#josephine frost

[manbehindthemask]

Frozen flowers can still bloom, just like frozen hearts can still beat.

Thick soled boots crunched in the mixture of snow and ice that coated the ground. The temperature was brutal and cold, the wind only worsening the chill that came over the small woman trying her best to navigate. She was on a mission, giving up was not an option for her, not until she found what she was looking for.

Azalea Marino was a small, chubby woman who loved nothing more than looking cute- even while essentially hiking around the North Pole. Of course she wore layers of warm furs and plush fabric to try and keep herself warm, but that didn't do much when the cold air struck her cheeks. She hugged her arms around herself, trying to keep somewhat warm.

"Damn it." She muttered to herself. She hadn't expected this quest to be so difficult so quickly! With the blinding whiteness of glittering ice surrounding her, there was no way she could confidently navigate where she was going. Everything was an endless expanse of nothingness. It was incredibly disorienting, and a little depressing.

Azalea stopped, huffing and shivering as she pulled out the piece of paper she'd been given to steer her in the right direction. It was a page out of an old book, worn on the edges with ink slowly fading. Written alongside it was a language unspoken for centuries, so the most she had to go by was the map drawn in. But what use was a map when everything looked the same? She couldn't even go back the way she came because the light snow had already begun to bury her footprints.

She sighed, stuffing the paper back in her pocket and taking a moment to look around. How long had she even been walking? According to her cellphone it had been hours. Evening was quickly approaching and she'd need to find somewhere to set up camp.

Azalea cursed once more, shaking her head. She really deluded herself in thinking that she'd be in and out within a day's time. She knew she may as well start working on finding somewhere to settle in, the sun was growing lower in the sky by each passing moment. She might as well start now before she was left in the absolute darkness of the frozen landscape

@frostcorpsclub

[frostcorpsclub]

The fact I made Frostbitten get periods is funny in part because Jack is the last slasher who I could see handling that in any productive way

January canonically spends the week of her period submerged under water and using herself as bait to gorge on fish

Jack is like “why can’t the rest of you do that?”

It’s not an issue with Suzy bc obviously she’s been pregnant nearly their whole relationship and then she went through menopause but….

Can you imagine Josephine on her period???

[frostcorpsclub]

Thank you so much! She looks like a princess and a time bomb lol

A birthday gift for the wonderful @frostcorpsclub! Her pretty lady Josie! 🩵

[frostcorpsclub]

OH MY G-D I LOVE THIS SO MUCH the effort that it took to pull this off shows so intensely I cannot thank you enough

This bitch needs a warm bath

My 8th ArtFight piece for the year for my good and amazing friend @frostcorpsclub and WHEW this one took a lot of time and effort to create n complete!

I really really hope that this one turned out good for y'all!!

[ART COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN!!!]

[manbehindthemask]

@frostcorpsclub

Azalea certainly hadn't woken up expecting to be shattering ice crystals off of a woman's back, but here she was, doing just that. She blew a loose strand of chestnut hair out of her face before lifting the hammer once more to continue her work. She flinched each time Josephine screamed. Causing others pain, though she was willing to do it, was not something she enjoyed. Plus, Josephine was a sweet girl the more she got to know her. She didn't deserve to be treated this way.

She was thankful, at least that Josephine could assure her that what she was doing was helping her. Azalea continued, at least until Josephine went deathly still and quiet. "Josephine, are you alright? Did I do too much?" She asked, brows furrowing in concern. Before she could pester further, the door swung open. The small human jumped somewhat, then began to process what she saw before herself.

For Azalea in particular, the being in the doorway would be a gorgeous woman. They had an almost uncanny beauty about themselves, like a doll. They were stunning, yet almost too perfect, too flawless. Even with that uncanny feeling in her chest, Azalea didn't find herself unnerved. There was this voice in the back of her mind telling her to tread lightly and that she may be in danger, but it currently wasn't too loud. Then, as she glanced back to Josephine, she realized something. This person wasn't grey at all... No, they had a human skin tone and looked to indeed be completely human. She thought back to the displays of powers she'd seen thus far. Maybe this was related? At this point... Azalea didn't really know what she should be confused by.

Then her eyes fell to the little one being held by the beautiful person. She was still baffled by living snowmen, but seeing a baby one was so cute! The baby was so small and soft looking. She wanted nothing more than to ask to hold the child, but she knew she'd better not.

James? Well, with the name alone Azalea learned two things. One, this being was likely male presenting in some way, and two, with the whole theme of 'J' names, this was likely a sibling of Josephine's.

Then she was struck with that deep voice, further confirming what she thought. Her brows furrowed somewhat as James went off on Josephine about her 'disgusting medical problem'. Azalea didn't have siblings herself and she knew that they could be cruel to one another, but this almost seemed exceptionally cruel. She frowned.

There it was again, the mentioning of her being food. Azalea didn't think Josephine had any intention of eating her, but she also thought maybe it best if she get out of here before she found out the real answer. Josephine did confirm that she didn't see her as her next meal but... Azalea still felt this pit in her stomach.

When she was the one being addressed now, Azalea looked up to James, watching his expressions curiously though they told her nothing. She waited for him to finish his little tirade before she spoke up.

"I was out in the wilderness. I apologize if my manners are currently unsightly I... Have never been asked to do this before." She looked to the hammer still clutched in one hand. "It wasn't my intention to intrude and cause issues. Josephine insisted I come in with her." As the baby now leaned forward to bat at her hair, Azaleas solemn expression became far softer.

"Well aren't you just darling, little one." She cooed, leaning forward just a bit to allow the baby to toy with the large pieces of hair bound with ribbons. A soft smile rested on her lips. "You've got the brightest little eyes." She hummed.

Then she was addressed once more, glancing up to James. The way James spoke of their parents getting dinner, she had a feeling had Josephine not found her first, Azalea could easily be filling that role.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to cause any further intrusions." She shook her head.

[frostcorpsclub]

@manbehindthemask

Josephine blinked, her head kind of bobbing subtly as she tried to take in the question and Azalea's backtracking of it. Etiquette and over complicated social structure was one thing but someone caring about being offensive to her was an entirely new concept.

"I don't know, my sister calls us frostbitten, those of us that look like this-"

She wiggled her fingers in Azalea's face the way a turtle does when they're attempting to attract a mate.

"-she's so smart maybe she could get you back home!"

As these words came out of Josephine's mouth she had a thought. Shit, Azalea wasn't a ghost so she was probably SO cold! Layering could only help a warm blooded creature for so long and she had stopped being a bitch, so Josie had ought to warm her up. She grabbed Azalea by the wrist and dragged her up the stairs of the big house. The large doors creaked open loudly and slammed shut with a force that shook the ground. 

Somehow it was colder inside than out.

The main foyer they entered had a tall ceiling, dotted with a grand ice crystal chandelier in its center yet still seemed to stretch up ad infinitum. Right when the girls walked in there was a grand spiral staircase leading up to a second floor, on each side of the top of the staircase there was a string of white double doors. On the ground floor where Jopsehine and Azalea stood they were flanked by archways that lead into two different rooms. 

"You're gonna wanna wait in here." 

Azalea was barely given time before she was lead to a broom closet and urged inside, but it wasn't going to be long. It was for her safety. 

After only a few minutes the door was opened again and Jospehine was joined by a child who seemed to be about middle school age. The same purple affliction as Josephine but with greasy ginger hair. 

"Step out and bend down to Juno, this is Juno by the way!" 

"C'mere!" 

