#she has rosacea

[deepiintheocean]

rose

[haunting-of-mitch]

started rewatching fantasy high

trying to get back how i used to draw them

my gender/sexuality hcs below

they’re all queer and trans your honor

[dazzelmethat]

Wright coloring study. I had some trouble deciding on how to draw her cute big eyes in a more 3d style.

You know once during an art trade 8 years ago or so I was told 'wow she is so pink!' and I didn't know if I should take it as a complement or an insult.

[bloomingjellies]

Obligatory BG3 OC Maeve who looks nothing like her in-game model cause Larion body types and face presets are so limited.

[xiphactinusfish]

✨️Red✨️

[darksouls2yuri]

btw my mom also has awful rosacea and dry skin and yet she puts on makeup for everything and shes like. its just bare minerals lol its good for your skin. rachel your pores are so fucking clogged and you have painful painful breakouts daily. please stop doing this to yourself you will feel better.

[ghstmsk]

Old vs New the four colored drawings from OCtober

[jupiterin4]

time to play my favorite game!!! try to guess someone's rising sign by only looking at pictures!!!!

[olliev3r]

i said i would redraw it, and i’m actually pretty happy with this one. i wanna explain a few design choices/hcs

jay has a medicine pouch bc I think he’d be a field medic. zane does all the medical stuff when they’re on the bounty or at the monastery, but since jay is the fastest I think he’d serve that role during battle. he also would wear exclusively converse lol. he has lightning scars, most prominently on his face. he’s partially blind in that eye

lloyd has rosacea. it’s pretty common in fair skinned people, and i don’t see it represented often in art

nya likes to dye her hair. she dyes it blue not only because of water, but also because it’s jay’s color. he is the one that helped her dye it

kai has fingerless gloves bc his fire keeps burning the cloth off, until he finally removed them. he also regularly sets his hair on fire without realizing

nya and kai are the same exact height. the only reason he started making hair spikes is so that he would look taller than her. he ended up keeping them bc he liked how they looked

cole can’t work if his forearms are restricted. that’s it lol. he also has steel-toed boots. he has scars on his arms from various hikes and rock climbing accidents

zane uses ice skates. he mostly uses hockey style ones in battle for speed, but he sometimes figure skates for fun. he always has a comm with pixal in his ear

also just a fun note, the height diff between jay and zane is close to me and my younger brothers height diff irl (im shorter)

this is the original that this is a redraw of

[aurantiumred]

today on really stupid occasionally helpful demigod powers/quirks:

jason can breathe just as easy when the air gets thinner. his ears also dont pop in air pressure differentials. however, his ears DO pop underwater and he hates it so much. also intuitively knows n, e, s, and w cause of wind currents or something. power boosts on thursdays, the first of the month, during june, and new moons. if all of these align he becomes near godly, and completely unstoppable for exactly one day. walnut trees get planted around his cabin because they grow better in his presence. also sage. he really likes the smell of sage, too. and oak trees.

on the same train of thought, percy's ears dont pop underwater. he also claps really loud like a seal when he's upset or is trying to get attention. he also has mild temperature resistance if it's in water (i.e, calmly testing if boiling water is hot enough by dipping his fingers in for a split second, holding an ice cube in his hand for extended periods w/o pain) and his body temp matches the water around him. finds cutting/pulling the icky strands off of celery (especially wild celery) unusually easy.

splitting this cause its long

hazel can sense trace amounts of metals in things like water. also can identify the alloy of metals + gemstones, which would make her shockingly valuable at a pawn shop, but still. she also gives tips on the metal for other's earrings n stuff cause leo's ear piercings turned his ears green.

leo is kind of good at weaving. he also happens to have a hand for sculpting. also, just for hephaestus kids in general, whenever someone annoys him their next forged item kind of sucks ass honestly. unfortunate. :((. it's like the curses the apollo kids can cast, except mild inconvenience. leo can also similarly sense alloys to hazel, but not gemstones. naturally runs very warm, so is pretty immune to temperature. rarely gets sick because he can just... burn away the germs.

frank has itty bitty power boosts on tuesdays and during march. he's also surprisingly good with plants for such a tough looking guy. he keeps a few houseplants at cj. he also can naturally speak wolf since theyre sacred to mars. he accidentally spoke wolf to jason once and jason was incredibly excited.

piper also has itty bitty power boosts, but specifically on fridays. she doesn't notice all too much but she also is slightly happier on those days. fun! she also has a better time during april. very nice. also, demeter kids occasionally require her help because plants of the family rosaceae grow really damn good around her and produce larger, sweeter fruits.

annabeth is canonically good at weaving. ive decided shes also good at arts n crafts. and spinning yarn. + she loves olives and they grow better around her. the demeter kids specifically plant certain things around other cabins because they're just incredibly easy to grow near certain demigods. also is good at forging specifically bronze. she orders pizza with extra black olives whenever she can.

[2demondogs]

When You're A Stranger | Kieran/Male Reader

Tags: First kiss AGAIN!!, Kieran had PTSD and he's a little autism coded Words: 2k A/N: For Kinktober (SFW). Originally I was going to fill the frottage prompt but it was NOT sparking joy.

You know you put Kieran on edge. Kindness seems almost painful to him, and fear that you’ve pushed too hard follows whenever he has shied away from you.

Kicked dogs don’t cozy up fast, you’ll remind yourself, and then he’ll come around again.

He’s starting to learn that you aren’t intending to backhand him if he looks at you too long or speaks too softly around you. Even beyond the sweetness you’ve got stored on him, or maybe because of it and the strength love seems to give people to accept lonesomeness in favor of their darling’s happiness, you want him to have… someone, in some sense, that he doesn’t have to fear. Whether, in the end, it’s you or not— that doesn’t matter, but you’ll be the placeholder while he needs it.

