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flame of his heart

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Additional thoughts welcome regardless of the option!

I'm starting up another longfic and don't want to take the approach I took last time, so I'm curious to see how others approach this 👀

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the first time and the last

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The Weave

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I’ve had a couple people ask for prints so I made a preorder! I’ll have prints with me at c2e2 as well but the shop will be stocked next week! Shop link is in my bio.

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day 156 of kissing the old man with tongue

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👑 Ero Quod Spero

Hey have you guys heard of this game Dragon Age: Origins -

anyways here's a little King Alistair, happy Sunday! 👑🐴🌹

Alistair pulls her in for a kiss, and he lingers even after her lips leave his, sifting his fingers gently through her hair and watching it shimmer around his hands like bolts of straw-blonde silk. “I’m… sorry, my love,” Siobhan says, her hands curling into loose fists at his chest. He feels his heart thumping against them, his future weighed in her hands. “It was a long day at court. I’m a bit tired.” “Of course,” he says lightly, pressing a kiss to her brow, and with no further talk of prettiness they snuff the lights and climb into bed. — One month after the conclusion of the Fifth Blight, Alistair struggles with the mantle of kingship and the distance growing between him and his beloved Cousland.

Story on AO3; snippet below the cut

Snippet

“Your Majesty,” says Siobhan with a gracious dip of the head, as if she has not spent months with him swigging ale by the fireside and rinsing blood from their blades and, for the last and sweetest of those desperate months, tangling her body tight with his in the late sleepless hours of night, “if I may offer a suggestion - White River’s claim is stronger, but the tax on the Waking Sea higher. Perhaps they might both maintain the symbol, but add distinctly colored bordures, making it impossible to confuse in battle while maintaining the historical precedent, and allowing the families to keep what they must of their existing artifacts?” She turns to smile at the two claimants, like the sun spearing through insistently gathered clouds. “I would hate to ask anyone to go at their flagstones with pickaxes, nor do I believe there is enough dye in all of Ferelden to manage three thousand tabards.” The banns glare warily at each other, then back to the royals. “It’s a fair solution,” says Alistair. “Here I was about to suggest one of you put my face on your arms, so I think we can all agree it’s preferable to that.” “You have a charming face, my love,” says Siobhan, and he can see a barely suppressed giggle threatening to bubble up through her noble demeanor. “This is… acceptable,” says de Vendt reluctantly, glancing to the side. “If Waking Sea agrees.” “If we may have the white bordure.” Lady Eremon lifts her chin as if in challenge. De Vendt sighs. “I suppose the river runs as green as blue,” he says wearily. “We will consult the armiger, and make plans for refitting the troops.” “Splendid.” Alistair claps his hands. “Thank you for coming.” The banns bow low, and retreat at the herald’s elbow down the long blue stretch of carpet and out towards the open sun. “You don’t need to thank them,” says Siobhan, leaning in to peck his cheek. “You’re the king.” “Riiight.” He expels a breath. “Say, remind me, dearest - what is the coat of arms for House Cousland?” She gestures to the thin golden circlet nestled in her braided blonde hair. They have not yet been wed, and in place of the ten-ton monstrosity Alistair is forced to wear while holding court she wears a delicate braid of woven laurel, wrought in gold and fine as glass. “The crossed laurels,” she says. “The symbol of victory, and virtue.” “Ah. Right.” Alistair touches the slender crown, his hand falling to cup her face and slide his thumb across the smooth curve of her cheek. Her eyes are a blue so pale they appear gray, like clouds drifting over a shy dawn sky. “Well. You have one of those, at least.” She laughs and shakes her head, loosening his grip, but he can see the faint flush in her cheeks, and considers this a far greater victory than any royal adjudication he has dispensed this day. Their bond is unlike anything Alistair has experienced before, deep as the Drakon and strong as tempered steel, but even steel can go brittle, and in the days since that dark night on the eve of battle he has sensed a newfound strain in her easy smiles. “All right.” He drops his hand reluctantly and bends forward to give Odie a pat. The hound barks his contentment, the tiny nub of his tail waggling in a distinctly unwarlike manner. “Who’s next?”