The young one tugged at Azaleas hair, placing their purple hands on her temples and intertwining with her locks. Soon Juno would begin to envelop her in a tingling sensation. Cold crept up her arms and legs and neck, cramping at her core before being ripped out of her. 

Leaving only…warmth? Not searing heat. Luke, room temperature, warmth. 

"Are you feeling OK? Juno let go of her!"

"Why are you makin' me defrost our meat anyway!" 

Josephine pulled her younger sibling off of Azalea.

"She's not meat this is-"

She stopped to let Azalea fill in the blank, smiling as she found it quite pretty.

"Juno here has a special power, you should feel like..well like you're just in a regular place." 

"I could make you drop from hypothermia right n-YEOUCH!" 

Juno exclaimed as Josephine stepped on their foot. 

[ofangelsanddemigods]

LIKE FOR A STARTER FROM JACK FROST

[hotvintagepoll]

Josephine Hull (Arsenic and Old Lace, Harvey)—Josephine Hull was only in two major movies - “Harvey” and “Arsenic and Old Lace” - but those two roles made her an icon. Her mobile, expressive face is unforgettable. She was expert at playing these women who seem to be very conventional, until you scratch the surface and realize they’re scrungly to the core. The scene in Harvey where she is watching a bad performance at her soiree, and trying to look pleased while actually being appalled, is priceless [link]. In that same movie, she has wonderful scenes where she is trying awfully hard to disbelieve in Harvey (her brother’s invisible friend who is a 6-foot-tall white rabbit) but finds herself, to her horror, believing in him. (This one is a highlight - she comes in around 2:50 [link] Her other role, in Arsenic and Old Lace, is a sweet little old lady who the hero (Cary Grant) discovers to his horror has been murdering people. And again she sells her total conviction that she is normal, while being decidedly NOT. Another great example of her wonderful talent at scrungly facial expressions is in this scene, where she is waiting for an old man to drink poisoned wine [link]

Jerry Lewis (Artists and Models, The Bellboy, The Ladies Man, The Nutty Professor)—a scrungly little scamp if there ever was one. he and dean martin were the nick frost and simon pegg of their day (not in a comedy styles way but in a just two straight bros who are deeply in love way)

This is round 1 of the contest. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. If you're confused on what a scrungle is, or any of the rules of the contest, click here.

[additional submitted propaganda + scrungly videos under the cut]

Josephine Hull:

Batty little old ladies who are definitely less than sane  

Jerry Lewis:

[sorceresssundries]

The Death of Thom Rainier

Pairing: Blackwall/Lavellan (My quizzy, Sparrow)

Warnings: ANGST, talks of death, grief, heartbreak.

Word Count: 4670 words

Summary: The honour and integrity of the Inquisition is at risk of being brought down by the decision surrounding the fate of the Inquisitor's lover. Action must be taken, and quickly, to save the group from talk of corruption.

It was late, and the moonlight dappled through the crumbling cracks and forgotten fissures of Skyhold, spilling pale silver across the war table. Shadows danced over the once-pristine map, now scarred with countless daggers marking places where they had struck — and where they had yet to reach. The Inquisition had grown into a force of reckoning, but with that power came bonds of responsibility, heavier than crowns and chains. They had to be more than a scattered band of idealists. They had to be an order, a symbol, both a hammer of justice and a shield for the helpless. Their future was as fragile and perilous as a frost-kissed web clinging to the rafters above.

Three figures met in secret, while the rest of the fortress slept.

“The Inquisitor has ordered his release from Val Royeaux,” Cullen’s voice cut through the room. His hands gripped the pommel of his sword, his eyes unflinching, burning with the loyalty that had driven him through so many battles. “He is to be brought here for judgement.”

Leliana’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight, the flicker casting her in shifting shadow. “A reasonable request,” she replied, her voice soft but edged. “Blackwall is a part of her Inquisition. Should she not be the one to pass judgement on him?”

Josephine, seated at the far end of the table, sighed, her hand rising to rub at her temple. The stress etched itself deep into the lines around her eyes, tired from the endless machinations and political games. “Blackwall was a part of the Inquisition, yes,” she said, her voice quieter than the others, yet no less burdened. “But this isn’t about Blackwall. This is about Thom Rainier, and Orlais wants his head. They won’t settle for anything less.”

“His crimes are…” Cullen began, his brow furrowed as if the mere memory of Rainier’s past offences disgusted him. “Unforgivable. I’m inclined to agree with the Orlesians on this.”

The commander was all duty now, his judgement unyielding. His years as a Templar had hardened him to betrayal, especially from someone so close to the Inquisitor.

Josephine straightened, the flicker of the fire catching the lines of tension on her face. “You know as well as I do that this isn’t just about Rainier’s past. His relationship with the Inquisitor was no secret, even at the Winter Palace. Our Orlesian allies watched them, talked about them. Whispers travelled faster than arrows. What will it look like if she brings him back here? If she protects him?”

“It will look,” Cullen said, voice dark and firm, “like corruption. As if we value personal attachments over justice. An institution capable of one corruption is capable of many. It could undo everything we’ve built.”

“And if we let him die in Val Royeaux, she will never forgive us,” Leliana interjected quietly, her gaze flickering with a rare moment of sympathy. “We will lose her trust.”

A heavy silence fell over the room, a storm waiting to break. There was truth in every word, and each of them felt the rolling thunder of the dilemma closing in.

“She will not forget the betrayal. Not from us.” Josephine’s voice trembled ever so slightly as she spoke, as though already anticipating the bitterness that would follow.

Leliana’s gaze sharpened then, a glint of something colder and more dangerous flashing in her eyes. “There is a path forward.” Her voice, once as soft as a lullaby, now carried the quiet menace of a hunter who had found her prey.

The spymaster stepped closer to the table, her fingers brushing lightly over the map, resting just above Val Royeaux. “We could arrange for his release — quietly. He would never make it here. A fatal accident on the road. An Orlesian ambush. It would solve the issue without leaving our hands stained. He dies, Orlais is happy, and the Inquisitor’s hands remain clean.”

Cullen stiffened. “You’re suggesting we…?”

“Kill him?” Leliana’s lips curled, just slightly. “I am suggesting we control the narrative. We let slip our route back here. We spare her the guilt, and we show Orlais that the Inquisition stands by its principles. We did as she asked us, Rainier is killed in an unpredicted attack, and the Inquisitor is spared the burden of deciding his fate.”

The room was cloaked in silence once more, heavy with the choice before them, a choice that would either save the Inquisition — or damn it.

Josephine’s fingers tightened around her quill, her gaze falling to the map. “If we choose this path,” she whispered, “We save our Inquisition. But we might lose her.”

 ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ♜  ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Sparrow sat on the throne she never wanted, in a fortress that still felt too vast, too cold, too foreign to ever be hers. The high-backed seat loomed around her, it's cold stone carved for someone much larger, much grander. Her small, elven feet dangled just shy of the floor, and the throne's broad arms were too wide for her to rest against. She felt weightless, suspended in the centre of it, untethered.

She straightened her spine, drawing on the memory of her mother’s lessons, as if the  invisible cord pulling her back might make her taller, more imposing. Make yourself tall, Ma’da’ean, her mother used to say. And everything else will shrink.

But the world refused to shrink. The great hall remained cavernous, the whispers of the court still echoed off the walls like a rising storm, and the knot of dread within her only grew tighter.

Give her demons. Give her tyrants. Give her politics she knew nothing of and Gods she did not worship. She would take them all. 

This, she could not do.

The dread had sunk deep, threading through her chest, winding around her heart. The thought of seeing him again, of locking eyes with the man whose name she did not even know, made her stomach twist. 

