#and holds her in reverence and is actually a devoted follower to her

[moeblob]

Tiny one is a deity of lightning and she just wants to run around with the mortals and have fun but having a physical body takes a toll on her. So she has these two devoted followers she can communicate with and they can let her have control of their body which is easier on her (not them).

White haired woman is very strong while black haired man is skilled in magic. So if the deity is feeling really pent up she uses his body to discharge.

[bestworstcase]

in light of the v9 lore confirming the unreliable nature of jinn’s narration (light was not the “elder” brother), together with the glaring falsehood in the narration implying that salem lied when she truthfully “blamed the end of the world on the gods”

i’m not hedging anymore. we cannot trust jinn’s account of what salem told people during her rebellion, full stop.

“If she were to turn humanity against Light and Darkness, she could rid herself of their curse—or at the very least, she could make them suffer. Salem traveled from one kingdom to another, telling tales of how she stole immortality from the gods, inviting any swordsman to cut her down, and demonstrated her powers. With the kings and queens in awe, she pulled them deeper into her scheme; she painted them pictures of a time when they would no longer have to watch their loved ones wither and die, when they could claim the powers of their creators for themselves, and in turn, perfect their own design. All they needed to do was destroy their old masters.”

jinn describes this campaign as if salem deceived everyone, maliciously tricked them into serving as pawns in her hatred of the gods—but

when she’s beaten, salem stands up and vows to “tell the world of this massacre���—she’s enraged and horrified on behalf of the slain. she’s horrified when the god of darkness tells her he killed everyone. her reactions do not support the implication that these people meant nothing to her.

there is a strong ideological continuity between “overthrow our old masters, claim the powers of our creators for ourselves, and perfect our own design” and “we could be the gods of this world […] create the paradise the old gods could not.” this continuity suggests that salem actually believes in this cause, enough to hold onto it for millions of years.

so, did salem really claim to have ‘stolen’ immortality from the gods… or did she tell her allies that she became immortal through submersion in the fountain of life? that the gods can bring people back from the dead, and simply choose not to because they care only about enforcing their will? did she “pull them deeper into her scheme” or did she talk openly of what she had learned about the cruelty and fallibility of the gods? did she deceptively trick people into following her with fantasies of immortality or did she just pull back the curtain to reveal that the permanent ending of death only existed by arbitrary divine fiat that self-evidently can be changed?

just as jinn’s narration framed salem implicitly vowing to revere darkness above light if he helped her as salem deceiving and manipulating him by “making no mention of his elder” (<- why would she? this bargain was between her and darkness), this account of what salem did to foment rebellion against the gods aligns closely enough with the truth (salem did gain divine power, eternal death is an arbitrary rule, and the gods are fallible) that what it really comes down to is whether we trust jinn’s description of salem’s intentions.

did salem lie, or did she tell the truth in defiance of how the god of light thinks the world should be? did she deceive people, or did she reveal the brothers’ deceptions?

the god of light—and therefore ozpin and therefore jinn—see salem as a puppet-master making the whole world dance to her tune. “who has led you down this path?” he asks. she’s his scapegoat. but salem knelt before thrones and invited people to slit her throat to prove that she was telling the truth, and she isn’t the one who leads the army into light’s domain; she walks among them, not in front. in a story told with such robust symbolic language, that kind of storytelling choice matters.

she may have started the rebellion, but it became bigger than her; i don’t think salem even saw herself as their leader, necessarily. otherwise why not lead the way?

jinn’s narration—ozpin’s side of the story—devotes so much effort toward creating the impression that salem is a duplicitous, manipulative liar (like ozma), and then… salem hates being lied to. salem yells and throws tables when people lie to her. the cruelest thing salem can think of to say to oscar when she decides to hurt him is “the lies come out of you so easily; likeminded souls, indeed.” the opening lines of the show amount to salem saying that ozpin’s legends and fairytales aren’t true, that he’s obscured the “forgotten past.” both of her songs rage against ozma’s deceit—maidens and kingdoms wrapped up in a lie, and these children you mislead, and the more you try the more you’ll just breed hate and lies/truth will rise revealed by mirrored eyes. salem as a character is consistently associated with the truth and her hatred of deception is one of her most pronounced traits.

the lost fable is unreliably narrated—we now know this for a fact, because jinn describes the god of light as the elder brother and that is not true. there are many noticeable discrepancies between the narration and what’s actually shown. “stories aren’t reality” and “truth is hard to come by” are overtly-stated themes. and the lost fable answers the question “what is ozpin hiding from us?” and is thus presented strictly through his eyes.

in the fairytale anthology, ozpin helpfully informs the reader that stories like ‘the girl in the tower’ and ‘the infinite man’ are propaganda, not the truth.

so…

do we really believe this repeated claim that every word out of salem’s mouth is a manipulative lie? words we’re not even allowed to hear for ourselves? when the characters telling us that salem lied are ozpin and a bound spirit recounting ozpin’s side of the story? in the unreliable narrators show?

is the word gullible written on the ceiling?

[vir-tanadahl]

The Wolf's True Path

Summary: This short tale captures a rare moment of peace between Solas and Lavellan as Solas reflects on his past before his journey of redemption continues.

The fourth installment of what was a three part series.

The Burden of the Dread Wolf

A Wolf's Atonement

The Wolf's Return to Wisdom

From a short distance, Solas gazes at Lavellan with eyes filled with admiration and longing. His path of atonement has been long and arduous, but now, as if in recognition of his efforts, the Fade has granted him a moment of respite. The once bleak and desolate prison that he had crafted to hold the powerful Evanuris shifts around him, transforming into a peaceful sanctuary. The shadows recede, revealing a space bathed in gentle warmth and untouched by regret. Solas takes in a deep breath, savoring the freedom and peace that surrounds him, if only for a brief respite from his troubled journey.

As Solas exhales, he feels the weight of centuries lifting from his shoulders. The air shimmers with ethereal light, and he can almost taste the sweetness of possibility on his tongue. Lavellan turns, her eyes meeting his across the tranquil expanse, and for a heartbeat, time seems to stand still. He takes a tentative step forward, his bare feet sinking into soft grass that wasn't there a moment before. Flowers bloom in his wake, their delicate petals unfurling in a sea of color. The scent of elfroot and crystal grace fills the air, reminding him of long-forgotten forests and ancient magic.

This path of atonement forces him to confront each of his regrets, including the one that set him on this course—it all began with Mythal. He had once been a Spirit of Wisdom, content in the boundless realms of the Fade. But at Mythal's behest, he took on elven form, crossing into the physical world, not out of personal desire, but because she had asked for his aid. He admired her, revered her, and in his devotion, he heeded her call, stepping into a reality he had never intended to touch.

He committed terrible acts at Mythal's behest, driven by his reverence for her and the belief that they fought for freedom. But everything changed when Mythal and the other Evanuris began to claim themselves as gods, a path he could not follow. Elgar’nan assured him they would relinquish their commands once the war with the titans was over, arguing that the elven people needed guidance and that leadership was necessary. Mythal wanted to help the people rebuild and unite, to bring them under a single banner.

But the idea sickened him. They hadn’t fought for freedom, the very reason he had crossed into the physical world, the reason he had committed such atrocities in her name. No, they fought for conquest and control, to rule this world and their people. And in that realization, he saw the truth of his reverence—and the depths of his betrayal. But…even then, he had hoped Mythal would come to see reason, yet she never did and he failed to save her after he told her that the other Evanuris were attempting to access the blighted magic they had sealed away.

The memory of the day he asked Mythal to meet him was comes forth in his mind. He had been nervous and unsure if she would meet him. As she walked towards him with a guarded expression, he couldn't help but feel relieved that she had actually shown up. "You are the one who walked away," she said, her words cutting through him like a knife. Then she surprised him by saying, "I never turn my back when my friend needs me." The accusation that he had abandoned her stung, as it suggested that he hadn't been there for her when she needed him the most.

It was after this meeting that Mythal confronted the other Evanuris, challenging their attempts to harness the dangerous magic of the Blight. It was then that they betrayed her, these so-called gods who had once stood beside her. And because he had turned away, because he had abandoned her when she needed him most, she was left to face them alone. She died as a result of that betrayal—a loss that set into motion that would change the course of the world he once knew.

The echoes of Mythal's essence resound softly in his thoughts, reminiscent of a bittersweet memory: “I pulled you from the Fade you loved and sent you into war. I used your wisdom as a weapon… and it broke you.” It was in that moment, he received a validation he didn't realize he needed - an acknowledgement that Mythal had played a significant role in shaping his path, guiding his choices. Though he willingly followed her call, it was a decision influenced by her goals, her perspective.

Solas watches as Lavellan moves through the newly formed space—a forest reminiscent of Arlathan in its prime, lush and overall untouched. She wanders among the vibrant foliage, her fingers brushing over the leaves and flowers with quiet wonder. Her eyes are filled with awe as she inspects the rich flora around her, marveling at how the Fade could create something so vividly real, so tangible.

His mind drifts back to when they first met, to the moment she approached him after they had sealed the Breach in Haven. By then, he already knew he couldn’t reveal that he was Fen’Harel; he’d learned that lesson bitterly. When he had first awakened in this changed world, he’d sought out a Dalish clan, hoping to learn more about what happened with the People. But the encounter had been disastrous, leaving him disillusioned and wary, the weight of his identity a secret he felt compelled to bury.

He had resigned himself to hiding his true identity as Fen’Harel, instead seeking to reconnect with the part of himself that existed before he became the Dread Wolf. It was unexpectedly refreshing to be seen as just Solas—to be treated like the person he was before the weight of his mantle shaped and hardened him. With her, he felt a rare freedom to rediscover that forgotten self, unburdened by ancient titles and expectations.

Lavellan surprised him when she challenged his contempt for the Dalish, refusing to rise to anger even as he dismissed their preservation of elven culture as mere shadows of the past, inaccurate and diluted. Instead of meeting his frustration with hostility, she responded with grace and quiet conviction, pointing out the value in their resilience and the strength required to hold onto their identity, however fragmented. Her response humbled him in a way he hadn’t expected, disarming him with a kindness and understanding that lingered long after their conversation ended.

And she was curious—about him. She listened with genuine interest to his tales of dreaming in the Fade, her eyes bright with intrigue. She hung onto his every word, even though some of the stories he shared were memories he had lived directly. Her curiosity was sincere, unguarded, making him feel seen in a way he hadn’t in ages.

She was inquisitive, not only willing to listen showed a willingness to be open to new information that challenged her current belief. Her interest spanned everything he held close to his heart—the ancient elves, magic, the Veil, demons, and spirits. She even surprised him with questions he hadn’t expected, like whether coexistence with spirits and demons was truly possible, a means to prevent conflict rather than provoke it. She sought his wisdom with a sincerity that stirred something deep within him, pulling him back to a place of longing and nostalgia.

The memory plays vividly in his mind. She had looked up at him with bright, flirtatious eyes, her expression open and genuine as she spoke of how much she enjoyed getting to know him. It had been centuries since anyone had shown such honest interest in him, free of ulterior motives.

He had been guardedly curious, tempered by his instinct to keep others at a distance. But there was something about her warmth, the ease of her laughter, especially when she playfully turned his own words back on him. The memory sharpens at the moment she gently teased him about an evasive answer, stirring in him a forgotten sense of playfulness—a feeling that had lain dormant for ages.

Solas remembers the mix of pleasure and unease, realizing even then how effortlessly she had pierced his defenses in that brief exchange. Even now, the memory makes his heart quicken. Lavellan’s kindness and humor had drawn him in, making him acutely aware of his own loneliness, a longing he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a very long time.

Reflecting on that moment now, he realizes that she had, unintentionally, planted a seed within his heart. Without harshness or force, she had gently challenged him to confront his assumptions about this new world, unsettling the certainty he’d held so tightly. The experience was both enticing and terrifying, as he had long resigned himself to solitude. Yet, with just a few simple words, Lavellan became startlingly real to him, revealing a connection he hadn’t felt in ages—a kinship that was achingly tempting, stirring in him a desire for companionship he thought he had buried forever.

After that... he simply couldn’t help himself. Another memory surfaces, vivid and intoxicating, as he recalls the way she had held his gaze, brimming with confidence, curiosity, and a playful spark. His heart quickens now at the thought of his reply, deliberately smooth as he suggested he had “yet to see it dominated.” Her eyes danced as she echoed his words back to him, teasingly: “Indomitable focus?” Her voice lingered in his mind, a gentle, teasing challenge that made him want to respond with wit and depth.

“Presumably. I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that the sight would be… fascinating.” It had been an invitation, subtle yet unmistakable, for both of them to imagine what it might be like to lower their defenses. He found himself drawn irresistibly to the spark of her spirit and intelligence, feeling his own walls weaken as he acknowledged the magnetic tension between them—a connection he could neither deny nor easily resist.

Her kindness and grace, even in the face of opposition, were nothing short of remarkable. She had been captured by Seeker Cassandra, imprisoned, and falsely accused of causing a disaster he himself had brought upon the world. Yet, even amidst the chaos unleashed by his own reckless actions, she stood strong, resilient in her innocence. Her ability to remain steadfast and compassionate despite it all left him in quiet awe.

His memory flashes to them dream-walking in the Fade, where he had taken her back to Haven after its destruction. He’d shared his frustration and confusion, his attempts to save her, and the worry that gnawed at him—a worry that, even then, hinted at something deeper. She had, undeniably, changed his world.

Solas closes his eyes, resting the back of his head against the rough bark of a tree, letting himself drift into the memory of her warmth as she dared to bridge the space between them. Her kiss was a soft yet daring act, a gesture that left him feeling both vulnerable and intensely alive. He savors the lingering sensation of her touch, the softness of her lips, and the way his own restraint shattered as he pulled her back not once, but twice, unable to let her go. But it was that second kiss, that moment of surrender, when he truly lost himself in her—giving in to a desire he’d tried so hard to deny.

As his mind wanders further down the path of this memory, he comes to a realization that Lavellan had not only held the key to saving the world at the time, but also to saving himself. The mere thought of her sends a warm rush of comfort through him, like a blanket on a cold winter night. In that moment, Solas understands the true depth of her impact on his life and how she single-handedly changed his destiny for the better. Her presence was not just a means to an end, but a source of hope and healing for his soul.

Solas opens his eyes again, scanning the horizon for her. Lavellan's figure emerges from behind a cluster of shimmering trees, their leaves rustling softly in a nonexistent breeze. She moves with grace, her steps light and purposeful as she navigates the ethereal landscape. Her eyes, filled with wonder, dart from one marvel to another, drinking in the beauty of this Fade-crafted vision of the ancient Arlathan Forest.

As she approaches, Solas feels a familiar tightness in his chest, a bittersweet ache that has become his constant companion, mingling with a profound, unyielding love. He watches her, drinking in every detail - the way the ethereal light catches in her hair, the gentle curve of her smile, the spark of curiosity that never seems to dim in her eyes.