His burgeoning confidence is starting to put you on edge, too, if it could be called confidence.

Kieran is bad at hiding his emotions, a real travesty as far as his general safety is concerned. You couldn’t place your finger on what exactly it was in his eyes until an evening where Molly had decided it was your turn to listen to her strife. She had glanced at Dutch the same way: soft-eyed, yearning, that little curl to her mouth. She hadn’t been angry anymore, merely… sad.

Good God, you’d thought, after she’d left you to sulk. He’s in love with me.

A lot of pieces fell into place, then: the patchy rosiness on Kieran’s cheeks that you chalked up to rosacea or sunburning; how he would straighten up when you did, sliding clumsily into mirroring your body language; his clinginess, laced with anticipation that kept him still-distant but much closer than he would ever be caught standing or sitting next to anyone else.

And those eyes, a cloudy color you haven’t gotten close enough to make out yet. They glaze over when you talk as if he’s in a trance — Jesus, you knew that your attention to detail had gone to total shit when that clicked into place, because it’s been painfully obvious ever since. You’d asked him once why he always stared when people spoke to him, and he told you his father had beat his ass raw for not looking him in the eye when he spoke.

That sufficed for the fact he stared, but not the way he did it. It had always been different, with you.

Meatier.

Kieran’s inhibition is palpable once he’s been drinking. Sean had been trotted into camp, loud as ever, and the group beer rations were quickly broken out to celebrate as dusk settled into the skyline beyond the Overlook. For the redhead’s piece, you’d asked him how the O’Driscolls didn’t fear what the rest of you were like after kidnapping his ass; more seriously, you’d ask how he was doing. He’d brushed you off, apparently preferring the taunting to genuine concern. Fair enough. You left him to talk someone else's ear off and wandered to a man you knew would enjoy your company.

He is nursing a beer, watching the campfire crowded ‘round with half of the camp. The tangible longing depresses you in its familiarity. Hosea's doing the same, from a fold-up chair beside his bedroll; Kieran squints when you greet him with: “Hey, old coot. Gonna join the party?”

It takes a second, but he huffs a tense laugh as you glance between him and Hosea. “Don’t think I’m missed,” he says, meeting your eyes.

There it is, that expression. It’s full to bursting.

“I’m missin’ you,” you say, nodding to the hay bale. “Mind if I join your party?”

“Sure thing." His voice sounds strained.

His beer is barely drank from, and neither is yours. The redness of his cheeks and nose, well— you don’t know what it’s from, and the daylight is so faded that it simply looks dark. Maybe it’s been a tan all along.

Or so you’d think, if he didn’t turn to you as soon as you settled a tad too close to him, eyes stuck on your face. The alcohol takes the edge off of your own carefully woven respect for his personal space, and by the time you realize how near you are, it has been too many peaceful seconds to excuse his staring for indignancy. His brows pull together like his mind has blanked in the middle of a thought before it could leave his mouth.

“Kieran?” You ask, and he blinks himself back to earth.

“S’rry,” he says, quick, mouth cracking back in a half-smile. “Real tired.”

“Oughtta be,” you say, taking a drink. He turns back to his own bottle and mirrors you. “All those gray hairs you got comin’ out, I’d be shocked if you weren’t tired. Stress’ll wear you out.”

The air eases. Stress is a word Kieran is familiar with.

“Aye,” he agrees. “Guess I do look pretty rough for my age.”

You smile some. “I was only teasing.” When, predictably, he turns to you— you wink. “Promise.”

He offers a short up-curl of his lips. It stutters when Javier’s guitar starts, sudden and sharp.

“I know,” he says. He tongues the inside of his cheeks, eyes glancing to the ground as if he’d like to watch it instead of you and yet can’t help himself. They roam over your face instead, as he struggles for the words; you let him find them, brows raised. “You never are mean to me. Not really.”

Simple. No juicy tell-all, but simple and sweet. The men start to sing around the fire, a song you don’t recognize.

“Never would want to be,” you say.

He swallows, and you’re certain now of everything you’ve suspected but found difficult to believe. Sure, the signs were damning on his part, and you’ve spent enough time mulling over each and every action to think of someone who does the same things, yet certainly does not fancy you; each one came up with an answer, except that look.

“Why not?” He asks, then, and you’re a little surprised.

“Oh, Kieran,” you say, gently. In your peripherals, Hosea raises to get another beer and Lenny tosses in his sleep. “Men choose to be mean. Well, maybe they’re mean by design, but they choose to show it, at least.”

The concept seems as comforting to him as it does alarming. “Most of ‘em choose it,” he says, eyes squinting. It’s a tic you’ve noticed he has, an irregular twitch of his muscles.

“I know,” you say. Chancing it, you lay an open hand on his upper back; he flinches, but then his shoulders fall an inch or two. “I don’t know what it is about you,” you answer the question before he can ask. “Maybe 'cause you never choose meanness yourself. Makes a man look inside of himself when someone makes a different choice than him, and I doubt they like what they see. To them, that's your fault, so they gotta beat it out of you.”

Kieran thinks the words over. To be honest, you have little idea what you're really saying, are flying off-the-cuff about a subject you probably shouldn’t be — but it feels crucial to answer fast, to speak whatever comes to you first whether it makes sense or not. Some people call gut reactions true feelings, anyways.

“Think I understand." He’s quiet, for a moment. “Y’never get tired of me?”

You huff a laugh. “I get tired of everybody, but I rest up quicker if it’s you.”

