a sketch i wont finish, bleep bloop
happy international lickday!!!
The second of mine and Spader7’s collaborations together! (We’re kind of in love, okay.)
Her Garrett and my Anders being schmoopy, there was a consensus. <3
oh, the stories we were told — quite a vision to be behold
mysteries of the seas in her eyes of gold
Varric’s now in the market for horror stories. Isabela here is a loreley, calculating the number of handsome sailors she’ll drown tonight. Fun times!
Asdfhj; this is a birthday doodle for spader7, who said she really liked Isabela. This went from being whimsical and colorful to downright terrifying. I hope you still like me. EVERYBODY GO WISH HER A HAPPY BIRTHDAY OKAY :D
Oh my gosh that is gorgeous, I love it! That’s an amazing gift!
varric vakarian, at your service.
‘Varric,’ Hawke said, ‘I can’t help but notice you’re looking different. No, wait, let me guess—new haircut? Got part of your face chewed off by a mabari lately? I do like the mandibles, though. They add a certain terror not previously experienced by our multitude of enemies.’
(He’d have turned to Aveline to confess he might have accidentally eaten some sort of dubious mushroom in the Deep Roads, but Aveline suddenly had dark hair and no freckles and Hawke was frightened. Even more so when Anders had tattoos and a shaved head and Carver seemed to have visited the same hairdresser and tattoo artist and Merrill was… Well, Merrill was blue.)
‘Definitely the mushrooms,’ Hawke said.
‘Don’t look at me,’ Varric Vakarian replied. ‘I’m here for the golden crossbow. She is beautiful, isn’t she?’
Ah, well, Hawke thought. Just another day in Kirkwall. If you couldn’t understand a thing, you might as well have fun with it.
‘But I have to say, that vest does wonders for your hips,’ Hawke said. ‘You’ll have to teach me how you stay so trim.’
i love drawig these two..
thanks for joining the livestream!
Simply because they had no war-paint hardly meant that Kirkwall’s nobles had no artifice to speak of. They were lace and velvet, silk and brocade—puffy sleeves that had always taken Saemus by surprise, crystal goblets and small laughter. They were light bouncing off their jewels, not the jewels themselves, and Saemus had felt, for a long time, the frustrations of being one of them. Of seeing himself, puffy sleeves and small laughter and, when he was old enough, crystal goblets.
But the wine—sweet and clear, all the way from Orlais—tasted more like sand in his mouth.
And he would know. He’d been an inquisitive child, and once ate a handful of the stuff fresh on the Wounded Coast.
Why, he’d heard it whispered, would the son of Kirkwall’s viscount choose to run away? Weren’t there enough puffy sleeves and crystal goblets for him in the keep that would one day be his?
If something terrible didn’t happen first. And this was the City of Chains; something terrible usually did.
Alone at night, Saemus traced the lines his veins made across his wrists, the ones on his throat. He pressed a finger to the pulse and listened to it—still beating, a struggle against the weight. It seemed to mean something. He could never train it, try as he might, to slow. And in the mornings, he drew on his puffy sleeves and thought himself foolish for drinking milk from a crystal goblet when any other cup would do.
It took years to learn how wrong he was. That, if he could surrender the humiliation—if he could allow himself to stand before Ashaad puffy sleeves and all, and allow Ashaad to stand before him with nothing more than tough skin—it wouldn’t matter where he’d come from, only what he’d found.
And the red paint.
Saemus breathed a quiet sigh—louder than all the polite laughter in Kirkwall. Ashaad traced the lines of fabric and thread as though it was flesh and blood, all a part of Saemus’s tough skin.
And Saemus in return, finding those lines on another: his hand against Ashaad’s pulse at his throat, which neither struggled nor quickened if he pressed a bare finger to it.
But this time, he chose not to press.
The shape of Ashaad’s broad shoulders. The bone beneath the muscle. The paint above; the strength below. Saemus spread his fingers to form each streak—which never met, and never needed to. Side by each over the heartbeat.
There it was on his cheek, his jaw, against which Saemus’s palm fit—so much better than his own puffy sleeves. Ashaad closed his eyes and Saemus, at last, at last, knew that his were open.
nunslinger asked you: Your favorites from Dragon Age and Teen Wolf. HANGING OUT TOGETHER. :-D
AHH i’ve secretly been wanting to draw this and now i got the perfect excuse to do so!!!!
derek is confused by why this… elf! isn’t susceptible to his Intense Gaze.
If those two glare any harder their face shall be frozen that way. P.S.: I thought they were having a staring/glaring contest. Any minute now someone will throw a bucket of water on them. Or will set their pants on fire.
favorite mass effect character: garrus vakarian
here seen sporting the latest turian fashio-HAHA I’M SORRY I just thought i wouldn’t draw his armor sfghj call the fashion police
jeez anon you’re so greedy haha! but no one else asked for these and i wanna do both so i’m gonna make two posts about it anyway!
lin beifong aka bamf
i often have troubles choosing between fenris and anders, so i made a compromise!
Five Times Fenris Didn’t Want to Wear Anders’s Coat (And One Time He Did)
‘I often have troubles choosing between Fenris and Anders,’ Hawke said, ‘so I made a compromise!’
