#fresh off of fighting solas

[wanderingknights]

Loved veilguard truly did but they seriously expect me to believe Josephine has waited 10 years for a wedding??? Hell, a proposal? Josephine Montilyet????? Like what are we talking about!!!!! Her and my inquisitor should have kids at this point guys

[adonneniel]

Ok, after finishing Veilguard and sleeping on it, my final impression remains disappointment and frustration. Spoilerific thoughts beneath the cut. Long post. Maybe a bit ranty/incoherent in parts, but I don't feel like going back to edit.

Positives, in no particular order:

The game is beautiful, even on (mostly) medium settings. Despite wishing for a few more wavy options, the hair is perfection and I honestly can't complain.

On a related note, the character creator is amazing. Customizing body & face tattoos! Height and weight sliders!!! I wish the bust and glute sliders went a further, but whatever. I can live. I like that we can import our characters on a new save, and I hope they patch in an option to do that with the Inquisitor as well.

Mechanically it was fun to play

THE BLOOD OF ARLATHAN QUEST. Absolute perfection. Everything I wanted out of this game. I felt hopeless and overwhelmed. My skin crawled. My gut clenched. The horrors of the Venatori were on full display & served as an excellent parallel to the rise of irl facism. And Solas an Elgar'nan exchanging insults inside my head?? I was giddy. I felt the centuries of compounding animosity mixed with grudging respect. I felt utterly out of my depths and it was wonderful. (And LMAO at the one dude fangirling over Rook)

The siege at Weisshaupt was pretty good too. I like failing. It makes the stakes feel real.

I loved the fresh take on Necromancy. Like, yessssss, make it beautiful and romantic and haunting! It's such a interesting departure from necromancy = gross & evil. They even made it mesh with spirit lore and kept the question of an afterlife alive.

Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain's relationship. I was not expecting them to genuinely care for one another. It did a good job humanizing them & helped balance out the "muahahaha evil" vibe.

I actually didn't mind the magitech-ness. It makes sense that the ancient elves perfected magic to that point, and Tevinter really felt like a knock off version built on the elven empire's bones. It still looked fantasy overall.

I like most of the lore reveals. They were well foreshadowed and, no, I don't get the impression that they just decided to randomly make all the popular theories true. Even if that's the case for a few, they still make sense. (Though I can understand why people might be let down by all "the elves did it!!")

Fighting alongside Solas at the end was fun. Directing my companions during the final fight was fun. I liked that some of them could die (and did--poor Harding)

Solas in general honestly. I didn't find him out of character, just more openly desperate than he was in Inquisition. I also don't hate his dynamic with Mythal like some people, though I understand why it's divisive.

All that said, the negatives still outweigh the positives.

The writing felt timid. Like they were scared to offend anyone so they just decided to ignore the messy parts of their lore and/or hide it behind codex entries that most players probably don't even read.

All those lore drops and we barely had time to sit with them or deal with cultural consequences. Especially when religion is such a huge part of culture? You can't just disprove it and expect people to move on in a few conversations. The Dalish especially should be a wreck.

Tevinter was a disappointment after all the build up we've gotten over last three games. And no, I don't accept southern propaganda and events happening off screen as an excuse. It just reeks of lazy writing. Dorian and Mae's political party failed. Fenris and Dorian are primary sources. Tevinter is fucked up and we should've seen it explicitly on screen, not just limited to a few nasty individuals and codex entries. Instead of a racist, mage run slave state, we got a generic corrupt city with the unique bits alluded to. If you want to argue that it's just because we were in dock town, so obviously we wouldn't be seeing the decadent mage aristocracy...that's just an excuse. The writers didn't have to make that choice.

Wtf did they do to the Crows??? The assassins built on brutality and child slavery are now just being presented as freedom fighters??? Don't try to tell me Zevran reformed things behind the scenes. That's just another excuse for lazy writing (not to mention that he's dead in some player's worldstates). They didn't even deal with Lucanis' abusive upbringing! And it was right there!

The Lords of Fortune are a joke. Pirates Against Cultural Appropriation. Seriously? Combined with that codex entry trying to convince us that their fighting pit is purely volunteer based and death free?? Nah. I don't buy it. They were ultimately useless to the plot and even to the worldbuilding. I learned absolutely nothing about Rivain that hasn't already been told to us in past games (and they didn't even take the chance to show us those things! We just got an empty beach and a few background npcs.)

Tbh this all just feels like another symptom of the game's timid writing. We're good people who only ally with other good people. There's no "enemy of my enemy is my friend". There's no faction with ulterior motives. There's not even a political quagmire we have to navigate to get the Good Ones on our side. The closest we get is the First Warden. And tbh the Wardens are the only faction I felt was truly well written and well integrated into the overall plot. The Mourn Watch was interesting, but they mostly did their own thing over in the corner.

God, don't even get me started on the elves. No existential dilemmas when their gods are running rampant. Even the major god revelations happened off screen! The Veil Jumpers already knew! Lazy lazy lazy.

AND. AND they somehow projected their white guilt onto the most persecuted minority in Thedas! I wanted to crawl out of my skin every time someone apologized for what their people (the gods) did to the world. And to make it worse, they barely, barely, showed anti-elf racism on screen. A few throwaway lines are laughable in the face of that. As a jew--one of the groups DA elves are inspired by--I'm insulted and disgusted.

And someone pointed out that a Crow codex used the phrase "Never Again" in relation to the Dales? Get that phrase out of your mouth, Bioware.

In a similar vein, their treatment of the Antaam reeked of racism and orientalism, even moreso than usual. Big brutes yelling in a scary language with artificially low voices?? Barely dressed? We don't even get to talk with one until the end of the game? Other people have explained it better than me, so I'll leave it at this.

"Why do you want racism in your game? Are you secretly a racist edgelord in real life? Do you get off on people calling you a knife-ear? Do you just want an excuse to be a piece of shit?"

NO. I want good writing. I want realism. If you're going to include racism in your worldbuilding (which Dragon Age does), you have to own it. You have to deal with it. You can't just sweep it under the carpet because you want to avoid more controversy. The absence in Veilguard makes it look worse. You can't pat yourself on the back for angering the anti-woke brigade while perpetuating your own racist tropes. Do the writers even know they're being racist, or do they think it's all ok because the player isn't allowed to be fantasy racist?

Taash's story is a good example. Why the fuck are we put in charge of deciding their culture for them? Why is it tied to their gender? As a cis person I won't comment on the gender bits (I've heard conflicting opinions), but the culture aspect is handled terribly. Seriously. What the actual fuck, Bioware?

The companion situation has been beat to death, but I mostly agree with the criticism that everything is too HR-friendly. And I honestly can't believe those Taash/Emmrich and Harding/Emmerich intervention scenes actually made it through editing. I felt like a fucking preschool teacher lecturing children on how to play nicely. bad bad bad

I don't, however, think the companions are awful. They just kinda bored me. Or maybe not bored, but...didn't grab me? I like some of them, but I don't love them. There's no one I latched onto that makes me go feral. But I can accept that it's a matter of preference. I'm glad some people are happy, and I don't mean that sarcastically.

Maybe I'd feel differently if the game wasn't marketed as "found family"?

More personal preference: I don't like Rook, and I don't like their relationship with the companions. It feels too sterile & corporate, and Rook feels simultaneously too blank and too defined. And the defined bits of their personality are not for me. Dialogue options weren't diverse enough in feel.

LOL at not allowing the player to asshole options, but then the best we can give Harding is "Haha, no idea what you're talking about but good for you. Bye."

Also the game couldn't seem to decide whether my Rook was Dalish or not? According to the mirror I'm not, but then Rook outright says she's Dalish later in the game... Which is it, Bioware? Which is it?

THEY DELETED SOUTHERN THEDAS OFFSCREEN.

The illuminati secret ending is an awful decision. Way to take agency away from some of the more interesting antagonists. And this was obviously a retcon? There was no buildup to this. At most they were toying with the concept in DA:I, which is when the Executors were introduced.

It's hard to think of this game as a love letter to the fans when these last two points feel like a huge middle finger to everything that came before.

Yeah. Just...yeah.

Disappointment and frustration. All the building blocks for a great game are there, but they just...didn't come to fruition.

I might do another playthrough, but I also I might just take what I like from the lore and go back to previous games + my silly crossover fanfic. And BG3. That obsession was only just taking root when DATV came out, and I didn't get a chance to sit with it.

I'm sad.

[deilmo]

The first freed elvhen

"He did not want a body. But she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face."

The recent discoveries made about ancient Elvhenan revealed a story painted with much more gray areas than was first believed. Some of these new historical documents depicts Fen'Harel as a liberator of enslaved elvhen, removing their markings and welcoming them at his side to fight the Elvhen gods' seemingly tyranical and crazed leadership.

While the veracity of these discoveries are yet to be proven, it has irremediably changed the field of Elvhen studies moving forward. Some historians hope to find written records to link to this new discovery. While unlikely, as the Elvhen seemed to favor frescoes to teach the illeterate masses, a record of the freed slaves could help historians draw a tangible timeline of the late days of the empire. Similarly, crawling back up those same records to the first freed elf could help scholars to single out the trigger that launched Fen'Harel into action.

Professor Bram Kenric - 9:49

-

Useless details to throw at you:

Solas is wearing an archer's armor, hence the gloves, the forearm brace, half plate and single shoulder pad concentrating on one side. Legends in game describe him as a warrior, an archer, and Inquisition as a mage so i picked an archer. Though I picture him more like those veil jumpers archers we've seen in DA4 multiple trailers that seem to use a mix of archery and magic.

His hair ornament is inspired by Mythal's statue in Trespasser having a reversed moon instead of her head

Yes, his scars are there, and they're fresh!

I tried to recreate a lonely and isolated feeling that I think would illustrate the sadness of Solas freeing himself. Alone. As the trailblazer, no one would have been there for him except himself

There's two version of this drawing but I'm posting this one first because it's closer to the vision I had

This idea is at least a year old, I remember making a thumb-sized sketch in a corner of a work sheet when I had it, then promptly forgot about it until this week-end. I ended up drawing it while watching the XBOX Showcase live.

[dracocheesecake]

A Week To Be A Dorcean

The eyasses crawled out of the open front door of their house and scurried across one of the bridges that spanned the expanse of the nest-shaped city. Halcyonus fishermen waved at them as the little balls of fluff dodged and weaved their way around their long backward-bending legs, and the occasional human stopped to watch them; young Dorceans were a rare sight, especially as they belonged to one of the only Dorceans in all of Lacus: the Dorcean they were on their way to see now.

Disturbed turnfins flew away as they ran onto another rope bridge, making it sway underneath them. They hopped off of this onto one of the lower levels of the city, then rushed down the pathway, again weaving their way past carts and the market people, spilled goods and coils of ropes. There was an archway leading into the main tower on which the city stood. They rushed down the spiral stairs, squeaking and chittering to each other excitedly, and then turned out another archway that led onto a wide pier leading between this city-tower and another. More fishermen were out with their turnfins and nets and fishing poles, bringing in fresh catches for the day; their father would be among them.

Not seeing him on the pier, they went down a set of stairs leading to another one, lower on the water and further out from the first. Boats were tied here, as well as crates full of goods and supplies for trading across the lake in Solas. The eyasses looked around, searching for a familiar shape. Dorcy squeaked and poked her sister, and then pointed towards the distant end of the pier, where, past a few stalls and piles of cargo, could be seen the familiar gray back with spots and stripes. Besteen let out a small cry of excitement, and the two began to barrel towards him.

As they approached, another surprise greeted them: their father moved a little, and they could see that he was talking to another Dorcean: his brother, their uncle Besteel. Both eyasses squeaked in excitement and increased their pace.

But as they came closer, weaving their way between massive piles of crates, they realized something was wrong. Besteen paused, then turned and looked at her sister. Dorcy tilted her head, and then she heard it too: muffled arguing. They crept closer, and the voices grew louder, and then they knew for certain that Uncle Besteel and their father were fighting again. They hid behind a pile of crates, peeking around the corner to watch and listen.

The brothers had clearly chosen this spot because it was somewhat private, with the large piles of crates concealing them from watchful eyes, and the crowded, busy sounds all around them helped to dull the conversation- an apparently heated one. Redimus had a large net between two of his talons, giving him an appearance of a giant spider as his other claws worked to weave and repair it. He was glaring at his brother, but he kept his voice somewhat low.

“I would sooner leave them with a hungry sand-sniper,” Redimus snapped.

Besteel scoffed. “Oh, please! They’re my nieces!”

“And they are my daughters.”

The twin eyasses glanced at each other worriedly. This was about them?

“And that means they are Dorceans.” Besteel spread a few of his arms. “Does this look like a place where they can grow right?”

“Yes,” Redimus said.

Besteel growled in frustration. He moved, and Redimus dropped his net and moved with him, and they were circling each other, hackles raised as if they were about to fight- not an uncommon occurrence, when they got together. Besteen and Dorcy made to retreat, but then they stopped. Besteel dropped the tension in his shoulders and spread some of his talons out, in a peaceful gesture.

“I’m just saying: leave them with me, and they’ll come back as real Dorceans.”

Dorcy and Besteen looked at each other again. Real Dorceans? Weren’t they already real Dorceans? And why did Uncle Besteel want to take them away to turn them into some?

Redimus sighed and dragged his net back towards himself. He sorted through its coils, searching for where he left off in its repairs. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. My answer remains the same.”

“Well, it needs to change. How old are they? Two? And have you taken them hunting at all?”

“There is no need. We have enough to eat.”

Besteel then turned and looked directly at his nieces. “He doesn’t give you any meat, does he?” He asked them accusatorially.

The sisters jumped at being addressed so suddenly.

“Yes!” Dorcy said, “Papa gives us lots of fish.”

