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how the hell do i talk to people

Stand in front of them and press A


aryousavvy asked:
Ohhhhh I was wondering who the fuck Hawke was

lmao why didn’t you just google it when i sent you the fic?? haha


F!Hawke/Isabela • R

There’s a weight in her stomach that wasn’t there before; like a stone sinking to the depths of the ocean, its decent is heavy and slow, and Isabela agonizes over the nature of its arrival. It is new, unpleasant and uncomfortable, and there’s little sense to its purpose. She should feel satisfied; filled and sated in every meaning of the word, and yet her stomach twists in uncomfortable knots as though she had chugged a bottle of stale ale from the slums of Antiva. It makes her wonder what has changed, and for a brief moment before she outright dismisses it, she is horrified to realize that it may be herself.

Instead, Isabela blames anything but that, but mostly her. Her, with her crooked smile and inappropriately placed humor. Her, who’s eyes so resemble the blackened pearls she once stole from an Orlesian merchant on the shores of northern Tevinter; rich and beautiful and captivatingly distracting. Distracting, yes, that was what she is, so much that Isabela sometimes forgets herself, forgets who and what she is; a bird with wings over the expanse of the horizon, and not a tree with roots planted in dampened soil.

A night of sex and debauchery, a night like any other where she and Hawke stink of sweat and pleasure, where they press bruises against each other’s skin and whisper filthy promises that are soon to be carried out in spades. Afterwards, lips find the back of her neck, and Hawke breathes out words that feel feather light, yet bring a hidden weight that Isabela hadn’t known was there until it presses firmly into her chest, constricting her air and bringing spots to her vision. “One day I’m going to wake up and realize that it was a damned privilege, getting my heart broken by someone like you.”

It’s a compliment, an understanding, and an admission all in one, and Isabela’s feet don’t hit the floor the moment the words are released. They should have; it was an opening to run, to prove Hawke and herself right, and yet instead she turns over, her fingers curling inside the mage’s body as she encourages breathy sighs and deep moans to be released instead of words that make her head swim more than the most potent of dwarven mead. She never responds to the admission, and Hawke never brings it up again. Regardless, it plants the seed inside of her.

And it grows.



Never forget


Kalinda’s letter to me.


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