The name slips from her lips like a caress, carrying with it a warmth that seems to weave its way through his mind. "Solas," she calls out, her voice filled with awe and admiration. "This place... it's incredible." A small smile plays at the corners of his lips as he looks upon her. "Arlathan Forest is quite beautiful," he responds softly, taking her hand and pulling himself to his feet. As he steps closer to her, one hand lands on her waist and he leans down to kiss her. Lavellan tilts her head up and meets his lips, savoring the taste of him.

With a bright smile on her face, Lavellan exclaims, "Let's go look at the river!" Her excitement is infectious and Solas can't help but chuckle as she practically dances in place. “It is a river,” He remarks, but his own lips curl into a smile at her enthusiasm.

She gazes up at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “But it’s a Fade river!” she exclaims, her laughter echoing through the air as she eagerly takes his hand and pulls him along. He joins in her amusement, a genuine chuckle escaping his lips, his guard completely down in her presence. “That is it,” he responds, unable to hide the smile that spreads across his face as he allows her to lead him, her infectious enthusiasm captivating him and drawing him into the moment. He finds himself charmed by her unbridled joy and unwavering curiosity, feeling alive and free in her company.

As they near the riverbank, the soothing sound of rushing water envelops them. Lavellan's face beams with joy, and Solas can't help but feel his own mood brighten in response to her infectious happiness. She takes off ahead of him, eagerly examining the river and its inhabitants in hushed fascination.

Solas finds a comfortable spot and settles in, observing Lavellan as she discovers the wonders of the Fade with childlike wonder. He can't help but smile at her, reminiscing about their time together in the Inquisition. He remembers when he first approached her for assistance with a troubled friend, and how she had instantly shown her unwavering empathy and support without hesitation. Even back then, she saw past his guarded facade and understood the gravity of what he had asked of her.

The memory of his first encounter with his friend floods back to him. He remembers seeing his friend—a Spirit of Wisdom, now twisted and corrupted into a Pride Demon by the foolishness of mages. It was a heart-wrenching and alarming sight. Despite everything, he held onto a fragile hope that there was still a chance to save his friend, that somehow it could be restored to its original form.

Lavellan had acted without hesitation in aiding him, going above and beyond what was necessary. She had even gone as far as to disrupt the summoning circle in an effort to save his friend, despite the complexity of the task. Her selflessness and determination to fight for a corrupted spirit left a lasting impression on him, stirring something within him that he couldn't quite explain.

He remembers, painfully, how he had failed his friend even then. They had confronted the mages responsible, his anger simmering as he accused them of torturing and destroying a being of wisdom—a friend who had been twisted and killed by their reckless ambition. The rage within him was overwhelming; he would have struck them down, consumed by anger and the need for revenge, if Lavellan hadn’t intervened.

The memories of his failure still pained him. He and his friend had confronted the mages responsible, and he couldn't contain his anger as he accused them of torturing and destroying a wise being. His friend was killed due to their carelessness, and he seethed with rage towards them. He wanted revenge; he wanted to strike them down. But Lavellan stepped in, preventing him from acting on his anger.

In a vital moment, her voice reached out to him like an anchor, soothing and steady. With gentle yet firm words, she brought him back to reality and reminded him that seeking revenge on the mages would not bring his friend back. Her words cut through the storm of his anger and quenched the flames burning within him, guiding him away from the brink. He can't help but wonder, if he had acted on his initial impulse that day, would it have added yet another weight to the regrets burdening his soul?

Lavellan wades into the water, her legs kicking with awe and surprise. "It's like it's really here!" She exclaims to Solas, her disbelief evident in her tone. He tilts his head slightly, a smile playing on his lips. "Because it is real," he chuckles. "You know what I mean," Lavellan laughs. "I know we’ve talked about how what happens in the Fade is real, but I just didn’t expect it to…actually feel so real!"

Solas chuckles at her enthusiasm. "It is certainly new," he concedes, a small smile playing on his lips. "To be completely aware in the Fade is vastly different from only experiencing it through dreams." Lavellan laughs as she nods in agreement, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I couldn't agree more," she says. "This is much better than our time at Adamant." Solas shares a nod of affirmation, adding, "Indeed it is."

As Lavellan wanders and explores, Solas shuts his eyes and allows himself to drift back to those intimate moments he shared with her within the Inquisition, not long after they had faced the truth about his friend. He recalls seeking her out one evening, finding her on the balcony outside her chambers. The night was calm and serene, and in the gentle radiance of starlight, he posed a question that had been weighing heavily on his mind.

He inquired, his voice gentle but filled with curiosity, "What were you like before the Anchor?" He pondered if the Mark had changed her essence in any way, if there was a reason other than his own fondness for why he felt such a strong connection to her. Maybe he was searching for a justification that would make sense of his intense emotions - something that went beyond his heart's desires.

When she confessed that she had not changed, he felt a twinge of disappointment. It finally dawned on him that his feelings for her were no longer just curiosity; they were deep and real. He had always seen this world as dull and lifeless, like walking among the Tranquil. But being with her, someone who radiated such genuine beauty and individuality, challenged his entire perception. She was more than just an exception; she was proof that there was still vibrancy, complexity, and depth in this world. And it made him uneasy in a way he didn't want to admit.

Naturally, she was curious for him to explain his fascination, and he admitted her subtlety and wisdom defied his expectations. In their conversations, she challenged him to question his longstanding views of the Dalish, her unwavering spirit and insight quietly challenging his biases. He found himself admiring her mind, her resilience, her compassion—qualities that set her apart from anyone he had ever known. Each moment with her deepened his respect, making her more than just a fleeting connection; she became someone he valued profoundly, someone who reshaped his understanding of the world.

Being around her always caused him to teeter on the brink of losing control. The memory of their kiss is still vivid in his mind: the softness in her voice as she asked about its meaning, the intense stare in her eyes that seemed to see right through him. He can recall his own response - "I have not forgotten the kiss" - spoken with a rare vulnerability, a confession he struggled to even acknowledge within himself.

She moved in closer, crossing into his personal space with her hands clasped behind her back. Her posture seemed to convey both surrender and a playful command. As he started to turn away, she reached out and gently touched his arm. Her words, a simple plea of "don't go," echoed in his mind, stopping him from retreating any further. In that moment, he could feel the strong pull of his instinct to flee, and the words lingered in the space between them: "It would be better in the end." But it was his next confession that would haunt him more than anything else: "But losing you would..." - an incomplete confession that left him exposed and vulnerable.

Solas lets out a wistful sigh, reliving the memory of their kiss with vivid detail and longing. Her lips, so soft and warm, ignited a fire within him that still burned just as brightly as it did on that day. The kiss started off gentle, but soon he was lost in her, pulling her closer and deepening their connection. His arms enveloped her, his hands exploring every curve and contour of her body as they shared a moment of intense passion and desire.

In that brief instant, he felt a surge of happiness and an ache in his chest as he acknowledged his conflicting emotions. Love and duty battled for control over his heart. As he whispered "Ar lath ma, vhenan," those words echoed in his mind as a definitive surrender, a strong bond between their souls.

As Solas slowly opens his eyes, he notices that she has disappeared from view. But her laughter echoes through the air, filled with joy and freedom. He remains seated, closing his eyes again with a gentle smile on his face as he takes in the delightful sound of her exploring. He is content to let her roam while he basks in the moment.

The connection between him and Lavellan is unlike anything he has ever known, intricate and layered in ways he never imagined. There are moments when she reminds him of his former self, before he entered the physical realm. Maybe that's why he forbade her request to accompany him on his quest to destroy the Veil; she was a mirror of his past self, unencumbered by thousands of years and untouched by the cost of his choices.

He didn't want her to suffer the same fate as him, being led astray from her purpose. While Mythal no longer has the same control over him as before, it does not erase how that control over him had warped his beliefs in ways he feared sharing with her and causing her harm. Mythal’s guidance was driven by a relentless sense of duty that had forced him to go against his own morals repeatedly.

Lavellan, on the other hand, possessed certain qualities that reminded him of Mythal - her strong leadership skills, her love and protection for the elven people, and her authoritative presence. But unlike Mythal, Lavellan also grounded him in compassion and integrity. She showed him a path where fulfilling his duties did not have to sacrifice kindness, and she embodied a way of being that was both powerful and gentle. In every sense, she served as a reminder of the person he used to be and the person he still had the potential to become.

How could he impose on her the same fate that had been imposed upon him? Determined to break the cycle, he made a conscious effort to treat her as an equal, respecting her autonomy and moral decisions even when they differed from his own. Unlike with Mythal, whose guidance had often disregarded his own agency, he consciously chose to respect Lavellan’s independence, valuing her as a partner rather than a tool. In doing so, he hoped to give her what he had lacked—a voice, a choice, and the freedom to walk her own path.

Mythal had been controlling, molding him into someone he had tried to resist becoming with Lavellan. While he would occasionally offer guidance to her, he always did so with a deep regard for her beliefs and made sure not to compromise her values. In hindsight, his dynamic with Mythal had felt stifling, weighed down by feelings of regret. He began to feel more like a pawn than an equal, left with a lingering sensation of being manipulated.

His dedication to Mythal had been multi-layered, almost worshipful - a loyalty fueled by obligation, by an unyielding determination to carry out her wishes and goals, even if it meant sacrificing parts of himself. With Mythal, it was always about fulfilling duty and wielding power, no matter the consequences.

But with Lavellan, everything changed. She gave him something he didn’t know he was missing: the chance at healing and, maybe, even redemption. Ever since their journey started in Haven, she had slowly and unconsciously encouraged him to find a path that matched his inner desires. She became a safe haven for him, a calming refuge—even when he refused to heed her advice and stayed on his destructive path, she stayed by his side, a constant reminder of who he truly was.

She is his heart, the center of his being. He has come to realize and finally accept that his feelings for her surpass any sense of duty or obligation; they go beyond even the concept of love itself. His love for her is fueled by the desire to protect her, to safeguard her light and keep her safe from the corruption that has consumed his own soul. In her, he sees the purity and goodness that he thought he had lost, and he would do anything to ensure she remains untouched by the darkness he has experienced.

“Solas!” Lavellan’s voice rings out, causing him to open his eyes. “Join me over here!” He rises from his spot and walks towards the sound of splashing water. “Vhenan?” He calls out as he pushes through the surrounding plants, catching a glimpse of her standing in a body of water.

She had removed her outer garments and was the water dressed only in her undergarments. "Look, there's even fish!" She exclaimed with a giggle of delight. Solas pauses at the water's edge, a fond smile playing on his lips as he watches Lavellan's childlike delight. Her joy is infectious, and he feels a warmth spreading through his chest. "Indeed there are," he says softly, his eyes following her graceful movements in the water. "The Fade reflects our expectations and desires. Your curiosity has brought these creatures into being."

Suddenly, Lavellan plunges beneath the water, disappearing below the surface in search of whatever mysteries might lie within this strange Fade-bound lake.

Solas watches on, reflecting on his past and how Lavellan has impacted him. In a way that Mythal, with all her godlike power, could never achieve, Lavellan had accomplished something truly remarkable. She had accepted him fully, embracing every aspect of his being in a way he hadn't experienced since before his existence in the physical realm. The feeling of belonging and acceptance flooded him, filling the voids that had long been empty within his soul. It was as if he had finally found his place in the world, and it was beside this incredible, understanding woman who saw him for who he truly was.

As Lavellan resurfaces, water cascading down her face and hair, Solas finds himself transfixed. The droplets shimmer in the ethereal light of the Fade, creating a halo around her that seems to embody the very essence of her spirit. She beams at him, her eyes sparkling with excitement and wonder. She emerges from the water, and he watches as she dries herself off. "Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks her with a soft smile. She looks up at him and returns the smile. "I did, thank you for letting me wander," she replies before walking over to him.

Solas tilts his head down, his eyes meeting hers. “Of course,” he says softly, reaching out to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. A small smile plays on his lips as he watches her reaction. She leans into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When she opens them again, there's a warmth there that makes Solas's breath catch. She steps closer, closing the distance between them. The scent of wildflowers and fresh water clings to her skin, intoxicating in its simplicity. Solas finds himself leaning in, drawn by an invisible force he can't quite name.

Their lips meet in a tender kiss, soft and sweet. Solas pulls her closer, one arm wrapping around her waist as the other hand tangles in her damp hair. Lavellan melts into him, her body molding against his as if they were made to fit together. Lavellan leans away from him, tilting her head to look up at the sky. The sun has set and the stars are beginning to appear in the fading light of the Fade. “Do you want to stargaze before we go to sleep?” she asks him, a hint of hope in her tone.

The corners of Solas's lips slowly curl upwards, his eyes crinkling with warmth as he gazes down at her. "I would find that most enjoyable," he responds in a low, melodic voice. Solas gently takes Lavellan's hand, intertwining their fingers as he leads her to a small clearing nearby. The grass beneath their feet is soft and cool, swaying gently in a nonexistent breeze. Above them, the Fade sky shimmers with countless stars, each one brighter and more vibrant than any seen in the waking world.

They settle down on the grass, Solas sitting with his back against a tree, while Lavellan nestles between his legs, her back resting against his chest. His arms encircle her waist, holding her close as they both gaze up at the celestial display above. "It's beautiful," Lavellan whispers, her voice filled with awe. "I've never seen the stars so clearly before." Solas hums in agreement, his chin resting lightly on the top of her head.

Solas's lips curve into a gentle smile as he gazes up at the starry expanse above them. "The Fade often reflects our deepest desires and memories," he murmurs softly, his breath warm against Lavellan's ear. "This view... it reminds me of nights long past, when the world was younger and the Veil did not yet exist," his voice is low and melodic, filled with a mixture of nostalgia and longing.

Lavellan intertwined her fingers with his and gave them a gentle squeeze. "I know that you long for the time before the Veil," she says, trying to offer him some comfort. Solas lets out a soft sigh, thinking back to his memories from earlier that day. "Yes, I do," he replies. "But if I had not created the Veil..." He pauses, lost in thought for a moment. "Our paths would never have crossed."

Lavellan turns her head slightly, looking up at him with a gentle smile. "And I'm grateful that our paths did cross," she says softly, her eyes shimmering with affection. Solas feels a warmth bloom in his chest at her words. He tightens his embrace, drawing her closer against him. "As am I, vhenan," he murmurs, his voice low and tender, as he presses a gentle kiss to her temple.

They drift into a comfortable silence, each lost in thought as they gaze up at the star-studded sky. Solas’s eyes wander across the constellations, memories of ancient stories and myths flickering to life with each familiar shape. Gradually, he begins to share these tales with Lavellan, his voice low and soothing as he recounts the ancient lore, weaving each story with care. In that quiet moment, he shares a precious piece of his former world with her, the distant stars bridging past and present in a way that feels both intimate and timeless.