“Lots!” Besteen agreed. “He’s good at fishing.”

Besteel snorted. “Fish is hardly meat! I mean real meat- something you can hunt. Come on, what have you had that I haven’t sent you?”

“They’ve had turnfin,” Redimus said, “and jackknife, shellfish, thatchtail, munt-runner-”

“But have they hunted? Have either of them made their first kill yet?”

“Dorcy already made hers at three months old-”

“That was a fish!” Besteel groaned. “That hardly counts!”

He dragged a talon down his face in exasperation. “Gabu! It’s like you don’t want them to be Dorceans at all! Has my namesake even killed anything yet?”

Besteen ducked her head. She scratched at the planks under her with her little claws. “...I smushed a bug,” she offered, murmuring.

“Lots of bugs!” Dorcy supplied. “And you also help with gutting the spiderfish.”

Besteen perked up. “Oh, yeah!”

Besteel looked at them, clearly devastated. He shook his head, then shot a look of disgust at his brother. “You should be ashamed of yourself! You’re supposed to teach them about their heritage! Their family pride!”

“It should be their choice,” Redimus said, firmly.

Besteel snorted again. “It should! But it seems you’ve already decided for them. How are they supposed to choose what they want for themselves if you won’t even let them learn?”

“Learn what?” Dorcy peeped.

Redimus sighed. “What are you two even doing here?” He asked gently, ignoring the question, “Shouldn’t you be with your mother?”

“Mommy went back to sleep,” Besteen said. “So we came to see the fishies.”

Redimus gestured up with one of his free talons. “Alright. Go back up on the boardwalk. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Uncle Besteel-?”

“Is not staying to visit.” Besteel said. Redimus nodded.

The eyasses seemed disappointed, but turned and slowly crawled their way back to the “usual” spot on the higher boardwalk, looking down into the water below. They watched the other fishermen and the shoals of spiderfish that swirled under the waves; but that wasn’t what was on their minds.

“We’re real Dorceans, aren’t we?” Besteen asked her sister.

“Of course!” Dorcy said, “Uncle Besteel is being silly because he wants to make Papa mad. What else could we be?”

Besteen looked at her sister for a moment, and then down at her claws. She wiggled them, as if she wasn’t sure they were really what they appeared to be.

“...You don’t think…”

The sisters looked at each other for a moment in silence. Then they both started laughing.

“What else could we be?” Dorcy said again, nudging her sister in the shoulder. Besteen giggled and nudged her back.

“Maybe marticks. Or bayries. That’s what uncle Huxie calls us.”

“No, I don’t want to be a bayrie! I prefer a martick. Marticks are fierce, and can spit acid!”

“That sounds like it hurts, though.”

“No, or else they wouldn’t always be doing it. I bet it's fun! I want acid spit!”

“I want acid spit, too! And horns!”

“I want horns, too! And-”

The two eyasses went on chittering, while unbeknownst to them, they were being watched from below. Redimus looked up at his twins, finishing the repairs on his net. Besteel shook his head.

“Look at them. That’s sad.”

“There is nothing wrong with them,” Redimus said in a low growl: a warning.

Besteel scoffed. “You would think so. You’re…you. It’s not fair to them, for you to try to mold them into your image, just because you think you know best.”

“I’m not trying to mold them into my image,” Redimus said. “They can hunt if they choose to. I’m not stopping them. There just hasn't been any need.”

“What about for their honor? Have you thought of that? They’re going to grow older. What male will ever want to join their harems if they can’t court him with a trophy display? No tribe leader would allow a male from his tribe to join with a female without blood honor.”

“It’s too early to think of that.”

“It’s never too early to earn honor.”

“There are other ways to get it. Ways that don’t involve blood.”

Besteel crinkled his nose in disgust. “You would believe something like that. You’re barely a Dorcean at all.”

Redimus didn’t respond. He continued furiously fixing his net, his gaze on his work. Besteel watched him and scoffed, though in truth, he regretted his choice of words; he had said something similar once, and it had gotten them both into trouble they almost couldn't come back from; no, a shaming approach wasn’t working. He had to attack this argument at a different angle.

An idea came to him. He glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye. A smirk formed on his features.

“...I bet they would have more fun hunting with me than fishing with you,” Besteel sneered.

Redimus tensed. His hackles began to rise.

Besteel chuckled. “You know it’s true. That’s why you don’t want them to visit me. Because you know that they’ll enjoy living like true Dorceans rather than Halcyonuses, and won’t want to come back to fishing nets and turnfins.”

Redimus felt his teeth grinding. A competitive streak, a long-held grudge, began to rise in him, though he tried to suppress it; but that tone, that sneer, was bringing it back out. He shook his net, trying to untangle it.

In a moment the grudge was suppressed. “I’m not going to make a bet with you over my eyasses.” He said.

“It’s not a bet,” Besteel said, “it’s a fact. You know they’re going to have more fun in one week with me than in two years of life with you.”

“But will it be safe?”

“Of course. It’s the edge of the forest, near the lake, not too dangerous. We grew up in the worst part of the forest and turned out fine.”

Redimus looked at him skeptically. Besteel shrugged.

“...I turned out fine.”

Redimus looked at him even more skeptically. Besteel waved his claws at him.

“Bah! You know what I mean; the point is- I think you just don’t want them to see how much better hunting is than fishing.”

Redimus glared at him. “Do you really think that’s going to work on me?”

“I know it is. You know you're going to lose. As always.”

“I don't always lose. I can think of quite a few times-”

“But I was talking about now.”

There was a tense stillness between them for a moment. Redimus grit his teeth, considering. He would never make a bet involving his eyasses- no matter how much Besteel teased and taunted- no, that wasn't what irked him. It was his words.

“Decided for them”

“Mold them into your image”

“Real Dorceans”

Expectations. Redimus had no expectations for his daughters. He knew, first hand, what that would do to them. But was he really choosing for them? What if they enjoyed the traditional lifestyle?

The thoughts swirled in his mind, gnawing into a long-held sense of guilt. Finally he growled and threw his net down. He pushed past his brother, towards the ramp leading to the higher boardwalk. Besteel watched him, smirking.

Redimus found his daughters playing with a bird feather they had found. Besteen caught it, then blew on it, and then they went scrambling around trying to catch it again. They only stopped when they noticed their father watching them. The feather blew away.

“Pack anything you’ll need for a week,” Redimus said, “You two are going to go stay with my brother.”

The twins squeaked in excitement and rushed off back towards their home, no questions asked. Redimus felt his brother's presence behind him.

“Don't be self-satisfied yet,” he warned. “I'm not agreeing to this to get at you.”

Besteel chuckled. “I know. But I win, all the same.”

“No. You don’t.” Redimus turned to look at him. His mechanical eyepatch caught the light, shining directly into Besteel's eye, and Besteel covered them with a grunt.

When he recovered, Redimus drew his claws down gingerly through the gouges of the scars on his face. The scars over his missing eye.

“Nothing,” he said, “is to happen to them. I know they’re like me. Just ensure they don't make my mistakes.”

Besteel snorted and slapped one of Redimus’ shoulders. “I know they're not as stupid as you were, at least. They'll be fine. And if they aren't, I'll shape them up.”

“What does that mean?” Redimus snapped.

Besteel smirked at him, but if he was going to reply he couldn't; the twins came back, hopping around Besteel’s feet and chirping questions. Redimus scooped them up and carried them down, from the tower down the stairs and onto a boardwalk to the beach, where Besteel's glider was parked.

Besteel strapped them onto a passenger seat on his glider and their luggage (two small bags, so at least they knew how to pack light) was strapped to each of the wings. The twins put their flight goggles on, and Redimus leaned over the glider to nuzzle beaks with each of them.

“Be good,” he said to them, “and be careful. The forest isn't like the lake, and it's much more dangerous. Keep an eye on your uncle for me.”

“We will,” Dorcy said, squeezing one of Redimus’ claws. Besteen took longer to let go, only relenting after her father gave her another nuzzle.

Besteel snorted. “For the last time, they're going to be fine. Finish with your goodbyes and let's go.” He put his helmet on and started the engine.

The glider began to lift with a loud hum. Redimus stepped back, waving.

“Goodbye,” he said, “stay safe.”

“We will, papa! Goodbye!”

Redimus watched them fly away, until the glider disappeared over the treeline in the distance. He sighed and began the trek back to the pier where he had left his net. He picked it back up and began to finish his repairs; for a while, his mind was empty.

But now that the confrontation had passed, and his blood cooled, he realized exactly what he had done- and realized, even worse, he now had to tell their mother. He sighed, folded up the net, and headed for his home.

The house was dark, and grew more so as he neared the room at its center, winding his way down a circular hall. As he went, the temperature also dropped, so that soon he could see his own breath. The refrigeration unit Hailey had repurposed for them was working well- extremely well, to be producing this temperature in the middle of Summer.

The hall ended at an arched doorway, and he stood at the threshold.

Doshika was lying on the floor of Redimus’ room- their room, when she was present- and she took up most of it. She had most of her limbs tucked under her, save for her her main pair of arms. They were propping up her chin on talons neatly folded. She opened her eyes as he came in.

“You are sending our eyasses to live with Besteel for a week.” She said.

Redimus ducked his head. He fiddled with his talons. “...Ah. You know already.”

Doshika's dark eyelids lowered halfway. “Dorcy and Besteen told me as they were kissing me goodbye.”

Redimus looked down at the carpet, picking at a few frosted threads with his claws. He cleared his throat a few times.

“...I'm sorry,” he said, after a moment.

“I understand. Your brother knows exactly how to get under your hide. Besides, it may be good for them to explore the world a little, to get fresh air that doesn't smell of the lake.”

He looked up at her. “If you're worried about Besteel-”

“He knows what I will do to him,” Doshika said. Her talons tightened on her knuckles. The dark black sickle claws shone in the dim light of the globular lanterns above.

Redimus nodded. He looked at the carpet again, then shivered a little in the cold.

“Still, I wish I had been consulted before I lost a week with my daughters,” there was a pointed inflection that sharpened at the end of the sentence, like an icicle.

Redimus ducked his head in shame again.

“I know. I am sorry.”

“Yes,” Doshika agreed.

There was another silence. Redimus rubbed one of his legs with another one, trying to warm it. He glanced at her, then away again.

He began shuffling back. “...So, I'm guessing you don't want me to-”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Perhaps the only good thing about this is I finally get you to myself. By all means, come here.”

***

Besteel landed the glider on the edge of his campsite. He turned it off, then took off his helmet and gestured to the glade with one arm.

“Well, here it is,” he said, “the Wandering Forest, my campsite.”

His nieces looked around at all of the trees and plants, the moss-strewn ground, and the many things Besteel had in his camp: lanterns hung on hooks, hunting implements, snares and cages and a tent for the rain.

Dorcy sniffed the air. “Oooh,” she said, “it smells alive here- not like the lake, in a different way! Very…planty!”

“So many trees,” Besteen murmured, “not like the garden.”

Besteel chuckled. “The forest is no garden, that's for certain. This is only the edge of it.”

He unstrapped them and the two eyasses hopped down onto the moss, sniffing it and squishing it between their talons. Besteel took their bags and placed them in a small mossy hollow in the center of his camp. His nieces rushed over and began to unpack their things, neatly laying out two small bedrolls and a dingy, chewed-up stuffed waterbear each.

Besteel blinked at them. “You still have those?”

Besteen hugged hers. “Mm-hm!”

Besteel narrowed his eyes. “Why? You're too old for baby toys.”

“We are?” Dorcy held hers tighter to herself protectively.

“You should be. Why hasn’t your sire taken them from you yet?”

The twins held their toys closer, as if afraid Besteel would take them away from them that instant; but he just snorted and shook his head.

“That's sad. Oh, well. His problem.”

He shrugged and then began using his multiple talons to brush dirt off himself.

“First thing's first. You need to learn the basics. What do you know about hunting? Nothing?”

“We know a little,” Besteen said.

“Not enough, I bet,” Besteel scoffed. “He's never taken you hunting. That changes now. But the first things must come first. That means we work on camp basics: location, set up, tool handling, weapons. After that I'm going to teach you about tracking, and if your instincts kick in by then, maybe I'll take you to make your first kills. You're both way behind for your age.”

He smirked. “But of course, with Orbona’s best hunter as your teacher, you'll be taking trophies by the end of the week.”

Dorcy and Besteen glanced at each other. They hugged their stuffed waterbears even closer.

“Then we'll be ‘real’ Dorceans?” Dorcy peeped.

Besteel nodded. “After you make your first kill, yes.”

“...But..what are we now?”

Besteel didn’t respond for a moment. There came a few expressions across his face, subtle twitches around his eyes and in the lines near his beak; but then he smiled again.

“Eyasses,” he said.

“What about papa?” Besteen chirped.

Besteel paused. He clicked his beak.

“Hm? What about him?”

“He's a real Dorcean too.”

Again, Besteel fell into that strange silence, save his face wasn’t a rippling pool of emotions like the first time- this time he seemed more solemn. His beak clicked together again.

“...Are you hungry?- Of course you are, you're still growing. I have some real meat in my stores. You seem to like water bear,” he said in a slightly jesting tone, gesturing to the plushes they held onto.

He rose and headed for another area of his camp, opening a latch that covered a hole in the ground. He began sorting through containers that were in there, something that smelled to the girls like spices the fishermen used to preserve fish- and there were other things they had never smelled before. Bloody things. Tasty smelling things.

But he hadn't answered their question; Besteen and Dorcy were too old to be so easily distracted. They noticed how their uncle had avoided it. They looked at each other again, and only more questions began to form in their little minds- questions they would seek the answers to in the coming week, whether Besteel wanted it or not.

