#and im falling in love with Inquisition companions now too

[etherealancientmusings]

Ok I've played DATV a bunch of times now and to me I don't know how players can not choose the atonement ending. And especially cause...hear me out...especially those of us who do ALL the companion missions and what that means. Like I love all the companions, they are my Rooks family and so I see their struggles you know? I see how they grow and that they aren't their mistakes and then i look at Solas and I see a guy with centuries of mistakes but no where do I get a sense that he's evil.

And he talks about Cole and the people he cared about in the Inquisition and his Vhenan!! and I think well if Rook is supposed to be a mirror to Solas and my Rook has their found family in their companions and falls in love (oh Neve my beloved) and can't not see in Solas that same desire to be connected to people and how he just runs from love im like, how can I play a Rook who says it's ok for me to have this connection with these amazing people but not Solas? Not the guy who actually needs connection the most? I think its so cool that despite the manipulations and blood magic that Rook just sees this sad immortal elf who is so haunted by his past he can't let go. I like that the option is there for Rook to.choose to unite Solas with Mythal and Lavellan its so important for Solas.

And so like to me, Rook is that connecting piece for Solas to the one person who still sees who he is...his Vhenan. And maybe im just too soft hearted but I did try the bad ending where my companions die and Solas gets dragged and I cried, I couldn't do it, I stopped and reloaded so fast. Why should Rook's friends pay that price? My Rook is doing everything possible to save their lives...and maybe its by getting the ancient god man to see the error of his ways.

I love DATV cause it really highlights forgiveness, like not just forgiving others but forgiveness of the self, all the companions go through that. So why wouldn't we offer it to Solas who just is so fucked up and wrapped up in guilt and fear? I think my Rook is this young mortal and can't possibly understand an immortal but what I like to think happens is that because Rook is mortal they can see what Solas can't which is the importance of relationships because mortals don't live that long in comparison so we live and love fiercely lol.

Its so satisfying to me when I see Solas go into the fade with Lavellan. It just feels right when the whole story is about forgiveness, love and friendship and connection.

Its wild playing Inquisition right now because it actually makes my read on Solas in DATV feel right!

I'm still giddy over these stories and I love DATV for introducing this world to me. And I'm totally not trying to make anyone feel bad for enjoying the bad endings oh my god not at all..its just i guess I see forgiveness as such a huge thing in the game that i can't unsee it now.

[confusedlucifer]

so yesterday at 1 am finally the credits rolled on my first playthrough of DA:Veilguard and left me with a lot of thoughts and feelings, and also a literal headache this morning like i was hungover. full game spoilers ahead!

i want to preface by where im coming from - my expectations for this game were basically zero. it took ten years to get here, with very publicized troubled development, the game being reworked at least three times, lay offs, leadership leaving etc. basically up until june this year i genuinely did not believe another DA would come out and if it did, it wasnt going to be very good.

i'm also a person who played DAI on release and didnt really enjoy it that much at first! of the first three DA games, i think its by far the weakest in terms of story and the cast of companions. i never cared about Solas one way or another and always was a bit meh on the shift of the story toward ancient elves and gods. nonetheless i have 500+ hours in that game and dearly love my Inquisitor.

so with the combination of these feelings, i was really wary of this game being too much a sequel to Trespasser and centering Solas too much, and the Dread Wolf title initially just confirmed this (and annoyed me) (i did not like the bald man sorry)

i think in general i came into it with the acceptance of what the game is - and isnt. after the initial reveals and marketing started, it was clear they are making an action game, not a full fledged RPG anymore. it was also clear its going to be a shift for the series. i had my worries about the story and companions seeming too nice and sanitized, which was basically confirmed for me after i started reading Tevinter Nights (which came out in 2020) where you meet a lot of the companions and factions and they are quite the heroic bunch. so i knew all this going into the game and kinda braced for it.

still... the beginning hours were rough. the start of the game just really wanted to bounce me off so badly with some of the worst and grating writing from the start and just the jarring transition from the formula of the previous games and into this new action game setting. suddenly i couldnt talk to my companions whenever i wanted, i couldnt get to know them freely. it was a lot to adjust to at first.