She closed her eyes, just for a moment, clinging to the silence inside her mind. Please, she thought, though she had no idea who she was pleading to. She wasn’t one for prayer, nor for gods. But now, she found herself grasping for anything to shield her from the moment that was about to come.

Please, don’t make me do this.

But whoever might have been listening did not answer. A cold silence fell over the great hall as the heavy doors groaned open. The sound echoed, announcing the arrival of the man she could not face.

She couldn't look at him. Her entire body rebelled at the thought of raising her gaze, of seeing him as he was now—a stranger wearing a name she didn’t recognise. Her heart still clung to the memory of the man he had been only days ago. His eyes had been soft, honest. His words had promised her safety, his touch had offered comfort. Nothing matters but us, he had whispered. He had kissed her as if she were something precious, first with gentleness, then with a passion that had made her believe him.

Now, all of that felt like a cruel trick, a trap she had willingly fallen into.

Her eyes burned, but she would not let the tears fall. She couldn’t drag her gaze from the floor. She needed to breathe, to gather the last shreds of her strength before she dared look at him again.

The man I knew doesn’t exist, she reminded herself. He never did.

It was anger that lifted her eyes, as the heavy sound of boots came to a halt in front of her - She could not let herself be Sparrow, or Blackwall’s lover. She was the Inquisitor. The mark in her palm itched as she raised her gaze to finally meet the man standing before her. 

Cullen? And an Orlesian man in intricate armour and a matching brass mask. 

Her breath caught in relief, or was it just surprise? She felt too nauseous to be sure of her own feelings. She was calm until she noticed the blood. It was splattered across Cullen’s armour, streaked across his breastplate, flecked through his golden hair. There was a jagged cut to his high cheekbone, the skin raw, smeared with red. The sight of it sent her heart into a tailspin, her anger replaced by a cold, creeping fear.

Sparrow stood, unthinkingly. There was a river of murmurs, words tangling like hissing cicadas in the hot, oppressive air of a summer storm. Every gaze in the hall fixed on her, on them, but she could hardly hear them over the rushing in her own ears.

"What's happened?" she demanded, her voice hoarse as it cracked through the crowd, pulling the room’s attention fully toward them. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, though she willed herself to stay composed.

Cullen glanced briefly at the court before locking eyes with her again. “We were intercepted.”

Sparrow’s stomach dropped. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest as she searched his face for answers. “Where is Blackwall?” Her voice was barely above a whisper now, but the name hit the air like a blow.

Cullen swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as though the words themselves were difficult to push out. “Thom Rainier is dead.”

The world tilted beneath her. The buzzing of the court, the murmured voices and watchful eyes, all faded into a distant hum. For a moment, Sparrow couldn't feel the stone beneath her feet, couldn’t even feel herself breathing.

The man beside Cullen was speaking - something about being an envoy, about it all happening so fast. She didn’t care. His words slipped past her, meaningless, drowned by the sound of her pulse roaring in her ears.

He can’t be dead.

Her chest tightened. She couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, the air too thin. Her fingers flexed at her sides, desperate to hold onto something, anything that wasn’t slipping away.

He can’t be dead.

She could still hear his low, rough laugh in her head, the way it rumbled through his chest when he let his guard down. She could still feel the calloused swirls of his fingertips against her skin.

She hadn’t even bathed properly since they’d been together. His scent still clung to her, faint but lingering—leather, sweat, and the earth. She closed her eyes as if she could summon him back with the memory of it, as if he could step out from some hidden corner and make this a cruel misunderstanding.

Her eyes flickered to the windows, to the light of an indifferent sun spilling through the stained glass. The world outside was bright, alive. Vibrant patterns of colour danced across the stone floor, reflections from the sunlight mingling with the songs of winter birds that chirped in pairs just beyond the glass. It was all so alive, so full of life and warmth.

How could he not be?

Sparrow blinked, struggling to focus, to anchor herself to the present. Her voice—when it finally came—was like shards of glass, shattered and too small to hold onto.

“He can’t be…” she breathed, her words trembling on the edge of disbelief. “There has been a mistake.”

The Orlesian stepped forward, his presence all formality and cold distance. “My lady,” he began, “we were ambushed on the road by bandits. They spread pitch across the stones, threw oil, and fired arrows lit with flame. The carriage he was locked in was alight within seconds. The guards tried—”

“That is enough.” Cullen’s voice cut through, sharp and final. His tone left no room for further details, no space for the grisly reality the man was about to spill. He stood tense, his eyes not meeting Sparrow’s. His harshness wasn’t just for the noble, it was for her—an attempt to shield her from the images that would follow if she heard any more.

But it was too late.

The words “the carriage he was locked in” echoed in her mind, painting a picture of the fire, of Blackwall—Thom—trapped and helpless, dying in agony. She could almost see the smoke rising, the flames licking at his skin, hear the crackle of burning wood and the screams no one would ever admit to. The images flooded her without mercy, despite Cullen’s effort to stop them.

Her legs wavered, and she reached out, her hand barely catching the edge of the throne for balance. The air was too thick now, the voices in the hall too loud, too suffocating. The world, once bright and filled with the laughter of birds, was silent and cold. 

She fell apart. All pretence of dignity slipped from her white-knuckled fists like sand. The invisible crown of the Inquisitor tumbled from her head, her practised posture buckled. She collapsed to the cold stone floor, not a leader, not a herald, but a woman with a heart shattered beyond repair.

“Get them out!” Her voice cracked as she cried out, barely able to force the words through the choking sobs that rose from her chest. “All of them. Now.”

Cullen’s stiff nod was the only reply she received. His voice cut through the hall, issuing orders with the force of a commander who would not be questioned. The nobles, the advisors, the residents - every prying eye - scattered as if swept away by the storm of her devastation. 

She was an exposed nerve, raw and bleeding, her tears an unending stream. Her cries, desperate and guttural, filled the empty hall, echoing louder with each person who left.

She didn’t know how long she knelt there, her face buried in her arms, shaking uncontrollably. Time had lost all meaning. But then, without warning, a large, gentle hand unfurled her. It was Iron Bull - his presence massive and unyielding, but his touch impossibly gentle. She tried to fight, her body kicking and flailing as his arms lifted her from the floor, but it was futile. His strength was too steady, too absolute.

He carried her effortlessly up the winding stairs to her chamber, holding her as though she weighed nothing. His voice rumbled low, soothing but blunt. “Keep hitting, boss. It’ll help.”

So she did. She hit at his broad chest, her fists weak and trembling, but she struck anyway, again and again. She imagined it was Blackwall she was striking, the man who had torn her heart apart.

If he had been honest, if he had told her everything from the start, if he had trusted her the way she trusted him, he wouldn’t have died like this—engulfed in flames, alone, on his way to be judged by her.

Each hit carried the sting of her anger. Selfish fool. Treacherous. Manipulative. She pounded against Bull’s chest, though her strength was rapidly waning, her fury dissolving into fresh waves of grief. She hated Blackwall for the lies, for the betrayal, for leaving her with nothing but the memory of his touch. 

She hated that she was stripped of the chance to be angry with him, to tell him of her humiliation. She wanted him to know how he had hurt her. That she had fallen in love with him because he was steadfast and kind. How humiliated she was that she had called out the name of another man while they made love. 

But if she were honest, deep down, beneath all the fury and anguish, what she truly wanted was for him to fight for her. She wanted him to beg for her forgiveness, to tell her the truth in its entirety, to explain why he had kept so much from her. She wanted to be angry with him, to rage and cry and then, eventually, not be angry anymore. She wanted to forgive him, even if that made her weak.