He seems to appreciate the lack of sugarcoating. “Me too,” he admits. Lifting his head again, eyes lingering beside your face and then at your jaw, he starts: “You’re really— you’re, uh, real,” — the scramble inside of his head to read your emotions is almost audible, and he finishes uncertainly — “Good to me.”

“You’re talkin’ in circles,” you point out, tone easy.

Kieran flushes. “I appreciate you,��� he corrects, tears his eyes away. More to himself, he mumbles: “Yeah, ‘preciate you a lot.”

You smooth your hand across his shoulders. He tenses, but it doesn’t feel as flighty as it usually does. Disappointment might even flicker in him when you take it away. “I appreciate you, too, Kieran,” you say, and can’t help smiling.

Silence passes. Both of you watch the merriment around the fire, Kieran cringing when Dutch starts up his wailing gramophone and takes Molly by the hand. You’ve been thinking, now and again, of how she looked at Dutch just seconds after saying she hated him. Sometimes, I wish he’d grab me by the hair and put me on the boat so I could finally leave him. And then that longing, wanting the very thing you're sitting here watching.

At that, you feel shamefully voyeuristic. Sean is nowhere to be found, and you feel even more voyeuristic when you hear his voice alongside Karen’s over the cacophony.

God, there isn’t anywhere safe to turn your eyes or your ears in this goddamn place. You hope Kieran will start talking again, and then you remember it’s Kieran, so you’d better say something first or you’ll sit in silence the rest of the evening. For someone so stuck in his head, he doesn’t seem to think about many things he’d like to share.

You don’t know he’s looking at you until you turn to speak. It’s your turn to pause, the few lingering seconds of tolerance you have left for not bringing it up passing in the bated breath you share with him.

“Why’re you staring?”

He takes a breath. “You’re nice-lookin’,” he says, voice shockingly calm and even in a rare show of confidence. Then he takes a swig, much healthier than the rest he’s drank. “I jus’— you’re nice to look at.”

You bite the bullet. “Do you want to kiss me?”

Kieran blanches, apparently not expecting an equally as tactless dive-in response. A story crosses his face in an instant: relief, panic, pain, happiness, a few more expressions that you don’t believe have been named by science. “Why?” He asks, but his eyes aren’t behind the question. It’s a knee-jerk response, a self-defense against the idea that he might be worth something kind.

A smile finds you then. “Aren’t you flirting with me?” You ask, partially to get him to admit to it and partially to ease the doubt that prods at your insides.

He nods, and then pauses. Suddenly, he laughs. “Shit, yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t— ‘m sorry, I’ve never… with a man? I ain’t even kissed a girl.” He flushes as if he didn’t mean to say that aloud. "Honestly, it kind of doesn't make sense how I'm s'posed to—"

“Kieran,” you interrupt his babbling, itching to grab him but knowing it would scare him. “Look me in the eye.”

He obeys instantly.

His face melts, and so does your heart. If watching the others feel voyeuristic, this feels exhibitionist; his adoration is so clear on his face, and you can’t help letting your own seep through the mask of nonchalance you try to uphold. To look sweet is one thing as a man; to look sweet on another man is something you avoid at all costs. Yet it doesn’t matter, without anyone watching, even if it chafes on your skin for the mere air of camp to contain it.

“Forget everything. Whether it’s right or wrong or new or old or whatever the Hell,” you say. He nods, throat clicking as he swallows. “Tell me: do you want to kiss me?”

“O’course I do,” he says, as if it’s a dumb question.

He tastes like beer and one of Sean’s terrible hand-rolled cigarettes, must’ve bummed one before the man hit the hay with Karen. The thought is humorous. His beard is scratchy on your face, and his mouth doesn’t move, uncertain how to work against yours — until it makes more sense, and his lips shift slightly, still inhibited.

You lean back first, because you aren’t sure he would even realize he’s supposed to.

[silent-wolf]

very self indulgent but i headcanon tim has rosacea that he gets from janet, so from a very young age she teaches him on how to apply concealer and colour corrector. further down the line this comes in handy when one is robin and get's beat up on the daily however this time, he does not have his mother's guiding hands

[fizzy-dizz]

how about a character you haven't drawn (or at least haven't drawn much) before? I like seeing your takes on the canon designs, or lack thereof :>

YEAH actually i forgor ive been tinkering with Fife and Angelique redesigns for a while now, so since we're nearing the holiday season here they are! (with design notes bc i love explaining my choices ahjgjdsh)

For Fife I always imagined a marching band kind of look for him so there's the jacket (without the epaulettes because it looked too much). In his canon human form, he's wearing a sash thing idk what it is but i stole that to recreate the asymmetry of his cursed form. Circles are implemented across his character design so i sprinkled them all over basically. Anyways I hate how bro was just Bootleg Lumiere i was itching to change him around 😭

For Angelique i wanted her to resemble her cursed form a lot more. My girl is a short queen + has a rounder face + pale skin resembling porcelain. Angelique's design is triangular in shape so i kept that with her dress, but also wanted to lean more into the angel imagery so i gave her hair the swirlies to look like puffy clouds :3 (and a goldilocks look too). She's also got some rosacea so she looks more ornament-like. I kept the big bow around her waist from the canon design because CUTE and also to sort of look like wings??