the combat, the visuals and promise of meeting the cast really tied me over and the writing for its part got generally better the further in i got. i remember especially as soon as i started to discover the two cities, especially Treviso, i really started to fall in love with the setting.

despite myself i also came to really like how Solas is in this game - now finally actually just Fen'Harel, mask off full on Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs figure, imprisoned and offering "advice" yet subtly lying to your face and manipulating you the whole time. in general imo he was handled really well all the way to the end, and i enjoyed the Crossroads quests, the memories of his rebellion, the Regrets and lore reveals/confirmations of theories that have been teased either since the beginning of the series.

and despite my initial apprehension to some companions i really grew to love all of them just within the one playthrough. which is not something i can say for the cast of Inquisition personally - i grew really attached to Dorian, Varric, Cassandra but the rest were varying levels of neither here nor there until subsequent playthroughs. Veilguard really makes you spend a LOT of time with these people. and they feel like people with their own lives outside of you, despite relying on Rook a lot for advice. i actually really loved seeing them develop friendships and relationships independent of Rook, it made the home base feel more alive. generally i loved each of their questlines, some were weaker but the real highlights for me were Emmrich and Taash alongside Harding (esp playing as a dwarf). i immediately loved Taash being younger and giving attitude compared to the rest of the more matured cast it created an interesting dnyamic, and being a nonbinary kid of a conservative immigrant parent myself their storyline hit me really hard. i really adored Davrin and the griffon storyline following up on the Last Flight which is imo one of the best tie in books for this series. and Bellara - girl im so sorry for bouncing off your personality at first. her personal quest and performance was so touching and surprised me a lot by the end how much i liked her, and how much depth she was given. Lucanis was a pleasant surprise for me but i think his questline could have been done a bit better overall, and same for Neve - who i was really looking forward to initially but her questline kidna fell short of my expectations (thought i feel that on another replay things might be different due to me nuking Minrathous basically)

(also i ended up going for Emmrich romance with my mourn watch dwarven warrior and when i tell you there were times when i absolutely yelled out loud at how much i was catered to. his story and Manfred are just. so so delightful)

the real drawback of this game is.. my god there is so much missing. it does not really line up with the Tevinter we have heard about. some of the factions (namely LoF and Veil Jumpers) are not really super relevant. some factions are sanded down (Antivan Crows), and although it can be explained away in the lore (we are dealing with just one house, not all of the Crows so theres some wiggle room) its still hard not to see these changes. we visit so many places but they become a bit one note, sometimes reduced to just set dressing. especially by the end of the game i really wanted to see more of Minrathous and Tevinter in general, but we get very limited, filtered view of it. and with the companions feeling so independent of you, it actually makes Rook feel kinda underdeveloped in comparison. it feels they forge better friendships among themselves than with you, which i do kinda miss having a sort of "Best friend" in these games ala Alistair/Varric/Dorian. one thing i really sorely wish they added was any sort of prologue of you actually meeting Varric before the events of this game, because while you are attached to him as a player, Rook doesnt really have a very good established relationship with him i feel.

but looking at it as a game that went through so many iterations and ideas and genuine hell to even be released... i understand the reason people are upset with some of these things and situation about Southern Thedas or not following up more directly from Trespasser. personally it doesnt bother me (as i mostly live in headcanon with my DA characters anyway) but i get how it would others. i just dont understand the feeling that the devs and writers who worked on the previous games are out to ruin your beloved universe. so much of this game screams to me "we dont know if we will ever get to make another one of these". all the places we go to, without any larger plot relevance, the lore reveals and theories, the questions answered etc so much if it just such a huge closing of a chapter on Thedas, because theres no certainty for us or the devs we will ever return to this world again.

i have.. so many feelings about it but honestly towards the end of the game, finishing all the companions quests, finishing the quests for Wardens and the Crows as well especially and then heading towards that finale... like idk maybe ill change my mind down the line, but right now it feels like one of the best executed endings in any Dragon Age game. the whole maybe like 4? hour long finale just really gripped me by the throat, even though i saw some of the twists coming it still affected me a lot. and im excited about the tease for potential future too - turning the gaze outside of the continent and beyond the ocean, again something that has been very vaguely teased since Origins (with the lore of Kossith initially fleeing south because of Something TM) with moments here and there throughout the games. i'm glad there's still more mystery in this world and ancient elves didn't eat all of it. i'm even excited for the prospect of shifting the series into a single protagonist series with Rook.

