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Okay, so this is a WIP for my color studio class. I have to change it and add other colors and stuff cause she said it doesn’t count, but before I go ahead and do that, I wanted to get some feedback on it thus far.

It’s supposed to be Good Omens, with the yin-yang thing goin’ on cause Aziraphale has some bad in him and Crowley’s got some good in him and all that so yeah. :’D

Any critique or feedback would be very much appreciated!!

this is just graphically stunning. i mean, all nose fetishes aside, it’s the way the pointed devil’s tail nestles into the white feathers that makes you realize just how much thought has gone into this, bringing it all the way to completion. and i love how they compliment each other and have those pieces of each other at the very center, too—crowley’s moments of being just a little bit good and aziraphale’s inclination toward being just a little bit bad. it’s not just visually fantastic but it has all the messages, too, and the characterization and the implications and i need this on my dash. 

^^^^^^^^^all of this.

I scrolled through and all I was thinking was “please let this actually be Good Omens related”

(Source: thinkpoiple)



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)



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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