Now that chance was gone and it felt as though she would be angry forever—trapped in this endless cycle of fury that had no outlet. The sharp, jagged words she wanted to hurl at him would never be spoken, would never cut him the way they cut her. Instead, they dug into her own skin, slicing deeper with nowhere to go, and she would bleed and bleed and bleed for the rest of her days.

And still, Bull carried her - bearing the weight of her anguish. He made no attempt to stop her, to console her. 

He just let her break, knowing it was the only thing left she could do.

She couldn't pinpoint the moment she slipped into sleep - whether it was exhaustion or the way Bull had laid her down so gently on the bed. Her eyes fluttered shut, and the weight of sleep pulled her under, heavy and irresistible.

In her dreams, everything felt warped, as if reality itself was bending around her grief. She wandered through the halls of Skyhold, her footsteps echoing unnaturally. The walls stretched impossibly high, and the colours of the tapestries bled into one another, too bright, too vivid. The faces of the people she passed blurred into nothingness, their voices a distant murmur of sound that she couldn’t quite make out.

Blackwall was laughing at her, that laugh she loved so much - the one that reminded her of the bending of the forest trees in Summer and the crackle of a fireplace in winter - sharpened itself against the stone walls of Skyhold and ricocheted around her. 

Shadows from barely-lit candles began to stretch and twist, forming grotesque shapes that danced in the periphery of her vision. She turned, only to find the spectres of dead men swinging at the hangman’s noose, their lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void. The empty, hollow sound of coins jangling mingled with the cloying, hot smell of spilled blood. 

“My lady” His voice spat at her, deep and gruff, “My love”

She wanted it to end. Please... make it stop. No more. Her nails bit into the flesh of her palm, the sharp pain dragging her back to consciousness. She woke, sweat-slicked and trembling, tears streaming down her face.

She wasn’t alone.

A man stood on her balcony, leaning against the window frame, barely a silhouette in the dim light. When he noticed her stirring, he straightened sharply, stepping into a sliver of moonlight.

It was him.

Or rather, a ghostly, altered version of him. His hair, once long, was now cropped close, his face clean-shaven. The familiar features she had known were marred by dark bruising around one eye, his skin paler than she remembered. But it was still him.

It had to be another nightmare. Another cruel trick of the Fade. If she couldn't have him—if Blackwall had truly been taken from her—then all she wanted was peace. Blessed, quiet peace. She dug her nails into her palms, harder, until the skin broke and blood welled in her hands. She gasped at the sharp pain. Still, she did not wake.

“My lady,” he spoke softly, his gaze lingering on her bleeding hands as he took a step toward her.

“Don’t,” she spat, wiping her tear-streaked cheeks with the back of her hand, the metallic scent of blood sharp in her nose. This place was more lucid than her other nightmares, more grounded in reality, but that only made the apparition in front of her more dangerous. He was too much like the man she had loved, too much like the man she’d lost.

“Sparrow,” he whispered, his voice filled with the old affection that once soothed her but now felt like a dagger twisted in her heart.

“Stop!” She inhaled sharply, her body trembling with the weight of her grief. “Leave. Now.”

This was no different from the other demons that had preyed on her in the Fade. Desire, most likely. Tempting her with the one thing she longed for most, only to use her weakness against her. They always found her here, in these fragile moments, vulnerable and desperate. She wouldn't fall for it. 

“Don’t you dare use his voice,” she hissed, her hands curling into fists at her sides, the fresh pain from her palms sizzling. “You think I’m that easy to break?”

The man flinched, brow furrowing in the way she had seen a hundred times before, a familiar wrinkle in his forehead that made her heart ache. The memory of it tore at her insides, a splinter burrowing deeper into a heart already shattered beyond repair. Could there really be any more room to break? She thought she'd felt every kind of pain there was.

“It’s me, my lady,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

“Please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “No more.”

Her body betrayed her then, a heaving, hollow retch overtaking her as she leaned over the edge of her bed. Nothing came up. She hadn’t eaten in days. The only thing left in her stomach was grief, and it was impossible to expel. But the tears—they still flowed, unrelenting. She thought they would run dry by now, but if her tears were a measure of her love for Blackwall, then she supposed they would never stop.

He moved toward her in an instant and knelt beside her, his fingers brushing her back in the same gentle circles that had once been a balm for her. The same touch that had comforted her when she was Sparrow and he was Blackwall.

She let herself believe the lie. She leaned into the sensation of his touch, as if it would be the last time she could ever feel him again. His hands were warm, real, and they smelled of the same worn leather and pine as he always had.

“I’m here” he murmured, his breath ghosting over her ear. “I promise you.”

She whimpered, torn between wanting to shove him away and pulling him closer. If this was the demon’s game, so be it. She would risk everything for just one more moment with him. One more breath, one more touch. Let the Fade take her.

“There was a plan,” he continued, his voice laced with weariness. “To get me out of Orlais, just as you instructed. The Inquisition made a deal with the Val Royeaux nobles—those who had every right to want me dead. They agreed to formally release me to the Inquisition, on the understanding that Cullen ‘let slip’ the route we would take back to Skyhold, the number of soldiers escorting me, everything. An envoy was sent alongside him to ensure the plan proceeded smoothly, that I would not make it back here alive.”

Her breath caught, her eyes wide as she struggled to comprehend his words.

“But there was a second part,” he continued, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Another prisoner, sentenced to die, took my place. Dressed in my clothes, a sack over his head. They promised him they would provide his family a bag of gold if he stayed silent and died in my name. They gave him poison—quick, painless. He was dead before the ambush started.” His voice was bitter, angry. “I was taken away in secret, through passageways I'm sure no-one knows exists. With Leliana. Blackwall is dead. Thom Rainier is dead. I’m all that’s left.”

She ripped herself from his touch, rising to her feet as fury welled up in her chest. “More lies!” she shouted, her voice hoarse. “Why didn’t they tell me? Why did they let me believe—do they even understand how much—”

“They needed you to believe it,” he said quietly, his head still bowed. “They needed the Orlesians to believe it. To see the noble, bloodsoaked commander, the shaken envoy…” he finally looked to her “And the broken-hearted Inquisitor”

“Well, they got what they wanted,” she snarled, pressing her hand to her chest as if to hold herself together.

“I would never have agreed to it,” he whispered, “I was ready to die. I deserved to die.”

He began to move away from her, retreating toward the door. 

“There’s to be a private hearing tomorrow,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll still get to decide my fate.”

She stared at him, disbelief turning her blood cold.

“I’ll accept whatever you decide,” he said, his eyes burning for her. “I’ve been given more than I deserve. More than I could ever hope for. To have known you, to have been loved by you... that was more than I could ever have dreamed of, as Rainier or as Blackwall.”

Her certainty that she was talking with a demon wavered, and her heart fluttered. She had to know, she had to be sure. 

“Tell me something,” she said, her voice quiet but steady.

“Anything,” he replied, without hesitation. His voice was resolute, as if whatever she asked, he was ready to face it. For her, he would.

Her gaze sharpened, seeking the truth she needed to hear. “When we were in the Fade... when we fought our nightmares—what did you see there?”

It was a question that had haunted her, one that she had never dared to ask until now. He had never spoken of it. She didn’t know his answer, and neither would a demon. 

Blackwall tensed, his face tightening with a pain he had long buried. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of something too heavy to carry alone. Finally, he bowed his head, the unspoken torment that had lived inside him spilling out, his voice raw with sorrow.