i do miss a proper epilogue (just like i miss a proper prologue) at the moment especially because they seem very firm on no DLC and with the future of the franchise so unsure. with all this feeling of closure on this really storied world, i would have loved some good old fashioned epilogue slides at least vaguely discussing the future of the different kingdoms and nations, any sort of reaction to what transpired in this game yknow. if we dont get a DLC or a sequel down the line, i hope at least maybe for more tie in comics or novels.

still very much feel like DA:O and DA2 are tonally a separate world from DAI + DAV, and its not a bad thing but its why i dont expect Veilguard to be anywhere on par with the first two games. this is where im at, excited to eventually replay the game with a different faction background and different choices once the dust settles and hoping time will be kind to this game despite its many flaws.

[sleepingfancies]

Prithee, tell me which one of your OCs haunts your mind most today?

AUAUHGHGHGHG i've been sucked back into dragon age hell and i've been thinking about my Rowena Trevelyan all day . major inquisition + trespasser dlc spoilers and an extremely long ramble under the cut im so so sorry beloved mutual </3

she was just a KID like.... Rowena was permitted to go to the conclave as a budding apprentice mage. as an OBSERVER she didn't even get a vote. she was wandering around during a break when she happened upon the ritual . it was like an academic field trip for her, a chance for her to see the politics behind the scene and nothing more. and within hours her mentor and everyone she knew was killed in the blast and she was the sole survivor. and then she became surrounded by people she didn't know and handed responsibility and divinity she never asked for and had no clue how to handle !!!!!!!!!!!!

and this is AFTER she was essentially abandoned by her Trevelyan family for being a mage in the first place. 5 generations of non-mages and her parents thought they were safe for sure and then they had Her. a recessive gene last seen a century ago resurfacing . they threw her in the circle at the first opportunity. she sent letters for the first few years - they never answered. her family became her mentor and her fellow mage children. she learned young that the Maker didn't want her, that her magic was a mistake. her family would've loved her just fine if she hadn't been a mage.

so she's just so ANGRY about it all deep down. everyone she knows is killed and these strangers have the NERVE to call HER - a mage, a mistake, an affront to the Maker - the Herald of Andraste. one cataclysmic event and suddenly everyone thinks she's not only special for her magic, but a gift from the Maker. and how dare they!!! how dare they respect her and beg for her help now after so many years of neglect and lies and abuse!!

the first thing Cassandra does is question whether she believes in the Maker. and what is she supposed to say? "He believes my existence is a mistake, so I believe He exists as a tyrant" is what comes to her mind. but she grew up around templars and learned not to speak her mind around people she couldn't 100% trust. so she holds her tongue and says she isn't sure what to believe anymore. it's not entirely a lie, and it placates Cassandra: the person who could most easily decide she was more of a liability than a blessing.

as time passes in Haven, Solas becomes her new mentor; a surprise to both of them, really. but he knows more about spirits and the Fade than she was ever taught - she doesn't even know how to use the mark on her hand. He teaches her how to close the rifts, how to navigate the Fade in her dreams, how to learn all that spirits have to offer. She looks up to him. between him and Dorian and Vivienne, she has finally found similar company. Dorian never questions her caution about believing in the Maker. Vivienne never judges her for not knowing much about the world outside the circle. Solas is helping her grow and learn.

the other companions help, too. she latches onto Blackwall - he's like the father she never had. Iron Bull and the Chargers take her in and give her social sanctuary. Sera agrees not to call her the Herald, and knows exactly how to make her laugh. Cole helps her process her former mentor's death and her separation from her friends at the wycome circle. Varric won't let her overwork herself, he knows she didn't want any of this. for awhile, things seem okay.

and then Corypheus comes. Haven is destroyed. she's lost in the wilderness with cracked ribs and a broken leg and she's freezing to death. she doesn't even remember how the advisors found her, or where. "we saw our hero fall, and rise again" Mother Giselle says. if people didn't believe Rowena was sent by the Maker before, they do now. she doesn't believe it herself. she hates it. she's angry at them all

then comes Skyhold. a throne, judgment over prisoners, occupying Crestwood, deals with Starkhaven and the Antivan Crows and Kal-Sharok, "Inquisitor," traversing the Fade physically, the Chantry asking after her companions as Divine candidates, all of it. Every decision that should be brokered between entire countries comes down to one barely-in-her-20s apprentice mage who didn't even know what Val Royeaux looked like 6 months ago.