[illyabata]

okok listen bodyguard wriothesley au (tw: suggestive but not explicit, f!reader and gendered terms, dumbification, babying, i was in a weird mood when i wrote this, bla bla) kinda short and was gonna add smut but lowkey i just dont feel like it. could make a part 2 with actual writing if you guys enjoy this concept

he’s your bodyguard and you are the lil princess :3

and you are SUCH a brat

in everyday affairs you act all confident and diplomatic, when really your little brain is just so empty !! you love to order him around this way and that, and no matter what he will comply with a, “yes, my lady” or “of course, princess” because he respects you—reveres you, even—and it is his job to obey your whims.

unless, of course, those very whims should jeopardize or go against your safety. he has the power to overrule your silliness should it come to that, but hardly ever does he use it; only when real danger poses a threat will he truly speak his mind. otherwise, he stands and listens to your nonsense with a straight face, not only because he has to but also because he does find it amusing.

he finds it amusing that during the day, here you are, the silly little girl that you are, commanding him about with a wave of your finger as if he is not the one in your bed every night. as if he does not coddle and baby you and turn you to the puttiest of putty, your brain all mushy and your hands grabby and your lips pouty and oh, sweet baby, what a silly thing you are.

do you not understand? do you not get it? it isn’t you giving orders, not even when you’re pretending. you are really just the princess, and he your strong, capable bodyguard who holds your life in his scarred hands. oh, yes, of course he is devoted to you, to protecting you no matter what—but you really don’t know what’s best for you at all, do you? yes, he practically worships you, and he will follow your silly and pointless orders because he adores you; because he likes to give you that fleeting feeling of being in charge, knowing that later he is going to remind you of your place in the quiet intimacy of the nighttime where it is only the two of you and no one else. he will let you have your fun during the day—he doesn’t particularly like anyone else’s eyes on him, nor does he think it advantageous or gentlemanly to boast his authority—but you must not forget that no matter how much you pretend otherwise before the prying eyes of the public, he is the one giving the real orders and calling the real shots.

and you are his baby, his princess, his recipient of absolute devotion. yes, he holds the real authority, but he would gladly get down on his knees and give his life for you any day. it’s in his job description.

but his poor baby gets so upset at the idea of him ever doing such a thing, perhaps even going so far as to throw a fit or try to argue with him that it will be going against his lady’s command to ever, ever leave her for any reason. ever.

in the daylight, he will simply hum, nod, or give a curt and dismissive response. but alone, he will coo and hold your face and say with such sweet, honeyed conviction, “sweetheart, you don’t get a say in such matters” as he is caging you to your little princess bed while you’re in your cute little nightgown with the cute frilly trim and your cute frilly socks. “try not to think about it, okay? you don’t need to think about it.” because really, wriothesley is much more than capable enough to protect you from harm without having to sacrifice himself in the process. so don’t even worry your pretty little head about such things.

[eatmangoesnekkid]

One unspoken virus that plagues female bodies due to growing up and being conditioned in a western colonial capitalist patriarchy is the lack of reverence, respect, and honoring we have for our teachers and inspirations/muses. Growing up in a world created out of the male mind and male philosophy, we are groomed to be less collaborative and more competitive and "takers," taking resources from the feminine, without acknowledging our sources, whether it's another woman/femme's work or resources of the earth. We have adapted to being sneaky and slick.

Everything is recorded. We do not get away with anything. The desire "to take" from other women is a 'bottom-feeder' scarcity consciousness. When a woman or womb owner holds this type of consciousness in her system, she births babies who become adults who do not feel like they are good enough and they further the unconscious scarcity imprint into future generations. When you take words I have written like "friendships can be deeply romantic" but do not credit me as the source of your newfound wisdom and simply shift words around, it is still recorded and felt by those with intuitive gifts. I am devoted to letting those whom I love know how much I adore them. Within the last 10 years, there has not a single close friend I’ve had who hasn't received a message of me sharing my love of them at some point. This is the lived experience the quote was birthed from. In the last 30 days, I have sent voice notes to a woman I follow on instagram who writes beautiful things about heterosexual relating and bridging the gap between women and men. I'm not a heterosexual woman, but I love reading her work. She expands my own consciousness of love so I reached out to her just to let her know how much her work inspired my own flow of love in a pure way and thanked her. Reverence for another human can be so activating for the psyche and requires extreme vulnerability, which is one reason it is so hard for most people to honor other people without feeling less than. We have forgotten that we are all Gods, that’s why. 🪶🙏🏿🕊️ Years ago, a couple from Atlanta came to visit me and my lover in Europe. When they arrived, I was the only one at home and when my lover came home from work, I met her at the door as usual—which was really no big deal to us. Ha, I will never forget when we turned around and saw the sheer shock on their faces from witnessing how we greeted each other after being a part for "only 7 hours" —one of them said. They were shocked that we had that so much reverence for the presence of the other. But to me, reverence is human. It is love. It is the nectarous flow of one’s inherent wellspring of vulnerability. Recently I spoke to a past mentor of mine from 2008 who is 22 years older than me, a mentor who I have expanded beyond in consciousness and lived experiences. I find traits of a good mentor to be one who can help evolve students beyond their own capacity and limitations, maybe begin to actually to revere the student’s growing beyond the mentor’s capacity overtime. This is what our relationship is like now. She is genuinely happy for everything I am and everything have become. In all these years, I have felt nothing but sheer love and appreciation from her at different stages of my journey. I told her how much I loved her for who she divinely is. I showered her with compliments and sent her a cashapp for no reason at all. I did not reach out to her to talk about myself. I only spoke about her --her beauty, sass, heart, worth, and value. Women who can not acknowledge the gifts and beauty of other women and only want “to take...” will always be poor in a myriad of ways. Heart-centered womanhood. Women can turn this world around when we begin to get deeply honest about what is living in our bodies and truly become women again and understand the level of power within it. Please consider revering/honoring those women who help to move you forward into new ways of being that will expand into limitless possibilities. Not become envious them, not steal their work but truly hold reverence and love and even cheer them on. Doing so helps to create more and more connection and love stories and less separation, fear and violence in our world. Everything is connected to everything, you see. The aim is to get better at loving and sweetness than we were conditioned to be at extracting and taking. When we do, a secret garden of vitality blooms abundantly, like the generous nectar that Spring and Summer summons from human bodies. Because beautiful people impact us in beautiful ways when we allow. Never forget that. --India Ame'ye

[balanceoflightanddark]

I feel like most think Chromatic Dragons are evil because they worship Tiamat instead of Bahumat, Tiamat is a goddess of Chaos which most people generally associate with acts of evil but chaos generally isn't evil it just is. While Bahumat the metallic god of Order is generally seen as good there are times when too much Order is stifling

Well to start, if I were to write Tiamat or Bahamut for whatever reason, I'd wouldn't try to stray too far from their moralities. I mean it's right there in their titles: Tiamat, Queen of the Evil Dragons and Bahamut, King of the Good Dragons. It's practically written in their DNA and concept. So trying to portray Tiamat as some woobie or Bahamut as being secretly evil would defeat the entire purpose of the characters.

I wouldn't even say that Tiamat is a Goddess of Chaos in a traditional sense. Chaos usually means the potential for change and the hope for a better future. Tiamat on the other hand seems to lean more to the "evil" in "chaotic evil". As in she's fully willing to commit to atrocities in order to further her goals. And indulge in her own whims and impulses instead of tearing down an oppressive order. Hell, for a Goddess of Chaos, she keeps a tight leash on her servants and has very problems with dominating them when they get too uppity. Aren't the Blue Dragons (Lawful Evil) amongst her most dedicated followers?

As a whole, I don't think Tiamat represents Chaos as a force for change. But rather as a force for shortsighted impulses and domination. She's the one who would dominate and use her domination as an excuse to indulge in her vices. Think a dragon version of a Skeksis and you get the drill.

Conversely, Bahamut is a bit closer to the "good" in "lawful good". His sphere of influence centers around justice, doing good deeds, and promoting acts of charity. He's not even focused on establishing some kind of societal order or regime since he rarely gets involved with mortals on a societal level. Usually, Bahamut only acts to right some kind of wrong or bring justice (which tends to be against his sister and her followers). In that way, he's more of a knight-errant than a king.

If Tiamat represents domination and living out one's impulses for the self, Bahamut focuses on helping others and holding the self to a higher standard. In that regard, the "lawful" is less societal and more living to a code of honor or strong morality. And their relationship is less "chaos vs order" and more "depravity vs nobility".

So with all this in mind, how would I handle Chromatics as a whole if it's less a societal standard and more a moral standard? Well to start, I sincerely doubt the Chromatics have too much love for Tiamat. Again, she keeps a tight leash on them and expects things like accepting consorts from them or reaping whatever portion of their hoards they have collected. And I did read that some Chromatics will try to keep portions of their hoard secret to keep out of Tiamat's hands. From this, I believe that their devotion to Tiamat is less out of reverence and loyalty and more wanting to stay on her good side. Thus, the idea of leaving her has to be a thought a lot of the Chromatics have.

Thing is, Tiamat is freakishly powerful and I doubt she'd want any of her children to get any ideas of rebelling. Even if somehow a Chromatic could break away from Tiamat and survive, they were still raised with the toxic mindset that their "mother" instilled in them. So it would be a pretty painful changing process if all they know how to be are vicious monsters. Add to that how many mortals rightfully think Chromatics are violent monsters, and you have a stacked deck.

Again, I do believe it is possible. It just won't be easy. If I were to write this sort of story, I would possibly have a young Chromatic who strikes out on their own from their parents who instilled that toxic mindset. Old enough to be self-sufficient, but young enough to still be mentally vulnerable and a bit awkward in terms of actually being vile. Basically enough of a threat to gain adventurers' notice, but not enough of a threat to have a massive bounty on their heads. From then, you could either see them begin to question themselves on what they're doing wrong. Not sure how Bahamut might see such a dragon though. On the one hand, forgiveness and mercy are part of his sphere. On the other, I did read that he was also pretty merciless when it comes to Chromatics (I mean, he's been in conflict with Tiamat and her brood for so long that it's hard to blame him). So it could go either way.

That's how I'd write the dynamic between Tiamat and Bahamut along with the Chromatics. Let me know what you guys think or if I'm missing something.

[docholligay]

Ep 5: Ben and Misty

Hello! This is about up to Episode 5 of Yellowjackets, and ONLY episode 5 of Yellowjackets. I have not seen beyond the fifth episode, at all, and know NOTHING about this show. Please do not spoil it for me.  Things that are spoilery in nature, for me, include: saying things like  “Just wait!!” confirming or denying anything I put forward, outside information about the cast interviews or creator statements, leading questions like “Do you think “blank moment” means anything?” etc. Remember  that Y’ALL HAVE SEEN THE SHOW AND I HAVE NOT. This informs the way you  talk about things relating to the show. Just be really careful is all  I’m asking. Also: If there is LITERALLY any stance I  could take on this show or character that would make you upset, please  just fucking block the tag

If you WOULD like to discuss the show and my takes on it, the Discord is right here! I don’t go there, so it’s a great place to get every emotion out.

Please thank @sailorsunspot and @moonlight-frittata for backing this odd way of doing a liveblog, and remember my tip jar is always open

Poor Ben here is trapped as an authority figure. Travis could overpower him, fuck, the girls could overpower him, he relies on Misty, and yet he still has the vestiges of authority because we are only now beginning to see that the old world no longer holds sway. 

The quasi-religious tone when Misty walks into his room to touch him was a really amazing thing, and it’s true, though, that for Misty, this is on the level of a miracle. A man she finds handsome needs her, she spends all her time in his light, she goes toward him with the reverence of a saint. And he rejects her. He tells her not to fucking touch him. We even see a cross on the wall as she leaves the room. 

So if even someone she has done so much for, someone she has devoted herself toward, cannot love her, they have to pay. Now, the question I have for myself is: Do I think Misty actually wants to kill him, or do I think that it’s more a price she is willing to pay in order to get him close to her again, to need her? I think it might be number two, but I also think establishing that she is willing to kill someone to get what she needs is a very important thing we need to know about Misty. 

Him losing his leg works on multiple levels here, of course it’s a device to get him close to Misty for the express purposes of ‘oh my god holy shit fuckin Misty,’ but also, it’s a symbol, a visual reminder of the fact that his power and authority is quite literally crippled here. We are seeing him slowly lose control of the situation, even as the girls are continuing to follow him, even as Travis still listens, there’s this absolute edge of losing control in the air. 

And he senses this, and this is why he reacts to Misty’s stange confession of love by calling himself into her protection with his own, while clinging to this fractured and lost authority as a gate between he and Misty. How long will that gate hold? What can he cling to then, and how far might he go to keep from getting killed by Misty in the pain of her rejection? 

Because make no mistake, all of this is about Misty and her feeling of rejection, and in the way they continue to push in this story that I love, the rejected nerd is not sitting in the corner crying, we are not meant to identify with her, we are meant to see that she instead decides that those who reject her should be punished. 

Which is why it is so terrifying when she sees Nat call her a poodle haired frreak at the end of the episode. She thought the threat of being blackmailed would make them appreciate her, need her. But instead, this.

[lunawish]

few3h has the better edelgard imho because it shoes even without byleth she can still have meaningful relationships with people. she isn't keeping people in the same arms length distance as she was in houses. in houses, the game's narrative depicts it as without byleth, she's completely and utterly isolated with only hubert at her side.

i honestly do honest to god (i gotta say honest as many times as i can lmao) am of the belief that monica von ochs is so, so, so important to her character. monica in hopes is constantly thinking about edelgard and her heart — it's not just her goals (which hubert will want to fulfill at any cost necessary) that monica's concerned about but how she doesn't actually want that much bloodshed. it's about her taking care of herself and taking breaks. she and hubert look after different aspects of edelgard : and ironically, both can prove ... suffocating at times.

without monica in houses, byleth becomes that "heart" for her. byleth is the only person she could connect and confide in wholly and even then, she does so cautiously. monica devotes herself to edelgard wholeheartedly. it doesn't matter what path edelgard chooses, monica will follow. byleth can end up choosing a path so oppositional from edelgard's that it ultimately result in her dying.

not to mention, in hopes , pretty much regardless of routes, she will try to rescue her allies — and she will do her best to keep them alive. ladislava and randolph dies in crimson flower, and whilst randolph can only be kept alive thru a very specific situation in hopes, there's still something to be said about how we can keep both those generals alive in scarlet blaze.

it's not shez who's the one that makes the huge impact in her character, it's monica. monica sees her, the real edelgard. the edelgard who likes sweets, who likes bergamot tea, who likes nature, etc etc but somehow still regards her with the reverence of an emperor. it doesn't really compute in her mind how monica can hold both realities.

anyways, tangent aside ... i just think monica is so incredibly important to her and i just think about how in houses, she probably looked at the "monica" they rescued and hoped for a miracle that it was the monica she knew and that they weren't too late. but she knew they were when "monica" spoke, when monica called her 'edel' because the real monica would never.

saving monica in hopes prompts her to remove TWSITD from her allies and claim adrestia as her own. she unshackled herself from Thales, who was posing as her uncle in public. in contrast, when we learn that monica isn't actually monica but kronya in houses, we see edelgard erring more on the side of caution with TWSITD. she begrudgingly allies with them, utilize their horrific magic that she too, was a victim of. but she has to because there's no such thing as a miracle. saving monica was her taking action to make a miracle happen.

[stormbeyondreality]

For the first sixteen years of their life growing up in Camlorn, Erlind had very little personal connection to the divine. He gave situational prayers when appropriate - to Zenithar in the forge, to Dibella before some lute practice, so on and so forth - but while she had some underlying curiosities, nothing was solid or strong enough for Erlind to consider themself a follower of any god or goddess.