Yeah those r my personal takes on them

[tanaisokay]

Aster Button • Hogwarts Legacy MC • Character Information

(Character Sheet Commission by my amazing bestie, @unholytrio420)

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General Information

Full Name: Aster Jane Button

Nicknames: Princess of Hufflepuff, Sweetheart & Bug

Gender: Female

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual

Date of Birth: April 30th, 1875

Dominate Hand: Left

Zodiac Sign: Taurus ☀️🌙 & Cancer ⬆️

Personality Type (MBTI): ENFP - Campaigner

Blood Status: Half-blood

Alignment: Lawful Good

Nationality: English/Greek

House: Hufflepuff

Wand: Natural shape, English Oak, Unicorn Hair Core, 20 cm, handle is carved with oak leaves and has an acorn on the bottom of the handle.

Patronus: Swarm of Bees or Ibizan Bound

(One is my wants, the other is wizarding worlds take)

Boggart: Herself

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Physical Appearance

Hair Colour & Style: Has wavy/curly dark brown hair, with a bang fringe that curls at the ends because of her naturally curly hair. She tends to keep her hair half up in an updo with a white bow holding it back.

Eye Color: Her eyes are a dark green with a yellow center.

Skin Tone: Light olive tone with peach undertones. Has a flush of freckles all over her face. She also has light rosacea on her cheeks, nose and forehead.

Height: 5’7” (170cm)

Other features:

She does wear makeup, even though it was frowned upon at that time. She has a smudge of eyeliner on her upper lid and goes wear some lipstick/Vaseline for shine.

An overbite with bunny teeth.

Girly wears earrings as well. They are vintage screw backs from 1890 that match her colors and vibe. Gold & Black varnish with diamonds.

Face claim: Hande Ercel is her slight face claim. Hande Ercel has dark brown eyes and doesn’t have freckles, but she’s a Turkish actress with the perfect face shape. Which is why I say she’s a slight face claim. Her role in Azize just screams Aster with her hair as it is as well.

(The right photo was edited by Ellie to give her green eyes and freckles - she’s quite literally perfect!)

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Personality

Positive Traits: extroverted, empathic, patient, elegant, down to earth, in tune with her emotions, lawful, dedicated, loving & kind

Neutral Traits: sensitive, tantalizing, sensual, dominant, can not lie for shite, work oriented & overthinks constantly

Negative Traits: opinionated, materialistic, dense, slow, kind of a mean girl in a domineering way, fair to a fault & spoiled

Scent: Lilac, Moss and Honey

Strengths: Being a walking bug magnet, saying ‘No’, Stability

Weaknesses: being yelled at, crying to easily, Numbers/Math (Dyslexic), dealing with parasites

Fears: Heights & The Dark

Likes: Her family, Insects, Bee Keeping, Running, Gardening, Eating, Talking, Cuddling

Dislikes: The Wizarding Realm, Passive Aggressive Rudeness, People who have a twisted reality that being blunt is actually being nice, Dark Magic, Racism, Slavery, Pure-Blood enthusiasts

Future Dreams: A normal happy life in research entomology

Favorite Classes: Charms, History of Magic, Herbology, Divination

Hated Classes: Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Flying, Astronomy

Music Loves: Frank Sinatra, Vic Damone, Benny Goodman, Billie Holiday, Dean Martin, Ella Fitzgerald, Tony Bennett, Tommy Dorsey, Artie Shaw, etc.

Aesthetic: Honeycore Coquette

Love Language: Physical Touch & Companionship

Pinterest Board (important): https://pin.it/5APIW6Lqo

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Relationships

Father: Theodore Button - Lord, Wizard, Business Man

Mother: Abigail Button - Lady, Normie, Socialite

Sibling(s): Timothy Button - Older brother, Future Lawyer, Normie

Distant Relatives: Percival Rackham - Many-Great Grandfather

Hogwarts Guardian(s): Matilda Weasley, Abraham Ronan, Aesop Sharp & Dinah Hecate

Love Interest: Sebastian Sallow

Best Friends: Nerida Roberts, Grace Pinch-Smedley, Ominis Gaunt, Adelaide Oakes, Anne Sallow

Rivals: Imelda Rayes

Enemies: Ranrok, Victor Rookwood, Ashwinders

Pets:

Ladybird Spider named Lily

All her bees

A full nest of Fwoopers

4 Nifflers - Quartz, Obsidian, Copper & Tin-Tin

2 Kneezles - Knee & Zazzy

2 Unicorns - June & August (Golden)

2 Hippogriff - Ares (Tawny) & Highwing

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Outside Character Inspirations

Cher Horowitz - Clueless

Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind

Elora Danan - Willow TV series

Willow Rosenberg - Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Lexi Howard - Euphoria

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Shout out to the HL peep here on Tumblr that inspired me to do this. I lost their post and can’t find it now for some reason. So I apologize for not having you tagged, but thank you for inspiring me to get all my information out about my darling! If I ever get around to editing & typing up her true background, I will edit this to include. For now, here is my baby girl. Please enjoy her!

[curioushappenstance]

fic title: do you like my dress? it's got pockets [chapter 1]

[next chapter]

[ao3 link]

Summary: 9:19 Dragon – Varric Tethras loses his virginity to a pretty dwarf girl at the bar. 9:41 Dragon - The consequence walks through the gates of Skyhold. - In my childish fantasies, I used to dream of being the Champion; going places, meeting people, loving them and being loved in return, never discarded nor kicked nor beaten; love, in perpetuity, the likes of which a girl under the heavy and forceful hand of a mother could not begin to dream of, because she could not dream at all. - aka, the fic where varric has a daughter that he didn't know about until five minutes ago.

My father was not what I expected him to be.

What had I expected? I knew his name first from the books in the local library, then later from whispers in back alleys or drunken merchants.

So––a sleazy businessman? A corrupt merchant prince who’d sold his soul for sovereigns? He was a dwarf. He was a womaniser. He wrote books, and I wasn’t allowed to read them, but I would stare at his author’s portrait with an intense vigour in the middle of the night when mother was asleep.