The mage was gone, Isabela began, after settling herself in comfortably behind Varric’s desk, licking the tip of his quill and staining her bottom lip with black ink. And the elf realized that the sunlight itself felt different, that the memory of Anders’s handsome scruff and limpid eyes was all he could think about. Fenris buried his face in the feathers, smelling the apostate’s sweat and musky skin on the collar of his coat, and wished that he’d been kinder while—
‘Isabela,’ Varric said from the doorway, ‘you have to understand, the public just isn’t clamoring for the elf and Blondie to make nice the way they used to.’
‘It isn’t about popularity, Varric,’ Isabela replied. ‘It’s about how hot it is, after all this time!’
‘Your lyrium markings looked cold and wet,’ Anders said, staring up at the sky, not seeming to notice that he was soaked through, himself—and also appeared to be wearing a sack originally made to carry potatoes.
‘Oh, yes,’ Merrill added. ‘You’re always taking stray kittens in out of the rain, aren’t you, Anders?’
‘Hawke needs the cheering up,’ Isabela said, adjusting the buckle of Andraste’s face at her hips. ‘Maker, but I’ve forgotten how constricting it is to wear pants.’
‘And I’ve forgotten how constricting it is to wear a boned corset,’ Sebastian said idly.
‘And I think I just put out my eye with one of these spiky pauldrons,’ Anders said.
Fenris sniffed, and smelled… Was that fish? ‘Pfaugh,’ he replied.
He woke in an uncomfortable position with an ache in his muscles he had not felt since the last time he had been starved and left, almost forgotten, in Hadriana’s private cells. But then, he had not been quite so warm that time, little more than fever sweat on his skin.
‘What is this?’ he asked, his voice a snarl of the beast still chained, and Anders—bare arms looking pale and cold—knocked over a barrel of bandages.
‘I believe that’s my coat,’ he replied, his voice also the snarl of a beast still chained.
They were not, Fenris reminded himself, alike at all.
Hawke had kept it, stained with blood, still smelling of ash and fire, from the night they had lost everything—just before the dawn when they had finally broken free of their chains.
Or, at least, of their city.
But the tiger yet lunged at their shadows; it had made a martyr of a man whose hands had not always been gentle, whose champion could not always protect him. Fenris lifted the coat from its spot atop the other refugees of Hawke’s past—of their past, now that Fenris had one.
It was too large upon his shoulders, no longer warm. And it smelled of pain, which was also freedom—or freedom, which was also pain.
SHIMMY WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS
WHY WOULD YOU START ALL WHIMSICAL AND CHEERFUL AND HILARIOUS AND POTATO SACK AND SEBASTIAN ABSENTMINDEDLY ADMITTING HE WORE A BONED CORSET BEFORE AND THEN DROP A BOMB ON ME AT THE END
(I love you.)
apparently ‘drawing as therapy’ now equals ‘produce some crap while brain is still about teen wolf’ sob
what has my life become
Varric never liked writing about kisses much—mostly because it was too damn hard to get the right angle on them. The movement didn’t come across in words or the colors, even, the way you could know a man better than your own chest in the mirror and still be surprised by how one almost-kiss could make his whole face change.
Devoting pages—chapters, even—to Anders’s hands, slim fingers pressed against a wound to heal or wrapped around the staff to guard, tangled with blue light and trembling with heat from his infamous fireballs, didn’t necessarily mean Varric would be able to say how they curved, graceful and empty, with Hawke’s palm on his knuckles. Or how Hawke’s face was finally soft under that beard—or how they both seemed to know where and how to unload their pain.
Maybe it was a sad thing. Maybe that sadness was what made it beautiful. Maybe the problem was simply that all good kisses needed to end and Varric’s favorite part was always the beginning. Just as important—but quieter, somehow. On the run from one thing or another, throats bare, desire like an executioner’s blade. And how damn serious they could like when they’d rubbed noses a thousand times.
‘You know,’ Hawke said, ‘this…really isn’t working. Varric, do you think you could give us some privacy for just a moment? Look somewhere else or…turn around or something?’
‘You don’t get a room, you don’t get ‘some’ privacy,’ Varric replied. ‘Now keep going. You know how I love a good kissing scene.’
i’ve been feeling pretty off lately… but i scribbled aveline!
2-3 hours, one layer
this took way longer than it should have *__*
simple but tons of fun!
No one could make a man cooler when it was warm, short of dumping ice down the back of his jerkin. It had happened to Hawke before, of course; he’d grown up with Carver, and perhaps Hawke deserved it for the incident with the snakes in Carver’s bedroll a few days before.
They hadn’t been poisonous snakes. Hawke had seen to that. He was no ogre, just an older brother, and even if the two seemed comparable, Hawke always thought he was particularly kind, and never nailed anyone’s hair to the bedpost.
Even if it had been his idea to do that in the first place.
Summer heat was for baking and browning under the sun, for new freckles to appear, for Anders to start sweating beneath his feathered pauldrons and for Isabela’s no-pants thing to start looking incredibly appealing. More appealing than it already did, rather; in a more personal sort of way. If Hawke took his trousers off, it would be because of the temperature, and not the…other reasons for trouser removal.
But when the snow fell—when feet were ice-cold even in two pairs of woolly socks, and the drifts shifted between the trees; when flakes landed in a man’s dark hair, in his beard, melting from the heat of his breath; when an ally, a friend, someone who might have been a stranger but wasn’t, not anymore, through luck or fate—it was possible for someone to make a man warm when he was chilled to the bone, remembering the icy winters of his childhood in Ferelden, and wondering when it was he craved the heat of another so.
‘You are staring,’ Fenris said, and blinked.
‘Well, of course,’ Hawke replied. ‘Because you match the snow.’