#ghilannainguideme

[ekalita-blr]

Ghilan'nain portrait I messed up with resolution. So if the picture looks toooooo sharp i’m sorry.

[stolenmagi]

@ghilannainguideme - [ x ] - submission to her will.

Soft light slanting through the window illuminates Rosal's face in profile, draws lines of shadow around his scars, paints red and brown in his dark hair. His eyes shine with anticipation, and his larynx bobs in his narrow throat as he watches Lyna sit next to him on the bed, in the small, scantly-furnished room.

If Lyna said she wasn’t nervous, it would be a lie, but she knows from experience that it doesn’t show. She hopes this is comforting rather than intimidating, as she takes one of his hands—his pulse is racing, she can feel it pounding in his wrist—and lifts it to her lips, kissing his fingers, then his palm where it is callused from wielding his staff. He reaches for her cheek, traces the scars along her jaw, and with a steadying inhalation she leans in to kiss him properly, his soft lips parting with a gentle shudder. His arm winds around her shoulders and pulls her closer; she anchors her hands around his waist, reveling in his smell and taste and the soft moan he lets out when she teases his lips with her teeth.

She kisses the corner of his mouth and nuzzles his jaw, and when he tilts his chin up for her, she brushes her lips over his larynx, where soft skin stretches over cartilage. Then, lower—with one hand, she tugs the laces of his tunic loose, kissing the hollow of his throat and the jut of his collarbone.

Pulling back just enough to check his face for any sign of reluctance, she pauses. She doesn’t want to stop, feeling the way his hand coils in her tunic and wishing he would grab her like that, hungry for more of his skin, eager to know how he looks and sounds and moves as she guides them both towards release. 

Her hand still on his waist squeezes and strokes higher. “Will you take your shirt off,” she prompts in a murmur against his neck.

There’s something terrifying about trust. Rosal doesn’t give it often, especially in circumstances like these, but he loves her, he reminds himself, he’s spent long hours teaching her how to understand his signs just as she’s spent long hours teaching him their shared mother tongue. He need not speak, but she knows how intimate a touch on his hand is -- as much as the touch of her lips against his own -- for he can’t even form words in his own way, when his hand is in hers.

It’s nearly overwhelming, and he’s thankful for her confidence, that she can guide them both, because his mind is empty save for her, as she has found a way to fill his every sense with her adorations. He is not in full faculty of the soft sounds that escape into her kiss, nor the touches he graces across her fair skin.

He needs her, here, to stay, so his hands go to her tunic, bury in the fabric, a desperate, wordless appeal for her to continue. The softness of her lips on skin draws another deep, satisfied hum from his chest. Yes, he hopes she hears in it. That’s nice.

But then she stops to command him, and the sigh that leaves him is a little frustrated.

Still, there's no reluctance. No hesitance. He wants to obey Lyna, to give her what she wants without question, but her kisses are so sweet they’re almost cloying and he longs for another, more of them. So caught in the moment, for a second he forgets all about the scars that dot his chest, the shy way he feels he should cover himself, and pulls the shirt from his shoulders, pulls her in before she can protest, and kisses her, needy, square on the lips. Though he seems nothing more than a twiggy mage with clothes on, his body is lean with subtle rippling muscle underneath, speckled with scars -- some familiar, dealt relatively recently as the source of his tainted blood, others less so, from his days with the Mage’s Collective and earlier, on escape attempts from the Circle. 

He seems to recall himself after a moment, and draws away, just enough he can feel her warm exhalations against his skin, as he, too, catches his breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. His breath catches, eyes lidded, heart fluttering, words halting. “I... Ar lath ma... I want you. I need you.”

Once more, his hands knot in her tunic. Lyna makes him feel whole, reminds him he has more in him than destruction, that his magic is not something to be hated -- not by himself, not by the people who matter. That he’s elven first and mage second, not the other way around. That he deserved all that the world stole from him and more. He can’t say this. His words catch in his throat and he doesn’t know how else to express himself than through motion, and the barest breath of sentences against her lips. 

He needs her.

[chantcftrials]

❝ it doesn’t matter who’s king as long as there’s a horde of dogs. ❞

"And who am I to argue with that?"

[mercury-stone]

Ponyo likes it with ham.

[epicballads]