Seeing my face in that man––the hooked nose that was flat against my face, the underbite that made my teeth ache, the red hair that mother made me cover––him, all him. I didn’t like him. I didn’t like looking like the man that mother sneered at when she heard his name, a name I was forbidden from uttering aloud.

Varric Tethras. A merchant prince, a famous author, a rogue with a crossbow that could take down the carta.

My father.

Skyhold was much too grand for a man like that. I sneered passing through the gates, accidentally offending the human woman who took our names. Was I staying long, she asked? I told her I was here to deliver a message, nothing more, and it was the truth, but really, I didn’t know how long I would be staying. There was nothing for me in Kirkwall. Mother was dead, and the dwarves who killed her were after me, too. If Tethras was safe here, why couldn’t I be?

Something kept him here. It wasn’t the goodness of his heart. Security, coin, business, an opportunity to cosy up to important people like the Inquisitor or the Lady Ambassador.

But that vision––that imagined man, sneering in the back of my mind, shaking a bag of coin in his palm––wasn’t what I saw when I climbed the stairs to the main hall.

He was older. Wrinkly around the eyes, rosacea flaring on his cheeks. Pay an artist enough and you could have them paint you however you liked, such as surrounded by scantily clad dwarven women, but this was… I didn’t know.

He hunched over a desk next to a roaring fireplace, scribbling fiercely on hastily torn parchment; his hands were stained in ink, and there was dirt under his nails, on his clothes, and in his hair. A muddy coat, which probably used to be hanging over the back of the chair, was splayed out on the stone tile.

He didn’t notice my shadowing presence. I was inclined to keep watching, in silence, until the sun set and he retired to bed.

What was that? Fear? My heart clenched at the sight of him, and I didn’t know why. What was so fearful about passing on a letter? I was a messenger, and he didn’t raise me; there was no reason for my throat to tighten, but it did.

I cleared my throat.

He looked up.

My hands shook as I held mother’s letter, but I held it nonetheless.

“Varric Tethras?” I asked, finding my voice weak.

“Yeah?”

If my voice was raspy, his was worse. It broke, and he winced, and licked his dry, cracked lips.

“I’m to deliver this message to you.” No. Too formal. Too distant. He was my father, whatever that meant, and he––he––

He had bloodshot eyes.

Ancestors, I had the worst timing.

I tried again.

“My mother,” I said, deciding that if I was going to do this, I would do it properly, “wrote you a letter before she died.”

It was actually many years ago. The parchment was old and torn by now, wrinkled then flattened again, stained with coffee and dried tears. Mother held onto it, and now here I was, her messenger after death. Her will forbade me from reading it. It felt wrong to give it to a stranger.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” He took it, and put it on his desk, unopened. “Thanks.”

I stifled a sudden flash of anger. “I think you should read it. Messere.”

The honorific was an afterthought. Perhaps it would endear him to me, I thought, if I pretended to respect him… but he flinched instead.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s very important,” I said, feeling quite sorry after all. He looked down at what he was writing, then at the unbroken wax seal of mother’s letter, and picked it up with a sigh.

The crack of the wax snapping in two was like the dam that floods the river.

It didn’t belong to him––it belonged to mother! I should’ve buried it with her, the secret dying when she did, and with her gone, I’d pretend to live a normal, happy dwarf life with a caste boy husband and a dozen dwarf children.

How many bastards did Tethras have running around Kirkwall? How many were unwanted daughters? My mother could not have been the only whore he fucked. She was not special, I was not unqiue, and she made sure I knew it in my heart, body, and soul.

And yet; a letter.

A letter that he could read, but I could not.

How was that fair?

The wax seal broke. He thumbed open the letter. My head was heavy and my arms weak, or I’d have snatched it from him, because if there was anyone in this world who deserved my mother, it would not be him––

“Varric…”

Both of our heads snapped up. A human woman in Inquisition armour hovered over the desk, her expression taut and her hands linked together.

I watched many emotions sequentially pass through Tethras’s eyes, until a mask fell over them, and he grinned. “Seeker?”

Seeker. Seeker?

He dropped the letter, folding it again and using it as a cover what what he’d been writing. That was all it was to him.

“Varric,” she said again. She was blushing, but not in the romance way; I knew delicate, flushed glances, and this was something else. She shifted her feet. “I have come to… express my condolences.”

Tethras’s grin turned into more of a grimace. “Ah. Well. That’s…”

“And to apologise, for how I have treated you.”

“Uh.” He gave a stinted thumbs up. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“I should not have blamed you. You have been a good friend, Varric, and…” She paused. I didn’t realise why until I caught her eye––staring me down, like the templars in the streets at night. “You have company. I will come back later.”

He looked at me, surprised––had he already forgotten I was here?

Of course he had.

What a fool I was.

A Maker-damned fool, clinging to the end of a rope that severed when mother’s blood ran rivers through the grout between the stones. She was gone, and this man, just as much a stranger to me as he was to any bastard child, was not my family, and could never become one.

Knowing this, accepting it, feeling it in my heart and allowing it to sink into my bones, did not stop the bitter tears when I lifted my hood and turned away.

-

What had I expected?

He didn’t know me. What I knew of him was imagined from long nights of rumination, roaming the back alleys in the aftermath of one of mother’s rages.

I met the Champion that way, once. He was not the Champion then, only Hawke, if you knew his name at all. I didn’t, as a child of yet twelve, but I remembered his face, the glint in his eye and the kind smile as he draped a blanket over my shoulders and ushered me into the warmth of the tavern.