the bubbly attitude she tried to keep up starts to crack. her parents write her a letter asking if she could set aside some of the Inquisition's coin to cover their legal fees after they had a property feud with the Selbach family. she never writes back. "get to the point," she tells Morrigan, something she never would have said before all of this. the judgments come down harsher. the executions get a little too easy to carry out. she closes the rifts more aggressively than before.

and then Corypheus is beaten. the Breach is sealed. for one brief moment, the thought crosses her mind: 'I can finally leave.' she can go back to the wycome circle and hug her old friends, tell them what happened. she can go see the world she never could before. the mark on her hand can stop making people bow to her even when she begs them not to. she did what the Inquisition set out to do. it's over. it's done.

and then they never let her go.

even as her new friends scatter to the wind, dusting their hands off, their moral obligation fulfilled, Rowena sits on the Inquisition throne and feels herself rotting. Solas abandoning her without so much as a goodbye after Corypheus fell stung, but a part of her expected it, too. she caught on quickly that he wasn't the type of person to linger once he felt his role was done. so that was fine. she made peace with that. but the others? Sera, Blackwall, Vivienne, all of them? one by one, they left with an urgency that felt like a dagger to the heart. only Dorian admitted he lingered for the sake of her friendship, but even he was called away eventually.

and then another glimmer of hope: Orlais and Ferelden disagree on the Inquisition's future. for the sake of her advisors, Rowena puts on her old bubbly attitude, claims the Inquisition isn't going anywhere. deep down she rattles the bars and begs Bann Teagan to demand the Inquisition be dissolved. she has one more chance to be free of this. to be someone - though she has no idea WHO anymore - outside of the Inquisitor.

and then the mark flares up. the Qunari have reached the end of their patience with the Inquisition. they dont realize how badly Rowena wants to agree with them. and then the breadcrumbs lead back to Solas. and Solas wants to end the world.

she can do nothing but break down. one more thing she'll be expected to stop. another ambiguous number of years she'll be expected to spend on it. another problem she's not qualified to solve. she's so angry and so sad and so sick of it all, and for the first time in her life she misses the stupid teenager she used to be in wycome whose most pressing issue was figuring out how to frame a templar for her petty thefts.

she doesn't remember having her arm amputated, or her advisors even coming to that decision. being without the mark feels odd, but not unpleasant. as if a nagging splinter has finally been removed from under her skin. Varric promises he'll find someone who can make her a prosthetic. she doesn't care one way or the other. at long last, what made her "special" is finally gone. the world has given her permission to close this chapter of her life for good.

Bann Teagan gets what he wants. Rowena dissolves the Inquisition. finally, at last, she can tell everyone involved to go home. she can figure out who she is. maybe she'll go to Rivain, Varric always said he heard it was lovely there. when the world collapses she'll be hundreds of miles away. maybe she'll be vaporized, maybe slow radiation-like sickness will claim her life, maybe a demon will finally best her. she doesn't really care.

and then her advisors won't let her leave. the Inquisition's dissolution was only a preventative measure, Josephine says. we can operate against Solas without risking his spies infiltrating our ranks, Cullen says. Rowena doesn't have it in her to argue anymore. she doesn't want this. she wants to be anywhere but here. she thought she was free. "okay," she says blankly instead. "that sounds like a good idea."

ten years tick by. Rowena is in her 30s now. she still has no idea what Rivain looks like. Dorian and Vivienne and Blackwall have kept in touch. the others, not so much. she hasn't heard from Cole or Iron Bull at all since they left. she doesn't try to put on that bubbly facade anymore. she's too angry and tired and bitter to bother. no one asks if she's alright anymore. they know she isn't. whatever soul searching she intended to do before won't happen now; this is who she is after all this time. a young woman with a stern brow and stress-induced grey hairs, a prosthetic arm, and no patience for small talk.

she doesn't think about that kid she was before the conclave exploded. that person might as well be a stranger. she can never go back, and there is no future where she isn't the Inquisitor. the only chapter of her life that ever really closed was the one where she thought escape was still possible.