As crew on the ship that eventually took him to Skyrim, Erlind was faced with a more concrete set of beliefs from the sailors that made the sea their lives. Nothing still connected with her personally yet, but it felt more real than much of what he'd seen from most people they'd met in Camlorn including their family.

In Winterhold, they cast more prayers to Magnus and Julianos for help with studies and the like, and started indulging in her curiosity for actually learning about the divine, drawing comparisons between the Bretony Pantheon he knew (if not particularly well), the Imperial Divines, and the Nordic Pantheon. Most of it is purely intellectual curiosity, but there's a part of them that seeks something to believe in.

It's in the aftermath of Nightcaller Temple that Erlind is first faced with the tangible reality of the divine and the power of belief. Watching Erandur destroy the Skull of Corruption, hearing the comfort he has to give in the wake of the trauma of death and killing, and hearing Erandur's personal stories of the grace of Mara...Erlind understands. And while she knows there is more trials to come, in that moment it feels like it all clicks into place. In time, Mara becomes the goddess that Erlind is most devoted to despite everything that happens.

At the Bards' College, Erlind discovers a different kind of comfort in Dibella, in the shared love of beauty and art and the good things of the world. He doesn't quite understand the association with sex being often the most-spoken-of one, but that's fine, he doesn't have to. Compassion and beauty go well together, and the two different kinds of love interpreted by each Mara and Dibella fit likewise in Erlind's mind.

Carried back from the time at sea and as a traveler and adventurer, Kynareth is the next to revere. On the road, the weather plays such a part in how long it takes to get safely from place to place, and the skies hold a beauty that cannot be mistaken. When Erlind learns of his Dragonborn nature, Kynareth becomes all the more important as one from whom he seeks guidance.

As an enemy of vampires and necromancers and as one who tries to give respect to the dead - for though they have done wrongs they still deserve compassion - the next Erlind reveres secondmost is Arkay. They learn basic rites at one of the Halls of the Dead early on in their travels and when afforded the time and energy they give at the very least a quick blessing for the souls of those they kill.

Julianos, Magnus, Zenithar, and later Akatosh are primarily situational still, but with the changed perspective from being now a follower of (primarily) Mara Erlind's approach to such situational prayers is different.

There is one Daedra that Erlind puts any actual reverence to rather than simply appeasing or defying. While he had never considered Hircine until becoming a werewolf and never held much devotion to, the thrill of the hunt is something she cannot deny. It's not something they can explain, exactly, and much of the in-practice reverence takes a backseat once her lycanthropy is cured, but the respect remains.

[sniper-childe]

Some notes of a chili role swap au that I will never write

AKA 1.3k+ words worth of headcanons ft. Archon Childe and Harbinger Zhongli :D

Rex Mare / Celestial Vanguard / Flawless Lily

Has served Celestia for six thousand years. And like his devotion to the Tsaritsa, this Childe has a seemingly unbreakable bond with Celestia.

As the Archon of Justice, he is their judge, jury, and executioner. He upholds the Heavenly Principles more than any of the other archons.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his own morals and sense of justice. He firmly believes that the most certain thing about our world is we know nothing—that we are all just fools—and that only by continually seeking knowledge and truth are we virtuous. This means he likes learning new stuff and mastering it. Kinda like how og Childe is with weapons but with basically everything.

This is the main value of the Land of Justice and it is the foundation of the many Schools of Thought. This is also why Snezhnaya’s best scholars are called the Fatui :D

However, the god is not as flawless as his people think. He refuses to see what Celestia truly is because of his faith. [insert here the complexities of letting go of your devotion that ultimately boils down to fear. Fear of retaliation to a rebellion, fear of a stripped identity without your faith, fear of the loneliness when you learn your god never existed in the first place and she is merely a collection of ideologies that you hold so closely to exonerate yourself of your blind eyes and bloody hands]

If you read the second story in my Ajax: Champion of Dreams series, you might realize I have some kind of religious trauma HAHAHAHAHDJGKG (living in an Asian country that is widely Catholic and Christian will do that to ya ;)) this is why I need the Fontaine Arc to be Anti-Church. I’ve mentioned this before but damn it. I NEED. Or at least touch the complexities of faith (and losing it) as mentioned above. You know? Of course, I don’t want it to be heavy-handed and Honkai handled this stuff well so I just— aaaaaa

Appearance: kinda like Taishakuten from Onmyoji but replace the lotus for the lily of the valley that actually chimes. They are the Damning Bells you hear before an execution.

Why lily of the valley? It’s the national flower of Serbia :D

Also, I know “cleansing bells” are more of an eastern thing but Catholics have bells too right? Bells are known to purify one’s soul or place of worship. If criminals think the god’s bells are damning, his followers revere them as their salvation. The cleansing of lilies in water—washing them of their impure thoughts and deeds. They are what gives them clarity so that they may hold court without bias.

To subvert the modern dystopia setting trope, Childe likes to come down from the White Palace to the valley and chill with the common people to ensure fairness among his subjects. This has made his country and its people endeared to him and he has become protective of them.

On one of his excursions, he meets a man from Liyue.

Fifth of the Seven Stars / Harbinger of Misery / Last of His Kind

五 (wǔ, the number 5) sounds like 呜 (wū) which is an onomatopoeia for crying. So number 5 in Chinese Numerology is considered unlucky.

Also yes, while the Tsaritsa needs Eleven Harbingers, Ningguang (the Geo Archon in this AU) only needs seven. She calls them the Qixing or the Seven Stars.

He is still a half-dragon, half-qilin but is far younger than og Zhongli.

About three thousand years ago, he slipped into a crack. He stayed in the Abyss for what seemed like 3 months but actually, millennia had passed in Teyvat.

In this world, Guizhong was the first Geo Archon but during the Cataclysm, she passed and Ningguang took the mantle.

Her death was not because of the Cataclysm though but because of her nature as an emphatic god—she didn’t approve of razing civilizations. She defied Celestia and paid the price. This is what sets Liyue’s vendetta against Celestia.

Appearance: He looks like White Asura. He wears a lot of white. A lot happened while he was gone and when he returned, it was tragedy after tragedy. And as a qilin-dragon and adeptus, he has a duty to Liyue and its people, so he’s immediately put to work. He hasn’t had the proper time to breathe and grieve. So he’s in an eternal state of mourning.

I actually have tried writing Zhongli, an immortal god who remembers everything, who is actively grieving (and it’s the hardest thing, let me tell you). I’ve imagined him trying to prolong his grief. I think he’d be the type of person to box it away because he has all the time in the world. Why should he have to face something that’s making him sad now? I think every stage of grief for immortals would take centuries.

So I think he actively supported Ningguang’s cause to not let himself breathe and grieve, not just to uphold the oldest contract. Because does he really deserve it when he wasn’t there to protect his family?

Anyways,,

A younger Morax was brazen and callous was canon, right? So I guess this is also what this Zhongli is. And he fell into the Abyss before the Golden Age of the Guili Assembly. So I think he’s more of an isolationist here like how other adepti are. He probably acts a lot like Xiao but has more bite and bark.

He was sent to Snezhnaya to steal the Hydro Archon’s gnosis. There he meets a man, picking lilies by a stream that leads to the sea. And he makes the first friend he’s ever had in… too long.

PS. Here is a picture of White Asura LOL. Listen His and Taishakuten's story feels like a chili role swap au. Go look them up, you won't regret it.

Some worldbuilding stuff that nobody probably will care about because it doesn’t have anything to do with chili BUT this is here so that you can imagine what would be their first meeting like, what would be their first impressions of each other, how would they act around each other, etc. (I actually have my own imagined scene at the bottom hajasdhh)

Snezhnaya is mountainous that is good for fortress-like cities. From the tallest mountain, water falls from the White Palace (even at such a high altitude, the Hydro Archon keeps the water flowing) down to a river that leads to the sea. This river cuts through the valley that the mountains surround.

The forts and castles in the mountain region are home to the nobles. While the valley is for the farmhands and common folk.

The class system is such that philosophers are considered the nobility. Social mobility is possible through the Imperial Exams. If you’re good enough to bullshit through essay questions that test your ethical, logical, and legal knowledge, then you can have a piece of land and a title :D

Ever since the Cataclysm, and the death of Guizhong, the diplomatic relationship between Liyue and the other nations has been strenuous. Maritime trading has become less ideal but there is a small port in Snezhnaya (Morepesok) that connects the country to the others.

Liyue’s main trade has become highly regulated. Export has become more expensive and has become a symbol of status among the rich and powerful outside the nation. Handwoven silk now sells at a minimum of 10 million mora!

Liyue has the best relationship with Mondstadt. The in-land trade between these two nations is the “only way in” to Liyue so to speak.

Liyue was the Land of Commerce so when it closed off itself from the rest of the world, there was an economic collapse. Self-sustaining cities have survived this but there have been less fortunate ones.

I mostly focused on class and symbols of status and wealth because I imagine that in their first meeting… Childe looks like a fisherman. And from an outsider, that must mean he’s illiterate, right????? Imagine the insult to everything sacred to Snezhnaya when Liyue’s diplomat actually thought that the Archon of Justice and Court Trials doesn’t even know how to read or write. Imagine Zhongli actually having so much money that he’ll splurge it on the poor fisherman he’s somehow befriended. IMAGINE!

[ethergreywater]

Fashion Muse| Sculptor Alberto Giacometti: Shallow Not Stupid.

Text by Makoto. Li

Art probably accounts for half of a designer's inspiration pool, with paintings being the most important, and the 3D thinking of sculptures actually accounts for part of the index. The Swiss sculptor Alberto Giacometti has a strong connection with fashion, having worked with fashion designer Elsa Schiaparelli and with fashion designers whose work has been a great source of inspiration.

In 1957, the writer Jean Genet depicted the sculptor Alberto's studio as a 'milky swamp, boiling with rubbish, like a real ditch'. The sculptor's floor, face, hair and clothes were coated in plaster, and every corner was covered in confetti and chunks of paint. Yet here, too, 'the power of fermentation is magical as if by magic, art grows out of rubbish'.

Alberto Giacometti's life story is a long one: born in 1901 in remote Borgonovo, Switzerland, he inherited his family's artistic genes as a painter from an early age - his father, Giovanni Giacometti, was an Impressionist painter who supported his son's interest in art from an early age and encouraged Alberto to come to his studio. His father, Giovanni Giacometti, was an Impressionist who supported his son's interest in art from an early age and encouraged Alberto to come to his studio to paint; his godfather, Cuno Amiet, was an icon of the Fauvists and was a well-known figure in the art world, from his family to his parents' close friends. He learned to paint from an early age.

Alberto was not yet ten years old when he could draw pencil sketches for his revered godfather Amiet, and by the age of twelve or thirteen, he had already gotten the hang of oil painting and made his first sculpture for his brother Diego. But he did not follow his father's instructions for the rest of his life, even in his final painting style - Alberto aspired to (or instead had a substantial impact on) cubism and surrealism, moving towards the avant-garde.

At an early age, Alberto travelled with his father to Italy, where he visited the paintings and artworks of the Renaissance and saw many masterpieces that had a ripple effect on Alberto's mind, most notably the frescoes of the Giotto and the ancient Egyptian civilisation in the National Archaeological Museum in Florence. These were the things he wanted to see, which urged Alberto to absorb new knowledge from them, choosing to return to Paris to immerse himself in the art world. After attending the Geneva Academy of Fine Arts, Alberto moved to Paris in 1922 to study under the famous sculptor Auguste Rodin and his assistant Antoine Bourdelle.

While in Paris, Alberto met the artists Joan Miró, Pablo Picasso and Max Ernst, and the philosophers Jean Paul-Sartre and André Breton. Soon, under the influence of his many friends, Alberto was recognised as a leader in surrealist sculpture and wrote and painted for the magazine Le Surrealisme au Service de la Revolution. Since then, Alberto stopped modelling from life and devoted himself to fantastic fantasy, declaring in 1933 that 'when conscious of the sculptures, they were already in the most perfect state in my mind'.

「Walking Man I」（1961）

From 1935 to 1940, Alberto departed from the Surrealist style and was drawn to Cubism and Primitive Art in his own artistic and literary Paris, where he slowly changed the shape of his work. He began to use bronze for his sculptures, which became thinner and more slender. His distinctive style is evident in 'Walking Man I' (1961), one of his most famous works of art. The sculpture's height contrasts with the extraordinarily slim figure in the life-size work, and the elongated figure with dimples and wrinkles gives the figure a highly sculptural feel. However, the work's excessive thinness and isolation inspired many critics to question Alberto's work, which was unusually lonely after the outbreak of the Second World War.

「Woman With Her Throat Cut 」(1932)

「Hands Holding the Void」

In fact, from 1930-1940, Alberto's work revolved around the themes of 'sex and death'. "Woman With Her Throat Cut' (1932) is an image of rape and murder, with Alberto's more everyday concerns; 'Hands Holding the Void' and 'Imaginary Object' (1934-5), two works known for their 'contradictions', are about the relationship between appearance and touch. One of the recollections that share Alberto's feelings about touching and being touched.

The 1930s were a period of maturity for Alberto Giacometti. He was influenced by the 'Freudian effect', a strong sense of sexuality, obsessive-compulsive disorder and psychological trauma in his work. There are also hints of inspiration from Alberto's circle of friends, as he was close to Man Ray, Joan Miró, André Masson and André Breton, a group of artists who sang about the Surrealist movement.

Alberto's brushstrokes of Georges Bataille.

「Suspended Ball」

As they interacted with each other, Alberto increasingly thought about how to intertwine figures and objects in an illusory space while creating a dreamlike yet realistic visual imagination. For example, when André Breton actively invited Alberto to join the school, he published his 'Suspended Ball' sculpture in 1930, which most critics agree is a classic example of his surrealist work, inspired by the central thinking of Georges Bataille.

Upon his return to Paris in 1945, Alberto's vision led him to escape the miniature. One day, walking out of a cinema on Boulevard Montparnasse, he experienced 'a radical transformation of reality'. At that moment, his vision of the world was dominated by photography (even though 'reality is bipolar apart from the assumed objectivity of cinema'). He felt that this was the first time he had been in this world and was so frightened that he touched pain in his head as he looked around him as if everything around him was isolated from him. Afterwards, he tries to communicate with the outside world and enters a familiar tavern. At that moment, he found that time was frozen, that the waiters appeared in front of him as statues, and that everything had become still.

Elsa Schiaparelli, an iconic figure in the fashion world, has been associated with the surreal genre, and there have been many exchanges between the two. For example, Schiaparelli has a collection of Alberto's sculptures. Alberto has created custom-made gold-plated cameo buttons for the designer, which were shown in an exhibition of buttons at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs in Paris. Art itself has no end; it evolves through time and culture, and Alberto's sculptures are becoming too. Influenced by the Second World War and abstract art, his bronze sculptures are deliberately mottled and even uneven in appearance, like layers of plastered clay, and increasingly large in size and complexity of scale and technique. For example, Woman of Venice II (1956) is about four feet tall, but Tall Woman II is nine feet tall, and the textures of his figures have become increasingly rough and blurred. It is left to the viewer's interpretation.