“You fought against spiders,” he began, his words slow and deliberate, as if reliving the nightmare again. “Sera fought against nothing. And I...” His voice faltered, and she could see the anguish etching itself into his features. “I kept seeing them.” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to shield himself from the images that had never truly left him. His hands clenched at his sides, but he did not stop.

“The Callier children. And the men, my men, who died for their murder,” he continued, his voice lower now, filled with the heaviness he had never allowed her to see until this moment. “Again and again, they came at me. And again and again, I cut them down.”

His words hung in the air like a bitter curse. He drew a ragged breath, his hands trembling, as if the ghosts still clung to him.

“That nightmare turned me into what I feared most,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “It almost broke me.”

Her heart ached as she finally saw him - not a trick, not a demon - but the man she loved. The man who had lived with the weight of his sins, trying, despite everything, to atone. A man who, no matter how fiercely he loved her, still believed he was unworthy of any in return.

It shattered her.

The flood of emotion broke through her control, and before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around him, sobs tearing from her throat as she buried her face against his chest. Her body trembled as grief, relief, and the overwhelming need to hold him crashed over her all at once.

He caught her, pulling her close, his arms wrapping around her as if he, too, was holding on for dear life. His hands shook as they gripped her, and she could feel the tremor in his chest as his breath hitched. Yet, still, he held her. Just as he always had. As if, in this one moment, all the guilt, all the nightmares, could fall away in the circle of her arms.

It was really him.

She stroked his cheek, her thumb brushing over the faint stubble growing back. Anger would come. Admonition, too. But what she felt now, swelling in her chest, was more important. Forgiveness. It was the first thread she would pull from the tangle of pain between them, the one that would begin to untie the knots. 

The weight of the past was still there, but now it felt lighter, shared between them. They had both suffered, both lost something, but here, in this moment, they found something else: a chance to rebuild. A chance to begin again.

And for that, for him, she was willing to fight.

[chichirid]

ʚ columbina id pack ɞ

(names, pronouns, titles)

names: airelle, alouette, angelica, antionette, aurora, beatrice, charles, charlotte / lotte, coloratura, colette, damselette, dove, elizabeth, estelle, francesca, francis, harlequin, joseph, josephine, juilette, katherine, louise, lovelace, marilyn, marion, persephone, pierrot, priscilla, rosemary, valentina, victoria

pronouns: angel/angels, saint/saints, lyric/lyrics, harm/harmony, symph/symphony, doll/dolls, opera/operas, melan/melancholic, dove/doves, snow/snows, hail/hails

titles: *prn* who turns a blind eye, *prn*’s alluring melodies, *prn*’s pure wings, *prn* with lace over one’s eyes, *prn* with feathers formed from light, *prn* whose blessed voice rings out, *prn* with a melodic requiem, *prn* whose symphony echoes in an empty room / in heaven, the third harbinger, the seraph’s kiss, the delicate seelie, the corrupted angel, the blinded angel, the coloratura of heaven, the snowy angel, the frosted seraph, the angel sculpture carved from ice,

art credits: main image - https://space.bilibili.com/7198052 - reposted main image - https://www.zerochan.net/3704823 - moving gif - https://twitter.com/riruririrurun/status/1589245080485113856

[bucketsofmonsters]

Where the Light Enters - Part 4

cw: unreliable narrator, hurt/comfort, slow burn, eventual sex, enemies to lovers, past childhood sexual assault, past sex trafficking, referenced noncon, panic attacks, happy ending, the tags look scary but this is mainly a story about recovery

Cole/Female Inquisitor

word count: 3k

ao3 link

Masterlist

The place they were currently staying was called Haven. 

She hadn’t understood the first few times, had thought they were saying that this place was a haven for them in this fight. 

It didn’t feel like a haven to her. 

Haven was a lot of things. 

She was told there had been important things here, years ago. Some sort of religious symbol. She’d been told about it like it would mean something to her. Very little that they said meant anything to her, but at least usually it was about things in current times that might actually affect her, not just legends of some artifact long gone. 

It was also allegedly a home, a place where they could seek refuge. If that was what it was, she thought she would probably hate it less than she did. 

The cold was the first thing she took grievance with. She’d had to pull strings and call in favors to get enough furs to be able to survive the cold, let alone feel anything close to alright in it. 

Everything was so far apart too, insisting you go out in the cold in order to get anywhere. 

There was also the matter of how open it was. She was accustomed to squirreling herself away, letting her existence fade into the back of people’s mind when she did not need anything from them. 

Even as an important figure for this group she’d stumbled into, she thought she’d be able to hide on occasion if it weren’t for the fact that there was no way to move in the open space against stark, white snow without drawing the attention of everyone within a mile radius. 

Haven was a lot of things. Easily defensible was not one of them. So when the enemy came, seeking the power that had embedded itself into her palm, there was little they could do. 

When the first chance to flee presented itself, she took it, running through old paths half remembered by some chantry member who’d been there far longer than they had. 

She’d immediately taken the side of abandoning it all. This place was worth nothing to her, less than nothing even. 

And so they fled. 

They were out before the army could even really draw close. 

Cole was nowhere to be found as Haven was taken, as their sanctuary was razed to the ground. 

They escaped into the mountains, where it was somehow impossibly colder than Haven was. She was glad she’d been layered in her furs, half convinced she’d have frozen to death by now if she hadn’t. Every time she saw one of the chantry folk in their robes she would wonder how they could be standing and moving around like they were. Even in as many layers as she had, her hands were frozen solid, planted firmly between her thighs trying to sap some heat from the rest of her. 

She saw a layer of frost developing on Cullen’s armor and shivered sympathetically. She hadn’t even considered how cold the metal would get in temperatures far below freezing. 

Him and Cassandra seemed completely unphased by this, instead bickering about something in the corner. Josephine and Leliana quickly joined them, all fighting about something.

They kept trying to draw her into the conversation and get her to make choices. She steadfastly refused, bundled up on a crate under a hastily constructed overhang, trying to avoid the snow that lay in both directions. 

She did a silent head count as she sat there. Bull came over and ruffled her hair affectionately, leaving her another blanket before heading off to help his Chargers. 

She saw Solas stomping around and groaned internally, wishing that he’d been left behind somehow. 

Varric smiled at her in the distance, off helping some stragglers alongside Blackwall.

Some new mage was there, and Cullen came over to inform her that his name was Dorian and he’d warned them of the coming attack. 

She gave him a polite wave and then went back to ignoring him. 

The only person she recognized who was missing was Cole. 

It was too much to hope that he was permanently gone. It was not unheard of for him to disappear for long stretches of time. She was sure he would be back, sooner rather than later. 

But still, she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be able to find them, out there in the mountains, where even the monster that had come to hunt them couldn’t seem to find any trace of their army. 

She wondered even more so when they found this new home. 

Skyhold, someone had called it, she was fairly certain.

She shouldn’t have wanted to see him there. He was a nuisance more than anything. 

And yet she found herself looking in dark corners and seeing if that vacant look would show up in anyone’s eyes as they got that nagging feeling that they’d forgotten something after Cole left them a little better off.

She wondered if maybe she’d begun forgetting him. 

She wasn’t sure why Cole hadn’t made her forget it all already. It would make things easier for him.

But then again, he seemed a lot less concerned with ease than she was.

No, making things easy and safe was never something Cole wanted. 

Part of her thought that he did it very intentionally. That one of two things was happening. That either he wanted her to remember all the threats, to make her careful, or worse, he thought remembering him might help her. 