Varric tells her he found someone called "Rook." he thinks they'll be perfect to fight back against Solas. Rowena believes him. she tells him to wish them the best of luck. but she knows she won't be able to stay out of the fray forever. and by now, she doesn't want to. her resentment has festered for a decade. Solas robbed her of her last chance to have a life as Rowena Trevelyan - not as the Inquisitor, not as the Herald, not as anything else. his plans aside, his abandonment of her aside, that robbery is the real betrayal that she could never let go of. and at this point, she never will.

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH12

18+ EXPLICIT Content: Unprotective sex, vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving), cum eating, DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. MANDO'A TRANSLATIONS AT THE END Chapter Word Count: 14,704 aah im sorry no im not Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate. Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER TWELVE: LET ME SHOW YOU

“So about that break…”

One simple sentence is all it took for the two of them to silently agree to their departure of Tatooine and to seek refuge somewhere quiet, secluded and undisturbed by baleful bolts of shimmering reds. It escorts them to the moss-green planet bedecked by marshland and chirpy fauna—its atmosphere crisp and welcoming to that of Tatooine’s sand-choking airspace.

“So you’ve been here before?”

“Yes. There’s a village nearby. They took me in for some time.”

“So you’re thinking they’ll let us crash there for a while?”

There’s a click on the vambrace and the Razor Crest’s hatch closes behind the trio. “If all goes well. Are you sure you have everything? It’s a bit of a walk.”

A tap on a blaster holstered to her thigh, a finger trailing across a wrinkly green forehead, the faint touch on a steel pauldron. “Blaster, kid, Mandalorian. Check, check, and check.”

The Mandalorian chuckles and takes the lead through the woods, heading towards the unnamed village of Sorgan—its inhabitants surely awaiting his emergence the moment the Crest snapped through the atmosphere and swooped low among their needle-point rooftops. It’s selfish, he knows this, returning to the haven he once envisioned himself hunkering down at—having the opportunity of a joyful life, a family, a love—with a different woman matching his stride is destined for failure; for tension. It’s wishful thinking to pretend it’ll produce anything but, to pretend this could be normal.

Sorgan hadn’t changed one bit, except for the lack of invasive Klatoonations, thanks to yours truly. It’s still so green, so wet, so clean and fresh. Its air could regenerate the deflated lungs in his chest from decades-worth of smoke, dust, and discipline, its waters purify his blood, its pacifying ambience replace the void he reserved for quiet nights in space, its company fill

the vacancy between his arms—that last one wasn’t entirely Sorgan’s doing and he gazes at his companion treading alongside him, feet generously lifting over an undisturbed one-eyed aqua frog in her path.

He sighs and places the flat of his leather against the back of her shoulder. “I trust them, they’re good people, but my name can’t be spoken here.”

She twists her neck to look at him and dips her head in a nod. “I know that, Mando.”

Mando. A name that once sounded like shiny credits falling from the clouds now so bleak and rusted. It’s mere corroding steel in comparison to her moaning his name in such a broken voice it heats his abdomen and increases his blood flow. The Girl is like a spice, a strong dose of alluring desires that he’s incapable of acting upon—the inquisitive little alien in his care interfering with his white-knuckled primal impulses.

Idling in hyperspace, confined and carnal, with a toddler and the woman who made his knees weak, heart leap, fingers itch, was dangerous. There he was thinking the atmosphere back on Tatooine was tense; how wrong he was. If that was tense, this had been downright torturous. He could cut the tension with his vibroknife; reduce it to tiny physical pieces he could chew on and grind his enamel down to the gums.

Sorgan is their opportunity to explore their unspoken relationship further—to disassemble the barricade of panels in place and analyse the circuitry underneath. Mando downplays the increased pumping of his organ to himself, masquerading his excitement with faulty breathwork.

“I can take him,” Mando gently tugs on the rucksack strap situated across her shoulder, the child cooing at her hip. “Those slashes haven’t healed.”

“They’ve healed enough.”

He insists, “They reopened, you’re going to strain them with the weight. Let me carry him.”