In the 2015 Christie's New York spring sale, Alberto's Pointing Man fetched $140 million, beating his record of $100 million set in 2010 for The Walking Man. Alberto's bronze sculptures have brought a particular emotion to fashion designers but have also infected fellow artists. For example, the American artist John Baldessari held art and fashion conversation at the Fondazione Prada in Milan in 2010, combining Alberto's tall, slender and frail bronze sculptures with ornate evening wear accessories, reflecting social consciousness through exaggerated proportions.

The Italian leather workshop Guidi directly admits that the brand's mottled, vintage look is somewhat influenced by Alberto's rugged approach. The same leather goods brand Piquadro, which premiered its co-branded mini-collection at Milan Autumn/Winter 2013 Men's Fashion Week, has woven a magnificent image for the brand's clutch bags, half inspired by Alberto's sculptural concept, which was also displayed in bronze.

Rick Owens 2011 SS.

Vika Gazinskaya, a Russian designer, has also confessed that her eponymous label's womenswear muse is not only inspired by architectural influences such as Rem Koolhaas but also by Alberto Giacometti. He is part of the pocket list. For Rick Owens Spring/Summer 2011, the designer was fascinated by Alberto's three-dimensional sculptural aesthetic, which he turned into the garment's structure.

For the Ann Demeulemeester Spring/Summer 2016 collection, designer Sebastien Meunier directly named Alberto's sculptural silhouette as an inspiration, using leather cuts to extend the imagery of the human body's slender lines and then creating an elegant, feminine look through the tulle and body-hugging silhouettes.

For Chanel Spring/Summer 2017 Haute Couture, Alberto Giacometti's sculpture 'Spoon Woman' (1926) was the primary source of inspiration. Inspired by the African 'Dan culture', in which the vessel is the equivalent of a woman's womb, the sculpture looks like a giant spoon from afar but abstractly depicts the curves of a woman.

In fact, the influence of the spoon-shaped silhouette can be seen in many of Lagerfeld's previous couture pieces. Skirts were belted high and tight to accentuate the curve of the hips, while some robes were considerably off the body. For the most part, the torso and shoulders have been fitted or somewhat constricted; the tweed jacket, in particular, mimics the square line of Alberto's bust, a classic feminine style with a delicate feminine beauty interspersed with Power.

To borrow a phrase from the critic David Sylvester: 'When I encounter a woman in Alberto's work, one second she is as distant as the person on the other side of the street, and the next she seems to be there', is how he perceives Alberto's work. For Mako, many of Alberto's works have a specific meaning, and the human figures come to life, sinking their legs deep into the ground to capture the wildest edges of life. It seems that fashion's ability to draw on art is one of its most beautiful aspects; it is also the hardcore part of fashion that can shock those who really know and not be washed away by trends.

[feanorianethicsdepartment]

So obviously the entire Feanorian Host as a whole is a bit intense about the cause, but I feel like there’s different levels of devotion between their individual followers.

So my question to you is, from least to most intense, which Feanorions followers are the most cult-like and why?

the cultishness absolutely varies by region! i'm being a little facetious when i call them an out-and-out cult, but fëanorian minion culture certainly has... tendencies. the isolationism, the way loyalty to the group supersedes absolutely everything, what they do to those who 'betray the cause,' not to mention how absolutely psyched they get at the opportunity to do murder. still, the precise way that manifests, as well as how intense they are about, does change a lot depending on where you are in east beleriand. surprisingly it doesn't track that much with how tolerant of outsiders each subdivision is, which is most evidenced by:

the gap: maglor and his cronies are easily the most xenophobic part of the host, which is both a cause and a consequence of them having probably the least regular contact with non-fëanorians out of all the armies of east beleriand. paradoxically, this gives them very little incentive to go full cultist; much of the deliberately off-putting stuff the rest of the host does is partially to distinguish them from the outgroup, which isn't something you need to do when everyone you deal with is either part of the gang or an obvious enemy. they still do the elaborate facial deformations, they still have a bit of a Thing about fire, but the thing that's holding them together is much less utter devotion to the cause and much more the organic friendships and kinship bonds between riders

there's a few other reasons why the folk of the gap are relatively less culty. the gap is sparsely populated to begin with, and most of its population is at least semi-nomadic; it's a lot harder to cultivate that kind of obsession when everyone's off doing their own thing most of the time. while the gap doesn't have the highest headcount of mithrim sindar - as stated above, its population is tiny even by east beleriand's low standards - it has more mithrim sindar as a proportion of the population than anywhere else in east beleriand, and the culture of the gap has this big mithrim sindarin focus on community and clan to counteract the noldorin tendency to sacrifice everything for grand ideals. the general lack of new recruits from outside the host only serves to intensify all of this; the riders of the gap fight together because of the spiderweb of social and personal obligations that link them all together, not necessarily because of the cause (though that is still a factor, i want to be clear.) this fairly isolated society held together by individual and familial bonds stands in stark contrast to:

himlad: the thing about celegorm and curufin's people is that they're up against the fuzzy border between east and west beleriand, between maedhros' definitely-not-a-kingdom and the finarfinians' section of fingolfin's defensive line. as such, they're more or less constantly in contact with the outside world, coordinating troop movements, sharing information and resources, recruiting from the same sindarin populations. there's still a clear delineation between the fëanorians and the fingolfinians, partially because there's a lot of mountains between their major centres and partially because this lot actually do have an other to define themselves against and thus a reason to emphasise their own identity, but there's a lot of chatter and petty squabbling and philosophical discussion and a steady regular connection to the outside world counteracting the worst of the cultishness. unlike pretty much any other part of the host, the himlad minions never really lose the sense that they belong to a greater community of elves

which explains what they do in nargothrond. i don't believe that literally every single one of their followers abandoned celegorm and curufin, but i'd buy it was a lot of them, maybe even most of them. it helps that it's specifically the finarfinians their lords are betraying, the people they've - perhaps not fought side by side with, but who definitely always had their backs. even without that, though, the very existence of that relationship means they're used to working with people from outside the host, getting to know them, empathising with them, which is a pretty hefty counterbalance to the specific the-whole-world's-out-to-get-us undercurrent of internal propaganda. by no means was it an instant switch, or an easy one; after finrod got ousted there was a ton of interhost politicking and debate and the occasional brawl as everyone tried to figure out what to do. but the fact that the question was even open says a lot, i think. that probably wouldn't have been the case even in:

thargelion: caranthir’s domain is the most heavily populated part of east beleriand, and the settlement at lake helevorn is the closest thing it has to a city. a significant portion of that population aren’t fëanorians by even the loosest definition; they’re dwarven traders or miscellaneous humans or sindar far enough from the front line of the siege they can just keep on with their lives the way they always have. the fëanorians (and here, more than anywhere else, that’s a fuzzy category; this is the easiest part of the host to join, and the easiest to leave) are mixed in with all these groups, negotiating supplies, managing tribal levies, patrolling the roads, state stuff. out of all the subdivisions of the host, the thargelion minions are the hardest to distinguish from outsiders.

to keep their ingroup coherent, then, they actively mark themselves out. the minions in thargelion are probably the loudest about their collective identity and the cause and the joy of bathing in your enemies’ blood and all that. they have weird midnight rituals and purpose-built meeting halls and elaborate coded language, and while being overly tyrannical about it would be bad for business there’s definitely a sense that they form a tightly knit core which looks after its own above all else. that image is somewhat complicated by the aforementioned blurry edges of the thargelion host - is the sindarin bureaucrat who’s never touched a weapon in her life but plays a vital role in the military administration a fëanorian? is the noldorin freeholder who pays very little attention to the day-to-day minutia of the war but keeps his sword sharp for the hour it is needed? - but the alliance of old soldiers at its heart is a clear and palpable thing, especially when you can feel its eyes. when their hackles aren’t up the minions are perfectly happy to mingle socially with the other peoples of thargelion, though, which sets them apart from:

himring: on the frontlines of the siege of angband, with all the nightmares of the north pressing directly on their spirits, maedhros’ followers stoke the flames of their devotion high. the warriors of the cold fortress are less showy about their fervor than their counterparts in thargelion or even himlad, but the ardour underlying it is markedly more intense; they don’t have much in the way of over-the-top rituals, but they have vast amounts of ironclad unspoken rules they follow unwaveringly. they’re polite to outsiders, sometimes even welcoming, but you never forget that you are, in fact, an outsider, and that himring and its satellite forts form an internal world others can never quite see. even to other fëanorians, they come across as aloof

their fervour also tends to manifest as a deep personal loyalty that borders on reverence towards maedhros himself. all the brothers command respect, of course, they’re all magnetic personalities who draw people in and bind them together, but maedhros’ minions are on a whole other level. they mythologise him, tell stories of his deeds like he personally holds the line against morgoth, treasure the slightest contact with him, hold being called to his direct service as the highest honour of all. most of the new recruits to the himring host are brought in by the vast pull of maedhros’ reputation, from all across beleriand and even from the north. but no matter where they came from, they all understand that they will fight and live and die together beneath the banner of their lord. which is a bit weird, even by fëanorian standards, but they’re nowhere near as bad as:

ossiriand: amrod and amras’ henchelves are considered by the rest of the host to be notably psychotic, which is saying a lot. the minions of ossiriand are utterly terrifying, absolutely fanatical about the cause, the most bloodthirsty murder cult in east beleriand. you’d think the green-elves they share their territory with would act as a calming influence, but in practice the two groups mostly avoid each other, because the green-elves naturally prefer to stay away from these nutbags. you’d think being away from the front lines would lessen the need to solidify their identity through cult nonsense, but in practice it gives them the free time to go full gonzo. most of the horrible rumours you hear about the fëanorians in the rest of beleriand are either specific quirks of the ossiriand minions, or most egregrious in the ossiriand minions. they have an orc pit

or so they’d have you believe. the fëanorians in ossiriand effectively serve as the host’s intelligence division, scouts and spies and saboteurs. a lot of their work is clandestine by its very nature, and they tend to be pretty secretive about what they actually do. half the things you hear about them are probably disinformation, lies they’re deliberately spreading to make themselves sound scarier. hopefully, at least. as anyone who’s chatted with an ossiriand minion knows, they are both eagerly awaiting the fulfilment of the oath, and already preparing for what will come after

(this paradigm does break down after the siege is broken and the union of maedhros fails and the dregs of the armies of east beleriand wind up stuck in the same ever-shrinking territory. still, i think the origins of the survivors are... interesting. the people of the gap were almost completely wiped out in the bragollach, the people of himlad mostly jumped ship with celebrimbor, even the people of thargelion took heavy losses in the nirnaeth. but the people of himring stood firm around their lord, and the people of ossiriand were never really frontline fighters in the first place. minions from the more cultish parts of the host tend to survive longer, and in greater numbers. i feel this could have... consequences)

[by-nina]

Exchange

Artwork by @caesurables​​; do not repost.

AO3 | FFN Royai Week 2021 | Day 1 – King’s gambit/Queen’s gambit Rating: M (light drinking, sexual content) Genre: Lemon Word Count: 3,230

A/N: Happy Royai Week, everyone! Welcome to the spiciest thing I've written so far, which marks the first time I'm starting Royai Week with smut. I hope this feeds you well. Special shoutout to Mica for adding life to this with the gorgeous art! 😍

Something stirs in her; on one hand, it would be easy to call it yearning. But on the other, nothing that concerns Roy Mustang has ever been easy. Riza has always equated these things with methodical moves and calculated risks.

And so, for once, Riza pictures herself playing her game not for Roy’s sake, but for hers. She imagines that the stakes are different, the rules may be broken, and the only person she has ever wanted is both her gamble and her prize. She could have it all now—she need only play her piece.

———

Roy Mustang was made for a night like this. Handsome, stylish dress uniform, hair slicked back like a frame around his striking facial features, an air of dignity in his walk, his posture, even his gaze. He wears it all so well that he stands out from older, more distinguished company in the East City Hotel, where tonight, the Eastern Army is holding an extravagant ball in recognition of its recently promoted officers.

Riza is present as well, of course. For the occasion, she has traded her usual military attire for a blue satin gown with a flatteringly slender silhouette. A sash pinned with the insignia of her rank hangs from her shoulder to her hip. Having gone up the stage much earlier in the program for her own recognition, she has now retreated to the far end of the room, from where she’s got a full view of Roy as he waits to be called in front of the crowd.

Her promotion from Second to First Lieutenant is nowhere near as significant as his becoming Colonel, but it is no less her night than his. Selfish though the thought may be, it’s true that Roy owes this night to her, every title and every honor conferred to him. In every aspect of his life, she has made a crucial choice that allowed him to take a step in the right direction towards their goals—his goals that she has chosen to make her own.

“For the rank of Colonel, Roy Mustang…”

It was Riza’s choice to join him in the military, and it was this choice that has kept him on his path and his eyes on these goals. She has been devoted to his success just as much as to her act of atonement, but she was not subservient to either. Roy also carries with him the burden of their sins in Ishval. Her responsibility over his atonement means that she has more power than a subordinate would normally have under their superior. Anyone could be a dutiful subordinate or competent bodyguard, after all, but only she could be trusted with his life as well as his death.

“… the formidable Flame Alchemist…”

And it was her choice to reveal the secrets of flame alchemy, entrusted to her by her father, that first set him on the path towards his goals for the people and the country in the first place. Had she not trusted him, Roy would have searched further and longer for some other practice of alchemy. Had Riza chosen to die with her father’s secrets, Roy might not have come anywhere near who he is now.

“… and Hero of Ishval.”

Every choice she has made in their intertwined lives has determined the course of his, even when he should have been none of her concern. This was especially true in Ishval. She could have pulled the trigger at any time when she despised him most. She could have reversed the choice that brought him to Ishval. Riza chose instead to be an ally—a friend in a war where every other sense of humanity seemed to have been lost.

The Hero of Ishval was made through her actions; as was the Flame Alchemist; as was this shiny new Colonel Roy Mustang. As he is introduced by Lieutenant General Grumman, he takes his place at the center of the ballroom stage, and his titles and promotion seem all the more impressive due to the fact that he is the only new Colonel being recognized tonight. The crowd erupts in a reverent applause which Riza does not join in.

In different circumstances, if it weren’t for the very cards they have been dealt, tonight could have truly been happy, a cause for celebration. But their plans continue forming and unfolding; this game on which they have staked their lives does not pause. And so Riza watches him as she drinks her champagne, quietly imagining the steps they ought to take next, the moves they must plan, the sacrifices she must make in this gambit where she is both player and piece and he is the king set to take it all.

Her life is a game which she plays for Roy Mustang to win.

When his moment passes and the ceremony moves on, Roy descends from the stage, searching through the crowd for Riza. He finds her and meets her gaze across the room, and for a moment she wavers in her train of thought. She is familiar with this feeling. She has felt its pull before, but never this strongly, never with enough clarity so as to explicitly name him its object. How could she possibly feel it towards someone for whose sake she has forgotten her own needs and her own desires? How could she not be indifferent instead?

