I can’t wait until December when I will pop on my favorite sweater, pour a nice big mug of cocoa, assemble a big plate of cookies, ignore the weeping of my friends and family who haven’t seen me in a month and can’t believe that I have finally emerged, and return to my sequestered existence where I will still be playing Dragon Age: Inquisition.
You are iron.
And you are strong."
- n.t. (via astrasperas)
dragons that live in volcanoes and coat themselves in lava
dragons that live underwater and have fish scales instead of dragon scales
dragons that live in fields of flowers and breathe out avalanches of flowers instead of fire
DRAGONS BEING COOL AS SHIT
dragons that live in nebulae and exhale colorful dust and baby stars
dragons made out of mountains breathing out tiny pebbles
hurricane dragons breathing out mist and rain
Cat doesn’t know what to do with the butterfly that flew on its paw.
I can’t breathe I’m laughing too hard
# honestly I'm reblogging it because of the cat # I mean Jeremy okay # but the cat # do you see the cat
i think i can accurately say that i can crush a man’s head with my thighs
I will always reblog this. Always.
The 1st day of every month is now Polyshipping day. To improve the amount of positive portrayals of OT3+es in fandom, let’s make some content of some kind! Fic, art, even just sketches or rapidfire short prompts about various pairings. Resolve love triangles “the right way”….
An assassin slips into Isabela’s room in the middle of the night. It’s a surprise more than it isn’t, but only just.
“I nearly missed the nails in the window frame, my dear. A nice touch.”
Isabela is sitting up in bed, dagger steady even as the sheets tangle about her hips. When he looks at her knife hand instead of her breasts, it feels like a compliment.
“Still too good for doors, Zevran?”
“Not at all.” He grins. “Your Kirkwall is new terrain. I wanted a challenge.”
Isabela winces, setting her weapon down with a small, disgusted groan. “Don’t,” she says. “Please don’t call it ‘My Kirkwall’. Bad enough that I knew every bloody alley in the place.”
Zevran shrugs. A familiar, fluid gesture that makes a small part of Isabela’s mind shift to fifteen: wide-eyed wonder as her husband changed into a body that cooled in their bed. He’d shrugged then, too. Shrugged and smiled.
His smile now is older. A little sad. “I thought I saw that,” he says. “Small moments, when your delightful Champion was not smiling at you.”
Isabela rolls her eyes. “She smiled a lot, sweet thing.”
“We made sure of it.”
“And you…came back to talk rubbish?”
Zevran eases into the room like a wicked idea, taking a seat at the end of her bed. It creaks obscenely. They both grin.
“I came back,” Zevran says, “Because I knew where to find you.”
She blinks. “You’re a Crow, Zev. You know where to find anyone.” She snorts, letting her own joke well up and warm her before she lets it out. “And I’m easy.”
Her friend shakes his head. “I know where to look. And I’ve traveled a ways before, seeking the fastest blade in Llomerryn. Good times. Far chases.” A small bow over bent knees. “The reward of your company.”
“Always. But, my Isabela, you are here.”
Zevran lets open hands fall to her bedspread.
“At The Hanged Man,” he says, “In Kirkwall. A week in or around this city, and it’s easy to hear about the shipless pirate. The woman who ran off with the Tome of Koslun—”
“—Possibly a foolish choice, but the world is made of those. That is not the part that disturbs me.”
Isabela feels her own faint smile, and sighs. “You’re a rare one.”
“And you are a fixture.” He kisses her shoulder, and she enjoys the warmth of it. His words a little, pricking wounds.
“I came here tonight to offer my services.”
She does not have time to fill in the obvious joke. Zevran brushes his thumb across her cheekbone.
“The other services,” he says. “Or at least a facsimile of them. Do you need an out, Isabela?”
“You’d make it look like I died?”
“As horribly as you desire, or as subtle.” He shrugs, hand falling to her shoulder. “You seem…stuck.”
She laughs, tangling her own hands in her hair. “You’re not wrong.”
“Seven years, is it? I think I heard that.”
She kisses him, just to feel the smile. “Thereabouts.”
“You must be bored,” he says, sympathy in every word. “You never dreamed of places you’ve already seen.”
“Deathly,” she says. “But not enough for that. Not now.”
His turn to kiss her. He pulls her hands from her hair and pressing his own fingers against aching, tight muscles in her neck, over her scalp. “I simply wanted to make the offer.”
“It’s sweet,” she says. “But I’ll live. What was it you said?—the world is made of bad choices?”
“And good desires.”
She groans. “I never know when you’re spouting sayings or making something up. You should be a Rivaini oracle.”
“I do look good in gold.”
Zevran can say many things with a raised eyebrow, a kiss to the cheek. Isabela nods. He moves up toward her, and she curls an arm about his waist, drawing him down. She feels warm against his back.
“Thanks,” she says. “I’ll see this through.”