But she didn’t want to think about that so she stamped it down deep inside her. 

And then, one day, a week into moving into Skyhold, she saw him. He was up on the battlements that lay on the edge of their new castle. He was perched on an overhang with no one else looking up at him. 

She could see him. She wondered if she was the only one who could or if it was simply that no one had bothered to check. 

Either was acceptable, so long as no one questioned him too much. With the secrets he’d gathered, she’d prefer if no one but her ever noticed him again. 

Because that was the problem. He needed her alive, but somehow he hadn’t seemed to realize that he didn’t need her safe and happy, didn’t need her in a position of power. 

Just alive.

She wondered why he hadn’t plucked the thought right out of her head the way he had so many others. 

She didn’t expect to see him again for a while after that. He seemed more than content to lurk in the shadows on his own, far less friendly than he used to be. She stopped looking for him at all after she saw that he’d found his way to Skyhold. 

It was unbecoming to look for him like this. 

The next time she saw signs of him, he wasn’t actually present. There was a small pastry on her bed with a little nineteen piped atop it, one she recognized instantly. She’d been given one just like it on her birthday years ago, a lower number written across the top then, though she could barely remember what it was. The years all blended together. She’d been given it by someone who’d thought they were doing something nice. She supposed in that way it was a perfect mimicry.  

It probably meant it was her birthday. 

It turned her stomach to look at it. Even if it hadn’t been tied to a wretched man, it reminded her of her march towards undesirability, closer to losing the only thing protecting her.

She picked it up and disposed of it immediately, trying to purge the thought of it from her mind. 

Cole graced her presence a few hours later. “I didn’t mean it to hurt,” he said, her heart skipping a beat as he appeared out of nowhere. “It was your birthday and I saw it. I thought it might help. It’s hard to tell with you, everything is so tangled in the hurt.”

“Fine,” she spat. “Next time you’re not sure, just leave it alone.”

“I don’t know how to help.”

“That’s why you should leave it. Since when do you try to help me anyway? What happened to me causing the hurt and you wishing you could kill me.”

“I can’t kill you. I should still do something.”

“There is nothing you can do for me,” she said, not even angry at him. It was simply true, a fact that she was informing him of. She was beyond helping. “Focus on people who might actually appreciate it, alright?”

She didn’t wait for a response before storming off. 

Two weeks passed before she saw him again. He’d taken her advice and left her alone and she was better for it. 

And then, in two weeks, Bull’s eyes got vacant in that familiar way that she’d come to understand meant Cole had helped him and she got mad. 

It usually didn’t matter, when anger overtook her. It wasn’t like she was allowed to let anyone see. 

But Cole had caused this, and she could be angry at Cole all she liked. Nothing she could do would make him buy into the meek girl everyone else saw so she could be as mad at him as she wanted. 

So she went to see Cole. 

She didn’t know where to look but it was like he knew she was looking. He showed up for her so quickly and she wondered if maybe he didn’t realize how upset she was.

“You helped him,” she shouted, accusationally. “You helped Bull. You know what he’s done! How could you do that?”

“He doesn’t know he’s done anything. It’s a mistake. You could tell him and he would stop.”

She was fully aware that she was being unfair and it did nothing to stop her. “You know it’s not that simple.”

“You hurt people,” he said softly. “And you deserve help.”

“It’s not the same,” she insisted.

“No, it’s not. You know you’re hurting them.”

Her breath came in stuttery and she hated that this was affecting her, that she couldn’t even be angry properly. “I’m doing what I have to. I don’t have another choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” he said, irritatingly and never-endingly inexpressive. She couldn’t read him, not even a little, and yet he could peer directly into her head like it was nothing. 

It just wasn’t fair.

“Shut up,” she hissed. 

“You can be mad if it dims the hurt,”

It made her ten times as angry to be given permission to be mad. 

She picked up the thing nearest to her, some dusty book someone had forgotten about, and threw it at him. 

He dodged it easily, without even thinking. 

She stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her as hard as she could. The sound of it echoed through the stone hall. It didn’t make her feel any better. 

She left without Cole the next day. 

They were heading to a desert somewhere to go close rifts. Solas had begged her to look for elven artifacts and she’d promised him they would and then immediately disposed of the request mentally. 

She’d brought that new mage with her, Dorian she was pretty sure his name was. 

He seemed lovely by nature of his greatest virtue, not being Solas. 

Bull offered to tag along. He never seemed to stop offering lately and she didn’t have the energy to shut him down, so he came too. 

Blackwall also went with them, just by nature of being in the armory when they were suiting up to head out. She didn’t mind. He was a good shield and endlessly noble, set on ensuring she didn’t get hurt. 

He seemed distressed over how young she looked, not enticed by her like some of the other men in the Inquisition were. It didn’t matter to her, as long as he kept her safe. 

It was a quiet affair. Dorian was a chatty one, trying endlessly to strike up conversation, but neither she nor Blackwall would take the bait, just stomping through the desert. 

Bull tried to engage him in conversation but Dorian was not fond of Qunari so that devolved quickly. She didn’t pay too much attention, more than content just kicking up sand as she walked. 

A few hours into wandering the hot desert, they found a rift. It was hard to hide from the chaos of the battle in a desert, with far too few things to cower behind until it was all over. She just hunkered down as best she could and trusted her companions. 

She was looking away when a stray spell from that new mage hit her, the bolt of light embedding itself into her shoulder, searing pain shooting through her. 

She yelped, curling in further on herself in an attempt to make herself small. 

It felt like an eternity before it was over. 

Dorian rushed over, apologies spilling out of his mouth as his hand pressed into the wound. 

She flinched away from his touch as it made the wound sting worse. Blackwall went to lift her up before Bull pushed past him, hauling her into his arms. 

She wished Blackwall had been allowed to do it. 

She barely paid attention to anything but the pain as they made their way back to Skyhold. 

It did occur to her that with anyone else, they’d just push through this injury, take a health potion, bandage it up, and keep on going. She wouldn’t even have thought twice about it, except for when she had to feign sympathy. 

She was dropped off at the medical tent at Skyhold and the three men were shooed away, the woman there insisting that they really did not have enough space for three grown men, one of them a Qunari at that, to be loitering. 

They got her fixed up pretty quickly. It wasn’t too severe an injury, all things considered, necromantic spells just tended to leave a lingering bone-deep ache that other types of magic didn’t. 

It would last a long time, she was told. She might feel it when it was about to rain, told like it was a joke that she’d be stuck with this pain, rolling in with the thunder. 

She was given something for the pain when she asked, and she was sure she only got it because she was the Inquisitor overreacting to something that wouldn’t have phased any other soldier. 

And then she was sent back to her room, the tent too busy with actual injuries to deal with her any longer, even if she was a girl who’d stumbled into a leadership position.

Any other leader would have given up their cot immediately, insisted that the medical care go to people who really, truly needed it. She just grabbed her pain medicine and left. 

She should have gone to see Bull and milked this injury for all it was worth. Maybe stop by Blackwall if she couldn’t stomach that, or guilt trip Dorian a little without letting him realize that was what she was doing. 

She returned to her room instead, set on doing it in the morning, knowing she couldn’t avoid it forever. 

But for tonight, at least, she could rest. 

Cole was standing beside her bed when she reached her room and she considered throwing something at him again, like he was a wild animal she could scare off. 

He whipped around, eyes darting down to her bandaged shoulder and then back up to her face. 

“You don’t mind it,” he said. “It means they’ll leave you alone and it means they think you’re small so you don’t mind.”

