anonymous asked:

Hi! I love your blog! Just wanted to say, I don't know exactly why but I like Gwenpool a lot. It's a shame she came out of the whole deadpool everywhere thing, but I still enjoy the comics. She's pretty relatable to me, I think if I ended up in the marvel universe I'd become a hero (well- antihero in her case) to stay alive too (I like the logic I guess). What I'm asking is could you do a quick drawing of her? Thanks!

only for you, anon! 

locketofyourhair  asked:

Quince, Fenris/Hawke

Quince: temptation.

My magic will serve that which is best in me, not that which is most base. Her father says it often while she is young, often enough she begins to know the way he will breathe before the the words. By the time she is twelve it is part of her memory; by the time she is sixteen it has no meaning, a rhythm familiar as water, a lullaby for the tone if nothing else.

What has she to be afraid of? She is young and fearless and without regrets. There is no demon’s offer in the world to sway her, who wants for nothing.

And then–

And then, year by year, the world teaches her loss. She grows older. She learns fear; she gathers regrets like wildflowers, one by one, braiding them into a cloak she carries with her always, tucked into the crook of her arm.

Her armor chinks and cracks, footholds in her skin where there were none before, tiny places for a demon’s whisper to catch and hold, to pull her open a little wider every time. My magic will serve–

Fenris does not understand. She does not expect him to, not at first. He is no mage, after all, and even if the understanding is closer after Feynriel, he is still oceans from the nightly whispers in her soul. She was fearless, once.

By her thirtieth birthday she has killed her sister and her mother with her own failure, murdered men and women beyond counting, and sparked a war in her heart’s home, violence rippling outwards until the whole of the nation is consumed. Strangers speak her name in mixed admiration and revulsion; men she has never met curse her in the same breath as the Betrayer. She was made for grain fields and Fereldan mud; what does she know of worlds like this, where rulers of countries come to her door and ask for aid?

Fenris asks her, once, on a night where she has woken in a cold sweat and startled him with the gasp. She does not know how to explain it to a man who is not a mage, a man with no past; there are no words in her for the immense, unbearable longing every time they take the sunlit farmhouse from her memories and fill it with the souls she lost long ago. She has fought for so long to keep the precious things she can. Impossible to explain that the simplest whispers are the strongest against her will.

Still. She tries, and Fenris listens, and when she is finished he takes her in his arms and presses his lips to her temple. It is no answer, not the way he means it, but–it is enough.

My magic will serve that which is best in me. A lullaby for the dreaming. She had forgotten.

She closes her eyes again, listening to Fenris’s heartbeat, and when she dreams again that night, she is strong enough to murmur, if only one more time–no.