Sucks to Be Me

      “This is yours?” Jaskier looked up at the house he was standing next to. In the dim light of the moon, it looked ominous in an exciting way. Someone wealthy lived here. Someone who had paid attention to all the details that would make a building look elevated without being too obvious about it. The stones were a little bit smoother, a little bit brighter, the roof a little higher and the doors a little broader.       The dark-haired woman next to him laughed quietly. The sound was pleasant and soft. Soft as her skin when she took his hand into hers and bumped into him lightly before she pulled him towards the door gently.       “It is as I said, is it not?” she said, voice melodic and light. The tone of her voice was so incredibly pleasant, he had been fascinated with it the second he had heard it the first time, mere hours ago. She whirled around, the light of the moon catching on her necklace. It shimmered in the light like but it had a natural shine to it, that went very well with the deep green color of her eyes.         Jaskier looked up at the dark house again before looking down at the woman with a smile. He stumbled a step forward and then made to follow her, to let her drag him along wherever she might please.        “Who else lives with you?” he asked, easy, but not without an ulterior motive. Knowing who you might encounter, disturb or potentially rub the wrong way with your presence was always a good thing.        “So many questions,” the woman responded. Her name was Estrid, she had told him. “Where’s that sense for adventure you spoke about?”        She winked at him and Jaskier’s grin got a little wider.        “Oh — don’t worry, fully intact,” he jested, following her and almost walking right into her when she stopped. Estrid had her hand on the handle of the door but she had stopped a little early and suddenly. Her head turned as if she had heard something Jaskier hadn’t.        “What’s wrong?” he whispered, suspecting a scorned lover or an angry father around a corner. A tense moment of silence later, Estrid shook her head and simply said, “Nothing. I thought I heard something.”       The inside of the house was as fantastic as the outside was. The first room they entered had a tiled floor of polished stone. They were so smooth, you might have slipped if you didn’t pay attention. Jaskier only struggled for a second, holding on tighter to Estrid’s hand.              Estrid moved in closer to him, letting go of his hand to reach up and wrap her arms around his shoulders. His hands landed on her hips easily and he looked down into her eyes.       “Now, let’s do what we came here to do,” she said, her voice sweet and thick as honey. Jaskier nodded his head and whispered softly, “With pleasure.”       They both had very different ideas of what they had come to do. While Jaskier was expecting a kiss to start things off easily, Estrid was moving her tongue over her teeth in anticipation of drinking the bard’s blood.

@ghilannainguideme

[theharellan]

I LOVE how your writing is just drenched in emotion. It's so powerful to read and it works so well with how you depict the way Solas experiences the world.

POSITIVITY MEME | always accepting

me writing solas sometimes: am i being too dramatic? *looks at solas* no im good actually

anyway kjsdf thank you! i’m glad you think so, it’s definitely one of the most fun parts about writing him.

[skyheld]

@ghilannainguideme liked for a starter  !

“ We’ll need a lot of flowers.   Tall ones,  so we can make a garland.   The farmers don’t like it when we’re in their fields but we can pick them from the side of the road. “   She hands Lyna a bucket and points to the side of the small dirt road,  which branches off from the main road towards the villages surrounding Denerim.   “ All the others will be making them too.   Then we’ll put them together,  and wrap it around the Vhenadal.   It’ll make sense when you see it.   Oh, and--- “   A grin,  freckled with the summer sun.   “ Because we’re unmarried, we’re supposed to be quiet until tomorrow,  but I don’t think we have to do that. “

[lavellanshe]

@ghilannainguideme​ asked: 4, 22 ( vanilla sunday meme )

Does your muse initiate a lot of physical contact?

Absolutely! Ellana’s primary love language is touch and she has always been one to do things like sit in someone’s lap or take their hand in order to show them her support - or simply to be close. She loves tight hugs, soft kisses and intimate encounters and she doesn’t want to miss out on those things because she is too afraid to initiate. 

Does your muse read smut, own magazines, or watch p-rn?

Thanks to Varric, Ellana is considerably more versed in smutty novella than she was when she was part of the clan. She had never really been interested in depictions of sex other than reality prior to her initiation as Inquisitor, but now she is certainly more aware and appreciative of the written word ( and artistic depictions) when it comes to sex. 

[divinesleft-a]

@ghilannainguideme​ said: "Can I kiss you?" ask nicely and u get a kiss accepting!

    it’s been quiet. not uncomfortable, of course. leliana is far more comfortable with lyna for company in her rookery than she would be with anybody else, or being alone, for that matter. but the TEN years between the last time they had seen each other has never been more prominent than it is now. 

but lyna’s question seems to ease the tension, the stress visibly leaving leliana’s shoulders. she had been so worried. TERRIFIED, even, that what had been between them had dwindled to the point of non-existence in their separation. 

“maker, i thought you would never ask-” 

it’s a practiced movement, leliana’s hands slip around lyna’s waist as though they had never left, the spymaster catching the warden-commander’s lips as though barely ten minutes had passed since the last kiss. as far as her body is concerned, it’s as easy as breathing, and she hasn’t felt fresh air in far too long. 

[ilianchant]

@ghilannainguideme​  ❤’d

“I’m sad to say that I know next to nothing about the Wardens.”

[chiefambassador-archive]

nonverbal prompts // accepting

[  bullet  ]  sender  takes  a  bullet  for  receiver  (  literal  or  figurative  ) @ghilannainguideme​

If she’s honest, she knows that she let her guard down.  Despite her choice of lifestyle, her penchant toward empathy frequently guides her hand.  Now is one of those times, in midst of her present tagalong with Lyna’s group.  She has been with them for a couple of weeks now, and already she has her concerns about fulfilling her patron’s contract.  