Riza leaves her champagne on a nearby table and turns in the opposite direction to walk off its effects. The party thankfully offers plenty enough distraction from the drink and from Roy. She meets a few colleagues here and there, makes small talk, and when she loses sight of Roy, she’s certain that he has been intercepted by people wishing to congratulate him or rub elbows with him for his prodigious rise through the ranks. She soon manages to extricate herself from the crowd and disappear from the ballroom.

———

“You should be celebrating tonight, Lieutenant.”

Riza knows that Roy has found her before he even speaks. She didn’t think that he would. She had wandered around the hotel until she found herself in distant, unfamiliar hallways decorated with beautiful artwork that she could admire until her intoxication had worn off enough to safely drive home. But there is no mistaking the sound of his footsteps or the scent of his perfume tinged with the liquor from the party. Part of her wants to disappear again, but his proximity in an otherwise deserted place seems to further slow down her currently unreliable reflexes.

Riza smiles dryly. “Does it matter if we received our actual promotions a week ago? We all know this is just an excuse to flatter ourselves and have a good time without spending our own money.” Roy smirks as she shakes her head. “Either way, I think I'll enjoy the party much better here, away from the crowd. But you're everyone's darling for the evening. They'll be wanting you back."

Roy sighs and rubs the side of his head, as if the very thought tires him. "I see enough of them at work. And there's going to be more of them around now, especially when we get transferred to Central. This night isn't about them."

The mention of Central causes Riza to bristle with alertness. She whips her head around to ascertain that the hallway is deserted. Behind her, she finds an intricately carved double door, and she quickly strides across the hallway to it. To her surprise, it is unlocked; the room beyond it appears to be dark and deserted. Riza shoots a glance at Roy as she enters. He swiftly follows.

Riza spots a nearby floor lamp just before she locks the door. For a moment, the room is pitch black, then Riza switches on the lamp. Its warm glow is just enough for her to make out Roy’s face and the silhouettes of the furniture in the room. They seem to have found themselves in a lavish parlour with a high-backed sofa and matching armchairs, a handsome tea table for two, a fireplace carved from white marble, and a vintage piano.

“I see you’re already making plans for proceeding to Central,” Riza begins. “We should be more careful about discussing them from now on, Colonel. Everyone has their eyes on you.”

Roy stares at her questioningly. Then, a small laugh breaks through his expression, and he shakes his head. “I’m not. I didn’t come looking for you to talk about our plans.”

She frowns. “What is it, then?”

“It’s just like I said. You should be celebrating tonight.” He draws what sounds like both a nervous breath and a laugh. “It wouldn’t have been right to enjoy the party without you. You’re the reason we’ve both come this far.” He pauses, and then his voice turns softer than before. There is no trace of a smile left in it or on his face. “I know you know that, Lieutenant.”

In the soft light, Roy’s face appears flushed, his features softer than they were when she watched him back at the ballroom. Riza doesn’t realize just how close he is until the scent of champagne on her is lost to his raspberry wine. Something stirs in her; on one hand, it would be easy to call it yearning. But on the other, nothing that concerns Roy Mustang has ever been easy. Riza has always equated these things with methodical moves and calculated risks.

And so, for once, Riza pictures herself playing her game not for Roy’s sake, but for hers. She imagines that the stakes are different, the rules may be broken, and the only person she has ever wanted is both her gamble and her prize. She could have it all now—she need only play her piece.

But never in any of their plans or her own did she consider this a possible outcome, that Roy Mustang would be kissing her with one gentle hand on her face and another on her waist, or that the warmth of his body could be such a welcome comfort. He kisses her as if he has known for a long time just how closely he would need to lean in, how to tilt his head to the correct angle so that the curve of his lips would fit perfectly with hers. Riza senses this not because of unrestrained passion—on the contrary, Roy is perfectly still. The kiss is tender, but the rest of him is tense, as if it’s the only thing holding him together now. Or as if it’s the only thing he has held out for all this time.

Roy breaks away from her slowly, and it’s Riza whose heart is thundering in her chest. Perhaps, had the game been hers alone to play, it wouldn’t have led them so far so soon. Had it been she to approach him first, they might have only teetered over their fragile lines and not fully crossed to a point of no return. But Roy has taken her by surprise where the playing field has always seemed to be even between them. This, she cannot accept—she has never made a gamble that she did not see through. This will not change now.

She will play her game on her own terms.

Riza flings her arms over Roy’s shoulders as she kisses him, one hand running through his hair and undoing it back to the style she knows and likes best on him. It makes her want more—thank heavens that he realizes it right away. He responds so ardently that they stumble, so he steers her until she falls back against the piano and dissonant notes blare over their sighs. His hand runs down her side, over her hip and into the slit of her blue dress, where he reaches under her thigh and lifts it up against his leg.

But Riza refuses to give in so easily. She trails her hand down his front, all the way down to where he has started to turn hard. A gasp escapes him when she wraps her fingers around his erection and tugs at it. It gives her an opportunity to push back and reverse their positions so he is seated on the piano—it clangs unpleasantly again—and she is leaning over him as she makes short work of his jacket and his shirt to kiss his chest. The further down Riza drags her lips, the less familiar she is with the territory she is exploring, but she goes on until she brushes against that warm, rough outline. Riza tugs his trousers down, and when he springs free of his clothing, she takes Roy into her mouth.

He is exactly how she wants him right now, inelegant and vulnerable with his head hanging all the way back. Riza starts off slowly, but she is eager to figure out whether she can get him to unravel more quickly with her lips running back and forth along the length of him, or with her fingers massaging the base which her mouth cannot reach. His pleasure seems to build unhurriedly until she twists her tongue around, making him throb and moan quaveringly. She becomes hungry to hear more of him and picks up the pace, never mind that the effort is choking her. Roy grips her hair until it falls out of its pins, ultimately coming loose down her back. She goes, and goes, and she thinks he might be close, but then—

But then Roy pulls her up so he could kiss her, and Riza sighs in pleasure, and it isn’t enough for her just to watch him unravel anymore. She falls into him in a blissful, drunken haze, allowing him to kiss and caress her and unzip her dress. She could burst into flames at every part of her that he touches, even the scars that he had left on her back when their game was at its deadliest. He begins rubbing her between her legs, and there it hardly matters whether his touch flutters over her skin like candlelight or pushes as suddenly as lightning—the sensation just builds and builds, like a storm stirring up the sea.

How could he know so well what to do with her, how to give her just enough and yet leave her wanting more without ever having explored her this way before? The question is quickly lost in Riza’s mind as he finds other ways to arouse her. Now, he’s pulling the top of her dress down, switching positions with her again, alternating between kissing her lips and her breasts. It’s easy to follow him where he goes when he’s leading her through a dazzling trance, easier than it has ever been to follow him in any other way.

The storm slows only once as Roy’s lips brush against her ear with a stammering plea. “Do you want me to—can I keep going?”

Riza hardly recognizes the sound of her own voice when she gasps, “Please.”

Slowly, carefully, he enters her, with her dress hiked up above her hips. Despite the mild ache that comes with it at first, it feels better than anything she could have planned or imagined. Riza is shaking now. She buries her face in Roy’s neck and moans there, where only he can hear her, and she feels his excitement growing at the sound of it. He begins to thrust into her—clang, clang, clang, goes the piano—first at an even pace, which helps ease away her initial discomfort. When the tension disappears from her shoulders, she finds herself swaying against him hungrily. He varies from going exhilaratingly fast to tantalizingly slow—clang, clang, clang!—and at some point, she whimpers—

“Roy—"

It seems to awaken something feral in him. Everything he does with her is greedy now, from his kisses running clumsily from her neck to her lips and back, to his hands grabbing at every part of her that he can reach—and although she likes him like this, unhinged and at the same time in complete control, it makes her want to give him more than she is getting.

Riza pushes herself off the piano and into Roy, and he is more than willing to let her drive him down to the floor. There, she pulls at his hair as she kisses him, then shifts slightly so he can kiss her chest while she slowly sinks down and allows him back into her. Their rhythm is easier to find this time. She starts off at a pace that builds up the heat in her body just right, then later allows his hands and hips to guide her with more fervor and intent. Soon, the pleasure is just too close for her to wait any longer, and they are both overcome with an aching desperation—

“Roy”—she pleads, groans—“oh—"

“Riza—ahh—fuck—”

 “Don’t stop, don’t stop—"

Roy climbs over her, snaking his arms around her to grab at her chest, and he enters her from behind without breaking their rhythm, thrusting vigorously until and throughout her release. The rush, the bliss, the high is simply unthinkable—Riza presses her forehead down and bites her own hand hard to keep herself from screaming. She sinks into an ungraceful sprawl on the floor, drenched in sweat and tremors and Roy’s weight all over her body, but also as feeling if she were made purely of her sensations, with no physical body at all.

A moment passes, or two, or an eternity before she turns to lie on her back. Roy has collapsed next to her and entangled with her, so he adjusts to make way for her. She then finds herself looking up at him; Roy is leaning over her, seeming like an entirely different person with his gentle gaze, his tousled hair, his clothes only barely clinging to his body. His clothes—a reminder of who he is, and therefore, the gravity of what they have just done.

The high subsides almost as quickly as it came over her.

The room is piercingly silent as they scramble back to their feet and several meters away from each other. They keep their backs turned as they smooth their clothes back onto themselves and comb their hair into some normal, unquestionable style. Riza’s senses settle back into rationality at last. This was not a different way to play their old game. This was a temporary escape, a rare exception to her life’s unwavering rules.

“Riza.”

It’s unsettling how he says her name as if it were what he normally calls her, so she does not respond. Surely, he understands that what has just transpired between them must remain in the past, in favor of the reality that they left outside the door. Surely, he knows as well as she does that that reality has already resumed before they have even left the room.

He calls her name again. Riza, again, refuses to acknowledge him.

“Lieutenant.”

Her resolve wavers for only a moment. Riza knows exactly what he is doing. She knows her own excuse for this lapse in judgment—she knows how to keep it from happening ever again. But she can tell by his current insistence and his earlier passion that he doesn’t consider this a mistake like she does. This is, after all, exactly how he plays the game—head on, without hesitation. Roy has broken the rules more thoroughly than she has. He would have done so without her instigation. He has made perfectly clear the gamble that he is willing to make for her.

Riza turns, brushing past Roy and out of the room without so much as looking at him—leaving him behind the door, leaving as much of her selfish desires as she can possibly let go of—because she knows she must keep him from gambling everything away.

[stopeatingwhales]

particles x damon albarn

the lyrics to this song are genuinely so beautiful, like i honestly cannot describe enough how much i adore this song my goodness

Pairing: present day damon x reader

Warnings: none :D

Word count: 1.881

Requested by anon <3

༉‧₊˚✧

It had been two months since I had last seen him. Two whole months since he had set foot in our home; two whole months since he said goodbye to leave for tour. The home that we shared had began to inhabit a sense of eeriness, some nights the walls began to feel as if they were closing in on me, trapping me from any interaction with the outside world, as if to hold me hostage by my own insanity, although other nights the space felt extremely large, almost too big for one person to be able to waste their nights alone in, encapsulating my mind in a constant conflict of obstructive thoughts, forcing me to overthink every tiny detail that was conveyed on the pale stained walls, the wooden floorboards, the arrangement of the furniture, resulting in many a time of me moving around heavy tables and chairs until the image of the room settled my mind’s anxiety. Allowing distance to get in the lines of mine and Damon’s relationship, it was simply uncanny that I was going to miss him; he was the carcass that kept me sane, the being that granted me peace in myself, ease on my mind to prevent such mania from enrapturing my brain, the person that engulfed me into a stupor of adoration and affection that one could never understand the authentic strength until felt - what some perceive as paramour, true love, something so overstimulating that once separated such thing desperation beguiles you to surround yourself with, only a mere sensation of emptiness is all that is felt inside, as if your limbs are damaged, your insides constantly in a state of sickness that you are convinced you’re in need of some form of professional assistance, but it is simply the alchemy, the poison of the apprehension that captivates you from the estrangement from your significant other. Though that wasn’t to say that wasn’t proud of Damon; I embraced fondness and admiration for everything that he did and was so dedicated in doing, his talent and immense knowledge for the art form that speaks to you demonstrated his ability to move millions of people, uniting as one in concerts, all touched from the same, simple string of melodies, proving his true gift and genius that is inside his brain.

I tried to pry my thoughts away from the excitement that had been seeping into my veins from the fact that he was returning home today, in an attempt to focus my mind on whatever had been showing on the television, but there was no use. To be cradled in his arms was all that I had longed, the thought clouding my brain almost every single night that I had thrown my body onto the linen sheets, trying to wrap my body around the duvet to replicate the specific warmth that had enveloped my body when in his arms, his body completely dominating mine, his hands running through my hair gently, apologising with a kiss on the top of my head when he accidentally pulled too roughly, my face buried in his chest as a blush would suddenly creep onto my cheeks, our embrace fulfilling me with a nest of blooming butterflies in my body, a poignant sensation of nervousness and reverence for the man that had me cooped up in his arms, the same feelings that would embody you whilst walking past your first crush during primary school, accidentally brushing your hands against one another’s, sending your mind into overdrive as if to think that the person was the love of your life. Such emotions never left, and I doubted that they ever would; supposing that is true love, he could make me feel like a little girl squealing over her teenage idol because of how perfect he was, just from being himself.

“I’m home, love,” I heard a voice call out in the hallway, accompanied by the soft slam of the front door, the tone of voice lacing a certain amount of raspiness, perhaps from a cigarette that had just been inhaled. My head instantly turned to the door of the living room, eyes settling upon the sight of Damon, who had a small grin curved on his lips, his gaze captured with joy and desire, perhaps from gratification towards the understanding that the tour had finally ended, as well as the fact that he was able to finally see me once again - my expression equally reciprocating his happiness. Instantly jumping from my seat on the couch, I rushed over to him as I threw my arms around him, resting my ear against his chest, listening to the soft pattern of his heartbeat. As usual, his arms wrapped around my figure, tightly embracing my body, the swarm of butterflies breaking out of their cocoons, my limbs growing weak from the recognisable thrill of affection that I had desired for far too long, and had sadly not received. Feeling his lips grazing against the top of my head made my mind go fuzzy, my cheeks flushing a heat that made me feel as if I was under the beating warmth of the sun during the summer months. This is what he does to me. “How’ve you been darling? I see you’ve rearranged the place, again.” he mumbled into my head of hair, my mind still relishing in the pleasure of being in his arms again.

“I’ve missed you,” I replied, reluctantly pulling my arms away from the embrace, in order to gawk at him. A gentle chuckle rumbled from his throat, though his features accentuated pity, understanding how I must’ve felt being away from him for so long. Lightly taking hold of one of his hands, I dragged his arm, guiding him to the sofa, where both of us sat next to each other. “You were gone for so long!”

“I know love, I’ve missed you so much,” he replied, squeezing my hand in reassurance. “At least I’m not gone for any longer though.” he added, his lips curving slightly as I nodded, a similar grin planted on my lips.

“How was the tour then?” I asked, pulling his arm to wrap it around my shoulders, my body already aching for more attachment to him. “The videos I’ve seen online made it look very good.”