“I don’t like getting hurt,” she responded. “I don’t know where you got that from.”

“You don’t like it, but it’s easier. You like it when it’s easy. And you don’t mind this hurt quite as much.”

She shrugged, opening her little bottle of pain medication. “Can I just go to bed please?”

“Can I have some,” he asked, staring the bottle down.

“Why?” she asked, already knowing the answer the endlessly selfless spirit would give. “Are you hurt?”

“The pain claws at them, years gone but still in them, like shards of swords lingered. Some nights they want to claw it out but there’s nothing there to take.”

“So what, you’re going to drug people? I’m sure that will go over well, a bunch of soldiers who don’t know their inhibitions are off.”

He paused, seeming to really consider that. “I’ll make sure they know. Remember the medicine, don’t remember me.”

“Fine,” she said, emptying half of it out. “Take some. You just can’t give it to Bull.”

She knew exactly what she was doing. She was picking a fight. 

He just looked sad. 

“I won’t stop helping,” he said. “But I don’t want you to feel sick.”

“I always feel sick,” she said, verging dangerously close to honesty. She couldn’t afford that, not even with Cole. Anything else had been a lapse in judgment. 

His face fell. “Not because of me. Never because of me.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“I won’t give them to Bull,” he declared. “I will help him away from you, do my best to soothe the hurt where you can’t see.”

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She shouldn’t even be mad. “Whatever,” she said with a huff.

“It does matter,” he said. “All of it matters. I didn’t think it did, but you’re a person alongside the bad and the hurt burrows in you. It’s not inside you, not fully. The rot can be cut out.”

“You won’t be cutting anything out of me.”

“I didn’t think I would, but it matters that you could. The rot is a part, not the whole.”

And she couldn’t stay mad, her already flimsy reasons collapsing in on themselves. He was wrong, but it meant something to her that he believed. Maybe just for tonight that could be enough. 

She didn’t have to say as much. He was gone as soon as the thought crossed her mind, leaving her to finally get some sleep.

[firefaerie81]

X-Men x Nyahallo part three

Part one

Part two

This time, my quest to draw X-Ladies in @nyahalloshop swimsuits brings me to some eclectic pairs!

Links to the original designs under the cut

Emma Frost - Moon Jellyfish

Monet St. Croix - Red Seraphim

Wolverine (Laura Kinney) - Shark

Scout Honey Badger (Gabby Kinney) - Bee Cute

Blink (Clarice Ferguson) - Lilypad

Nocturne (Talia Josephine Wagner) - Sakura (My favorite of this batch)

Dazzler (Alison Blaire) - Starstruck

[pupsmailbox]

WINTER ID PACK

NAMES︰ alaska. alba. alban. alina. amara. andri. aneira. angel. angelina. angelo. apricity. aquila. aquilo. arctic. aspen. aster. aurelian. aurora. ayden. balthasar. bane. beir. beira. beiron. bell. belle. bianca. blanc. blanca. blanch. blanche. blanchesse. blanchette. blaze. blizzard. blizzardette. blu. blue. borea. boreal. boreas. boris. brea. bree. bylur. carol. caspar. caspian. cedar. chandler. chione. chióni. chris. christina. christmas. clara. claudia. cloud. cloude. coco. cocoa. colden. cole. cozy. crimson. crystal. december. dew. dewdrop. dewey. dewy. diamond. douglas. edur. eira. eirlys. eirwan. eirwen. elitsa. ella. elowen. elsa. ember. emmanuel. emmanuelle. eryi. estelle. euria. everest. everett. everette. evergreen. fannar. faye. fionn. fir. fjolla. flake. frediano. freeze. fritz. fros. frost. frostette. frostine. frosty. fuyu. fuyuko. gale. garland. ginger. glace. glacia. gloria. gwen. gwyneira. hail. hala. hazel. hika. holly. icario. ice. icee. icelyn. icicle. icidia. icie. iclyn. icy. iris. isarr. isbert. ivor. ivy. jack. jaki. january. janus. jasper. jolly. joseph. josephine. joy. juniper. kalt. kari. khione. kirsi. kit. ledi. ledia. loden. lucas. lucien. lucina. lumi. mafuyu. mafuyuko. mary. melchior. merry. mira. miyuki. natalia. natalie. natasha. nevada. neve. nicholas. nick. nieves. nix. noel. noella. noelle. north. november. oak. oakley. olwen. orin. pepper. peppermint. perla. permafrost. pine. poinsettia. polar. polaris. quinlan. rain. raina. raine. rainer. reign. reyner. robin. rory. rudolf. rudolph. rudy. sally. scarlett. scrooge. silvia. sioc. snow. snowdrop. snowe. snowesse. snowette. snowine. snowstorm. snowy. solstice. soren. spruce. star. stella. stellan. storm. stormy. taiga. talia. theron. tundra. vail. vega. viola. vixen. warrin. weiss. whittaker. whyte. willow. winny. winter. wren. wynn. wynter. wyntr. yuki. yukio. yule. yulia. yves. yvette. zane. zanna. zarina. zephyr. zuko.

PRONOUNS︰ arc/arctic. arctic/arctic. aura/aura. bear/bear. bleak/bleak. bli/bliz. bli/blizzard. bliz/blizzard. blizz/blizzard. blizzard/blizzard. blue/blue. chi/chill. chill/chill. chilly/chilly. christ/christmas. christ/mas. clou/cloud. cloud/cloud. co/cold. coat/coat. cold/cold. cool/cool. cri/cryst. cry/cryo. cry/crystal. crys/crystal. crystal/crystal. drip/drip. drop/drop. fir/fir. fla/flake. flake/flake. flu/flurry. flur/flurry. flurry/flurrie. flurry/flurry. fre/freeze. freeze/freeze. frig/frigid. fro/frost. fros/frost. frost/bite. frost/frost. frostbite/frostbite. froze/frozen. gla/glace. glacier/glacier. globe/globe. glove/glove. gust/gust. hai/hail. hail/hail. hx/hxm. hy/hym. ice/ice. ice/icicle. icicle/icicle. it/it. ix/ix. mitten/mitten. pine/pine. plunge/plunge. polar/polar. rain/rain. rain/rainy. scarf/scarf. seal/seal. sharp/sharp. she/shiver. shiver/shiver. shx/hxr. shy/hyr. sky/sky. sle/sleet. sleet/sleet. slip/slippery. slush/slush. sno/snow. snow/flake. snow/snow. snow/snowflake. so/snow. spire/spire. sto/storm. storm/storm. storm/stormy. stormy/stormy. tha/thaw. thxy/thxm. thy/thym. tundra/tundra. water/water. wi/wint. wi/winter. win/ter. win/winter. winter/winter. zero/zero. ❄️. 🌌. 🌨. 🌨️. 🌲. 🐻‍❄️. 🗻. 🧊.

