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Made a tenant/tenet typo AGAIN. Feels bad. 🥺

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Imagine you're Johanna Hezenkoss and your one goal in life is to Be Right All The Time and you've got this sidekick named Emmrich. He can do the whole corpse whispering thing and he's an objectively pretty skilled necromancer but, of course, YOU are Johanna Hezenkoss. And you decide that you like Emmrich enough to drag him along with you to glory. So you spend a few decades doing that. Only Emmrich is six and a half feet of saccharine poetry and fanatical devotion to the core tenants of the Mourn Watch and YOU, Johanna Hezenkoss, are just counting the moments until you can go Beast Mode in this bitch and show everyone what TRUE NECROMANTIC POWER means. So Emmrich weighs you down a bit but you're a little obsessed with him only because he's like. Real? That's a real dude? Saying that shit? Wild. Totally insane. He's like an annoying chattering dog who keeps all your secrets and makes the biggest saddest eyes at you when you say stuff like, "The world could be exactly what we want it to be. Aren't you MAD. Aren't you ANGRY at what they've taken from you. Don't you want to MAKE THEM SUFFER LIKE YOU'VE SUFFERED--"

Yeah. Whatever.

And then Emmrich betrays you because you're scaring him. SCARING him? After everything you've done for him? You were going to reinvent the world--you were going to put him at the top of it all so NOBODY could step on either of you ever again and now he's all, Oh Johanna, you're scaring me, this isn't what we believe in, you're letting your fear control you, blah blah BLAH he never shuts UP

Fear? FEAR, Volkarin? How fucking rich.

Then some stuff happens. Half lich 125 foot skeleton someone named Elgar'nan, maybe a God, who cares. You get so close--SO CLOSE--and then fucking Emmrich rolls in and this time he takes it ALL. Your power and your mortal life and your last remaining shreds of fucking credibility in this fucking world. And then he doesn't even have the basic fucking decency to say I Told You So. He keeps you on his desk like a tchochke and listens to you scream and spit and even THEN he doesn't do anything.

All the while he has his own sidekick now. Some vapid little thing always batting their eyelashes and paying Volkarin the kind of lip service that always distracted him, made his eyes go soft and his chin quiver. He's still such a weak man. You tell him so. You tell him and tell him and tell him until--

The sidekick disappears. Emmrich's eyes go empty and haunted in a way that makes you wonder what he's done to himself in his heartache and grief.

"Whoever did this to you," you tell him on the worst day, "You can make them pay. You're powerful enough. You defeated me." You being, of course, Johanna Balls of Steel fucking Hezenkoss.

"I just want them back," Emmrich admits. Because he's weak WEAK he's a weak man mewling pitifully in a dark room for his piece of ass while the moon rises red in the fucking sky and a God walks the earth.

"You have the power," you tell him. "When the world takes from you, you take those things back. This is what I've been telling you all these years, Volkarin. For once in your miserable life, LISTEN TO ME."

Finally, finally, Emmrich reacts. He screams. He throws a few books. He kicks his desk. Punches something, probably, because his knuckles start bleeding at some point. You watch it all with barely-contained glee. Anger, yes, fucking finally. You've been waiting your whole goddamn life for this man to realize how fucking ANGRY he is.

"How do I break into the fucking Fade?" He screams. He's not even looking at you. His hair is seven different kinds of fucked. His shirt is unbuttoned to the navel, and he's missing a boot.

"You could start by asking someone who's done it," you say. Emmrich turns, startled for some reason to hear you. Again you say, "Listen to me."

"Oh, Johanna," he sighs. "I've rarely done anything else."

It's not the words 'Thank you' or 'You're right'. It's certainly not lichdom or godhood or a 125 foot tall skeleton. But it's one point for Johanna Hezenkoss.

You'll make up the deficit eventually. Volkarin has a kid, after all.

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I'm literally so close to blocking the Veilguard Critical tag. Much love but I'm a sheep. Bioware said 'nah nah nahnahnah' to me for ten years and then gave me this and I'm kissing them for it. No thoughts head empty. Emmrich Volkarin and calliope music, that's what I have going on up in my brain space.

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Friendly reminder that I can see everything you tag on my posts. It shows up on my activity page, which I check often. I can absolutely see you muttering about my Rook's pronouns in the tags. Not the first time it's happened. I write my meta the way I want. Thanks.