“It was great, honestly. Loved every bit of it.” he replied, the grip on my shoulder tightening as he attempted to haul me closer to him. Humming in agreement, I placed my head on his shoulder, cradling the moment we shared together, the moment that I had imagined and adorned each and every night he was absent, cherishing every single time that he was able to be in my presence. I depended on him greatly, as did he, and though that may be a toxic strand which can only result in turmoil; our appreciation for one another held such poise that it would draw us closer together each and every time we had conjoined together after months of being separated. “I’ve actually got something to show you.” he added, shifting from our hug and slowly stepping to his feet, taking his hand in mine, his soft but coarse palms gripping onto mine ever so slightly, urging me to stand up too. “Come with me.”

Following him closely, we headed towards his studio. I had forgotten the last time that I had set foot in it; usually I would leave Damon to work on his craft alone, since having me prance around messing with all sorts of instruments and controls wasn’t going to provide much assistance. As well as that, sitting in the room, knowing that he was away and would be for many days on, would only make me yearn for his presence more, which is the last of what I would need when not being able to fall asleep. Though whenever he would call me into the room, he would always show me the most beautifully crafted symphony, in which he would perform it so effortlessly, as if it was simply created from the top of his head at that moment. Talent like his was so scarce; it would only prove to me that it’s something you are gifted with at birth, like an extremely high intelligence quotient - he always had ideas running through his mind, melodies that would be formed from a simple tap of the table in front of him. It was a wonder in the fact that he seemingly never got burned out with creating music, it was evidently his passion, and it touched me that he would constantly ask me for my opinion on his music, as it always resonated with him, always held such importance.

When we walked inside the studio, I followed him to the grand piano that was standing by the corner of the room. I kept my body upright, behind him, as he pulled out the black stool underneath, moving it back slightly in order for him to sit on it. “Over the tour, I had some free time, so I wrote this song, it’s called Particles,” he began, his voice quiet, as if it were intertwined with a certain anxiousness about what he was about to perform. “It’s still a work in progress, but I wanted to know what you thought of it.”

As I admired his fingers softly grazing the elegant, pale keys of the piano, the melody that in which played forth me instantaneously sufficed me in a trance, bewilderment encompassing my my mind as I listened to the sounds of the alluring chords echo throughout the room, bounce off the walls, the waves of noise crafting mountainous regions of goosebumps to prickle on the bare skin exposed from my forearms. Sculpted with such elegance and formality, my mouth fell agape as he played with such ease - in that significant moment, I was subdued to his music, hypnotised into his magnificence; I could do nothing, absolutely nothing, except admire the grace that fell from his lips once he started singing. As I allowed my gaze to drift onto his face, I gawked at his demeanour, his eyes almost screwed shut, his face almost frozen in place as his body rocked back and forth to the melody that was omitted from the piano. Every word, every string of lines carried a lugubrious essence to it, a tone laced with such beautification; obvious that there were deeper implications behind said lyrics. Each line that escaped his throat exemplified the nature of what earnest fervour, authentic devotion and expertise can embody. Such melody, paired with his voice embodied with pure ethereality, as if I was being greeted by a herd of the most quaint angels, welcoming my soul into the seven heavens. A beam crawled onto my lips, my heart thumping at a million miles per hour from the amount of love I carried in my body for the man in front of me.

Once the song ended, a moment was held in the atmosphere of mere silence, as if to take in all that was felt, all that had vibrated through the sound waves and blessed my ears. Shifting his body so he could connect eyes with me, a gentle, welcoming smile tugged on his lips. “That’s for you.”

[echo-hiraeth]

Princesa - Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Summary: Frankie is eager to find out what it is his girl does for a living, but she’s rather reserved about it. Until they run into each other at a birthday party.

Warnings: Profanities, mentions of injury, little bit of angst, but overall very fluff

Masterlist

A/n: I didn’t pick a specific princess, so everyone can feel included :)) feel free to imagine whichever one lol, go wild!

“Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up?”, he asked, leaving a trail of kisses on your neck.

You scratched at his scalp, smiling down at him. “I get what you’re trying to do”, you chuckle.

“What? Bull-shit! Me, a secret agenda?”, he jested, lying his absolute ass off.

“You jerk! Pretending to care about my safety huh?”, you continued to taunt.

He poked your sides, burying his scruff in your neck. “Can you blame me? You work in ‘entertainment’ that could literally be anything, I just want to knowwww”, he whined.

“Patience, my dear, is the greatest virtue of all. Now unhand me, I have entertainment business to attend tomorrow.”

He pouted, tightening his strong arms around you. “Why can’t you just stay the night, princesa?”

“Because I have a lot of getting ready to do”, you answered, wiggling out of his iron grip.

“Alright, alright, fair enough, but let me come see you after”, he bargained, handing you your shirt off the floor.

You put it on, standing up to button your jeans. “I’ll text you, okay? I love you Frankie.”

He kissed you goodnight, walking you to your car and waving as you drive past. Luckily he had something to preoccupy his mind tomorrow, it was one of Redfly’s girls’ birthday. Tom had invited all the guys to help him out, a bunch of seven year-olds not exactly something he was equipped for.

The two of you had been dating for about half a year now, though you’d only gone public in your fourth month. Frankie had introduced you to some of the guys already, Redly and Ironhead being the ones you had yet to meet. So when you got an e-mail seeing if you could attend a seven year-old’s birthday tomorrow as a Disney princess. The one big mystery had been your job, you’d roughly told Frankie what you did without ever telling him what you did. It had been a big deal to you, some of your exes either breaking up over it or being really creepy about it. Everything had gone so smoothly with Frankie, as if it was always meant to be, and the longer you were dating, the more the talk about your job stressed you out.

The next morning you were up early, showering while trying to think of a way to tell Frankie. Too bad you weren’t allowed to drink on the job, you could use a shot for courage right about now, at ten am in the morning. Getting out of the shower you made your way to your wardrobe, pulling out the drycleaner’s bag with your dress for the day. You put on all the layers, trotting back to the bathroom to do your make-up and put on that damned wig. They really didn’t pay you enough for this, more than once had you nearly passed out from the heat, the wig and excessive uniform nothing short of restricting and suffocating in summer.

You sat down in the kitchen, eating a quick lunch and checking up on your work e-mails before heading off. The drive was supposed to be just under two hours, so you had time to rehearse your little act in the car, singing along to the karaoke version of the assigned princess’ song. You loved it though, seeing those kids’ faces light up as you walked into the room, tugging on the skirt of your dress, singing along with you. It was a very fulfilling job, but a tough industry nonetheless, more than once had a father taken you aside, asking you if you did anything else on the side. It was downright inappropriate and having to walk it off and smile hadn’t always proved easy. You had a good feeling about today though, humming along to the music as you drove, waving at kids and parents in passing.

As per usual you parked a couple houses down the road, not wanting to blow your cover of being a mundane girl rather than a glorified princess. You texted the father of the kid, communicating that you were ready to go. He texted you the OK, telling you to just come around the back. You took a deep breath, putting on your trademark smile as you opened the fence, walking into the garden.

“Look kids, the princess is here!”, somebody announced.

About a dozen of little heads turned your way, some squealing and screaming went along with it, as per usual. You waved excitedly, making a reverence to the birthday girl.

“Tessa! Happy birthday darling!”, you cooed, engulfing the little girl in a hug.

Some of the kids gathered around you, immediately starting the crossfire of interrogation, asking where your prince was, if the other princesses would be coming too, where your castle was, and so on and on. You answered each and every one of their questions, giggling and chuckling as they grew more and more excited.

Frankie was in the kitchen when you arrived, flipping pancakes with Santiago. “Think the princess is here”, he sighed.

“Think she’s hot?”, Pope asked.

“Hope not, Benny won’t be able to keep his hands off”, he chuckled.

Will walked in with some empty bottles. “Those kids are gonna sleep well tonight.”

“Ironhead”, Santi called, “she hot?”

He wolf-whistled, fervently nodding. “Drop-dead-gorgeous is what she is! Go have a look, I’ll take over.”

The two of them went outside with some new bottles of soda and water, setting them down on the table before looking in the direction of all the commotion. Frankie was sipping on some coke as he followed Santi, nearly choking on his drink as he spotted you.

“No way, Fish!”, Santi laughed, doubling over in his enthusiasm.

“That your girl?”, Tom asked with a confused look on his face.

He was rendered speechless, just slowly nodding as he looked at you. This was your “entertainment” job you refused to tell him about? So you weren’t like a private dancer? Just a.. princess for hire? He didn’t know whether to be relieved or not, feeling bewildered more than anything. When the initial shock settled he could actually take a good look at you. Will was right, you did look gorgeous, beaming like that. The dress was beautiful too, making you look regal, if not divine. It was a sight Frankie could get used to, you were adorable. You looked up from where you were crouched, talking to some kid and locked eyes with him.

A fucking deer in headlights. You felt your heart drop, blood rushing to your face. You cleared your throat, trying to regain your composure, not wanting any of the kids to suspect anything was off. But fuck, this wasn’t the plan at all.

He disappeared back into the kitchen, a mischievous smirk plastered on his face. At least Benny would keep his hands off. Will clasped his shoulder, grinning wickedly. “Goddamn Fish, you got yourself a whole princess, huh?”

Normally you felt rather comfortable in your role, singing and dancing for and with the kids as they please, but now, knowing that your boyfriend was here.. it was gonna be a long two hours. Everything was fine until Tessa tugged on your corset, beckoning you to bend down a little.

“Yes, dear?”, you asked.

“My uncles are staring at you”, she whispered, “maybe you should dance with them.”

Your lips curled up involuntarily, your bashfulness gaining the upper hand. “Is that what you really want, Tessa?”

The little girl nodded, twisting some of your locks around her tiny finger. “But uncle Frankie has a girlfriend, so you can’t dance with him”, she explained.

“Of course, that would not be very ladylike”, you assured her, placing a hand on her shoulder, “Your pick, love.”

She hauled you over to Santiago of all guys, giggling as she ran away, leaving the two of you just awkwardly standing there. “Tessa wants us to dance”, you sighed, picking at your fingers.

“Did she now?”, he humoured, “Well who am I to turn a princess down.”

He extended his hand, motioning for you to take it. And so you did. The two of you walked back over to the improvised dance floor. Everyone’s eyes were on you now, as Santiago placed a hand on your waist, the other one holding onto your palm. It was one simple waltz, where he learned this you didn’t know, but as you spun around you caught a glimpse of your surroundings. All the way in the back stood Frankie, leaning against a doorpost.

“Don’t worry about him, he can take it”, Pope soothed you, circling around once more.

You twirled out of his grasp, only to come back in four counts later. “I just feel bad that I didn’t tell him.”

“He’ll understand, but for now, let’s annoy him a bit more.”

You couldn’t help but huff out a laugh at this, nodding before you devoted all your attention to the dance again. At the end you curtsied, as did he, pressing a tender kiss to your palm. You saw Frankie shift in the corner of your eye, Benny already making his way over to you.

“Got one more for me?”, he asked, clearly wanting to play along.

You made another reverence, accepting yet again. “How pissed is he gonna be?”, you questioned as he laid his hands on you.

“Fuming”, Benny chuckled, starting to sway along to the music.

It became clear that he was an inexperienced dancer when he stepped on your toes for the fourth time. You just smiled at him, despite wanting to curse him out. He wasn’t doing it on purpose though, offering a mumbled apology each time it happened. That was until he stepped on your foot mid, twirl, making you bend it at an awkward angle. You heard somewhat of a crack before losing your balance. Because he was so close he had no issue steadying you.

“I think I just sprained my ankle”, you whispered, smile faltering due to your discomfort.

“Can you stand on it?”

You get tried to put some more weight on it, nearly falling in your attempt. Benny caught you yet again, putting your arm around his shoulder, guiding you towards one of the chairs.

Frankie was by your side before you could so much as blink, crouching down next to your chair. “Everything alright?”

“Her ankle’s fu- not good”, Benny informed him, grabbing the nearest bottle of water.

“We should take this inside, away from the kids”, you whispered, noticing the little heads turned in your direction.

Frankie nodded, sliding an arm under the backs of your knees, swiftly picking you up. He carried you into the house without a word, setting you down on the couch. You bent over to slide your heel off, whining at the sensitivity.

“What happened out there?”, he asked from the kitchen.

You lifted your skirt to get a good look. “He stepped on my foot and I bent it.”

“Shit – think it’s broken?” He knelt down again, resting your foot on his thigh as he carefully laid some ice on it.

You flinched at the touch, pursing your lips as you nodded rather frantically. “Yep, yep, yep. That’s never a good sign.”

“Okay, I’m taking you to the ER, c’mon”, he announced, once again picking you up. “I know my truck is no carriage but..”

You playfully hit his shoulder. “Don’t you dare make fun of me now.”

 He sat with you the entire time you were in the ER. Since you weren’t injured that badly you mostly were just stuck in the waiting room, in pure agony. You got some strange looks in your dress, but you’d abandoned the wig and corset. Frankie stuck by your side the entire time, kissing you forehead and holding your hand when he felt like it.

“I think you’re up, princesa”, he murmured, pointing towards the doctor approaching you.

 You had indeed fractured your ankle. The x-rays proved as much, a clean break on the bone. The doctor gave you some advice as to how to treat it and what not to do and left you in a small room with Frankie, waiting for a nurse to come apply your cast.

“Are you mad?”, you asked quietly.

He quirked a brow at you, trying to read you. “What?”

“Well.. the dancing and just not telling you and-“

He kissed you, shushing you with his mouth. “Honey, you were doing your job and the guys were just playing around. Why would I be mad?”

“It’s just that.. well in the past my job has.. you know, put an end to things…”, you said with a trembling lip.

He cupped your face, making you look up at him. “I don’t care about what you do for a living, baby, princess or not, you’ll always be my princesa.”

You blinked away a few tears, leaning back in to close the gap once again. “I love you so much, Frankie.”

“Te quiero mucho, mi amor. But.. you do owe me a dance.”

[marabrosca]

[REUPLOAD] - What You Seek Will Find You (Cullen x Lavellan)

a commission for @cullenvhenan with her OC immy 

words: 3k

summary: Cullen reflects on his heart's desires, and comes to the one thing he wants the most. (Cullen’s pov fic and his falling in love with Imryll Lavellan)

tags: pining, soft, romance, kissing

warning: contains mentions of racism/colorism but is never directly said to any poc

Read it on AO3

It was uncomfortable to see a chantry half full, Cullen decided. He couldn’t remember a time where he and his family would attend a sermon, and be joined by only a dozen people. The chantry in his youth accommodated with every seat and then some, as many late arrivals would continue to listen to the Revered Mother’s litany whilst standing in the back by the front door. Having the room be so scarce, having so many pews be empty, made the ceremony feel far more serious and intimidating than intended.

It was here that Cullen would be fulfilling his dream of joining the Templar Order, taking his vows and swearing to protect Thedas at the behest of the Andraste Herself. He peered over at the towering statue of the prophet, Her pyre burning brightly but expanding no more light into the room than a few candles. He felt himself shrink into his armor, picking nervously at his embroidered skirt as Andraste’s stone eyes bore into him. It was a dull service he had to admit. A withered old chantry Sister recited the Chant Of Light in an almost monotone voice, pausing every few lines to include the sacred blessings given to those joining the Order.