[kidd-thundr]

Making a post to remember everyone in the MK RP

MK RP MASTERLIST

@sorceressoflight - MK1 Union of Light Shang Tsung/ Light

@jacqui-da-briggy - MK11 Jacqui Briggs

@kidd-thundr - MK1 Raiden

@lord-raiden - MK11 Lord Raiden

@darklordraiden - MK11 Dark Raiden

@leenakahnums - MK1 Mileena

@fanprincess - MK11(/Titan) Kitana/MK1 Kitana

@firelordliukangofficalaccount - MK1 Lord Liu Kang

@earthrealms-chosen-1 - MK11 Liu Kang/MK11 Fire God Liu Kang

@liukangdefenderofearthrealm - MK2021 Liu Kang

@liukangandkunglaosister - Shi Yong, MK1/MK11 OC

@thekingofsmoke - MK1 Smoke/Tomas Vrbada

@cold-nights-in-fengjian - Zephyr, MK1 OC

@earthly-diva-delovely - Josephine Delovely, MK11/MK2021 OC

@theharbringerofsouls - MK1 Titan Shang Tsung/ Titan

@halfvampiresleepyhead - Akito Valentine, MK2021 OC

@thebetterliukang - MK11 Revenant Liu Kang

@thegreatestkunglao - MK1 Kung Lao

@freaksorcerer - MK1 Quan Chi

@cassiesinacage - MK11 Cassie Cage

@the-cager - MK1 Johnny Cage

@the-razor-hat-man - MK11 Kung Lao

@bloodysakuraflowers - MK1 Vampire Kung Lao

@redstainedivy - MK1 Order of Darkness Kung Lao

@thundergodlraiden - MK11 (Vampire?) Lord Raiden

@officersonya - MK11 Sonya Blade

@vampireraid3n - MK1 Vampire Raiden

@sc0rching-fury - MK11 Hanzo Hasashi

@itswindyhereright - MK11 Lord Fujin

@thespiritscallstous - MK11 Nightwolf

@sobbingfqng - Xiao Yan, MK1 OC

@wanderingsaibot - Sai the Wraith, MK1 OC

@revengeful-lieutenant-reiko - MK1 Lieutenant Reiko

@sakvrasouls - MK2021 Kung Lao

@unclekano - MK11 Kano

@chosenone1960 - MK1995 Liu Kang

@theblackfuckindragon - MK2021 Kano

@shirai-ryu-twink - Xiaoran, MK1 OC

@your-soul-is-m1ne - MK1 Shang Tsung

@kurtis-stryk3r - MK1 Kurtis Stryker

@hydra-of-trygus - Hydra,MK1 OC

@tanya-the-umgadi - MK1 Tanya

@xinye-and-xiu-kang - Xinye Kang and Xiu Kang, MK1 OCS

@wielder-of-sent0 - MK1 Kenshi Takahashi

@not-so-lovely-astra - Astra Delovely, MK1 OC

@thedevilyouforgot - Akari, MK1 OC

@netherrealms-princess-amarantha - Amarantha, MK1 OC

@j03y-the-tr4shb04t - Josephine Delovely, MK1 OC

@chilledtothekore - MK11 Frost

@kooritarkatan-r4y - Esmeray Williams, MK11 OC

If I forgot anyone or if corrections are needed PLEASE let me know!!

[glowing-blue-feathermage]

Happy friday! For some Hawke/Lavellan this week, “It’s… different. With them, I spent most of my time longing for something that wasn’t even accessible. With you, I simply feel alive.” (from the Moth to the Flame prompts)

Ty for the prompt!! I got so many amazing ones last week I'm going to work through! Some incredibly indulgent Hawkevellan this evening for @dadrunkwriting !

for folks who are reading my fic Vertigo, this is Vertigo Hawke!

Herald’s Rest had been Hawke’s choice tonight, and the longer the evening went on, the better an idea it had become. 

No one had expected the cloaked, hooded elf that had appeared at dusk the evening before, greatsword strapped to his back, bearing a message for no one but Hawke and the Inquisitor. Anders was at Vigil’s Keep, had information about the possibility of a cure for the Warden taint, and needed two things. A blood mage, and someone with enough power to protect him.

Fenris was infamous, his attempts at a clandestine meeting lasting only as long as it took Josephine to start planning a formal dinner. Hawke was the sort of man who made deals in dark alleys, but the Inquisitor negotiated everything over three courses and free-flowing wine. 

Fenris had seen enough of court functions and catered meals with aristocrats for a lifetime. Hawke missed the Hanged Man. 

The evening could have been worse. There was plenty of alcohol of all kinds flowing freely, stories about Kirkwall, and a delightful—if heated—debate between Iron Bull and Fenris that had finally carried out of the tavern and into the courtyard. If Jos hadn’t been glaring at the door they’d just left through like he wanted to set it on fire, Hawke might have followed them.

Instead, he leaned casually against Jos, all but flattening him into the corner of the booth, finally earning his attention with a disgruntled huff. 

“You know,” Hawke said, picking up his tankard of ale and taking a drink. “It’s peak irony that the most unhappy person in this bar is the one it’s named after.” 

He felt Jos’s eyes on him. “What makes you think I’m unhappy?” he snapped.

Hawke chuckled. “You spent half the night looking at Fenris like you want to drink his blood with your morning meal.” 

“Mmm,” Jos hummed, affecting a sharp smile and sipping his red wine. “Lovely image.”

Hawke shifted, draping his arm around Jos’s shoulders. The Inquisitor was far slighter than him, but not shaped so differently from Fenris. He had the same dusky bronze skin, dark brows, vivid green eyes, tattoos. 

“You do realize that we appear related,” Jos said darkly, essentially reading Hawke’s mind. 

“Because you’re both elves?” Hawke pretended to have never considered it, taking a drink of his beer to keep the smile off his lips.

“So amusing,” Jos sniped, squeezing his leg under the table and curling his fingernails in. “Tell me—am I a fitting replacement?”

Outside, snow had started to fall, the windows frosted, and he could no longer see Fenris and Bull. “The two of you are nothing alike,” he told Jos. 

“You described him to me not long after we met,” Jos recalled, setting his wine on the table and dragging a fingertip around the rim slowly like a cat deciding whether to shove it off the edge. “Brilliant. Witty. Resourceful. Deadly. Beautiful. I am not these things?”

Hawke opened his mouth to reply, and then shut it. He drank some more beer.

Jos allowed the silence, but Hawke could feel him simmering. Someone entered the tavern, letting in a gust of wet, cold air that felt good on his face. 

“It’s…different,” Hawke said after a moment. “With him…I spent most of my time longing for something that wasn’t even accessible. It never was.”

“What do they call this in Orlais…” Jos mused, picking up his wine glass again. “A prix de consolation.” 

Hawke laughed. “You are not a consolation prize, you big baby.”

“I can show you how deadly I can be if you like.”

“I’m aware. Yes. I have a thing for mean magic elves. But I only want one.” 

Jos sipped his wine. “If you loved him, why did you not fight for him?”

Hawke sighed, turning to glance at the bar and catch the eye of the tavernkeeper. He got a nod in return and saw the man start to fill another tankard. When he glanced at Jos again, he found the Inquisitor watching him and tried not to think about how similar to Fenris he looked with that line between his black eyebrows.

“There was no part of who I am that he wanted,” he finally told Jos, fidgeting with a napkin on the table. “Not the mage, and especially not the magic I practice. Not the aristocrat. Not the man.”

Again, there was silence, and Hawke could sense Jos biting his tongue. The answer wasn’t enough, so Hawke went on. 

“With him, I felt inadequate. Incomplete. Flawed. With you…I simply feel alive.” 

Another moment passed and then Jos made a small sound—a low hum that Hawke had learned meant approval. Gradually, by the time Hawke’s new beer had arrived, Jos relaxed against him, the hand on Hawke’s thigh sliding just a bit higher.

[frostcorpsclub]

When James, Josephine, and Juniper were very little they would play a game called “poor house” where James would make his sisters eat rotten food and they’d roleplay cockney british poor people

Being mutant monsters rotten food is just, good ass seasoned food to them but James was like 5 and hadn’t exactly connected the dots so his sisters just thought they were having snack time with big brother