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x Cadash

Chapter Rating: T

AO3

start at the beginning

Chapter 3 Excerpt: Arlathan

Evening two of three celebratory festivities before the end of week peace talks, and tonight he dons a mask over his eyes. It is of simple make and an opaque teal with rose golden thread rimming the outer edge. It matches his robe of the same color, rose gold accents an artistic representation of sunset reflected on water. For tonight, the theme is tidal.

Combing fingers through his loose auburn strands, Solas weaves his way around the outskirts of the dance floor, exchanging pleasantries and smiles where they are due.

“Ah, Solas!” Anaris calls to him, a wispy vine of a man with a half mask made of broken fish bones. It barely covers his right eye, curving along the angle of his high and sallow cheekbone, making it obvious who he is. He’s always been one to barely comply with the festivity requirements, but never be boring about it. Wine sloshing over the edge of his glass as he lifts it in a purposely clumsy manner, Solas side-steps. With a subtle flash of magic, brief in his eyes, the wine returns to the glass. “I see the years have not dulled your senses. Still so sharp of mind and quick reflexes.”

“And I see that you have carved out some time from your verdant life to join us tonight.” A floating frozen wave passes by them, the cusp lined with perfectly balanced drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Solas helps himself to a flute of champagne. Raising the glass to his lips, he eyes Anaris curiously while sipping.

The grey haired mage spins a glossy spider-silk-like strand around his ashen finger and speaks in his hypnotic rasp of a cadence. “Oh, you know me. I love parties.” He sips from his wine glass, palest blue eyes darting around the ballroom. “The food, the wine, the melodies.” His knicked left ear twitches, making the shark teeth mixed with golden bells on the chains of his earrings faintly clink and chime. The soothing sound is lost in the rising forte of ballroom strings.

Solas quirks a brow and briefly lifts his fluted glass in acknowledgement. “I do know you, and deeds you’ve done. Reveal the real reason you’ve come.”

He clucks his forked tongue, the ball piercings shimmering briefly. “Oh Solas.” His voice dips lower, almost singing the last syllable of his name, a mirthless chuckle escaping his lips. “Do you not take pride in your cleverness? You can’t expect me to spill my secrets.” He wags a finger at Solas and continues. “For that would spoil all of the fun. And I daresay, it’s hardly begun.”

He downs the remainder of his wine, clacking one of his long lacquered nails against the glass before passing it off to Solas. He circles his mouth with thumb and forefinger, then pulls his pocket square from his black vested robes that swirl in a faint whirlpool pattern. The longer Solas stares into the center, the more he must fight back the feeling of drowning. He averts his gaze and gulps in air. One flick of Anaris’ wrist and the napkin unfurls, twisting and transforming into a crystal cane. He offers a slow and slight bow of his head, a crooked smile plastered on his lips, eyes staring at something across the room.

He waltzes away without another word.

Solas watches as Anaris’ long black sleeves sweep the floor as he retreats, disappearing from view once he slips in amidst the dancers. It is most likely a mistake to let him out of his sight but there are plenty others like him who could prevent Anaris’ mischief from becoming too great a burden. Sighing, he casually leans against the marbled pillar nearest him and sips some more of his champagne. It’s sharp and pops in his mouth like candy he would sometimes indulge in from the stalls in the market square. But it goes down his throat in liquid ice, and leaves an aftertaste like summer rain smells. Strange and saccharinely sublime.

Spying the floating refreshments, he delivers his empty glass and heads up the stairs, desperate for a breath of fresh air from the balcony.

He hides his smile when he catches sight of Lady Cadash. She wears a dress of pastels, the asymmetrical, layered ruffles shifting in the cool night’s breeze. As he studies her, he thinks of coral and her long blue locks are loose and spilling over her shoulders like low tide waves. She is radiant under the moonlight, leaning over the glass railing.

“Good evening, Solas,” she says without turning around.

“How did you know?” He inches closer to her.

“You have a distinctive shadow. Too plain for the other elves.”

“Too plain?”

She gestures offhandedly. “You are gorgeous of course. It isn’t a flaw. I just noticed your attire’s beauty lies in the subtler, simpler details. The others are more—how do I say this—loud. Also, you’re too tall to be a dwarf.”

“You think I’m gorgeous?”

“Do not make me rescind my statement…”

Continue Here

[rock-teh-elf]

what happened in dragon age vows and vengeance

in the prologue we follow elio through a tavern, he finishes a drink and a tale and heads home, there he finds a shadowy figure, it is nadia. she forces him to share a drink together, very obviously mad at him. olen tries to get her to leave but ultimately agrees. nadia poisons him, and asks for answears, after she tells him what happened.

nadia and elio are in a relationship. episode starts with elio throwing nadia a surprise birthday party, nadia says she doesn't know when her bday is but elio insists on the party. Elio gives nadia a gift, at first she is confused as to why he would give her such a gift, he hopefully asks to star anew with her, that gift is a wedding ring. she storms off angry cause she does not want to get married, she doesn't belive a magister and a liberati can get married. they fight about the wedding nadia argues that they live in different worlds, elio tries to argue but ultimately backs away disappointed, he tries to comfort her but she leaves.

nadia goes outside to catch some fresh air and think, she goes to the docks. A fishmonger gives her some info about a sketchy person and nadia decides to follow the lead. the person is a guy names vik, says she owes olen a favour, at first she plays hard but gives in. vik and nadia are friends, they talk about the job, it is revealed its a simple job that needs a theif. olen reveals its on the contrary a rough job and offers nadia a lot of golf for getting it done. she has to break into the archives, she agrees without a fight, olen is delighted. they have a drink and discuss details, olen wants nadia to steal a relic called the eye of kethisca.

elio goes after nadia, he searches for her on the dock. someone followed him, the figure is revealed to be neve gallus. neve tells elio that she is looking for nadia, neve heard about the mission nadia is about to go on and wants to stop her. she asks elio to go after her but elio says theres no way to stop her, neve insists telling him that if she does steal the artifact a lot of people are going to die. elio seems confused.

nadia and vik attempt to break into the archives. they run around the building tring to find the way in. vik is left behind as they almost got caught and nadia has to do the mission alone. she climbs through a window.

elio goes to the archives himself, at first he is denied entrance but manages to talk himself in.

nadia breaks in the archives and elio catches her. they fight about nadia breaking in, they fight about their relationship when a magical sound caughts their attention. its the eye, elio tells her to not go through with it, nadia is hesitant when elio tells her the relic is dangerous and to just leave it. nadia agrees and leaves it behind. templars come to arrest them, tipped off.

nadia wants to fight, elio wants to surrender. nadia initiates a fight and the relics begin to break in the fight. they begin to runway. they fight their way out the building. they get stopped right before they escape and elio casts firestorm, the templars retreat. they escape to docktown.

nadia stole the eye, elio is mad. nadia promises to explain, neve stops them. neve wants to stop them, elio believes she tips off the templars, she explains she did not but suspects to know who did: the dreadwolf.

vik finds them, he is fatally injured, he dies, informing them that assasins are coming after them. they fight them off. the eye glows, the eye feeds on power from the fade. the eye goes boom and they escape, leaving neve behind. they escape on boat.

neve yells at them to return, she tries to stop them but they manage to escape. they go to find olen's buyer.

fastforward to them on land, nadia and elio have a heart to heart about the situation they found themselves in and their relationship. they get stopped by a cloaked figure, they decide to investigate and ask if he is a agent of olen. the cloaked figure is solas, he is the buyer. they exchange gold for the eye, elio is hesitant but gives it to him.

solas calms the eye's power, he explains that the relic is connected to the fade, the pair is confused about solas' intentions and solas persuades them to join him if they wish to find answers.

he leads them to a cave, insert some solas bs about magic. nadia asks for answers about the eye. solas explains about the relics connection to the fade, nadia doesn't buy it and threatens solas, holding him at knife point. she asks to reveal his true intentions, asks to know how he knew who and where they were. solas stays calm, while elio ask nadia to stop, she does. solas explains that the venatori where after the eye, he says the power of the eye, and elio, are beyond their understanding. he asks for elio's help since he bores a special connection to the relic, he not only is a powerful rift mage, but his bloodline is connected to the relic, since it was created by his ancector.

they are hesitant, solas tells elio that he wants to use the eye to mend the world. nadia doesn't buy it and prompts them to leave, elio agrees. nadia and elio fight about it, elio says its his last time to do good, nadia agrees to help.

fast forward to an ancient chamber, a place where the veil is weak. nadia is hesitant, elio seems confident. solas prompts elio to use the relic. they cast a spell together. nadia gets a bad feeling from the ritual and asks them to stop, they do not. magic magic magic. elio feels something off and asks solas to stop, solas does not. elio begins to lose control. solas prompts them to flee the ritual;, elio is lost and nadia flees with solas

now outside, nadia wakes up and looks for elio, he is nowhere, neither is solas.

fastforward, nadia demands answers from olen, olen knows nothing of solas, he only knows the dreadwolf, nadia asks where to find him, olen doesn't know, he only knows solas had plans to find a place to perform a ritual in the hinterlands. nadia leaves after giving olen the antidote.

nadia gets a vision of elio in the fade. elio tells her he cant get out without her help but the connection cuts before he manages to tell her how.

end

[starrylothcat]

Starry could I get

7. cuddling and eventually falling asleep

Author's choice on OC but I think Sola would be really cute for this one

(With much love, @dickarchivist )

Peace

Pairing: Hunter x OC (Sola info here)

Summary: Hunter and Sola cuddling.

Warnings: None. Fluff.

WC: ~500

A/N: Thanks for the ask, friend! This is my first time posting anything Hunter x Sola related and I am soft for them. 🥹

Sola lay on her bunk, the steady sound of rain pelting The Marauder oddly comforting. They had just returned from a mission and were back on Ord Mantell for a few rotations, a nice break amidst the back-to-back jobs she and 99 were sent on by Cid.

She was trying to research their next assignment, but her eyelids were heavy in the rare tranquility of The Marauder. The boys and Omega were still at Cid’s parlor, having a drink and decompressing. Sola had her drink and retreated to the ship, wanting to take this opportunity to hit the refresher and relax.

Sola perked up when she heard footsteps up the gangplank, Hunter stepping aboard the ship.

Sola smiled, knowing he probably wouldn’t be far behind her.

“Mind if I join you?” Hunter took off his helmet and began undoing his armor.

Sola sat up more in her bunk.

“Only if you hit the ‘fresher first.” She lightly teased, watching as he meticulously stacked his armor near his bunk.

Hunter let out a low chuckle, now just in his blacks. “If that’s what it takes.”

Sola hummed in response, laying back down on her bunk.

Hunter stepped into the refresher and emerged not too long after in a fresh pair of blacks.

Sola scooted over in her bunk, Hunter settling in next to her. There wasn’t much room, but neither of them minded. Sola tucked herself into Hunter’s side, his arm keeping her close to him. She rested her head on his chest, and she heard and felt him let out a long breath.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the rain the only sound in the ship as Hunter’s fingers drew gentle circles on her arm, letting himself unwind.

Sola’s eyelids were fatigued again, Hunter’s warm body and steady breaths lulling her further into a state of relaxation, something they both realized they hadn’t had in some time.

Hunter could hear Sola’s heartbeat slow as she melted against him. Her scent enveloped him as he pressed his lips to the top of her head, feeling her snuggle even closer up against his body.

“How long do you think we have until they come back?” Sola mumbled, barely fighting off sleep.

“Not long.” Hunter’s own eyes were falling heavy, his body and mind begging for rest.

“Then we better enjoy the quiet while it lasts.” Sola murmured, threading her fingers with his across his chest.

Sola felt safe, unworried as Hunter’s hand gently squeezed hers. Feelings she thought she’d never feel again before being in Hunter’s arms.

Soon, Hunter’s soft snores joined the sound of the rain. Sola faded into a serene slumber shortly after, entwined in one another, content and at peace, at least for a little while.

Taglist: @crosshairlovebot @sev-on-kamino @kimiheartblade @wizardofrozz @clonemedickix @sunshinesdaydream @kashasenpai @freesia-writes @multi-fan-dom-madness @aconstructofamind @dreamie411 @dystopicjumpsuit @wings-and-beskar @starqueensthings @idontgetanysleep @secretthegriffin @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @secondaryrealm @littlemissmanga @maybethatfanfictionwriter @pb-jellybeans @wanderer-six @king-chaos-world @wolffegirlsunite @dukeoftheblackstar @523rdrebel @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @sleepingsun501 @cw80831 @dangraccoon @din-miller @mythical-illustrator @eternal-transcience

Divider by @dystopicjumpsuit

I will be tagging my OC posts as OC:Sola if you aren’t interested in OC stuff!

[dragonologist-writings]

Title: That Which Is Lost Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: G Status: One-Shot Characters: Inquisitor Adaar, Josephine Montilyet Ships: F!Adaar/Josephine Additional Notes: Hurt/Comfort, Post-Trespasser, Injury Recovery Word Count: 1.3k Summary: Meraad mourns what has been lost, and Josephine reminds her of what has not.

read below or here on AO3

For the first time, it occurs to Meraad that she might have to cut her hair.

She takes a deep breath- steady and barely shaking, because even in the privacy of her own quarters she must stay strong- as she fixes her eyes on the reflection in the mirror. Long, loose strands of un-tethered silver hair obscure her expression. That’s fine; honestly, she prefers not to look herself in the eyes when she finally admits defeat.

In those first few days, she barely spared a thought for things such as this. Her mind was reeling over revelations and war plans and betrayal. When even walking felt wrong and unbalanced, her hair didn’t matter; she left it loose and tangled and didn’t care.

But now she’s recovering, isn’t she? She’s sleeping through the night. With a bit of twisting and stretching she can secure the buckles on her own clothing. Dagna wants to show her a new prosthetic design today, and it’s not as if Meraad has ever needed two hands to wield a dagger anyway.