🔖 Additional Tags

Smut, Angst, Fluff, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Masturbation, Penis In Vagina Sex, Bath Sex, Horses and Heraldry, King Alistair, King Alistair and Queen Cousland, Sweet Alistair, Awkward Alistair, Touch-Starved Alistair, Roleplay, Humor, Alistair is a Funny Guy, Dark Ritual post-traumatic processing, because fix-it fics are cheaper than therapy, Alistair does unkingly things in the royal bath, twice

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Manifesting more young Johanna Hezenkoss art content into the universe 🙏 (this is how that works right) 🙏 Because if real artists don't draw it I will have to try and nobody wants that 🫣

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playing barbies with Emmrich from the perspective of how Rook would dress/style him if he was allowed to

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Meeting Morrigan on playthrough #1: who is this fan service drop-in character and can I loot her cute bandeau top

Meeting Morrigan on playthrough #3: GTFO OUT OR I *WILL* SUMMON THE HERO OF FERELDEN OFF HER THRONE TO KICK YOUR ASS BACK TO THE WILDS 🧹💨

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Darkness at the Edge of Dawn - Part 3

The end of an era - or at least this series 🥲💙 In which Emmrich is confronted by the realization that love is the measure by which we hold things dear against death.

Featuring some tough love from the First Talon of Treviso, a feelings-filled fight against a blighted dragon, and a final gambit in the Memorial Gardens at the future resting place of Emmrich Volkarin 🌷🪦

🔖 Read it on AO3 ✂️ Snippet below the cut!

When the darkness finally fades Emmrich sees Rook staggering back towards the cavern walls, one hand clutching a blood-soaked arm and her orb flickering at her shoulder, a candle guttering in an unyielding gale. The dragon is stalking towards her, predator’s jaws snapping and terrible tail lashing, fire glowing in its throat like the magma core of some great volcano. Emmrich whips the staff around, planting it before him and reaching forth with every ounce of authority he has earned over the long decades of his life. “Hail, cruel death!” he cries, and he hears the spirits beyond the Veil keening their wordless lament in answer. Magic erupts from the skull’s scalped hollow, the fury of the Fade rushing forth to flood the dragon with a wash of bitter necrosis. The creature bellows horribly as its scales hiss and singe, wheeling away from Rook’s feeble form and swiping one gargantuan wing towards Emmrich, lightning-quick for a creature so mighty. The force of the gust sends him tumbling back, staff clattering on stone, something in his left leg giving way with a crack as he slams to a stop and blinks away the daze; trying to breathe, to run, to rise. But he is too slow, the dragon too fast, and it pounces. Talons slam to the ground on either side of him, jaws opening impossibly wide above, a maw as black as the falling darkness of death. Time seems to slow, each second a grain dripping through endless glass. Emmrich has communed with a great many spirits, questioned many souls regarding the moments in which they drew their final breaths. Some spirits say that one’s life flashes before one’s eyes at that knife’s edge of unbecoming: from babe to man to discarded body. A succession of images, sense impressions, a cascade of memories flowing free as falling water. But Emmrich sees none of this. Not his parents’ blurred voices, nor the immense columned ribs of the Necropolis Halls, nor the cheerful chatter of a classroom just at the verge of settling to silence. In his mind’s eye he sees only the pressed petals of a bloom of Shroud’s Kiss; the tender life in them fading, the softness withered, the flesh dying, yet evermore lovely for its fleeting impermanence. Then - a flash of light, so searingly bright that he is blinded. For one suspended moment he sees nothing but white, the air suddenly reeking of ozone and static charge. There is a thundering explosion, and his eyes fall closed. When he opens them again and blinks the world back into focus the dragon has been blasted back across the clearing. Its scales are charred with the fernlike blisters of lightning’s scar, the stone ground spidered and shattered beneath it. And Rook - Skadi - lies motionless on the ground, the Fade glimmering fretfully around her before fading from view.

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Finally able to share this gorgeous commission from @yelenhol to go with the final chapter of Darkness at the Edge of Dawn 🥵💙 I am in awe 💚

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The most emotionally grueling part of Dragon Age 2 is how it keeps making me kill dogs

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darkness / dawn

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me, taking anatomy art class forever ago: why do I need to know how to draw bones I just want to draw people smh

me, staring down the barrel of the Emmlich playthrough: oh goddammit-