I remembered red hair like mine, catching the light of the candles, and being struck with a fear so deep that I fled back into the streets, the blanket cocooning me from the wind.

This was not unlike that night. Though the magicks of its walls kept the snow at bay, Skyhold was imbued in a bitter cold, a chill that ran deep. And here I was again, fleeing from the warmth and the light, back into the fog to freeze, fearing what might await me when I stopped to breathe.

I still had that blanket.

It had smelled of alcohol, and smoke, and sex, but a child knew nothing of these things, and it was softer than mother’s hand.

Most things were softer than mother’s hand.

Skyhold’s tavern bustled, and that was where my stout legs carried me, with my mind wandering. I stared at the plaque on the door as it came into focus, feeling again like that child of twelve, gazing at The Hanged Man and wondering what it meant.

“Hey, Varric!”

My breath snagged against my ribs. The woman laughed when I turned my head.

“You’re not Varric. Sorry!”

Another dwarf. Red-haired, like me, but a darker shade. She had a kind smile, a pretty voice, and freckles like constellations amidst the stars. Did she know him? Were they friends? Were they…

“Hey, you okay?”

I had been staring, and though her smile still lingered, she stepped close with concern. Her eyes crinkled in the corners, and I didn’t realise how near she was until her hand grazed my elbow and her breath tickled my jaw.

“You’re freezing! Here,” she guided me to the door, shoving it open with her boot, “let’s get you warm. Not really dressed for the mountains, are you?”

“I couldn’t afford much better,” I admitted quietly. It was a half-truth. Kirkwall’s weather was mild, if you excused hurricane season, and merchants didn’t sell clothes built for the snow. I had spent most of the journey on the back of a cart, huddled between a dozen elven refugees who took it upon themselves to keep the ‘shivering dwarf girl’ warm.

It was more than humans had ever done for me. It was no surprise, then, that a dwarf such as her, saw a dwarf such as me, and thought; I want to protect her.

“I’m alright.” I stopped walking. The bar was warm, rowdy, smoky with the stench of alcohol, and at any moment I felt like Tethras might burst through the door still ajar behind me. “I lost my way. Do you know who I talk to about boarding?”

“You weren’t assigned quarters?”

I knew should’ve stuck around at the gate.

“Harding!”

A booming voice echoed above the noise and the music. I couldn’t imagine the type of man who could make that noise––until I looked up, and my legs went numb.

Horns like a dragon’s, peering over the crowds and the tables; attached to them, a grinning grey head, teeth glinting. In Kirkwall, the roar of the oxmen, mother’s hand clutched over my mouth, the closet’s spider crawling up my leg.

“Save my seat!” Harding called, so close yet far and muffled, and guided me to a far table closest to the bar, where the crowd was thin. Her warm smile as she tapped the bar shielded the qunari from my sight.

A Tal-Vashoth. Nothing more.

Nothing more.

“Cabot,” she signalled the bartender, who barely looked at me, but when he did, it was with a passing concern, “something warm?”

I failed to stifle my temor. “Is there something special about me in particular, or do you buy drinks for every passing dwarf girl?”

She smiled. “Just the half-dead ones. No offense, you know, if that’s what you’re going for.”

“Not typically.” But I wasn’t surprised. “I’m fine, I was just… delivering a message.”

“Oh yeah? Long-lost lover?”

“No! No.”

I knew flirting when I saw it, and Harding––flushed in the cheeks and smelling faintly of alcohol––was batting her eyelashes. It was not the first time a stranger had dragged me from one end of a bar to another in search of a tryst or a public rut, it’s just––usually they were men. And human. And old.

Harding was none of these, and she wasn’t grinding against me yet, either. I took small victories where I could find them.

Cabot thunked down an appropriately-sized dwarven mug that sloshed with the force of it. It was steaming and smelled like chocolate.

It was rude to reject gifts. I used it to warm my hands.

“Your accent’s familiar,” Harding said. “Reminds me of–hmmm. Free Marches?”

“Kirkwall,” I affirmed.

“How funny!”

“Is it?”

“Mm, you remind me of a friend, that’s all.”

My throat tightened again. I sipped the hot drink to burn the knot away. “The one who you mistook me for?”

“Mmm-hm. Sorry.” She looked sheepish. “Just from the side, you know––”

I did know. There was a bitter reminder of it hidden in the bottom of my pack, sketch after sketch that I would compare to myself in the mirror. I could never get my face right, but I always knew his.

“Who is he?” I asked, against my better judgement. Harding leaned forward, and I regretted it immediately, but it was too late to take it back just as it was always too late for anything else.

But she laughed. “Varric? He writes books––I didn’t have much time for reading, as a farm girl in Ferelden, but––when we first met, he said… what was it?” She paused, then with a deep breath and her best gruff, grumbly voice, “ ‘You ever been to Kirkwall’s Hightown?’   I said; no, why? And he said, ‘Because you’d be Harding in Hightown!’ I didn’t get it, though.”

“That’s awful,” I said.

“The Seeker thought so too.” Harding shrugged. “We struck a good rapport though. You look a lot like him!”

I sipped my drink. “How funny.”

“It is.”

And to her it was. To me––a roiling, boiling sensation in the pit of my stomach. The burn of my drink, the pain as it grazed my already scarred throat, not even that could distract me from it.

I felt sick.

“So––” She leaned back again, elbow against the bar, lightly tipsy. “You boated all the way from Kirkwall just for a message?”

“I suppose I did.”

“And you’re gonna go back to Kirkwall?”

I hesitated. “I suppose I will.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.” After that––I didn’t know. It wouldn’t be safe there, but I didn’t want to stay here either. Either way, I wouldn’t miss mother’s funeral; I needed to be there when she was returned to the Stone.

