#moseph

Last year this month I drew this based on Francine River’s book Unafraid which is about mother Mary. There was a scene that involved Jesus as a toddler and I thought it was the coolest thing! It was the first time I had ever seen someone try to imagine what that part of Jesus’s life might have been like. Meanwhile the Chosen Christmas special came out in theaters so I thought I’d draw toddler Jesus with young mother Mary and Joseph from the Chosen! And NOW it being a year later, the Chosen season 3 episode 3 is airing on Christmas Day and will show Jesus as a toddler! I feel ahead of the art game this time! I’m so excited to see what the Chosen is gonna do!

you want angst, you get angst. fhanders for @dadrunkwriting, set just before Anders does the thing that he does.

CW for blood

M.

I don’t know how to tell you what I have done. What I will do.

Only that I cannot be forgiven.

The note is a small thing. It lies on the desk, lit by cold moonlight that slithers in through the curtainless window. It has three straight edges, one ripped and torn. It has been folded in half what looks like a half dozen times; it has been read over, thought over, in agony. But the print is clear and cold. No restarts. No mistakes. Faultless.

A feather lays beside it, perfect in its loneliness. Black as death. Black as whatever comes after death.

“No,” Hawke murmurs. Or, she thinks she murmurs: no sound escapes her mouth, no no, until she realises that she’s keening like an animal trapped in the jaws of a snare. The sound twists and wails through her empty estate, pulled thinner as it sings its dissonant hum until it is more twine than noise, and until she can’t breathe.

One moment she is stood, barely—a hand gripping the chair slotted under her writing desk so tightly that she might render the wood in two, the other trying to cover her mouth, trying to swallow the noise, as if silence will stop time.

The next, she screams again, until there is no other noise, and violently sweeps everything from the desk. The sound of glass shattering makes her want to laugh, but then her knees are buckling and she’s on the ground. Curled in on herself in an unholy genuflection, the sacraments of her worship—note, feather, smashed bottles of ink, blank reams of paper—scattered around her.

“No,” Hawke tries, again. This time, the sound is nothing more than a whisper. 

Slowly, silently, she straightens. She does not know what she is doing when she reaches for the note once more, and the feather. She does not know what she is doing when she forces herself to read the final lines, the feather clutched tight between shaking fingers. It is as though she is a marionette, played by unknown forces above.

Let me tell you what I do know.

Hawke grips the feather tighter and tighter, until the sharp tip of its quill has rendered her flesh and the pain is magnificent.

I love you.

Blood trickles down the soft curve of her palm, spilling onto the note like tears.

Mo thank you for this, have some domestic handers fluff for @dadrunkwriting because they’re in love your honour

fhawke x anders, 1k

When Anders wakes up, the world smells like roses. Which is strange, because down in the Undercity, the world usually faintly smells of shit and despair.

Scowling against the gentle attack of the morning light where it sifts in through the windows high above, Anders lays there half-covered in his thin, bobbling bedsheets and drinks in the heady perfume, delights in it. It must be love, he reasons, because he’s very in love with Hawke. Love-drunk, a poet might have called it. Sick off it. It’s that hideous, mushy kind of love that balladeers sing about, where you can’t help but think their laugh is made of moonlight and everything they touch is blessed by the Maker himself.

Justice hates it, though Justice likes Hawke, occasionally.

A smile dances at the edge of Anders’ lips at the thought of her. Slowly, quietly, he shifts onto his side, expecting to see her curled up with most of his sheets wound around her and a silvered trail of drool staining her cheek, like usual.

When he finds the other half of his narrow, creaky bed empty, sheets thrown aside, he frowns.

“Masha?”

No response. 

If Magnolia is responsible for naming an animal it will 100% of the time be named after food.

Her Mabari was named Macaroni, she later gets another named Toffee, and while visiting the Inquisition after the Redcliffe debacle with her husband she names a Hart Cinnamon.

aaa I LOVE this! those names are perfect, Mags’ mind 

I’ve probs yelled at you about these songs before but your wish is my command mo <3

for handers: What You Want - Bombay Bicycle Club, more for the vibe than anything else

and for Ri, we all know it’s a 10-hour loop of Fabulous from HSM2 but if you want some variation: My Lover Cindy - Marika Hackman, because the lyrics slap

Cause I'm a greedy pig I'm gonna get my fill I'm gonna keep my eyes on the prize And I'll suck you dry, I will

I'm no pariah, but I'll try to pretend I hope you keep your distance now and then Same prognosis, it was fated from the start We could be together, take my heart

But I'm a lousy lover, even if I try I can go for a couple of weeks and the feeling's calcified

7. What would their lives be like if they had never met?

8. Who gets jealous easier?

13. Who remembers the little things?

10. Who’s the better cook?

these questions are amazing! thanks for enabling my obsession Mo <3

what would their lives be like if they’d never met

Ri would’ve managed to dig her family name out of the dirt by some nefarious means or other, so would probably have set her mum up in Kirkwall and would have pissed off back to Ferelden to find the cousin she didn’t know she had. she’d be living a pretty simple life, roaming with her mabari.

and oh man, not to be a pessimist but there’s a high chance Anders might be dead??? that, back with the Wardens, or running around Thedas emancipating mages and slaves and fucking the system like the king he is

who gets jealous easier

neither of them are jealous per sé? although Ri definitely says she’s chill but also slightly hates herself, so gets very stressed when Anders laughs at anyone else’s jokes, because how dare someone else also be funny and does that mean he finds them funnier than her and is this the start of the slow death of their relationship etc. etc.