Even the pain is not so bad anymore. True, she still feels the occasional phantom shocks, as if the Anchor were still fixed onto a nonexistent palm… but it happens far less often and with far less intensity than it did when the wound was fresh.

Meraad can handle the remnants of pain. She can handle the adjustments to her fighting style and her new center of balance. She doesn’t need help to live her own life, and she certainly doesn’t- shouldn’t- need help to braid her own damn hair.

Maybe she should have cut it long ago. It’s always been an effort to care for, and she rarely indulges in silly luxuries. But when it’s loose it flows nearly to her hips, a soft cascading curtain of silver- the only thing about herself Meraad might truthfully call beautiful. She wonders what the others will think, when she shows up with her long, intricate braid chopped off. If she can’t even save this small thing- if she can’t do this simple task she’s been doing since she was old enough to walk- how is she supposed to re-learn everything she knows about combat in time to face Solas once again? How is she supposed to be strong enough to lead her people to victory if she can’t even take care of herself? How-

In a burst of willpower, Meraad grabs a long strand of hair and make one more attempt. Keep this strand between these fingers, tuck another between these, twist the elbow this way to grab a third from the back-

Her lone hand fumbles as she tries to reach around her horns, and her fistful of hair falls from her grasp once more. Meraad slams her palm on the dresser in frustration, screwing her eyes shut against the traitorous tears that threaten to fall.

This is all silly. She hasn’t cried over the pain or the nightmares, and she will certainly not cry over this of all things. She will cut her hair and that will be that. Meraad moves to wipe her eyes and out of habit moves the wrong arm, exposing herself to the disorientation of sending commands to a hand that is not there, and the boiling frustration that has been building inside her all morning finally escapes in a choked sob.

“My love?”

Meraad jolts upright, realizing with a pang of guilt and embarrassment that she has woken Josephine. She hurriedly wipes away her tears- with the correct arm, this time- and turns to assure Josephine that everything is fine.

But before she can say a word, Jospehine appears behind her, taking in the scene, and without a word reaches out to run her fingers through Meraad’s hair. She stands there for a moment, neither woman speaking, and then Josephine begins to braid.

At first Meraad wants to protest, but the feel of Josephine’s fingers, methodical and steady in their task, is soothing. Besides, she still doesn’t trust her voice not to shake. So she lets Josephine work, and as she does Meraad studies the other woman’s reflection in the mirror.

Josephine is still in her long nightdress, her hair own tousled from sleep. But her eyes are as alert and perceptive as always. It is her eyes that Meraad watches; they are lovely, deep and intelligent and always so expressive. Meraad searches those eyes now, certain she will find pity- or worse, disappointment. Josephine has always been the strongest believer in Meraad’s strength. She has always been the last person Meraad wants to let down.

But in this moment, Josephine’s emotions are unreadable, even to Meraad. She simply continues her work silently until she has gathered all of Meraad’s hair into a long braid, which she then tucks over her shoulder. It is only then that she speaks, her voice heavy with sorrow and worry. “You have been through a great deal in a very short time. Do not demand so much of yourself.”

So much, she says. As if fixing her hair is the equivalent of leading a battalion.

Meraad frowns and stands, brushing past Josephine to collect her daggers from the other side of the room. “Why not? Everybody else does.” She is aware of how bitter her words are, but she can do nothing to sweeten them. “And I can’t afford to let them down.”

Josephine reaches an arm out to touch Meraad’s shoulder as she walks by. The touch is light and gentle, but it still stops Meraad in her tracks. “Do you know how many countries are completely self sufficient?” Josephine asks. “Do you know how many noble houses can sustain themselves with no allies or benefactors?”

She is using her ‘gentle reprimand’ voice, and even as the words make Meraad scowl, the familiar tone eases some of the tension in her chest. It is nice to know that some things don’t change, she supposes. And Josephine is talented enough to make even a lecture feel comforting. “I thought Ferelden was infamous for its independence.”

“Ferelden would not be standing if not for the Grey Wardens. And the Grey Wardens would have collapsed if not for the Inquisition. And the Inquisition would have failed a hundred times over if not for the people who believed in us and gave us their aid.” Josephine’s hand drops from Meraad’s arm, tracing down her forearm and wrist until their fingers are wrapped together. “Nobody stands alone.”

Meraad sighs, and she turns her gaze from the hand currently wrapped in Josephine’s to the hand that is not there. She doesn’t like looking at that empty space; it still feels so wrong, to expect to something there, even something unnatural and painful, and instead be reminded that there is nothing.

“The Inquisition may have had assistance,” Meraad replies, “But it was still built on a foundation. What will happen when that foundation is damaged?”

Josephine reaches out to cup Meraad’s cheek and turn her head so that they are facing each other. “I know it will not all be as simple as this,” she says, brushing a stray lock of hair from Meraad’s face and tucking it behind her ear. “But you are still Meraad Adaar. That is one of two things you can never lose.”

Meraad releases a deep breath, closing her eyes and letting herself be soothed by the touch. “And what is the other?”

“You are my love,” Josephine answers, and though Meraad’s eyes are still closed she can hear the soft smile in her voice. “And you will not be facing the future on your own.”

Meraad lets the words sink in over a long moment, and then she nods, and decides that perhaps she will not cut her hair just yet.

[corffiser]

well . i finished it . this is going to be long and on a negative side , mostly to get these feelings out of my system and move on .

i don't really know what to think . or how to feel , really . a mixture of sadness , disappointment and embarrassment comes to mind . maybe anger , if i think about it too much .

i'll start from the technical side of things because honestly ? idk how to even feel about it .

maybe i was just extremely unlucky when it came to it but at some point i wanted to quit playing out of sheer frustration . city streets not loading , quests acting out of order , characters disappearing before my eyes .

the game itself spoiled me the secret post-ending cutscene , about five hours into the main questline . imagine me , sitting in silence and slowly realizing that the audio didn't match the subtitles or what was playing before my eyes . five hours into the game and i already knew the ending twist because of a glitch that caught me off guard . i still cannot believe that it happened or how it was even possible .

i don't mind spoilers but if i see one in the wild , it means that i either looked for it myself or didn't blacklist the right terms . but this ?

to say that it soured my experience and made most of my excitement disappear , is an understatement . combined with the constant hand holding , companions and npcs repeating themselves to the point of absurdity , awkward party banter , side quests that amounted to " find a note / clue / person and ( possibly ) fight a group of enemies / a boss " - it all caused me to grow frustrated and resentful of what i was seeing on the screen .

i also had a very hard time connecting with my own rook . i imagined him as a young antivan crow , a mage resenting the circumstances of his life , trying to grasp by power and might . but i couldn't actually role-play him the way i'd want to . there was no " red hawke " options in this game , my character smiling and looking cheerful even when i chose the harshest dialogue options . he screamed maybe twice , in all of the hours i played with him . he seemed to be friends with everyone but not really . he was angry and bitter .. but then he wasn't .

i must've gone through the five stages of grief about twenty times while playing this game . those stages of grief then turned to anxiety because i started to feel as if i wasted my time / money , two things that i'm so paranoid about , i had a hard time even thinking about such possibility . then , i started feeling bored . then excited again because finally , something happened . only to once again turn to boredom and anger .

at the end of the game , i think i actually gave up on trying to care . the solavellan ending was right there but i didn't chose it . i felt nothing sending solas into his fade prison . if anything , this game successfully cured me of my solas obsession . at the end i didn't care for him , or the ancient elves , or their fallen empire . so uh .. there's something , i guess .

this is already too long but i wanted to mention things i actually enjoyed because there are some , not many but they do exist .

the environments were truly a sight to behold . i think that this game is truly gorgeous , some of the scenery looking like moving paintings . i also enjoyed exploration . as for combat , playing as a mage was finally fun - my character no longer forced to stay in one spot but instead dashing through the battlefield , being able to quickly recover and escape danger .

i can also say that emmrich and davrin quickly became my favourites . emmrich's quests and his personal arc resonated with me on a personal level , while davrin was the very needed breath of fresh air . these two brought so much joy to my life , i'm glad that they exist , that they were written . if anything , i'm glad that i gained new comfort characters . if nothing else , at least i have that .

[laelior]

Anything you want to share about Peggy Shepard or your Dragon Age fic! 🌸

From this list:

Oh bless you for asking about Peggy. Here's a snippet from her ME3 story where she shares a quite moment with Serge, one of the other members of the resistance cell she's in.

“You heard the news?” She asked, gingerly setting herself down on the old, wooden bench. The damn thing was probably older than her, but it creaked less than she did as she sat down on it. “The turians and the krogans fight together. Perhaps next, the dogs and the cats and the dolphins and sharks of our world will join together in our fight as well,” he said lightly, and she heard, rather than saw, the sardonic smile on his voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him toying with a slim white object in one hand. “Do I even want to know where you got that?” She sighed, and Serge handed over the unlit cigarette in his hand. It had been, what, fifty years, since she’d last had one, but she automatically accepted it between her index and middle fingers, curling her other fingers inward around the butt by pure muscle memory. “A man is allowed some secrets, no?” A wide, impish grin split his face, and in that moment he looked and sounded more like a schoolboy than a man close to her own age. With a slight flourish he produced an old metal lighter and lit the end for her. She took one drag, breathing in the sweet, tarry nicotine scent, then handed the cigarette to him. “I suppose he is.” They passed the cigarette between them in silence for the rest of the evening, listening to the joyous noises and the impromptu music coming from within the lodge. It was wondrous news to celebrate, indeed, but the only part Peggy had heard was that Beth, her Beth was still alive. And that mattered more than the whole of the universe.

I shared a bit from my Drage Age fic here.

Another small snippet below the cut:

She was Dreaming. In and of itself, that was not unusual. But being aware of it, aware that her mind was in the Fade while her body stayed behind and rested, was unusual. If the Black City off in the ominous distance didn’t clue her in, then the fact that she had two whole and intact arms did. She flexed her left arm, basking in the feel of the muscles that still responded easily to her command, then clapped her hands together. The sound it made was clear, sharp, and music to her ears. For years now, the only place she had been able to hear that was in the Fade, where she still dreamed herself to be whole and unmarred by war or love. Ellana was not a Dreamer. She didn’t have the ability to shape the Fade at will. That had been Solas’ special purview. She was only aware and able to control herself in dreams when he came to her, or on the rare occasion that her dreams were lucid.  She looked around her, trying to figure out which this was. A stream bubbled merrily just off to her side, rushing noisily where it fell down a steep drop of granite cliff. Fern and motherwort grew near the edges of the stream among the large rocks that dotted the shore, mixed in with clusters of spindleweed and blood lotus. Over on the other side of the stream, a fine mist shrouded the air of a dense forest. The air smelled clean, it smelled fresh and green, like the first days of spring.  It smelled…. It smelled like home.

[fleshwerks]

Thoughts on new Dragon Age "teaser"? You have the best takes.

I'll be deadly honest, I didn't even realise it was out, that's how checked out I am, but I will always fall hook line and sinker for a delicious bait made of things I can chew on, so let's seeeeeee. I'll do first impressions for now. I'll warn you, I haven't done 'takes' in ages, I've seriously lost my edge and resemble someone yelling at a cloud more than someone with intelligent or at least entertaining takes. Proceed on your own volition. Note, I have not been keeping up with DA4 updates. At all. I am literally grasping at straws and screaming out of my arse.

I'll say this. I believe Mark Darrah who had retired from BioWare was brought back on to save this tattered ship that had failed to launch how many times now? If you were with DAI and Anthem especially, you know that when a vet of that calibre is being brought on board towards the end of production, you're fucked. The sheer scope of the regions visited in the trailer... I wouldn't blink an eye if it was a turn-based strategy game, but it is not.

I'm surprised how shit the game visually looks, but it's been my criticism with the thus far released art, and now, environment assets. And again, I'm coming off of Anthem, and Anthem was truly, truly gorgeous. Now someone might argue that every DA has had its distinctive visual style. Well I thought DA2, for what it was, sure did look inspired. I didn't enjoy the game or the characters, but I enjoyed looking at it. Dragon Age Inquisition kind of lost me aesthetically, but I see what they did there. It was more generic, certainly not attempting to be photorealistic, but I saw the idea and accepted it.

Now this though? What is this? The panning over what I presume is Treviso literally looks like a mobile game ad.

Ok, fine, I'll not go in on the visuals, I'm too fresh out of art college and I'm so anal-retentive that my o-ring's more pinched than a pinprick about this stuff. Moving on.

I believe the new PC is an Antivan Crow? Since when are they fighting for all of Antiva? Everyone??? Since when?! Zevran's canonically not returning, and even he was compassionately practical on his best days. The Crows are not good people. They buy kids to train for miserable jobs meeting miserable ends. Oh, so we had a whole character who gave the Crows a finger for being the shitshow they were, but now they're this resistance task force? What, why, because the 'Islamic Borg' invaded?

Then. I feel like I'm missing a fuckton of contest because I haven't read the preceding comics and stories, I have one comic book from the DAI-DA4 interim and it ended so disappointingly, I never bothered after that.

We're really retconning all the complex and complicated factions into freedom fighters, aren't we. I guess such is the state of our real world. Always a plucky band of people belonging to formerly shitty fucking organisations suddenly saving the day like heroes, possibly somewhere along the way ruminating for 2 seconds on whether they deserve to pat themselves on the back, landing on 'but we will change how we operate, and we will save the world, always!'

I'm into the Rivaini squid though. I've never been fond of Rivain, not just because parts of the fandom like to present this place that has barely been talked about in canon like some haven for... idk. I just didn't expect squids. And you people know I love marine invertebrates. You know what, fuck it, here's my 'best take': have squid, will travel!