Harding nodded, kohl smudged just below her eye where she’d rubbed at it. “I’ve never been to Kirkwall. I’ve heard it’s… well, in the words of Dorian Pavus, ‘a bit of a shithole’.”

I chuckled. “The understatement of the century. I grew up in Lowtown, which was…” No. Wait, what was I doing? About to spill my guts to this stranger, by virtue of our shared race? She was pretty, but nothing suggested trustworthy, and I knew enough about my kind to know you couldn’t trust a dwarf as far as you could throw one, which was not as far as most humans tend to think.

Harding looked lithe, though. I could probably pick her up.

I shook my head. “You know. Muddy.”

“Just like Ferelden, then,” she smiled. Then, before she could open her mouth again––

“Harding!” That booming voice. A deep growl that vibrated inside my skull, like a bug crawling into my ear. If I didn’t look, if I didn’t see, I could pretend it wasn’t–– “You joining us, or what?!”

“Just a minute!” She faced my again, sheepishly flustered. “I should go, or he’ll have me by the ear. Unless you wanna––”

One of the human men from the qunari’s table landed a heavy hand on her shoulder. The qunari’s horns shadowed him from far behind.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked. Harding grinned up at him. “She joining us?”

“No,” I said, too quickly.

“Shame. Lace and Rocky could use the competition.”

“Is Rocky…” I squinted, “a dwarf?” What kind of backwards, offensive to the point of non-offensive, ridiculous sort of nickname was that? The human chuckled.

“It’s not what you think. We all get nicknames. Part of the job. Lace, come on, Chief’s cracking open a new cask!”

“Didn’t you already burn through the last one?” She paused. “Literally?”

“Sacrifices had to be made.”

I stared incredulously between them. “You set your alcohol on fire?”

“Not me. Dalish did. With her––khm––bow.”

“...And I suppose Dalish is Dalish?”

“Well, yeah, she’s got the––tattoos, right?”

“That’s not a very creative nickname.” I was understanding ‘Rocky’ more now.

“Yeah, well, makes it easier for the Chief. Not like Varric’s. Half of his doesn’t even make sense.”

I couldn’t escape him. Varric this, Varric that. I turned away, suddenly bitter. The human dragged Harding away, and under his breath murmured to her, who’s she?

Damn, I forgot to ask, she said.

Most people did.

“Harding! Harding, hey have you seen––”

In my childish fantasies, I used to dream of being the Champion; going places, meeting people, loving them and being loved in return, never discarded nor kicked nor beaten; love, in perpetuity, the likes of which a girl under the heavy and forceful hand of a mother could not begin to dream of, because she could not dream at all.

“––red corset? Yeah, I was just––”

I downed the last of my drink.

“––thanks, I’ll catch up with––”

Some dreams were unattainable. I would never be the champion of anything; that was fine. But to beg and plead, my knees in the mud, for someone to want me for some reason other than pity…

“Isana?”

Why was that too much to ask?

A finger grazed my shoulder. I yelped like I was burned, and with my empty mug, snapped around and smashed it over their head.

One arm flung out to the bar, the other flew to catch a chair––I didn’t realise who it was until him, the chair, and several peoples’ drinks were askew on the tile floor, and a steady stream of blood began to soak his red hair.

I slammed my hands over my mouth.

No, no! I hadn’t meant to! Alive?! Yes, he was groaning and grasping at his skull, his gloves coming away red, the stone below him slowly stained––dying?! No, but breathing too fast, yes, and surrounding patrons rushed to him, closed in, panicked shouts that turned into whispers, whatever I’d done, it was bad.

Ancestors, I had truly done it now. Even if I hadn’t killed him––Maker fucking forbid––I had still lost him forever.

“Argh!” The qunari, high above the crowd, cut through it like butter, lumbering like one of the horned beasts I’d seen when coming up the mountainside, “Give the guy some air or you’ll trample him, fucks sake!”

I reached him when Harding did, and she helped him stand. With glazed eyes, blood caking his hair and streaming down the side of his face, Varric––he grinned at me.

“You… you hit hard, kid!”

[yourlocaldisneyvillain]

beautiful (nsfw)

jan stevens/f!reader

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

tags: lesbian sex, body image issues, rosacea, relationship study, oviposition

written for @alexusonfire

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

beautiful

Jan knows how to love you.

She peppers sweet kisses all over your flushed face, your rosacea rendered more prominent by the blush born out of desire as she rubs gentle circles over your underwear, the fabric growing damper by the second. She laughs when you thank her.

“What exactly are you thanking me for, darling?” she chuckles into the soft, flushed skin of your cheek as she pulls the soaked underwear aside and gently, slowly slides a single finger inside of you. 

Besides the hot, aching want, there is confusion. Does she not see you?

“I know I’m not, ah,” you breathe out, “the prettiest girl, and yet you make me feel…”

You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence, to find the right words, because Jan curls her finger and presses into that rough, sweet spot that makes your mind go blank. “Ah, Jan!” you cry.

“How?” she murmurs in-between soft kisses on your cheeks, nose, chin. “How do I make you feel? Tell me.”

She pumps her finger faster, applying just the right amount of pressure — she knows your body well by now, never fails to pay attention to what makes your thighs tremble and your breathing grow laboured, what makes you moan louder. 

“Wanted,” you whine as pressure deep in your belly starts to build. “Ah! You make me feel… wanted.”

“My beautiful girl,” she coos at you when you come undone around her finger. She's always warm and gentle, but still somehow overwhelming. The only thing you are aware of is Jan. Her lips on your burning cheek, her warm breath on your flushed skin, her body that radiates heat, looming over you, trapping you against the bed, her finger still inside of you. Jan, Jan, Jan, everywhere. 