The Girl grumbles under her breath and picks up her pace, tenacious to prove she’s more than capable to carry the toddler despite the ache the satchel strap is producing; burrowing its residency in the pads of her shoulders. The Mandalorian remains at his tempo, allowing her the distance she incessantly pursues. “Atin,” he breathes.

Their shared moment back in the abandoned cantina seemingly sectors away—so out of reach and untouched it almost never occurred.

All though there had been times, dead in the middle of hyperspace when the kid was napping in his hammock, where the Girl would join him in the cockpit to share a few soft spoken words and purposeful touches he couldn’t begin to dissect. The sensations of her hands running along his shoulders still so crystal in his mind, her knuckles brushing against his cowl as he’d tip the helmet back against the headrest simply to get a little glimpse of her. She knew what she was doing when she’d administer feathery kisses against the surface of his visor—sheer seduction on her part—and it took all of his fizzling restraint not to bend her over the controls and fuck her until her thighs are burning, calves trembling, her skin star-kissed.

Believe him, he’d imagined it. On many occasions in fact. He’s pictured taking her anywhere and everywhere—against the walls, on the floor, in his bunk—but nothing, nothing, was more appealing than the thought of having her in his lap in the pilot’s seat, her back smooshing the buttons of the navigational controls until the Crest whined in agony.

Needless to say, the circumstances didn’t allow the rise for many opportunities; the kid often waking the moment his glove makes contact with her. Mando had to settle for small glances here-and-there, the occasional stroke of her arm as she passed.

But he needs more—needs her.

The Girl is an additive through and through—functioning as a pricey flask of spotchka sedating his muscles and justification and in exchange stimulating his appetite for her; flesh, muscle, tissue, whatever his nails could dig themselves into he wanted.

Mando’s teeth grit together and his eyes scan her back ahead of him, nursing the heavy eyelids on the curve below. The cockpit had been too electric, the recycled air too thick with his desperation; the projection of the Girl naked—because he knew what that looked like now—never far from his mind. But he hadn’t seen her bare from behind; a view he can only imagine - for now.

A throaty grunt slips past his lips as he stumbles on a grounded root in his trance. She doesn’t notice, thankfully, but the Child’s peering eyes stare straight past the visor as though he could sense the disgrace radiating off his guardian, his eyes squinting. He tenses his shoulders in embarrassment and joins the Girl as she slows to a halt on the village’s border outskirts.

“This it?” she asks, shifting the satchel to the opposite hip between herself and Mando, shielding the kid from potential threats.

“It is,” he confirms.

Their heads twist in unison, observing the environment laid out before them; high-spirited and brimming with energy. In the distance children run through riskless fields playing a game of tag, adults conversing and labouring the krill ponds, the croaking of frogs echoing around their feet. Subdued and isolated from all the destruction—preserved from everything they are down to their cores.

The Girl hums and fiddles with the strap slung across her chest. “I don’t want to intrude. They look…”

“Happy.”

She’s concerned for the villager’s safety, as is he—jeopardy seemingly overhanging them like an aura; tethered and indestructible. Returning without a notice felt deplorable to the Mandalorian’s morals as though he was trespassing on their sanctuary and sabotaging their chance at true tranquillity.

Shuffling beside him reminds him why he’s here, why he chose Sorgan rather than any other planet in the Outer Rim with a half-decent field. Mando wags a gloved digit ahead of the Child and anticipates his claws to latch onto the leather, tug and whine until he’s content in his beskar, but not even a grunt of acknowledgement slips through his lips.

Mando huffs a deep exhale and returns his hand to his belt, hooking his thumb in the centre and taking the lead. “Let’s go,” he directs.

The Girl adheres to his side, elbows brushing with each swing of their arm, their footwork synchronised as they cross a narrow mound of land between two krill ponds—the vibrant blue critters easily perceptible with his visor’s enhanced vision. She shrinks her shoulders inwards as the path withers to his wingspan—too binary to admit defeat against Sorgan’s elements and saunter behind—her feet sliding against the bank, but Mando’s reflexes are sharp and he snakes a hand around her waist before she tumbles off the edge.

She straightens herself out, checks on the baby, and exudes an embarrassed smile. “Thank you.”

Mando grins and shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “Couldn’t let the kid fall in.”

