spicyshimmy:

pollencount:

quick one for Threesomes Week

It was clear to anyone with two bright eyes and dagger-keen instincts that Hawke was at the end of his rope with those two. When Isabela put her hands on his shoulders, she knew right away he was carrying it all in those muscles of his. 

‘Ooh,’ she said.

‘That doesn’t sound like a good ooh,’ Hawke replied. 

And he should know. He was, after all, a self-proclaimed connoisseur of them. 

‘I’m telling you, Isabela,’ he said later, once he’d turned to soft clay under her touch; not everyone needed sparklefingers to cast a spell here and there, or turn a man into mud. ‘It’s as though I decided to adopt two enormously powerful children with Varric. You know me and family, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have found myself a second dog and had done with it.’

‘He’d only chew up your slippers and piss on your bed,’ Isabela said.

Hawke’s sigh came from the belly. ‘But at least you can train dogs. …Sort of. And I never did mind sharing my bacon.’ 

Isabela brought her face close to the nape of Hawke’s neck, chin resting on his shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing, Hawke,’ she said. ‘I know exactly how to take care of it—and it’ll all be better by tomorrow morning.’

‘I like your bedtime stories so much more than I like Varric’s,’ Hawke told her. 

And he should know. He was, after all, a self-proclaimed connoisseur of those, too.

Little more than half an hour later, Isabela had all of Hawke’s problems wrapped up like a curl of hair around her smallest finger. ‘I always knew the two of you were protesting too much,’ she said, waiting for Anders’s touch to heat up the way she already knew it could, moments after her lips had tasted the shape of Fenris’s mouth—not just the white, wicked scars beneath. ‘You’ve no idea how long you’ve probably been waiting for this.’

‘Mmf,’ Fenris said.

‘Ahh…’ Anders added. 

‘Mmm,’ Isabela agreed, and shared one kiss amongst all three of them. 

*

‘So that’s how it happened, huh, Rivaini?’ Varric asked, glancing out into the taproom, where Fenris and Anders were—for once—not bothering to bicker.

Isabela sprawled out in Varric’s favorite chair, kicking her legs up over one of the arms and wiggling her toes. ‘Well, Varric,’ she replied, ‘you did say you wanted to know the true story.’ 

And she should know. She was, after all, a self-proclaimed connoisseur of them.