But that port city ravaged recently by the dragons in ruins looks like it's been in ruins for the past 2000 years, only recently excavated. It's so clean. And here I go again with the aesthetics.

Anyway, Falon'din and/or dirthamen is fuckin' around in Rivain, aren't they. Because I believe that head shape, multi-hands etc were presented in many of the statues we saw in DAII, and given that Falon'din's proverbial crows, envy and nightmare were so prominently featured, and sexyman Solas' outright resentment for former master Dirthamen and the vain Falon'din, welll... risen gods. Dirthamen at the very least was associated with watery depths, but they're twins (or are they? Perhaps the facets of one person altogether)... Anyway, I'm more interested in what the fuck is happening in Weisshaupt. That part genuinely interests me. Circling back to Dirthamen, Razikale is the dragon of Mystery. Associated with Dirthamen, at least according to my theory, while Urthemiel was the Dragon of Beauty, and we keep getting indications that Falon'din was pretty, aggressive, and exceedingly vain. So Big Dirty's up next. Falon'din had the crows, right? Both defeated in DAI. He's out, more or less. And again, Solas most likely was Dirthamen's student before he decided that he himself didn't want to be but totally wanted to be revered. So my take is that Razikale, who got mentions in DAI is waking up as well.

The villain gods of this mess, the classic Dragon Age false gods we fight in every single game as end bosses, will be connected to Dirt. Eh. Same eagle, different liver.

Anyway I have a doubt that this kind of scope will end anywhere nice. The production's been fraught as fuck to the point where the panic button has been pressed many times. The art looks like a significant downgrade, the production has been filled with veterans just clocking the fuck out.

It doesn't sound interesting. I'm tired of saving the world as an Eastern European in late 2023. This kind of story does not speak to me at all anymore. Not after 2019, not after 2021. It looks dated and mediocre, the story is so old that if it goes where I think it will, it has no relevance or message for anybody but perhaps some American audiences (some). I'm just... I'm not.

The rah-rah I got from that clip leaves me ice cold. There is no rah-rah in such widespread misery. There are only curse words and the sound of grinding teeth, and everybody's a dick, and everybody's dick past is dredged up hard. No retcons.

I don't want it. It better receive insanely high marks for me to play it. And I loved this franchise, two of the PCs have gone on to be archetypal in my private works now.

The mystery is gone. The power creep... I don't want to hang out with gods. They should have never been brought into the story as characters you can extensively hang out with. Edit: basically the entire thing sounds about as exciting as a somewhat well-produced mobile game. Which is fun to fuck with while taking the metro, but...

[greypetrel]

From the kiss prompts, I gotta have "kissing your lover after believing you’d lost them" for Aisling and Cullen 🥺

:D 💜

You served me an assist, you know? WE’RE GOING INTO TRESPASSER STUFF? YES WE ARE.

*laughs evilly*

This is long, sorry, I already had the most of it written and... And I didn't feel like cutting it, so bring some snack. It’ll go under the cut. And I should really collect all those prompts on AO3, shouldn’t I.

CW: ANGST, suicidal thoughts, shock, description of mutilation and blood.

Tis the prompt list!

kissing your lover after believing you’d lost them

Pain. Searing pain, worse than before even if she knows it’s technically better. She’s stopped screaming, but can’t stop crying, whimpering pathetically, her arm throbbing. She knows it’s better than before, but it doesn’t feel like it. Solas helps her up on her feet and then to the Eluvian, sustaining her; all she can do, battling to keep herself awake even if all her body screams to just let go and rest, is grabbing his arm with the one hand she has left, holding on for dear life. To keep standing and walking, yes, and also a silent plea for him not to go. In spite of everything. Her world just shattered, she lost an arm, she can’t bear to lose a friend as well and right now she doesn’t care who exactly that friend is.

He activates the mirror, stops in front of it and gently pushes her toward it. She resists, grabs his arm more strongly, shakes her head, battling her eyelashes to fend tears away and look at him. He’s regretting it, she can see it, she wills her body toward his and hugs him. With one arm, the fur on his shoulder scrapes against her fresh wounds and it’s painful, but she squeezes as best as she can.

“P-please, Solas. Don’t –“

She can’t continue. Don’t do this, give us a chance. Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.

For a minute he stays perfectly still, and she hopes. But then he carefully pushes her away with a sad smile, and she knows she didn’t got through. She cries more, shakes her head, her fingers grabbing on and refusing to let him go even if he starts to retreat. Her knees wobble, her view is darkening at the sides. She lost too much blood, but she refuses to fall down.

“I’m sorry, lethallan. I really am.”

He kisses her forehead, affectionately, and ignores her pleas, gently summoning magic and setting her asleep.

The next thing she sees is the sky above her -she’s lying on the ground-, and Dorian, desperate as she never saw him. She hears his voice hoarse but can’t distinguish words, the trickle of mana around her arm, she knows him well enough to read desperation and guilt on his face. But he’s never been a healer, and all he can do, crying, apologising and apologising again, is summoning fire to close the wound. She didn’t think she could scream some more, but she does, right before pain makes her faint.

She wavers in and out of conscience, her body finally letting go after what has been months of pain in her left arm, and battling her way through the Crossroads when all she wanted to do was stop and cut her arm herself to have the pain finally go away. One minute she’s vaguely aware of her surroundings, of Dorian holding her for dear life and staggering under her weight, barking at Cassandra to not touch her when the Seeker offers her help in carrying her. The other she’s back in a dreamless sleep.

Ironically, in one of the worst nights, just the week before, she had asked Cullen to cut it off, take the sword and free me of the Anchor, vhenan, I can’t take it anymore. He had refused, calmed her down, waited with her for the pain to slowly subside, the painkillers she had originally brewed for him to be effective. Solas has not been that patient, but Solas knew better. Solas knew better from the start, and yet it took her showing up on the brink of death after a crazy chase and a fight against a dragon and a Qunari platoon to have him do something. She’s awake and starts crying again, feels Dorian clutching her even closer, whispering in her ear that it’s gonna be alright and apologising all over again. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as well.

The next time she opens her eyes, she’s even dizzier than before and everything gently sways. They’re back at the Winter Palace, she can notice. Dorian has collapsed on the floor, still holds her tight and close, and is shaking his head against her cheek. Someone asks him to please, let her go, healers can’t tend to her if he doesn’t, but he doesn’t listen and she doesn’t care, the pain is all over and too much. A moment later, there’s Cullen’s voice behind her, and her heart breaks even more. He’s trying to stay strong and level-headed, but she can hear the tired plea in his voice as well. Dorian lets her go reluctantly, she would like to help, but her body just refuses to move. She exchanges a glance with Dorian and he’s still desperate, kajal smudged down his cheeks and his robes are soaked red with her blood, and his hands are too and he’s breathing too quickly; there’s nothing she can do, tho, her body simply refuses to move. She hears Cullen brokenly whispering in her ear that he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, It’s gonna be ok, vhenan, just hold on a little more.

She’s moved around, hastily carried her back in her room, Cullen doesn’t let her hand go when she’s laid on her bed, he’s the one that lifts her head up and makes her drink. An anaesthetic, she recognises the smell before the taste hits her tongue. She finally drifts off completely, her eyes close and the pain finally stops.

---

When she wakes up, It’s night. She blinks, focusing on the stucco on the roof above her, the gold details glistening in reddish hues in the candlelight, crickets humming from a window that was left open the way both Cullen and her like it.  Her left arm still pulses, pain dull but still present, her body feels like it’s made of lead and she feels numb in more ways than one. She hears someone breathing beside her. Her head turns slowly, assessing that it’s Cullen, still holding her hand and curled up beside her on that stupidly large and plush bedding in the oversized room Empress Celene has insisted on assigning her. She would like to feel happy and relieved to see him there, real and breathing and sleeping, but she can’t feel much of anything, now, and nothing really matters. She watches on her other side, staring dully at what was her arm. Someone got her out of her armour and into a loose white dress without sleeves. Her left arm is bandaged from her shoulder to the elbow, where it abruptly stops. For a minute she had wished it was a dream, she still feels her arm and it’s weird not seeing it. It hurts less, but she would welcome the physical pain instead of this.

The Evanuri were mage enslavers, the Vallaslin on her face the mark of slaves and she has worshipped slavers all her life. Sworn her marriage vows to an enslaver. What has been her first friend in Haven, the only one but her knowing of Elven lore and uses and sharing her culture, the one she has slowly but surely crept behind his walls, approached like a very suspicious horse until he went from bearing with her presence and her questionings and curiosity, to reaching out to her, spend time talking, be the first to initiate a conversation, ask for advice, laugh.

And oh, what advice did she gave him.

“If it doesn’t work out, I’ll try again until it’s better.”

She didn’t mean to. She didn’t mean for him to try again and make it better by destroying the whole world. The memory makes her eyes prickle and the void inside her fills with a wave of guilt, sorrow and rage so intense they make her nauseous. Never one to just lay there and do nothing about it, she feels like she can’t stay there. So she turns towards Cullen and leans in, planting a delicate kiss on his forehead and whispering “I’m sorry.”. He must have fallen asleep out of pure exhaustion, she suspects, because usually a light sleeper, he grunts and move his head more deeply in the pillow and doesn’t wake. Good.

She carefully slides her hand out of his, her heart clenches but she can’t stay. So she slips to the edge of the bed and forces her body to raise up.

Her limbs are made of lead, moving her left arm sends jolts of pain up to her shoulders as the wound just grazes on anything. She forces her legs to cooperate, clutching her left arm with her right and standing up. One step, then another, and another one. Her legs tremble a little but she can walk. Good.

Her heart clutches more, noticing how most of her friends are there in the room, everyone deep in sleep. Dorian and Sera hugged together against Bull’s side, on the floor at the end of the bed. Dorian hasn’t changed, his robe still dirty with her blood, kohl smudged down with tears. Sera’s eyes are puffy and reddened too, the Qunari hugs them both with an arm protectively. She would normally stop to reassure them, Dorian most of all, because she knows him like the back of her hand and she KNOWS he’s blaming himself. But it’s not a normal moment, she feels numb and she goes on. She must. Cassandra and Varric are close together on the couch, the Seeker resting her head on the shoulder of the dwarf who hugs her shoulders. Josephine on the other side of the couch, curled like a cat against the armrest, her silk clothes all wrinkled, hairdo in disarray and make up smudged as well.

She bites her lips and tiptoes out of the room, biting a scream when she absentmindedly tries to push the door open with her left and she instead pushes on her wound, pain searing white behind her eyelids.

She’s out, trembling and panting but still standing, a thousand needles digging deep in her arm, her stomach clenched painfully from the pain and eyes watering. And her mission threatens to end here and there.

Rainier is sitting on the floor, just beside the door. Awake and looking at her.

“I’m glad to see you’re alive. Gave us all something to worry, you know?”

She swallows, fights back the nausea, leaning on the door to keep standing.

“Tell me you’re not going back for him.”

“… How do you-“

“Dorian made some sense when he eventually started breathing again. He figured out it was Solas, right?”

“… I won’t forgive myself if I don’t try. He’s not unsalvageable.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you so ready to forgive literally everyone but yourself?”

She stops, looks at the man. Feels her lips tremble a little, and then she pushes on the door and strides away, not replying. She goes past him, but he doesn’t stop her.

“He should be the one you can’t forgive this time, Inquisitor, I hope you know it.”

“He’s alone. People do stupid things when they’re alone.”

“Are all those people in that room not enough to not make you feel so alone to be stupid about it?”

She hates him because she must do this and he’s trying to stop her. She hates him most because he’s right. She can’t stay, she can’t break down now. She can’t go back inside, not before giving it another try. But he’s right, and she knows it, and it just feeds on the rage she feels.

“I’ve been alone ever since people started calling me the Herald of fucking Andraste, but I guess you wouldn’t understand being imposed by others a part that means nothing to you and you hate, right, Blackwall?”

She says, and she hates both what she says, and how her voices come out croaky and tearful, taking out most of the bite. But she doesn’t wait for a reply and she pushes forward, as fast as she can, and she turns a corner and Thom’s piercing eyes finally leave her. She knows perfectly well she’s hurting everyone in that room, that they’ve been all worried for her and she’s just strutting out and going after the fucking Dread Wolf instead of thanking them as she should.

But she had almost died, she has lost an arm, her gods have always been a lie and she has the marking of one on her FACE, and the only person she could talk about it, the only one who could UNDERSTAND the entirety of it is the one who cut her arm and left her alone and lied to her for a year. It wasn’t love, not any more than she loved Dorian, as a friend, a brother. Solas was the weird, cool uncle you can turn to when you have that particular issue nobody understands. Solas was the only one who understood her little rites and wordings and culture, the one who understood her uneasiness with the Herald of Andraste situation, and she could avoid putting on a brave face and pretend with. Solas had made her feel at home back in Haven, when she felt like a fish out of water, everything looked daunting and she seemed not to get anything right. He had become family. She knows he used her and hated himself because he got attached, she knows his praising was true, in the end, and she doesn’t understand what she did wrong. She does understand loneliness, tho, and he is family and she can’t leave him alone.

She lost her birth family when she came into her magic at six and she had to move to the Lavellans, her parents not following. She lost clan Lavellan as well by choosing to stay with the Inquisition and telling them she couldn’t risk bringing more attention on them. She has lost two families and she refuses to lose another.

Aisling is sweating when she reaches the Eluvian, her training as a First comprehended anatomy and medicine enough for her to know that she really shouldn’t be moving, right now, and let her body rest from the shock, the fatigue and the loss of blood. Her arm is bleeding again, staining the bandages, and she has no idea how will she make her way back up the stairs. More importantly, she doesn’t care one bit If she won’t. She spent the last month preparing for death, since Dorian started being evasive on how much he was able to dig up in Minrathous’ libraries about the Anchor and how to stop it from consuming her. She’s never getting any readier.

