dragonfire scorching the lothering ground, but at the same time you realize how small he is when set against stone. always on the precipice of change, there was never a chance he’d be able to stop changing for long, that he’d be able to stop running. it’s moment after moment, pause after pause, but in the end, all things turn on him as all things turn. so even as he gazes on kirkwall, the flames licking at the windows of a simple house in lothering whisper, a small, hot ember waiting to spark again. 

(Source: robynaddison)




Hello, I’ve spent an evening drawing pictures of Hawke rubbing his beard all over Anders.

you know, what should really be here is “ode to hawke’s spectacular rear end,” which i can only imagine is the substitute for a few manifesto drafts here and there. 

It’s remarkable, Hawke thinks, how young he feels when he’s naked, when by all means the collection of thickening muscle and tired scars of his practically ancient body should imply he feels his oldest.

Practically ancient in mabari years, anyway. 

Only it’s really no more remarkable than anything else.

Why is he capable of believing in dragons and darkspawn and family lost and fortunes won, in rock wraiths and qunari duel traditions, in every last tragedy from the smallest to the largest, from the subtlest to the most climactic, all of them unexpected but also unsurprising—yet he can’t believe in the age-old adage that having a lover or having love itself is potion enough to make a man feel like a reckless lad again? 

There’s something wrong with that outlook, a different sort of wrong than whatever they get up to when they’re alone together. It’s one word for two very different indulgences—and so many different positions. 

It’s the way Anders’s touches Hawke’s arms, not to heal them, not to help their burdens, just to feel them, as though the muscle is still worth feeling, the hard edge Hawke used to admire from the right angle in every mirror. It’s the way Anders cups the back of his head with one pale palm and holds him close, neither of them minding the uncomfortable positions, how their backs will ache sometime in the future—tomorrow morning instead of tonight, later instead of now, arguably Hawke’s favorite reason for procrastination. 

It’s the way Anders doesn’t say it tickles with the hitch in his voice that Hawke has come to crave so awfully, but his chest hitches instead, the hitch rising from a place much deeper, all the muscles of his stomach twitching and all the hairs trembling above. 

It’s the way Anders curls in on him instead of falling back, shadow everywhere and all that skin, the press of his thighs and the heat of his breath and the clutch of his fingers. 

Right there, between Anders’s legs, they could be anywhere and they might as well have everything—in that childish interpretation of it, when too much is stubbornly not enough, and more always seems better. 

Over time, it all adds up. Whatever you collect, whatever you’ve had, whatever you’ve lost—not to mention whatever grooves the shoulders from a life over-encumbered. 

But Anders’s face is red, his flesh hot, his body ready and willing. Hawke feels practically sixteen instead of practically everything. 

‘Hawke,’ Anders says, high and breathless, ‘are you…grinning down there?’ 

‘Little busy to answer,’ Hawke manages to reply, though the words aren’t as important as the shape of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, his beard—and who it’s tickling. 

OK, that’s a really nice to see and read something like this after tiring day at work<3. Those pictures are fantastic and so so sexy. And I love the story<3!!!!!



cheer up guys it might never happen


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. 


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. 

(Source: syberfab)





ok now i’m going to sleep i’ll keep working tomorrow jva;olkjsdf

i’m sure it’s probably a faux-pas to reblog half-finished art, but if anyone actually expected me to be able to hold back my feverish excitement for even a moment, well. well. i don’t know what to say because clearly this is something i am incapable of. HAWKE’S PURPLE LIGHTSABER. them forearms. damn, son. anders looks just so beautifully classic jedi with the origami folds of his robes in traditional colors with that blue lightsaber. AND GOSH I WONDER IF HAWKE’S PURPLE ONE MEANS HE’LL SHARE MACE WINDU’S VAPAAD FIGHTING TECHNIQUE tapping into the ~dark side~ of the force. but he can handle it, because he’s hawke, let’s be honest. i need to cool it.

i will never cool it.

everything that fugitivus said above and then some. i love seeing these pictures take shape, the form and the muscle and the gravity beneath, the geometry alongside the colors. and i love that hawke’s lightsaber matches my favorite dialogue option color—but that it can also have these connotations, this connection to a darker side, these parallels that run from canon to canon. the two of them fighting together, just those slight differences in posture, the idea of one covering what the other can’t and both of them standing for, with the other—their profiles, hawke looking in one direction while anders looks in the opposite—and also, this is nose indulgence of the highest order. i cannot wait to see the finished piece, because that glow and that play of light and shadow on hawke’s face is already making me go places. capslock places. 

Yeah it’s unfinished, what’s that refpic of Hawke still doing pastede on ye—


When this gets finished it’s going to break every braincell I possess.

Holy shit dat face o_o

(Source: kassa-fabrication)



Yep I think thats enough scribbly anatomy failure for one night.

there is nothing i do not adore about this. the arch in the small of anders’s back and just the shape, the shape of his leg, the perfect curve of his butt and the perfect curve of his heel, and hawke’s hand on his thigh, and anders’s intensity and focus matched by hawke’s abandon, hawke’s smile. all the little touches between them, the bracing of weight, and how damn wonderfully close they are, too. 

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