all of the nude models in our art school are such interesting people aside from just the nude model part like we have:
•a former NASA scientist for 20 years who seedily obtained a piece of the actual moon & brought it in to show us. he also wants to secure a piece of mars eventually I can’t believe he’s a space smuggler
•a male competitive roller-skater
•a burlesque dancer who auditioned for the rockettes & sings professional opera on the side
•a trapeze artist who used to train in Paris then became a French teacher in the states but gave up that to be a full-time circus performer & she’s the most Jacked™ woman I’ve ever seen
•a civil war reenacter. we have an actual fucking larper
•a guy who’s missing his left eye and nobody knows why but we have a theory that he’s an Italian mobster so it’s probably best not to ask
•a Chicago broadway actress who showed us her acting chops one day but she was naked at the time & reciting Shakespeare it was so intense
•a completely normal plain bagel dude but he can hold a 3hr standing pose without taking breaks so I’m convinced he’s not even alive and has no soul
The words rumble into her ear as she lies nestled against his chest, half-draped over him. Either he’ll say more or he won’t; she knows him well enough by now to know that, so she tucks an arm under her chin and waits. In the grey-white of morn, the lines of his profile are bold and sharp, the lyrium filigreed into his skin stark against it, but the diffuse light that filters through the rain-battered panes does little to clear the clouds that linger in his gaze.
The last time he remembered something of his past he left her—but now his hand is steady on the small of her back, as is the ebb and flow of his breathing, the even flutter of his heartbeat under her palm, where it lies splayed on his chest.
For a long time it’s all she hears over the pitter-patter of the rain, padding the velvety silence and muffling the Hightown bustle outside his window. The quiet of his mansion is unsettling after the constant activity of her own estate: the rattle of Sandal’s enchantment apparatus, Bodahn’s Veil-rending snores, the clatter of Orana’s cooking or the pounding of her carpet beater, the dog barking at shadows, a visitor come to say hello or request the Champion’s help. So whenever Fenris lets her spend the night at the old mansion? Hawke startles at its every squeak and creak despite herself—yet there’s something to be said for the hush of mornings spent like this one, in a tangle of limbs and bedsheets.
“She had green eyes, and red hair like Varania. Not a mage, though, at least not that I can tell from what little I remember. She taught me how to hold a sword. Her hands smelled of cinnamon,” he adds in an undertone.