Cullen had practiced his vows more times than he could count. There were formal promises to make, but they came strictly with a list. When he had been given the list, the scroll lay heavy in his hands. The gold ribbon around it had made it seem as resplendent as the Chantry’s interior, and no less important than the impression it made. Each Templar was to choose their own vows, their own honest promises to the Maker.

Everyone is different, and we are all here for different reasons. But now we join as one, and must do what is expected of us. Therefore, it is the responsibility of one who chooses to walk the path of sacrifice, to pave the road they walk on.

It was something that was repeated to him in the upcoming weeks of the ceremony. There were many ways, as it turned out, to prove one’s faithfulness to the Maker. There was fasting, sacrificing of material goods (not that Templars had many personal items to begin with), excessive prayer, public preaching, and at least ten other things that Cullen could remember. There was only one that gave him pause: chastity, and the detachment to romantic relations, even within marriage. Cullen felt weak for admitting it, but the idea of a future in solitude wasn’t exactly appealing. Not that it was supposed to be. The idea was that a Templar-to-be would set aside personal desire and focus solely on duty, devoting themselves entirely to their service.

But Cullen saw no reason why he couldn’t do both. A part of him, a part he hid from others, was enamored with the idea of marriage. He’d caught himself many times dreaming of the day his soul-mate would enter his life, accepting the promise to live in each other’s hearts. It was indulgent and juvenile, but he wondered if perhaps one day he’d be in chantry taking entirely different vows than the ones he would proclaim that day. As far as Cullen could see, there were no obstacles in finding someone who was Andrastian. They’d have to be, wouldn’t they? Followers of the chantry and the Maker filled every space in Ferelden, and certainly he wouldn’t be traveling far from Kinloch Hold after the ceremony. Frankly, there was no reason to worry.

The young man heard his name and he stood, almost too quickly, and shuffled out of the pew, making his way to the Revered Mother. She looked at him with a kind smile, and he bowed his head in response. The woman’s hand hovered above him, pausing.

“Have you prepared your promises to the Maker, accepting His blessing as a holy child and servant of Andraste?” “Yes.” He replied firmly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

-

Decades had passed since that day, disappearing like a dream interrupted by daylight. At no point would Cullen expect anything he had experienced, or where he was now. Snow crunched under his boots as he surveyed twenty new recruits to the Inquisitor’s forces- the DalishInquisitor – yet they served just as devout to the chantry as he had once been. An uncomfortable, heavy force weighed on him at the thought; a reminder of his skewed mind from the past. It was a part of him he didn’t want to forget, so that he would never become that man again. He didn’t, however, want it to swallow him whole. That part was harder.

Two of the newest recruits, George and Elliott, were sent to fetch a requisition officer that had been surveying the Storm Coast for some time. The men seemed eager, and promising, and gave off an air of charisma that delivered a boost in morale. Soon enough they returned with the aforementioned officer. She was a tall, lanky elf with pale skin and large, striking emerald eyes. Her black hair fell to her mid-back, lips pink and puffy in the cold. Cullen greeted her politely, taking the missives from her hands as she smiled pleasantly at him. The officer followed Cullen to the desk planked beside the staircase extending from the ramparts. He didn’t miss the almost pungent smell of perfume on her, but made no comment. The commander settled the forms into a neat pile, getting ready to turn to his scouts, when he looked up and noticed that she was still standing there. He cleared his throat when she did not have anything to say. “Thank you, Deanna, for going out of your way.”

“No problem at all, Commander.” The elf smiled at him, folding her hands behind her back.

“Ah…was there something else you needed?” Deanna twirled a finger through a lock of hair, her cheeks turning pinker than before.

“Actually, I was wondering if you were busy tonight.” She replied, eyeing the desk quickly before settling her sights on his face. George and Elliott watched the sight, impressed with their Commander’s obliviousness to her body language.

“As it happens, I am very busy tonight,” Cullen answered, turning and handing the papers over to a scout without pause. “There is still much work to be done if Skyhold is to ever be inhabitable. And I fear the most difficult challenges are yet to come. Why? Does something require my attention?” Deanna’s smile sunk to her knees with her shoulders following suit. “Um, no, it was nothing. Thank for your time, Commander.” “And you, as well.” Cullen responded with a nod, watching the elf turn and make her way up the stairs.

-

As busy as the ex-Templar seemed to be, he had set some time aside that evening to have a walk down the ramparts with Inquisitor Imryll. Soon the easy stride had turned to a pause, then to a conversation, then to a kiss. It was clearly unplanned and unexpected- quite the opposite of how Cullen had always carried himself- but there was no doubt in the way Imryll held onto his back and caressed his hair, that she didn’t object to it.

Gossip spread like the Blight within Skyhold regarding the Inquisitor’s supposed “dalliance” with the Commander. A couple of messengers and guards that had been making their way by wasted no time sharing the tale of what they had witnessed, or exaggerating it.

“It was a sweep of passion! He grabbed her and they nearly dipped as if they were dancing!” “I wasn’t that close, so I couldn’t really tell, but Ser Rutherford appeared very harsh with our Lady Inquisitor. Do you think he treats all his women that way?” “She hypnotized him with blood magic, I swear!” The only things the tales had in common was that a kiss was involved, anything else could not be answered, much to the disappointment of the staff who were almost growing bored of the mundane. When the news reached Elliott, he was quick to share what he heard over a drink on the grass with George, who turned his nose up in disgust. “See that, I just don’t get.” “What’s not to get? You don’t know what a kiss is? Do you revolt women that much?” “No, smartass.” George took a swig from his flask before continuing. “I don’t get how someone would, ya know, go for an elf. Does he seem like the type? And that elf on top of it- what’s next, a Qunari?”

Elliott let out a cackling laugh, almost catching his lip between his browning teeth. “Not your type, eh?” “Not anybody’s type.” George tried to adjust himself on the ground, reaffirming his seat in the same spot once the dizziness ceased his actions. “At least you got- at least you got some lookers here, right? Like that one from before…that, uh, Deanna. Them ones with the big eyes and the curves and all- and have you ever seen an elf that was so dark?” “Not before the Inquisitor. Her eyes are black, did you notice? Do you think she’s blind?” “I thought all elves were ivory and lanky and- where did she even come from?” “Somewhere up north.” “Up north, bah.” George, not heeding the warning his body gave him before, took another large gulp. “If you asked me, I’d kiss an ogre any day before I’d even think about kissin’ her. She wouldn’t-”

Before he could finish his ramblings, a pair of hands grabbed them both from behind, lifting them by the collars and onto their feet. George almost vomited, feeling the searing burn shoot up his throat at the assault. Both men turned sharply to be met with the fiery eyes of their Commander. The men could feel their faces turn numb and a pulse beat in the back of their skulls. Elliott dropped his mug without thinking, licking his lips in an attempt to speak.

“Commander-”

“I don’t want to hear another word.” “But-” “Not. One. Word.” Cullen’s teeth stuck out starkly against his reddening face.

The recruits gulped, bugged-eyed as George swayed slightly from the alcohol. Cullen’s gaze locked onto the mug spilling yellow liquid onto the grass. “I see that your night of leisure has given you loose tongues.”

Cullen pondered what kind of punishment should bestow them. Perhaps they were to be bound and brought to the Inquisitor on her throne, and beg at her feet for mercy after confessing their crimes? The idea was enticing, but it was likely the display would embarrass Imryll, and he needn’t put more on her shoulders regarding her reputation. Besides, she hadn’t heard the words herself, so why hurt her feelings? No, that simply wouldn’t do. They needed to learn a lesson…a long-term lesson. Without warning Cullen grabbed them by the collar again and pushed them both face-first into the dirt. “You will clean this mess, and then pack your things. At dawn, you will be deployed to the Hissing Wastes, where you will remain until the hole in the sky is welded shut.” The Hissing Wastes was the most miserable landscape in Thedas Imryll had ventured to that he could think of. It was a constant scorching mass of dry air and sand, flipping the coin completely when all was frozen over at night. Only the most hardened travelers could tolerate its climate. It was a long-lasting punishment for a crime that could permanently scar having landed in Imryll’s ears.

Without another word Cullen turned on his heel and walked back to the fortress, ignoring the groaning coming from behind him. As he moved out of sight, Elliott wobbled down to pick his mug off the ground, and George let go of all the liquid courage in his stomach that had sealed their fates.

-

Days had passed since the new blood of the Inquisition seemingly vanished overnight, but Cullen’s hands still upturned into fists at the memory. He hadn’t been there when they were carted off, but it was reported right before that they wished to beg forgiveness. Cullen dismissed the messenger with a wave of his hand and went back to his business like he was the only one in the room. He scowled, eyeing the ground with intensity as not to scream, a look that caught the eye of the curly-haired elf standing across from him. She walked up to him before he could react, kissing the knot between his eyebrows. All at once he melted, tense muscles going loose for a brief moment as he looked up. Her smile was concerned, and he felt his face relaxing as not to worry her further. “Are you alright?” she asked, grazing the back of her fingers along the side of his face, leaving goose bumps in her wake.

“Yes…I’m fine.” He let out a breath, willing himself to calm down. His hand reached up to grasp hers, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. It made them both blush, and Imryll’s fingers curled in his grasp.

“I had been wondering this for a while,” she started, not pulling away from his hold.

“That day you kissed me on the battlements…how long had you wanted to do that?”

Cullen couldn’t help but let out a laugh, smiling despite the heat in his cheeks. Her tone wasn’t mischievous, merely curious. A part of him advised against telling her; it was unprofessional at the very least to admit that he had wanted his lips on hers not too long after meeting, before Skyhold, even. Despite not being the best of friends at the time, Cullen found himself gravitating towards her, and desired her approval for more than just reasons regarding their duty.

He smiled sheepishly before finally answering her query.

“Longer than I should admit.”

-

Springtime scarcely differed from winter when it came to living on a mountain. Everyone still wore furs up to their noses and the courtyard was rarely full. Merchant deliverers unloaded their cargo as quickly as they could before ducking into the tavern. Orlesian noblewomen paraded their flower-adorned shifts about, calling attention to their “eye to detail”, modeling their appearance after the Skyhold garden. This, in reality, was meant to turn attention away from their unseemly reddening noses each time they needed to lift their mask and cough into a handkerchief.

Despite this -and despite her own hatred for the cold- Imryll could still be found tending to her plants- the ones that would survive the elements. She frowned as she lifted a limp stem with her finger, disappointed she wouldn’t be able to expand her alchemy skills just yet. Vivienne had warned her it was too early to start studying potions that required foliage, but in an effort to impress her, Imryll had tried it anyway. And now she was thinking of a way to dispose of the dead roots without embarrassing herself.

The sound of familiar footsteps behind her turned her attention away from the frozen soil, lifting her mood in an instant. “There you are. I was worried you’d still be out here.” Cullen sighed.

“Oh, yes. I was seeing how things were going,” she replied, gesturing to the frozen soil “Don’t tell Vivienne.” Cullen chuckled and removed his cloak, draping it over her shoulders.

“You’ll catch cold out here.” His touched his forehead with hers, watching as she scrunched her nose at the tickle of the wind.

“Walk me back?” Imryll guided them the long way around, entwining her arm with Cullen’s. Halfway there her legs had “gone completely numb from the cold”, and their only solution was to duck into an archway that housed a small stone bench. The elf laid her cheek on the part of his armor still covered by cloth, and sighed as his fingers glided down her arm.

“Feeling better?” “Not yet,” she replied, moving ever closer into his arms. Cullen held her tighter, making the Inquisitor smile. Her soft, round cheek was squished up against his chest, and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing. The atmosphere was too serene to believe. The moon now overshadowed the sun, leaving the walkway empty aside from them. Imryll gazed out at the greenery that still grew around them. But Cullen’s eyes were transfixed on her. In these escaping moments of peace, he found himself wondering what he would do in the future. If she survived- when she survived the impending battle with Corypheus- what would he do? He had been only a child the last time he lead a normal life, even though nothing for him would be truly normal again. Would she go with him? Would she go back to her clan? His stomach coiled at the thought, as selfish as it was. He wouldn’t blame her for returning to her people when this was all over, but surly he could not join her. The Dalish didn’t welcome humans as passersby, let alone a human lover. What if she left him? Did she not feel as strongly about their relationship as he did? Would she have to choose?

And more importantly, how would he declare the choice he’s made?

He couldn’t imagine a life without her. Despite the hardships and horrors he’s endured, having Imryll walk out of his life would be the breaking point. His gaze solemnly drifted to the bare blackness of the sky, subconsciously tightening his grip on Imryll.  

“Cullen? Is something wrong?” she asked, lifting her head.

“Oh- I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” “No…” the Inquisitor waited for an answer to her question.

“I think we should go back inside. I’m sure you’d be far more comfortable with warm tea in your bed, wouldn’t you say?” Imryll perked up at the thought and reluctantly sat up to stretch.

“Will you be joining me?” Imryll asked over her shoulder, half flirtatiously. “If my lady wishes so.” Cullen responded, chuckling and standing to join her on the walk back to her quarters.

“I do. But is that what you want?”

What I want… Without warning the commander hoisted her up into his arms, leaning his head down to kiss her lips. She let out a yelp before laughing, slapping lightly at his chest as he carried her through the garden. Wind brushed roughly against the pathway flowers, sending a few white petals into the air, catching onto Imryll’s curls. Their white littered the stone, creating an almost snowy effect as he walked. They went unnoticed by Imryll, who was too distracted reaching up to playfully peck at her lover’s chin.

What he wanted…

He knew now more than ever.

-

Imryll had taken some time to teach Cullen threads of Dalish before, but nothing like this.

“Sylaise enaste var aravel…”

The sound of her native tongue caressed his ears. Everything in that moment disappeared except for her; and although he couldn’t understand the words, he felt them in his heart. He wanted her promise to be true, and he trusted that it was.

“I swear unto the Maker and The Holy Andraste to love this woman the rest of my days.”

As the words left his lips, they connected with hers. Perhaps he should have waited until Mother Giselle made the official decree, but he couldn’t wait another moment.

The kiss ended with the faint tickle of Cullen’s breath against her lips. His nose stayed atop hers, soft chestnut eyes barely open beneath his lashes. It was their first kiss as a married couple, a term they could barely comprehend. Cullen sighed blissfully, capturing the moment in his mind down to every detail as the setting sun painted them in golden light, as if the world turned just for them. Imryll’s skin blended with the rays. Her eyes reflected, but were not illuminated by the shine, creating a stark clear surrounding of white around the onyx that seduced him so many times.

Imryll took but a single step before she was whisked off her feet. A surprised yelp quickly turned to giggles as her husband hoisted her into his arms in a true bridal-fashion. Mushy bounced excitedly at Cullen’s feet and wagged his tail, attempting to angle himself so that he could leap up to join Imryll.

“Blasted-get down! I can’t hold the both of you.”

Imryll laughed joyously, taking her lover’s face into her hands.

“How long have you wanted to do that?”

Cullen smiled down at her.

“Longer than I should admit.”