She stares at her reflection in the silverite: blonde hair messy and unkempt, still dirty from the battle, a loose white tunic reaching barely to the middle of her calfs and a couple of sizes bigger, barefoot, the face of a scared deer cornered amidst hunters. She feels pathetic, and that makes her angry. She isn’t used to feeling angry, doesn’t know what to do with it. So, she struggles to summon magic, body hurting but the process feeling natural and easy. Relief washes over her in seeing she still can function as a mage, even if one hand makes for less control. She struggles to direct it, but a couple of trials and she manages to let it flow in the mirror. The surface answers, shining bright before her, inviting.

It’s a bad idea. She knows the chances of her not making it back from the Crossroads again are slim, between her poor physical health making defending herself from demons and the chance of loose Qunari still making their way through the maze. She feels disgusting and she hates herself at the idea of all the people who would wake up in her room just to find her missing and most likely dead in the Crossroads, people who love her, and stepping on their feelings like so, without even saying goodbye. But she’s too enraged of her need to always think about others first, herself later, and It’s unfair, and she hates herself so it’s probably better that she frees everyone, it’s very unfair and and she steps forward.

The crossroads are quiet and peaceful, the view eerily beautiful and painted in burgundies and warm greys before her, loose banners floating in the breeze. It’s like nothing ever happened. She takes a couple of steps forward, in poor balance, and she sees it.

Painted on the remnants of a column that stood higher than the rest, a single black wolf with his jaws on both sides of a lonely elven girl riding a black and white horse, blond hair loose on her shoulders and clad in teal. She recognises the style, and it feels like she’s just been hit again with a mace, directly in her stomach. A small parchment is folded under a rock, just at the feet of the column. She paddles briskly to it, breath catching, and her knees give way a little too easily in front of the column. The linen of her tunic isn’t barely enough to protect her from scraping, but she doesn’t feel the pain. She struggles to reach the parchment and let it lose with just one hand without wrinkling or tearing it.

“Lethallan,

I know you’ll return here, how soon I don’t know.

Please, don’t come after me. I’m really going where you can’t follow, and if I know you, you’re here before your time and you’re still hurting. I won’t have you killed. I can’t protect you, but there are people behind you that can. There are people behind you that will.

Return to your Commander, for the love he bears for you is true and will not falter, return to your friends. They still need you, as much as you need them right now. You need them more than me, I can’t give you what you need.

I said it before, and I’ll repeat it. You’ve not been what I thought, and yet you surpassed all my expectations by far. You’ve been a sister and a light in the dark, but as such, I shall think of your own good, because I know it’s the last thing you worry about.

Bear your vallaslin with pride, for what it means today, not for what it meant then. It bears small comfort to me seeing from your words and actions that it’s become a widely different symbol, even if its story is rooted in blood. And for what it’s worth, you embody the best that Ghilan’nain represented and could never quite be herself, with grace and strength.

Now go, turn your steps and don’t look back, and if I can give you one last advice: be happy and live free.

We’ll meet again, before the end,

S.”

She crumples the parchment in her fist, as tears starts to slip from her eyes loosely. She starts to bawl, loud and strong and be damned if someone hears her. She folds on herself, placing her forehead on her knees and screaming her throat raw, crying because she just tried to hug her legs and met half an arm, the wound hurting like hell, and crying because she’s a child all over again, and her parents just left her in a foreign clan, and she feels little and unwanted and so, so lonely. She is desperate and sorrowful and her grief turns into anger. She’s not used to anger, it burns and it aches and it contracts her muscles and she doesn’t know what to do with it.

She misses him and she hates him and she wants to punch him. She raises her head, the painting -rough, unprepared, she can see the brush strokes- staring down at her, the eyes of the Wolf feel mocking. She hates them too, boiling rage surging up. She unfolds herself and punches the stone, right in the biggest eye of the Wolf.

“You liar, stupid, son of a bitch-“

She goes on, crying and insulting and punching until her hand hurts, until all that is left is letting go and summoning lightning, feeling magic answer her call much more fastly, and thundering around her when she’s too tired to scream any more. She can hear Keeper Deshanna -NOT her mother- telling her it’s dangerous to cast magic while upset, you have good control da’len, you’re so good, remember this. She wasn’t good, she wasn’t an easy child, she was just a traumatised one trying to please other not to be left behind again. She still is, years of trauma she suppressed coming back, and she wants to be selfish and demanding, and she wants the world to be fair, and she lets everything out in stormy clouds and a thunderstorm rustling the leaves and cracking stones here and there, she doesn’t see. If there’s nothing else she can do, she’ll have him hear her.

She gets too tired for conjuring pretty soon, and collapses back on herself. Crying somberly and hiccupping. It doesn’t feel much better, and she has to thank her injured arm throbbing in pain to distract her for what hurts inside and keeping her feel like a person, not like an empty shell.

She registers steps behind her, but cannot care enough to move. Too exhausted and hurt to do it, she just hopes that if it’s a demon or an assassin, they’ll make quick work of her. Whomever it is, they kneel on her right.

“Can I touch you?”

Cullen found her, because of course he did. And he has to ask. She doesn’t reply, the vague hint of irritation she doesn’t understand fully. He is there, she knows what it means for him to step in what’s a step closer to the Fade, and she knows he’s there for her. She should be happy, but she isn’t. She lets him touch her, tho, notices only then that her hand is still in a tight fist against the rock. He lowers it, slowly and gently and attentive to any signs of opposition that never comes, and delicately unfolds her fingers with his. The side is skinned raw and bloody, she notices, and it doesn’t matter if it stings when he moves her hand around to check if the bones are broken.

He doesn’t say anything either, she’s still looking down, but can feel his worried eyes studying her. She is still angry and she doesn’t know how to act on anger, so she hisses out before she can think better about it.

“What do you want?” She hears her tone harsh, gravelly because her throat feels raw, full of despise. She hates herself more for it, but despise is all she has to give, right now.

“I want to help my wife.”

He’s patient and kind, and comprehensive, and instead of being grateful, she hates him too. She doesn’t want to hit him low, she knows he doesn’t deserve it, but she wants him to leave her alone now and not later on, just reckon she’s not that good of a person and agree with her self-hate, and she knows he would never go if she can’t make him hate her. So, she conjures the lowest hit she can. And she knows him, and knows where to aim.

“Because otherwise she’ll slip down the edge and start with blood magic and you’ll have to kill her as you were trained to do?”

“Don’t push me away, vhenan.”

“Go away, Cullen.”

“No.”

“GO AWAY.”

“No.”

“My hand is bleeding, it would be EASY.”

“Go on.”

“LEAVE ME.” She snaps her hand from his, brashly, and stands up. Her knees are jelly, her head spins and she knows she’s lost too much blood and shouldn’t move. But she moves anyway out of sheer willpower, stepping away. He raises up and follows just three steps behind, stubbornly.

“I won’t be mad at you, really.” She goes on dryly, after a while. “Nobody knows we have eloped, so you can go back and find another person, I don’t mind.”

“I already have a wife.”

“Who would KNOW, if you leave me here?”

“Why should I leave you here, vhenan?”

“DON’T CALL ME LIKE THAT.”

She hisses, and turns around and summons another lightning to fall right between them. The sudden movement and the surge of mana make her even dizzier, her vision grows white for a moment and she feels her legs giving up. She’s not so close to the edge of the ruins to fall down to her death, but falls badly on the left. She can’t rein in a cry of pain, crumbling over the floor and staying there until her vision gets back and her body and world is not just made of pain.

Cullen runs closer, and he’s picking her bust up so she doesn’t lay on what is left of her arm. Her bandages are angry and soaked with blood and caked in dirt and pebbles sticking to the wet cloth, Cullen is shushing her and holding her to his chest, minding her injury. She wants to cry and feels the rage melt away slowly with his body heat, the steady beat of his heart and his hand caressing her hair, finger combing through messy locks and disentangling them. She isn’t finished, tho. Her remaining hand pushes on his chest -that burns as well, remembering her she just punched stone. She doesn’t have enough strength left in her to really put up a challenge for him, but she tries anyway.

“Leave me, go back.”

“I won’t, not now.”

“Now is better than later, please.” She pleads, but he doesn’t care. She tries to fight him, gets herself loose from his embrace, but he just holds her closer, leaning his cheek on the top of her head and not letting her move.

“You sound convinced I will eventually leave you.”

“Everyone leaves me.”

“I promised not so long ago that I wouldn’t have, no? You did too, if I remember correctly your translation.”

She laughs, bitterly.

“A promise made to false gods and enslavers, in their filthy language, it’s hardly a valid one.”

“What?”

“False gods and enslavers. You will leave.”

“Is that- Oh, Aisling.”

“I don’t want your compassion.”

“I know, love, I know.”

He shifts her a little so she is resting with her head on his shoulder, his arms encircling her whole frame in the best bear hug he can muster, and nuzzling her cheek.

“I’m here, you’re not alone.”

“Why-“

“I love you.”

“I’m broken, and without roots, my culture is a ruse and now without-“

“I don’t care, love. It’s ok. I promise you it won’t hurt so much forever.”

“You don’t know it.”

“I perfectly know what I’m saying. And I also know you don’t believe me right now. You’re hurting and everything is raw and too much, but I can promise you every day I won’t leave you alone. I’m here, I got you.”

He starts rocking her gently, back and forth, soothing her with little touches he knows she love. His smell is soothing too, the light hint of medicinal herbs clinging to his hair.

“You’re here. I’m grateful for that, the rest… We’ll fix it. Together.”

He whispers his love time and time again, sweetly, promises he won’t leave again and again, he’s staying with her for how much time she needs, and she finally folds in and starts crying loudly again, sneaking her arm around his neck and holding on for dear life, bawling between his neck and shoulder and feeling she doesn’t deserve him.

She kisses him, in the end, when his words have broken through and she has stopped crying. She moves back a little, enough to look at him in the eyes and seeing that what he said is reflected into his eyes. There’s love, a vast ocean, so much it hurts to watch, sadness and tiredness, the same she feels, and a spark of hope. He always looks at her somehow as he didn’t really believe she is actually there. So, tentatively and shily as if it was the first time all over again, she moves up, ignoring the pain, ignoring everything and pressing her lips to his. A silent thank you, a silent confirmation that, indeed, she’s here for real. Almost. In pieces that need to be brought together, some lost forever. But here. He sighs into it, and she can feel his shoulders under her hand relaxing some as he kisses her back and she doesn’t shy away. Weeks and weeks of tension, the last days of knowing they were her last melting away as they both reassure the other that, in spite of everything, the’re both still there. Broken, chipped, but alive.

And together.

Eventually, they part and he raises up with her still secure in his arms, one hand around her back and the other coming under her knees, keeping her close to his chest. They make their way through the Eluvian, and she drifts into sleep.

[rustic-obsessive]

I'm going to go feral about the da:d leaks for a second look away if you don't want spoilers

1) i'm positively frothing at the mouth at the prospect of going to Weisshaupt. the way they describe it in The Last Flight sounds so fuckin cool

2) mayhaps we'll get to be a warden again??? i wonder if this means another warden protagonist (unlikely in my opinion) or that we're getting dao style origins (more likely based on the fact that tevinter nights focuses on so many different factions i think we might get to pick a faction to start as)

3) i know it's extremely far fetched but a group of junior wardens from Weisshaupt do find a bunch of griffon eggs hidden away nearish Weisshaupt in the last flight which takes place just before inqusition so mayhaps griffons??? (i will cry if bioware gives me a baby griffon i want one so bad)

4) based on what the reddit thread was saying one of the two companions they saw had a female dwarf model though the models weren't finished. we might have a female dwarf companion and potentially (really crossing my fingers here) a female dwarf romance option!

5) the combat didn't seem that different to inqusition combat to me personally so i'm not too worried about that though i am slightly sad that it seems like the thread is supporting the earlier insider gaming article saying that we won't be able to control party members. it's not essential to me because i prefer story to combat but i did kinda like that aspect of micromanaging you could do in DA games

6) you! can! see! the! hair! moving!!! it's clipping through the helmet but it's moving!!! (it's hard to see in the gif cos it's so dark but you can see it!!)

7) finally based on the whole focus on red lyrium we've seen in concept art, the focus on the red lyrium idol, meredith being some kind of talking red lyrium statue, and the red lyrium in these leaks i think there's a strong chance we're going to be finding out more about the origins of the blight. in the leaks the protagonist is fighting darkspawn corrupted by red lyrium (this could indicate a playable grey warden origin or it could be something related to fighting off red lyrium corrupted beings in general idk) which to me seems to further support the idea that we might be delving further into the origins of the blight, especially since Solas seemed to know something about the blight the grey wardens didn't in inqusition also the whole "black city corrupted the magisters and brought the blight down to thedas" thing

One slight worry i have is that they're going to pull a Corypheus on us and hype up the whole Solas confrontation and the bringing down the veil but then pivot to the red lyrium and blighted titans thing half way through. i hope they don't do that but my worry is they may be tempted to because it's a fresh plotline less connected to the previous games and it would make da:d more newbie friendly

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

He's underestimated her before.

Before, when he took her softness for weakness, her kindness for naivety, her passion for the hot-headedness of youth. Before, when she insisted on trying to force-feed him tea to "broaden his mind." Before, when she called him "hahren" with a teasing note of respect in her voice. When she came to him for counsel, asking his opinions on the options given to her by her trusted advisors.

He wrote it all off as a folly of an attempt of connection.

He'd underestimated her before, and he won't do it again. She is owed that much, at least.