Josephine has no doubts that the noblewoman watches her; nevertheless, what she does not anticipate is an arrow cutting through the quiet of an otherwise unremarkable night.  She is speaking with Lyna when, out of the corner of her eyes, she thinks she notices some movement.  Before she can say or do anything, however, Lyna grabs her arm and wedges herself between Josephine and something.

She sees the Grey Warden wince, but she also hears the sound of metal impacting skin and muscle.  Her eyes are wide with shock and, without thinking, she tries to peer around Lyna to see what it is.  As the horror fully sets in, she finds herself praying that it isn’t fatal.

“Why? Why did you do that?”

[ekalita-blr]

A bunch of sketches for future Dragon Age fanart. - Fenharel freeing elven slaves - Abelas and Solas flirting with elvens - Ghilan'nain portrait

[stolenmagi]

[ clear ] for one muse to clean blood off the other. (also, hello!)

today on "i don't remember which meme" (i think it's this one tho) - [ x ]

Rosal doesn't often let people touch him. He doesn't often speak. Generally, he keeps to himself, and he's sure it's clear: the transition to life as a Grey Warden wasn't easy for him. He doesn't even speak much to the Warden Commander. She may have been Dalish, but he, himself, hasn't considered himself Dalish enough since he was a boy, when he dreamed of escaping and rejoining his clan. 

Warden Mahariel knew none of that. He'd not said a word of any of it. 

Yet still, she sits with him to clear the blood from his skin. He wasn’t especially injured in the fight, but he was, indeed, wearied by it. After all, without so much as saying a single word to her, he did, indeed, fight by her side. He supposes it’s the least she could do, to help, since he, too, had helped her. 

This all prompts the first words he manages to make. He looks up at her -- with her face adorned in the marks of Ghilan’nain, and though his face is bare, he addresses her in elvhen. 

“Ma serannas,” he says, voice low and rough from disuse. 

For a moment, he worries. Is the accent he uses wrong? Did he forget himself in saying words he should not? Will she see him as just another city elf, trying to collect an identity that will never belong to him? His hands knot in the edge of his cloak out of the sheer stress of it all. He’s not said a word to her, things were difficult, perhaps Anders said something to her about it all, his history, being stolen from his clan while born Dalish, had his culture stripped from him... 

All of this twists up in his mind, and he pulls away, away from the gentle, kind touch of another elf who might understand, even though he’s unsure. 

[chantcftrials]

@ghilannainguideme​ ❤’d

“And they say I have no sense of humour...”

[freedomscall-aa]

@ghilannainguideme​ | askbox meme

“I don’t know if you’re happy, Anders. I never asked.”

WAS HE HAPPY? Had he not traded one set of manacles for another in his conscription? To be a Warden wasn't the freedom he had wanted--- Anders now bound to a slow death by the taint that coursed through his veins with every pump of his heart. But, left with the assumption that he might one day be allowed to go as he pleased ( within reason ) so long as it benefited the Order, it felt... vastly superior to the rules of the Tower. Vastly superior to what likely waited for him should the Commander had allowed Rylock to drag him back all those months ago.

❝ In a way, I suppose. I could do without the NIGHTMARES. ❞ An somewhat honest answer for once, had anyone else asked Anders might have stringed together some nonsense that made him look as though he wasn't taking such a question seriously.

❝ But, really, anything's better than wasting away in a Templar cell. There's a few perks too, that I like well enough. Like... I’ve my own room, with a door. ❞

[ourdawncomes]

@ghilannainguideme​ asked: ✵ for merrill

Their first impression of your muse: “Everything was new. New faces, new people. New customs... You’d think that’d mean Lyna would get lost, even just a little, but she stood out from the start. Had the Keeper sent me back the very next day, I don’t think I’d have ever really forgotten her.”

Current impression:  “She’s different, but then again so am I. I’m worried whatever made us friends before isn’t enough now. That I won’t be enough.”

Are they attracted to your muse?: “I remember watching her and Tamlen train growing up. Tamlen was always a slight boy, watching him draw a bow was like watching twigs wrestling in the wind, but when Lyna-- every muscle in her back would... I-- I was going somewhere with this. I promise.”

Something they find frightening about your muse: “I’ve travelled with Hawke, I see what heroes leave in their wake. So many bodies. It’s hard, seeing her that way, but she must have-- that is, the Hero of Ferelden is famed for more than ending the Blight. And when she gets angry, she’s so cold I... On second thought, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Something they find adorable about your muse: “She softens when there’s not so many people around. Sometimes I think it might be nice for her to be like that all the time, but it’s- special, to be someone safe.”

Would my muse sacrifice themselves for yours?: “I don’t think she’d ever forgive me, but I suppose I wouldn’t have to live with the guilt.”

Would my muse go on a date with yours?:  “I’ve been making a list, actually.”

One word my muse would use to describe yours: “Inspiring.”

Would my muse slap yours if they could?: “Not on purpose. Maybe if I’m gesturing too wide with my arms.”

Would my muse hug/kiss yours?: “Well, I should hope so.”