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Crows and the Nevarran king

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age: The Veilguard (Video Game) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Rook/Emmrich Volkarin Characters: Rook (Dragon Age), Emmrich Volkarin Additional Tags: Mourn Watcher Rook (Dragon Age), Non-Linear Narrative, One Shot Collection, Semi-Public Sex, Post-Dragon Age: The Veilguard Summary:

Morsel•môrs(ə)l•[mor-sel] noun 1.) A piece; a bite 2.) A small quantity 3.) Something delectable and pleasing

The world, gradually, is saved. As it happens, Emmrich and Rook share touch, thought and time. An anthology, of sorts.

I’ve decided to start cleaning up, editing, and in some cases elaborating on my Tumblr ficlets and posting them to Ao3 as an anthology of one-shots. If you like the nonsense I spew, consider giving this a read; they’re a little different than when you might have read them on Tumblr. 

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Man the feminism sure does just leave some people's bodies when they see women dating men who they consider ugly or old or undesirable. 'Why would she date him' she thinks he's hot next question. 'He must be giving her something' yeah it's called love shut up. 'What is he doing to her to make her stay with him' yeah you're right it's probably something really awful like eating her pussy like it's his job. Be so for fucking real. Grown ass women do not need protection from randos on the Internet because their relationship/marriage/lifestyle doesn't make sense to you.

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Oh my Godddd you cannot have shit in Detroit. This is worse than when the Lions lost every game oh my GOD

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There are posts for explaining your url but i want one for blog title, so ill just make one myself:

Reblog this and tell us in the tags what your blog title means!

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Hey so obviously I'm never gonna share a TikTok ever again, no idea why I'm doing it now, but this is Emmrich and Rook only Rook is crazy into the whole thing. Wraps their hand around the chain and yanks him closer by it. It slaps against their chin and Rook goes Ohh fuck. Fuck yeah.

Anyway. Yeah. [Dismounts soap box]

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Emmrich is confident in himself and knows what he brings to a relationship. Doesn't seem himself as someone who experiences a great amount of angst when it comes to his appearance; he knows he takes care of himself, looks good, dresses well. The way he carries himself alone is, he's been told, a turn-on. Back straight, regal. Always seems to know what to do with his hands. He's got it locked down.

That said, he's a man in his fifties. Time marches ever on. He's been graying since he was a young man--time was kind enough to let him keep the thickness of his hair, if not the color. He remembers being young, ladies and gentlemen alike telling him that they considered his coif, inky black at the time and so stark again his pink-alabaster skin, to be one of his finer features. The color was all but gone by the time he was thirty. Time marches.

There are multiple things like this that he's aware of, as a man who monitors his own appearance to the extent that he does. Once one reaches a certain age, there is a certain softness of the belly that won't vanish for even the most active of individuals. He's watched his hands grow aged. His knees aren't what they used to be, though he takes potions for this and it doesn't affect his abilities. In the end, he knows he's aged gracefully, and continues to do so--but 'gracefully' and 'imperceptively' certainly have different definitions.

Enter Rook, who is not the youngest of their companions. Old enough to have confronted her own fears and come out on the other side knowing her desires--at least in some way. He knows he's desired by her. He's known since a particular look in her eye on their first excursion to the Memorial Gardens; an unmistakable, though brief, spark of want.

In that moment, he could have had her. If he'd known her then as he did now, and understood that she wasn't the sort of woman to be above a giggling fuck in a bush with an attractive acquaintance, he might have let himself have her. As it was, it had taken time. Their first night spent together had been sweeter for it. Not that the bush wouldn't have been sweet.

Admittedly, there had been one other item holding him back, other than that of her virtue. There are decades of time between them. She came screaming into the world around the time the first gray hairs poked themselves out of his skull, premature though it was. It's something to consider. He assumed at the time--and now knows--that she'd never had a lover much older than herself. Though Emmrich knows himself to be a perfectly capable lover, a quite attractive specimen of a fifty-hmm-shh year old man, he knows (and does all the time) that he can no longer reasonably be compared to the same standards as a person twenty years his junior.

It stayed his hand.

A hand which Rook, when given the slightest opening to do so, grabs and yanks and places exactly where she wants it.

"I love your hands," she says, tracing tendons and veins, places where time had taken some of the elasticity from his skin. "They're beautiful. Touch me. Maker, touch me."

