it's the chest hair, isn't it?

YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT ME? I'M FLATTERED. ... also inclined toward extravagant lies.

[talestold-blog1]

               AS WAS OBVIOUS, i’m setting this blog on hiatus, simply because i’m way more interested in developing HAWKE. so. shoot the shit with me over there instead.

[talestold-blog1]

               AS WAS OBVIOUS, i’m setting this blog on hiatus, simply because i’m way more interested in developing HAWKE. so. shoot the shit with me over there instead.

[honeycut-a-blog]

ALL THE UNKNOWN, DYING, OR DEAD KEEP SHOWING UP IN MY DREAMS / THEY STAND AT THE END OF MY BED / HAVE I EVER REALLY HELPED ANYBODY BUT MYSELF?

[talestold-blog1]

                        ❛ -------------- CURLY! nice to see ya this morning. and with pants on! now that’s a gracious bonus for us all! gotta say, i’ve seen longer walks of shame for less, but i’ve never seen anyone scamper like that. didja make it back to the barracks in one piece, or did the cook catch you for stealing cheese along the way? ❜       |     @extemplar.

[talestold-blog1]

@ahvir

                   ❛ can i ask you something? ❜    

call it a sixth sense; his chest hairs tingling, had he any room for a laugh, that he knew who’d be slinking up the stairs behind him without having to look. maybe it’s because he just has a knowledge for these things ---- it’s grade A writing. the protagonist’s eulogy, saving the best for last. or maybe it’d been a little more because she’d been the only one who hadn’t come to him yet.

and he hates it, really. the boring cliche of SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS that has never once struck him as appropriate, as if he’d just lost his great grandmother to a gum infection rather than his best friend to a demon in another realm. over and over in his ear, sorry for your loss, occasionally accompanied with little gifts; for instance, the rock-hard cookies sera’d brought him that he damn near chipped a tooth on, or the dead crow cole had brought just in case varric had needed something to say his goodbyes to.

it’s been a long, long day. and he doesn’t wait for a response.

                 ❛ at the end, ❜  he starts, head tipping up towards the setting sun as he leans further against the rail.  ❛ when we’d already gone through, and it was just ... just you back there. when it really came down to it, and he ... what did he------ ... ❜

shit. he thought he had this one in the bag. red as it is, the sun suddenly seems way too bright for him, even in its violet descent. gotta put his head back down. s’always the last bit that he chokes on; can’t get it out, as if admitting it somehow makes it even more true than it was just moments ago. like it seals the deal. like there’s a chance that he could ever see his best friend again if he just keeps his mouth shut.

but that’s never been a hobby he could keep.

                   ❛ ... you know, it’s not a good tragedy without its famous last words. ❜  forced humor. ties in real nice with the greyest hook of a sorrowful smile, the most he’s given in a long-ass time. 

[honeycut-a-blog]

DO I LOOK LIKE THE LEADER OF THIS MERRY BAND OF MISFITS?

[talestold-blog1]

STARTER CALL.

[talestold-blog1]

STARTER CALL.

[talestold-blog1]

ANDRASTE’S DIMPLED BUTTCHEEKS.

[talestold-blog1]

             ❛ found you a good one today, rivaini. ❜ 

he’s never late. five pm every day, right on the dot. doesn’t skip a beat; with the way bianca practically splits a 45mph road, it’d be impossible for him not to make it here in record time, every time. 

    ❛  -------- i mean, yeah, he’s a little on the younger side, ❜  he continues, fingers kneading to loosen his tie, working their way to pop the first few buttons of his collar.  ❛ certainly no stout fox, but i assumed that’s a low figure on the spectrum of What’s Ever Stopped You. don’t worry, don’t worry. he’s pressing twenty-two. some sun’s-out-guns-out accounting twerp with a cardboard tan. but hey! that’s where the money is. er. will be. someday. whenever mommy and daddy decide to cut the cord. ❜  

he leans an elbow against the counter. winks. jerks a thumb toward a very tired, very incapacitated hawke snoozin’ a few feet away, head collapsed in the crook of her elbow while the other hand wrings a loose grip on the neck of a jack’s. a long string of drool threatens to puddle on her lap. he reaches over, slips the bottle out of her grasp with a smuggler’s precision, and tips it to isabela in a silent cheers.

             ❛ & i’ll have what she’s having. ❜

[ryan-coogler-archive]

[robkazinskyfans]