Solas groans softly and leans on his elbows over his table, the large map littered with markers not unlike the Skyhold War Table. He's been thinking of her more and more as of late. Reasonably so, he allows; Varric and Scout Harding are on his proverbial tail, and no doubt they are in some semblance of communication with the former Inquisitor. How else could they afford to track him down across Thedas, if not with the funds of the defunct Inquisition?

(He refuses to believe that Varric Tethras is as good of a writer as he claims and has earned all that coin. Solas has tried to read "The Tale of the Champion" thrice now and has not ever made it past Hawke's settling down in Kirkwall with his family. Surely, with a figure as dynamic as Hawke, Varric could have written a scintillating story, but alas, it never was enough to keep his interest. He just could not see what the rest of the world found so enthralling about that book.)

He thinks of her often and attempts not to dwell. Solas may not possess the gift of perfect recall, but he knows that every memory of every moment spent at her side is crystal clear, immutable, a pure fact of his life, down to the scent of her fresh, clean skin after a bath. On occasion, very rarely, he deliberately allows himself to picture her beside him for roughly three minutes.

He does so now, letting out a shaking breath. The phantom touch of her hand on his sends goosebumps up his arms and sets his heart to race, even now, so many years later. He imagines her eyes, looking at him knowingly, as if she knows his entire heart, his entire mind.

(Solas loathed having hid so much of himself from her. He had contemplated telling her everything, or at least more about it, at Crestwood, but the earnestness of her gaze, the warmth in her eyes... he could too easily see all that they built crumble between them if she wouldn't accept him, so he broke it all down on his own terms instead of taking that risk. He regretted it then and ever since, but still, he believes it to have been the right thing to do.)

"What now, ma vhenan?" she asks softly, gesturing to his map. Her perfume - if it could be called such a thing - clings to even this phantom of her, bringing with it memories of lazy mornings in bed at her side. "You are so weary."

"I am," he sighs. Solas can't bring himself to look directly at this mental image of her, which somehow feels so real next to him. Her hand comes back to him, and she begins to rub his nape. It almost works to relax him; even the memory of this long-familiar touch is comforting, like the real thing, in some respects.

"You need to rest, Solas. Your eyes are dark and heavy; it's not like you. Lay down your burdens. Stop all of this."

How could they not be? All of his plans, every action, thrown into chaos by Varric's new friend Rook. He has fights and concerns on so many fronts, and now he can hardly count them.

But wouldn't it be so easy, some traitorous part of him whimpers, to reach back to her and let it all go?

She vowed to come after him, he'd been told, heartbroken but sure in her declaration. To hear it from his spies, she had cried for days after recovering from his taking the anchor from her, nearly howling in her grief in the dead of night. Eventually, she regained her composure, but he knew it was a promise she intended to keep, and he still doesn't know whether she intends to try to stop him or save him.

"I know." He looks up at her fully now, knowing that his self-defined time with her is running out. A few more moments with her left, now, and then she'll be gone, her memory carefully, protectively packed away under the mantle of the Dread Wolf. Her hand stills on his nape, and he takes it in his own. Raising it to his lips, Solas brushes a kiss over her scarred knuckles.

"I'll be with you soon, emma lath," she whispers, as if she knows her time is up. "I don't know what that will mean."

Solas closes his eyes. "I don't doubt it, vhenan," he replies tiredly.

Three minutes, come and gone. This world has become so fleeting since he woke.

When he opens his eyes again, she is gone. There is nothing that suggests she was ever here, save for the heavy, silverite weight of her in his heart.

Squaring his shoulders, he turns back to his work. There is much still to be done, as ever.

The Dread Wolf’s Heart is Changed Already

Give me a Solas who’s primary goal when you’d just stumbled out of the Fade wasn’t to save your life, but to ascertain the status of the Anchor.

Give me a Solas who objectively decides that you’re more useful to him alive than dead, so he saves your life.  A Solas who decides that you deserve to live for that bit longer so that you can close the Breach.  The world’s only hope.

Give me a Solas that realizes quite early on that it’s a shame you weren’t born in his time, he would have probably liked you.

Give me a Solas that slowly comes to the realisation that he respects you, is beginning to trust you to make the choices that most benefit the oppressed, the weak, those who can’t get what they need for themselves.  

(Give me a Solas that doesn’t realise how much trouble he’s in until he tells himself that this, no this is the time that he’ll stop encouraging whatever is going on between you.

Give me a Solas that is so focussed on denying his growing feelings that you manage to catch him off guard.  A Solas who is far worse at dealing with his feelings than you are because he’s still trying to pretend he’s not having them.

Give me a Solas that looks back on those few days where he was coldly contemplating killing you and his gut clenches at how easy it could have been.  A Solas that sometimes, out of the blue, just takes your hand and squeezes, brings you into the circle of his arms just to remind himself of what he would have lost had he made a different choice.)

Give me a Solas who realizes he’s learning for the first time in Ages.  Who is seeking you out to sate his own curiosity as much as you are seeking him.  A Solas that truly regrets having to leave, knowing that this is the last time you will be allies.

Give me a Solas that has to prepare for you now, is not going to make the mistake of underestimating you.  A Solas that still questions himself, still interrogates his own actions, who can’t quite stop asking himself if he’s doing the right thing.  Only now, that voice sounds like you.  And it’s stronger than it’s ever been.

“I would not have you see what I become.”

No, because only he knows just how close you’ve been to that side of him already.  Because your brush with the Dread Wolf happened whilst you were sleeping, before you ever knew he existed.  By the time he’s introducing himself on that mountain, you’ve been closer to the man he’s trying to protect you from in Trespasser than you ever are again.

Basically.  Give me an arc to this potential character growth, Bioware.  Do NOT let it fizzle out into Generic Bad Guy.  You brought the Dread Wolf to us just after he’d coldly murdered a close friend without even looking them in the eye just because they’d failed him.  And then you let him CARE.  Don’t make that for nothing.

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 49: Something to Prove

Where Tristan interrogates Gordian about Corypheus' plans, but learns more than what he bargained for.

Read on AO3 | Read from the beginning

The wine was cool when it glided down Dorian’s throat. The rain had finally stopped, yet the echoes of distant thunder from the west still drifted through the Plains. The muffled sounds that came from within the tent made Dorian’s stomach twist. He drank some more, trying to make it stop. 

“How’s your head?” came Bull’s question from behind him. 

“Never had any complaints,” Dorian quipped, without thinking. 

Bull chuckled softly, standing beside him with his arms crossed before his chest. “Good to know.”

“How’s the prisoner?”

“Well enough. Boss is currently rearranging his face. With his fists.”

Dorian winced. “I thought he was done with that,” he murmured. “How he deigns to get the man talking if he punches out all of his teeth is truly beyond me.”

“Gotta soften them up a bit first, before you get them talking,” Bull said in a pleasant tone. “Besides, Gordian should have known he had it coming, when he trapped you behind that barrier.”

“Yes,” Dorian sighed. “I suppose he should.” There was little that could be done to quell Tristan’s anger and loathing for the Venatori on the best of days, let alone now, that one of them had had the audacity to attack Dorian directly. Not that he’d been in any real danger, as Dorian had pointed out to him several times on their way back. There was hardly a lackey of Corypheus that could truly hold their own in a fight against him. But Tristan, if nothing else, did have a flair for the dramatic that could match Dorian’s own sometimes. 

“I think I’ve had enough fresh air for now,” he said, tucking his flask back into his pocket. “Let’s go back inside, and see if there’s anything left of our captive to have a conversation with.”

The inside of the tent they’d dragged Gordian in felt uncomfortably stuffy. The air smelled of blood and mud. Gordian was tied to a short wooden pole, with his hands behind his back, his head lolling forward. Tristan stood above him, wiping his knuckles on a piece of cloth; the fabric, once white, was now crimson.

Tristan’s eyes were dark when he glanced at Dorian and Bull over his shoulder. He tossed the bloody cloth to the side, then picked up the leather bag that Harding had brought him a little while before. Inside were health potions, their contents vibrantly red in the dreary half-darkness of the tent. 

“Give him this,” he said sharply as he tossed one vial at Sera. “Make sure he drinks it all.” 

The elf caught in the air, hopping off the barrel she’d been sitting on. “I say we leave him like this,” she huffed, yet strode to the man regardless. “He’s not worth wasting a good potion on, is he?”

“I want him talking,” Tristan said coldly, “and I have no time to spare to wait for him to recover.” His features were hard, the trembling shadows of the lamp in the corner carving stark shadows along his cheeks and the line of his jaw. He watched as Sera tipped Gordian’s head back, emptying the contents of the vial, little by little. From his corner of the tent, Solas watched too, leaning against his staff, his face an expressionless mask. 

“There, all done,” Sera said, clapping the man hard on the back when he started coughing. Gordian’s wounds started healing slowly, though the bruises remained, as did the puffiness around his left eye, which was almost swollen shut. “Ready for another round?”

Gordian scowled up at her, his eyes still hazy. “Get your hands off me, you filthy knife ear—”

“That’s enough of that. Sera, leave him.” 

Tristan crossed his arms before him, and Dorian almost let out a breath in relief. As much as Gordian disgusted him, he wasn’t sure he could stomach another round of watching the man’s face getting beaten to a pulp. There was a side of Tristan that frightened him at times: he couldn’t quite understand how the same man that was so soft and gentle with him, that treated him as if he was precious and fragile, could just as easily turn stone cold and ruthless with those that slighted him. Not always, not with everyone, but just the thought of what he could do when pressed made Dorian somewhat uneasy.  

“What is your purpose here?” Tristan asked Gordian. “What were you sent to do?”

Gordian glanced up at him, his eyes hazy. He said nothing, only kept staring at him with a scornful smile painted on his lips. Tristan’s gaze hardened, his fingers digging into his arms where his hands lay folded. 

“I asked you a question.”

Gordian’s expression didn’t shift. “I heard you the first time, Inquisitor.” He uttered the word with so much contempt, that even Dorian winced. 

Without a word, Tristan picked up the bucket of ice cold water that stood beside him, and threw it forcefully on Gordian. The Venatori gasped, blinking, crimson-tinted water dripping from his hair and his beard. His eyes were wide and focused now, the haze lifting, and Gordian stared at them all around him, his chest heaving with his panting breaths.

“Was that truly necessary?” Dorian muttered, to which Sera shrugged carelessly, perching herself on the barrell. 

“Serves him right,” the elf said, gathering her legs underneath her and boredly chewing on a wheat stem while Gordian gradually returned to his senses fully. 

Dorian sighed, then reached into his coat pocket and removed his small notebook, the one he always kept with him. Some of its pages had been soaked by rain and mud during his tumble with the Venatori, but his notes were blessedly intact. He'd hoped to find some time after the fight to make some notes on Gordian's magic, when his memories of the barriers and incantations he'd used were still fresh in his mind, and now was as good a time as any.

“Did that cool your head?” Tristan said pleasantly, setting the bucket down. "Ready to answer my questions now?"

Gordian coughed again, shivering and sputtering water and blood through his split lips. “You’ll pay for this,” he hissed, voice hoarse and trembling. “Do you hear me? Corypheus will know. Corypheus knows all. He will make you all pay! He—” Gordian stopped talking when Tristan took a slow step towards him, sliding a knife out of his pocket. Its edge was sharp, thin as a hair.

“One more word,” he said in a low, threatening tone, “one more word that I don’t care to hear, and I’m cutting your tongue out.” 

Gordian swallowed, glancing at the knife, then in Tristan’s face. “Curse you,” he tried again, “curse all of you—” He stopped again, when Tristan moved closer, brandishing the blade. “Alright, alright,” he said shakily. He shrunk back into himself, pressing against the pole he’d been tied to. “Have it your way.”

“Good.” Tristan leaned on his back leg, twirling the blade between his fingers. “If you value your life, you’ll tell me everything I need to know. Yes?”

The Venatori nodded, once, and with much reluctance. 

Read the rest on AO3!

[blackmissfrizzle]

The Barbershop (EZ Edition)

Angel’s Edition

Miguel’s Edition

Pairing: EZ Reyes x black!reader

Summary: The reader gets EZ ready for his patch party.

Warnings: Use of the n-word & smut

A/N: Thank you to @ly--canthrope​ for the EZ fluff prompts!  

A/N (2): I highly suggest listening to El Clavo while listening. Also, I think Nestor and Coco might be getting some attention from me, so be on the look out for that.

Prompts: 

“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice” 

Person scrunching their nose & other kisses them

When you got your first pair of clippers in high school, EZ was your first customer and ever since you’ve been cutting his hair. Even when he went off to college, EZ came back to Santo Padre to get his hari cut by his best friend. The only time you didn’t cut his hair was when he was in prison for those 8 years, but since he’s been back, he hasn’t missed an appointment.

Now here he was at your house with his hair longer than usual because he was busy with club shit. Luckily, he came by with enough time for you to do his hair before his patch party. “Ezekiel, please come to me before your hair gets this long again.”

He pinched your side as you moved around him. “Hey, you do Angel’s hair all the time and his hair is a shit ton longer than mines.”

“I’m used to Angel’s long locks! You’re supposed to be the clean-cut brother.” You stopped cutting his hair and moved the clippers in front of his face. “Oh, and if you pinch me again while I’m doing your hair, I’ll purposefully fuck up your hairline. Let’s see how many of those hang arounds will want your dick then.”

He held up his hands in surrender and mumbled his apologies, but not really meaning it. As long as you’ve been his best friend his favorite pastime was to rile you up. He loved how flustered you got when you couldn’t come up with a clever comeback. He loved how your hand slapped him across his body even if it was a little painful. He loved how your eyes widened in shock and he couldn’t help but wonder if that’s how you’ll look when he finally gets the chance to slip inside you.

