more hiddles Loki
just a bunch of trashy sketchesLOKI ON A BICYCLE, LOKI IN TRENDY ASS CLOTHES AND TIGHTS. I AM DEAD AND YOU HAVE KILLED ME.
Fenris porn week? Well I have this old Fenbela sketch I cleaned up and then things kind of got out of hand from there.
what hawke thinks isabela and fenris’s alone time is like: nudity, bottles of wine, silks and brocade, elf nipples, pirate thighs, pretty pink ribbons, witty banter, pet names, sex that makes both of them glow, only one of them literally.
what isabela thinks her and fenris’s alone time will be like: nudity, bottles of wine, silks and brocade, elf nipples, pirate thighs, pretty pink ribbons, witty banter, pet names, sex that makes both of them glow, naughty reading lessons, magical fisting tricks, that deep voice getting even deeper, bare fingers in dark hair, little cat scratches all over her back.
what varric thinks isabela and fenris’s alone time will be like: fade to black, you cheeky little sods. some dwarves have a reputation to maintain!
what merrill thinks isabela and fenris’s alone time will be like: choreography. likely horizontal, but that doesn’t make it any less exciting!
what sebastian thinks isabela and fenris’s alone time will be like: he does his best not to think about it, but spends a great deal of time in the chantry confessional once they start flirting nonetheless.
what aveline thinks isabela and fenris’s alone time will be like: she doesn’t, thank you very much, but if speculation tickles your gorget, then go ahead and ask donnic, why don’t you?
what carver thinks isabela and fenris’s alone time will be like: shut up.
what bethany thinks isabela and fenris’s alone time will be like: sweet as it is, there’s bound to be marks left in the morning. (what? hard in hightown is a fantastic series, and it isn’t as though she was raised in a tower or anything. she knows what elves and pirates get up to, probably better than carver ever did.)
what fenris thinks isabela and his alone time will be like: rope. insinuation. …pleasure. accurate, if unpredictable, commentary. the smell of the sea, not entirely unpleasant at that. jokes about dagger size. perhaps disappointment, as he has not…hoisted as many mainsails as isabela in her time. and patience, in its roundabout way. elf nipples. pirate thighs.
what isabela and fenris’s alone time is actually like: mutual foot massages, painting of nails, kissing between scars, and memories that ache less but glow more. also embarrassment, wickedness, improper jokes, and rusty laughter coaxed from fenris’s chest like the creaking of an old ship’s waterlogged planks. not to mention ribbons in fenris’s hair, after all—hawke’s dreams so often come true—but that’s not the only place they’re tied. a girl has to keep things interesting, doesn’t she?
The art is amazing (Isabela’s physique is just wow) but I am glad I waited for shimmy’s fic to reblog. Just…so full of awesome.
So I colored it after all….
Circus style Natasha.
I like the apple.
This is gorgeous!
Circus Tasha and Clint would be an amazing movie xD
Let’s face it… The big three’s bromance level is well over 9000.
Trio, by Ramida.
This is awesome!
I daresay Amell may have been injured on her trip to Kirkwall. Anders, the ever-considerate is just being a good doctor. Checking for injuries. Like a proper chap.
NSFW Due to sexual themesunf
those pauldrons I can’t
Before heading out for a new adventure by HumanGrotesque
———
ISABELA x FHAWKE
AND HAWKE IS WEARING MALCOLM’S ROBES AND HOLDING THE KEYSTAFF
My F!Hawke OTP and Legacy refs in one fanart? I may have just screamed inside my head a little bit.
Gorgeous!!
guess what
i have a splitting headache and can’t effing work so have a smutty loki instead
NSFW fullpic under the cut.
Super. fucking. hot.
TRACK NAME: The Last Snowfall
ALBUM TITLE: Inland Territory
ARTIST: Vienna Teng
PLAY COUNT: 589
I believe my work here is done.
There were a few stories Varric didn’t tell.
Contrary to popular belief, he didn’t enjoy the saddest endings, not without offering a glimmer of hope. Like one of Isabela’s sunken treasures, diamonds glittering below murky waters—or a vein of precious metal threaded through rock, glinting from torchlight, a song that’d always be calling Varric home.
And the stories you didn’t tell were the ones you couldn’t forget. That was what Varric owed not to himself but to the characters—the people, rather—as though he’d lost to the sodding fools in an unlucky game of cards.
Wicked Grace. Every name had more than one meaning.
‘You know, Varric,’ Hawke said, one night when the seasons turned and the snow had begun to fall, ‘I still think about him, sometimes. Saemus Dumar. Funny hair and all the right ideas at the wrong times, really.’
‘Well,’ Varric replied, ‘you are the type to torture yourself with these things. I think it even makes you feel better to believe it’s all your fault.’
‘Another target hit dead center,’ Hawke said.
The skills of a master rogue, a devious cardplayer, a dwarf who took up as a wordsmith rather than a silversmith or a blacksmith or some other kind of builder, cutting shapes from rock as hard as kossith horns, as broad and unshakable as their shoulders.
What Hawke didn’t know wouldn’t kill him. The list of volunteers for the job was too long for that to happen first.
When Hawke was gone, when Varric was almost alone, he stared at the vellum before him over the rims of his spectacles—which, when he caught the firelight off the glass from the corner of his eye, could almost look like treasure, too. It was only a trick of the light.
But to be fair, they all were.
‘If this were the last snowfall,’ Saemus said, while it seemed—as the gusts and flurries made the world look clean and white and dangerous and new, and not even the Gallows tower could be seen on the sky, only their hot breath disappearing in the cold air right under their noses—that they were the only two people in Thedas, ‘I think… I think I’d be happy to spend it this way. Right here, Ashaad. With you. …Even if my feet are very cold.’
Not even the Tal-Vashoth had learned the way of cracking a smile at a joke, or softening to something sweet. But Ashaad shifted his weight so that it was his broad back meeting the fullest force of the wind, and Saemus understood that sweet things didn’t need something soft. They didn’t crave it. They didn’t dream of it at night.
Even the roughest of hands could grow a garden.
‘Thank you,’ Saemus added.
Because he knew what so many in Kirkwall didn’t: that even those quiet, unspoken gifts deserved to see someone was grateful. That speaking a thing was hard, but staying silent would turn you to stone. That the flush on his cheeks meant he was alive—with embarrassment, perhaps, but making a fool of yourself was absolutely a part of love. The risks involved, the accidents, the beauty. The trembling of his fingers and the pounding of his heart.
He closed the distance, nose against Ashaad’s cheek, lips against his jaw. It was thank you, too, but more than that. And he felt the muscles shift. They shared a kiss, a snowstorm, a heart. A smile.
I am literally crying. The thought of Varric not even wanting to tell their story because it so effing sad and then all this….literally. crying.