“Beautiful,” she continues to whisper into your skin. She kisses your cheeks that are speckled red and that you hate so much, but she seems to love. 

She sounds so genuine that you don’t dare argue with her.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jan knows how to love you.

She never closes her eyes when she kisses you. It’s somewhat unnerving — or it would be if it were anyone else but Jan.

“Why do you never close your eyes when we kiss?” you ask one day as you sit in the garden under the apple tree that barely started blooming, admiring blackbirds chirping.

She cups your face and pulls you close. Her bright blue eyes lined with perpetually smudged black eyeliner and that signature messy eyeshadow shine with adoration. 

“Because you are art,” she says. “And it is a crime not to admire art when it stands right in front of you.”

You laugh in disbelief, and she shuts you up by crushing her mouth into yours, making your head spin with her wet, hot kisses. 

She doesn’t close her eyes.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jan knows how to love you.

You kiss in the drawing room, sprawled on the sofa. “Jan,” you say, pulling away, “shouldn’t we go upstairs?”

“I’m afraid I can’t wait to touch you,” she says, kissing along your jaw. “I want to have you right on this sofa.” 

“But it’s — ah! — only five minutes to get upstairs!” you breathe as she bites your neck. 

“Too long,” Jan chuckles into your skin and pins you down onto the sofa, straddling you. You have no further argument to offer. 

She kisses the flushing skin of your cheeks as you grind against each other. The small sofa creaks under your weight, mirrors the rhythm of your hips. Laboured breathing and quiet moans echo throughout the empty, dark drawing room. Jan watches you with love and reverence in her eyes as she reaches her peak and coats your thigh in her wetness. The mere sight makes you come undone as well. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jan knows how to love you.

She has a lot of love to give — too much, everyone always says — she’s too much. Too tall, too imposing, too prone to meddling into everyone’s affairs, too preoccupied with her job. She is too eager, wears too much makeup, has too extravagant tastes, likes young, pretty artists that come to the Institute just a little bit too much. 

They don’t see her the way you do. Love swirls inside of her, begging to be released, to be given. If anything, she is too loving, too generous, too kind. They say she’s too much, but perhaps everyone else isn’t enough. 

“I’m fat,” you say one evening as you’re getting ready for the afternoon mixer — an informal press conference of sorts, to announce your new album. You look at yourself in the mirror, pinching your thighs, your belly, tugging at your underwear that digs into your soft skin. 

Jan, now out of her bunny pyjamas she lounged in all day and already half-dressed, puts her hands over yours and presses her front into your back. She towers over you, and you lean your head onto her breasts. You watch her reflection in the mirror, relieved to tear your gaze away from your own image. Her eye makeup is somehow even darker than usual (if that sort of thing is even possible), her hair styled in intricate finger curls. She looks enchanting and just a bit unsettling — like an oversized doll.

She squeezes the soft flesh of your belly. “You are perfect,” she says.

“I’m fat,” you repeat.

She comes in front of you and kneels. “I never said you weren’t. I said you are beautiful.”

You sometimes wonder if Jan simply doesn't see what you see, you worry that you somehow tricked her into thinking you're beautiful — but it seems that she sees exactly what you see, and yet something completely different at the same time. 

You rest your hands on her hair as she kisses your belly, your hips, your thighs, leaving plum lipstick marks all over your skin. Her hair is hard and clumped from hairspray. You caress it fondly. 

“My beautiful girl,” she whispers, planting a kiss right onto the band of your underwear. Her fake eyelashes flutter like butterflies as she blinks up at you, watching you like you truly are a piece of art — something exquisite, something special, something to be admired. "You're simply gorgeous."

For the first time ever, you don’t argue with her. “Thank you,” you say.

She kisses your belly button and gets up. When you dress, she compliments you again, and she seems to be unable to refrain from touching you. 

She doesn’t stop showering you with compliments all throughout the evening. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jan knows how to love you.

You gasp when she inserts the gelatine eggs inside of you. They stretch and fill you deliciously. She discards the neon dildo once all three eggs are inside of you. 

“If only you knew how pretty you look like this,” she murmurs into your thigh as she kisses it, all while eyeing your filled pussy with lust in her eyes. Pink gelatine drips out of pink folds as the eggs slowly melt inside of you. She licks it. 

She never breaks eye contact with you as she eats you out. Your muscles convulse with pleasure, and one egg slips out of you. She catches it with her mouth, spits it out in her hand, and then shoves it back inside of you, making you groan as you’re stretched once again. 

“No one else would let me do this. No one ever let me love them like this,” she says, wiping gelatine from her lips — a futile gesture, for moments later her mouth is back on your aching pussy. She watches you as she sucks at the pink flesh and licks the pink gelatine.

“No one else would ever love me like this,” you say, unable to peel your eyes away from the odd, beautiful, fantastic, absolutely mad woman between your legs. 

She stops pleasuring you for a moment, huffing in disbelief. You feel the gust of cool air on your wet, hot cunt. “You say it as if it were a chore,” she says before continuing to devour you with gusto.

“I love you,” you breathe out after a mere couple of minutes, when an intense orgasm washes over you and eggs slide our of your pussy and onto the silken sheets. 

“I love you, Jan,” you cry as she continues to suck on your clit that aches with overstimulation, making your thighs close around her head. You close your eyes. Hot tears stream down your red, splotchy cheeks. After a couple of moments you feel her wet and slick lips on your cheeks, kissing the tears away. 

“I love you too, my beautiful girl,” she says.

You believe her. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

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