Everyone was aware of his crush on you, except you. The only reason EZ didn’t tell you was because with the pair of you, timing was awful. When he realized he was in love with you, you had a boyfriend and when you broke up with that boyfriend EZ was with Emily. Then, he went off to prison and when he came back, he didn’t want to involve you with his mess, so he kept his distance. But he couldn’t wait anymore, he had to let you know.

“Hey, Y/N/N,” he grabbed your attention by lightly grazing your hip. “Yes, Ezekiel?” He let out a soft groan. He loved when you used his full name. It didn’t matter if you were yelling it excitement, teasing him, or scolding him, he just loved to hear it.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t say anything else because your phone started to ring. It was your sorta boyfriend, Rick. EZ couldn’t stand him. He was a douchebag that gave you more headaches than anything. And it was obvious to EZ that you didn’t love him. It was evident in the way you talked about him like an annoying chore. For the life of him, EZ didn’t understand why you kept him around.

“Oh, so now you’re coming? Well, just meet me there because EZ’s riding with me.” EZ couldn’t help to smile a bit at you putting Rick in his place. He tried to listen to Rick’s response, but he could only make out his tone and from that he could tell he was pissed. “Why? Nigga, I don’t have to give you a reason why my best friend is riding in my car.” Even though you were busy with your little argument your hand never faltered, cutting hair was second nature to you. “Ugh, if you must know its his party and I’m planning to get him plastered, so he needs a DD. That’s good with you? Oh, wait I don’t care,” You hung up the phone soon after that.

“Rick coming?” EZ managed to keep the disdain for him out of his voice. “Who knows? Probably be better if he stays but forget about him.” You turned off the clippers and brushed his hair, then gave EZ the mirror to inspect himself. After he gave his haircut a serious inspection, he started biting his lip and doing his signature pretty boy poses.

“Okay, Lothario if you’re done making out with yourself in the mirror, imma go take a shower to start getting ready.” As you turned to walk away, EZ grabbed your wrist and pulled you to him. “Thank you, querida.” He kissed your wrist and gave you those adorable puppy dog eyes. “No problem, EZ,” you gave him a kiss on the cheek, then went to your bathroom to get ready and ignored your heart swelling up from EZ’s touch.

An hour later you were still getting ready and EZ was taking a shower. While you were applying on makeup, EZ walked into your room wet, fresh out the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. You knew EZ was ripped, but see it up close, my god there are no words.

EZ caught your staring in the mirror. “Like what you see?” He asked, flexing his pecs. “Ew, no!” You falsely claimed and scrunched up your nose in faux disgust.  EZ came up to you and kissed your nose before snatching your lotion off the dresser.  “You know what, you’re right. You love it.” EZ was so damn close to you that you could feel the heat of the shower radiating off of him.

“Yeah, I love it,” you deadpanned before pushing him away. “Now get ready. I don’t want you to be late to your own party.”

--

While EZ was having the time of his life, you were having the opposite. Rick ended up coming, but he was in a funky mood thus bringing your mood down. When his first words were something about how your dress wasn’t flattering, you made plans to break up with him. Using him as a distraction from EZ was draining your soul and you didn’t need that kind of energy in your life.

He made the breakup easier for you when you caught him in the restroom with one of Vicky’s girls with his dick in her mouth. You couldn’t even muster up any anger, instead you gave the girl and extra $100 for her troubles.

Although, getting cheated on sucked, what pissed you off the most was the girls all fawning over EZ. They were all over him like bitches in heat, rubbing on his chest, arms, and head, commenting on his haircut…your haircut. “Damn chica, just go claim your man.” Coco observed how you were sending death glares at the women.

“He’s not my man! He’s grown and can do whatever he wants.” You sputtered, surprised at being caught. “Exactly! If you weren’t too chicken, then he’d be your man.” Angel commented, taking a sip of his beer.

You ignored Coco’s and Angel’s somewhat encouraging words to look back at EZ. Your face instantly brightened when you saw how at ease he was. It wasn’t too often EZ could let go like this.

EZ felt a pair of eyes on him and when he found out it was you his eyes gleamed, he cracked that boyish smile and raised his beer to you. Excusing himself EZ made his way to you and gave you a hug. “Ezekiel, what’s with the hug?”

“I miss you.”

“You rode with me here, EZ.”

“Its Ezekiel and I barely talked to you since we’ve been here. Is it so bad that I want to party with my best friend?” You scrunched up your face. “I guess not.”

EZ hummed his appeasement and kissed your nose.  “Come dance with me.” He didn’t give you time to reject him. Tightly he tugged your hand and pulled you into the middle of the scrapyard.

Prince Royce and Maluma’s El Clavo began to play. EZ knew how much you loved this song, but since you didn’t know Spanish you didn’t understand the song. It was ironic to him that this song was playing tonight. Earlier, he saw how Angel escorted Rick out and the relief wash over you when you saw him leave. He knew Rick must’ve done something stupid. If it wasn’t for your need to avoid conflict, EZ would’ve beat his ass right then and there.

“What are you doing?” You questioned EZ as he placed his leg between yours and wrapped your arms around his neck. “Dancing obviously,” he chuckled near your ear sending vibrations throughout your body.

You decided not to fight him and followed his lead. There’s been plenty of times you’ve dance with EZ, but it was always playful and fun, but this…this was different, this was sensual. A passionate dance only meant to be shared between lovers.

“Eyes,” he ordered assertively. It was his command to you when he wanted you to feel what he was saying.

Si esta noche tu novio te bota (If tonight your boyfriend throws you out) Dile que tú no estás sola (Tell him that you are not alone) Que tú estás conmigo, que yo sí te cuido (That you are with me, that I do take care of you) No como ese idiota (no como ese idiota) (Not like that idiot (not like that idiot) Si esta noche tu novio te bota (If tonight your boyfriend throws you out) Dile que tú no andas sola (que no 'tás sola) (Tell him that you are not alone (that you are not alone) Que yo soy el clavo que saca ese clavo (That I am the nail that pulls that nail)

Y dile que se joda (And tell him to fuck) Maluma, baby

Your breath hitched as EZ began translating the lyrics to English. He had to be able to feel how fast your heart was beating. “There it is.” He pointed out. “There what is?”

“That look.” He tugged your bottom lip that you had tucked underneath your teeth. “What look?” Your breath brushed against his thumb and it took all his control not to pounce on you.

“Eyes blown out, chest heaving. See,” EZ gripped your chin to keep your eyes leveled with his. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice. It’s the same look I have when I look at you.”

“Stop playing with me, Ezekiel.” Your heart couldn’t take it if this was some sort of joke. “I’m not.” His voice did not waver.

“What about Emily? Or Gabby?”

“Distractions. Distractions that kept me from the real thing for too long.” You sucked your teeth in disbelief. EZ decided to translate the song for you some more. If you weren’t going to believe his words, then maybe you’ll believe another’s.

Yo llevo la cuenta, esta es la quinta vez  (I keep track, this is the fifth time) Pero yo no entiendo por qué no lo ves   (But I don't understand why you don't see him) Tú estás demasiado buena para estar con él (mamacita) (You're too hot to be with him (mamacita)) Tremenda mujer para estar con él  (Tremendous woman to be with him) Y si te busca a las 4:20 porque te llama borracho  (And if he looks for you at 4:20 because he calls you drunk) Ahora te quiere pero mañana vuelve a hacerte daño (Now he loves you but tomorrow he will hurt you again) Por ese bobo no llores  (For that fool, don’t cry) Deja que yo te enamore (deja que yo te enamore)  (Let me make you fall in love (let me make you fall in love)

Now that you knew EZ’s feelings, the lyrics became much more intense for you. Instinctively, you rested your forehead on his. His lips hovered over yours so much that you could taste the beer on his breath. Your acrylic nails caressed the back of his head caused him to stop his translation and purr against your neck. “You like that, Ezekiel?” You teased, giggling against his neck.

“I don’t know,” EZ pressed up against you tighter so you could feel his hardon. “You tell me if it feels like I like it.”

Now or never, you thought. You brought your lips closer to EZ’s. The both of you fighting for dominance, but ultimately EZ won, claiming you in front of the club. It wasn’t until you heard the cheers of his brothers that he’d stop kissing you.

Instantly, EZ started pulling you in the direction of your car, but you stopped him. “I can’t wait, Ezekiel. I need you now.” EZ’s normally bright eyes darkened and he led you towards the clubhouse. On your way to the dorm room, both you and EZ ignored Angel when he told you, “Don’t be surprised when EZ starts crying.”

As the pair of you made it through the hallway, each of your touches got heavier, more daring. So daring that when you finally got to his dorm your dress was halfway off. The rest of the clothes fly off like a whirlwind except EZ’s jeans. In his rush he tripped over his jeans. “Oh, that’s funny?” He asked when he caught you giggling.

“Just a little.” EZ rushed to you, tackled you to the bed and quickly turned your giggles into soft moans as he kissed you.

Despite your best efforts to keep him close, EZ pulled away. He leaned back on his haunches and admired your body. “I can’t believe I finally have you.” He lifted your leg threw it over his shoulder and started kissing you from your ankle up to your inner thighs. “You know one night when I slept over at your place. I caught you touching yourself. Your hands flew to your face to cover up the embarrassment. “Oh god,” you mumbled.

EZ’s deep chuckle made you peek through your hands. “What are you embarrassed for? For that little 10 seconds, it was the sexiest thing I’ve seen, but it was so damn torturous in the most beautiful way. Do you know how hard it is to have that vividly replaying in my head and not have you?”

The whole time EZ was talking he was getting closer to your core, but you were hyper focused on his words that his mouth on your clit took you by surprise. “Shit,” you squealed underneath his tongue. With your hand you covered your mouth to keep your screams down. EZ lifted his head at your muffled screams. “No, let me hear you. Let me know how good I make you feel.”

Following his instructions, you removed your hand and that earned you an approving smile from EZ. “Good girl.” Before he returned to his meal, EZ grabbed you by the back of your neck, forcing you to keep your eyes on him.

This time he added his fingers as he ate you out. The hold he had on you allowed no room for you to run, you had to stay there and take everything he was giving you. Add pussy eating to the long list of things that Ezekiel Reyes is great at.

Your hands shot out to EZ’s head. Scratching it was your best alternative since you had nothing to tug at. EZ raised his head, his mouth glistening from your cunt. “I bet you wish my hair was longer now.” He teased before diving right back in.

“EZ, I’m gonna cum.” You continued scratching the back of his head as he moved his tongue and fingers faster. “Cum all over my mouth, preciosa.” He murmured above your pussy.

An explosion. That was the only way you could describe your orgasm. It busted through your body, leaving you and EZ soaked. The evidence shone on his forearm, highlighting his veins, leaving you in a trance.

EZ noticed your staring at his arm. “Ride my forearm.” He demanded, excited that he’ll be able to get you off this way.

At first you were hesitant, but with EZ’s urging you hopped on it. You were experiencing immense pleasure and wanted EZ to experience the same. Tonight, was a celebration for him and this entire time his focus was on you. Completely selfless as usual. Reaching between your bodies, you began stroking him, smearing his precum all over his engorged head. “What are you doing?” He gasped, flexing his arm a bit more. “Tonight’s about you. I want to make you feel good.”

EZ nibbled at your chin. “I want you to cum all over my forearm, that’ll make me feel good.” You continued jerking him off while you rode him.

Who would’ve thought the rough ridges of his protruding veins and his constant flexing had you cumming a second time for the night? “Fuck we got to do that again!” You tried to nuzzle your face in EZ’s neck, but he wouldn’t let you because he was too busy kissing you all over your face. “EZ, I just came on your fucking arm.��

“Yeah and it was hot! I bet that douchebag couldn’t do that with his measly dick.” Slowly, he began to lay you down. “Now you’re about to cum all over my dick while screaming my name.”

Your now boyfriend made good on his promise. Opposed to Rick’s useless jackhammering, EZ made slow, powerful strokes, ensuring you were well taken care of.

He was tending to your body so well your eyes kept rolling to the back of your head. “Eyes!” He commanded harsher than ever before. When your eyes met his, you could see the struggle in his eyes. EZ wanted to be soft, gentle, and romantic, but deep down he wanted to fuck you hard, show you who you belong to.

“Make me yours, Ezekiel. Fuck me like you mean it.” It took him some time to process the words, but when he did his widened in realization that he got permission to let go. “Fuck, I love you.” He captured your lips in a searing kiss, hoping to communicate how much he loved you. “I love you too.” You told him as he had a bruising hold on your hips.

Gone was sweet soft Ezekiel. He was replaced by EZ, the harsh lover that’s gonna push you over the edge, then bring you back just to do it all over again.

Yours and EZ’s moans accompanied by the sound of bodies slapping together made a symphony that you would never get tired of. This was what you were missing for all those years apart.

“Make me proud. Cum all over this dick, querida.” EZ suckled your neck, branding you with his marks. “Ezekiel!” You cried out as your body combusted, almost feeling every molecule in your body. The newly patched Mayan silenced your cries with his mouth as he came soon after you.

EZ tried to lay in the bed with you but you refused. I t was his party and you were adamant that he enjoys it some more. You two can have your alone time later.

Just as you were sliding up your panties, EZ stuffed his fingers up your cum filled pussy. “Don’t want this leaking out.” He whispered, giving you a cheeky grin as you moaned at his ministrations.

“Okay, that’s enough you nasty ass kids. Playtime is over! Time to get fucked up, baby bro. I’m sure Y/N wants to forget the last 30 seconds.” Angel banged on the door.

“That was nice while it lasted.” You slipped your dress over your head and fixed your hair. EZ hummed his agreeance and led you out the door and ignored the childish jeering from his brothers. They could tease all they want, because as long as he has you, he doesn’t give a damn.

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