It's praise that goes straight to his core. The hands aren't one of his greatest insecurities, but he feels at times like a warrior fighting a ceaseless battle against time when it comes to his skin. Creams for softness, oils for moisture, tonics to block sunlight on the occassion he did leave the shaded Necropolis halls. He marvels, still does, at the fact that she doesn't even seem to notice the imperfections that had seemed utterly unignorable to him.

Far more of an insecurity is, of course, the belly--which he knows to be healthy, normal and fine, but which he purposefully hides nonetheless. Davrin is young, an objectively attractive man, and can quite commonly be seen shirtless around the Lighthouse. Some comparisons can't help but be drawn.

Rook, of this evening, unwraps the sash from around his waist with the glee of a child on her nameday and slides her hands down the buttons of his shirt. She frees his body, soft stomach and all, and presses her nose directly to his navel.

"Your body," Rook sighs, ecstatic. "I think about it all the time. I swear, Emmrich, I'm losing my mind. Do you know how sexy you are?"

"A question I could pose in return," he chuckles, and they both know he's deflecting--at least a little.

She's not having it on this night. She crawls back up, rests the perfect softness of her ass directly on top of his straining erection. Pushes her hands into the steely hair sprinkled about his chest.

"You're so--" she sighs, then seems to get distracted, and spends a moment tracing her thumbs circuitously around his nipples. He hisses, twitching against her. "I've never been with someone I was so attracted to. That sounds bad. I was attracted to them. But you, I mean..." She descends on him, mouth open, and he cries out to feel her teeth sink into his chest.

"You're going to give me quite the ego, dearest," he tells her, once he's gotten a hold of himself--figuratively and literally. He's palming himself, fingers gripped around the fabric of his pants and his own straining flesh, and the back of his hand basks in the humidity between her thighs.

"Good," she coos, and then traces her thumb over his mustache, follows it with her lips. "You're so beautiful. I think about you all the time. Your hands and your nose and your fucking--chest hair--"

"It used to be black, you know," he whispers, and she draws back. They share his vulnerability for a moment. He can see her realize and catalogue something, in the back of her intelligent eyes.

"It looks better gray," she whispers back. "And when it turns white, I'll throw a fucking party."

He cries a little--something that surprises even him, because he hadn't realized how close to his chest he'd been holding some of this...dread--and even that doesn't seem to bother her. She coos and kisses him and, when he slides inside her, yowls and clings and calls him perfection.

He believes it.

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quiet mornings after the end of the world.

lil paintover of “the bed” by toulouse-lautrec

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Sometimes I go a few days without thinking of anything witty to say and I genuinely think that I'm never going to have a creative thought ever again and that's the ADHD talking for sure and probably also the anxiety and imposter syndrome and crippling fear of failure/irrelevance HOWEVER the point is that I go a few days without mouthing off on this here Internet and I'll start to spiral but then I'll be hit with One Horny Vision and the world keeps turning for a few more days. Is this relatable.

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there are two types of writers.

“this plot has been in my head for 10 years and finally it’s perfect.”

“what if frogs had a secret government?”

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Send me a Ship and a Number and I will Write a Kiss

…good morning.

…goodnight.

…goodbye.

…where it hurts.

…where it doesn’t hurt.

…on a falling tear.

…to shut them up.

…in secrecy.

…in public.

…desperately.

…in joy.

…in grief.

…discreetly.

…casually.

…passionately.

…lazily.

…to distract.

…as encouragement.

…for luck.

…on a scar.

…on a place of insecurity.

…in a rush of adrenaline.

…in relief.

…in danger.

…as a ‘yes’.

…as an apology.

…as a suggestion.

…as a lie.

…as a promise.

…as comfort.

…after a small rejection.

…to wake up.

…forcefully.

…to pretend.

…to gain something.

…to give up control.

…without a motive.

…because they’re running out of time.

…because time’s run out.

…because the world is ending.

…because the world is saved.

…out of pride.

…out of greed.

…out of lust.

…out of anger.

…out of envy or jealousy.

…out of spite.

…out of habit.

…out of necessity.

…out of love.

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INGESTED not just chewed on to clarify lol. based on real responses from my groupchat

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*taps microphone* Hello everyone! It's that time of year again (can you believe it??) It's time for the third annual Dragon Age Big Bang! For those of you who are returning sacrifices participants, welcome back! And for those of you who are new, welcome! We're glad to have you all!

Keep an eye on this blog as more information will be getting released about the third annual Dragon Age Big Bang soon, including dates and all the important information! We're looking forward to all the beautiful collaborations that will once again be gracing the fandom!