“Oh, that’s how it is, is it?” Her eyebrow cocks and eyes squint. “What about me, huh?”

“Wouldn’t want him stirring up a disturbance, would we? We need to make a good impression,” he teases. “Besides, you’re a big girl, you’d be fine.”

“Sleemo,” she insults lightheartedly, placing a firm palm against his pauldron and shoves—not so lightheartedly. Mando’s smile falters as his boots lose their traction in the slippery, squelching mud. Descent incoming, he reaches out for the Girl’s arm but stops himself at the reminder of the baby attached to her hip; her own personal lifeboat.

If he wasn’t so cautious for the Child’s current state he’d clasp her wrist and force her to take the brunt of her actions, instead, he accepts his fate and collapses into the krill pond—the water soars higher than the village’s roofings with the added weight of beskar, the sloshing reverberating and drawing the inhabitants attention their way.

Mando finds his footing in the waist-deep waters, hands on his hips as droplets streak down his armour, the over-absorbed fabric of his flight suit clinging to his muscles. There’s dark brown coagulated mud muting his shiny beskar, plastering the warring steel with Sorgan’s serene elements.

“Think you’re so funny, don’t you?” he questions, head tilting.

She bellows just as loud as the initial crash, her gasped amusement echoing among the hushed quiet; the villagers watching from afar. “You’re a big boy, you’ll be fine,” she mocks. “Funny. I don’t hear much commentary coming from you now.”

“I could’ve drowned.”

She jabs an eyebrow upwards and gestures to the water level. “That’d be very embarrassing.”

He grumbles with feigned anger, splashing her lower-half with a mischievous thrust of his hand.

“Oi, watch the kid!”

The Child’s ears perk down at his guardian submerged in the filthy waters, a soft tight-lipped grin donning his face in replacement of the frown he’d been suiting prior—Mando’s muscles lax, his stoic demeanour withering away.

This was good. Right. Both the kid and the Girl deserve to reside in a haven like this, somewhere they don’t need to look over their shoulders—somewhere blasters can retire from holsters.

Miniscule cobalt crustaceans summon up the courage to investigate the intrusive limbs in their occupancy, grasping against the fabric of his flight suit and scrambling underneath the rim of his beskar cuisses. Mando attempts to shake off the meddlesome critters but they’re persistent in driving him away; the Girl steps forwards to aid him out of the waters—after she’d finished laughing so hard tears were brewing in the corners of her eyes—but stammers in her footing as a shadow casts over him from beside her.

She instinctively reaches for her blaster’s hilt and shields the Child, but a delicate hand outstretches for Mando below and she carefully drops her hand, clenches it beside her in doubt. Mando inclines his helmet to follow the hand, travelling up the grey fabric of their tunic and settling on the familiar kind hearted brown eyes welcoming him to the village without needing to speak the words.

He nods as thanks and slips his leather into her hand, hoisting himself to the ground with a boot in the bank for stability. Mando humorously nudges the Girl enough for her to panic and seize his elbow for safety—his vocoders unable to catch the light chuckle in his throat but she feels the tremors in his limb and playfully slaps his bicep.

“It’s good to see you again,” Omera says, a bright smile as she eyes him up and down. “I see you’ve made yourself a friend.”

“Yes.” Mando glances at the Girl beside him, tucked into his side plenty that she looked tiny. “I hope we’re not intruding, we-”

She interrupts him, shaking her head and gesturing behind her to the gathering inhabitants. “The community will forever be grateful for your endeavours. Stay as long as you like—we’ve established additional lodges since you were here. Take your pick.”

“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.” Mando follows after Omera, irrigating the grass in his wake, and the Girl stealths behind him so she’s unseen from the watching eyes; his beskar performing as her protection. She engrosses herself with the ball of abrupt energy fighting against the confines of his satchel, his claws eagerly tearing at the fabric to rid himself.

The villagers have queued themselves along the banks of the krill ponds, distanced enough for their visitors to pass through without bumping shoulders but close to exchange friendly greetings—welcome back’s and thank you’s—their proximity allowing them the opportunity to examine the Mandalorian’s new partner on the heels of his boots, her eyes cast down in an attempt to stave off unwanted attention though it does very little.

Omera stops short of the newly-installed structures, three identical huts to match with the theme of the others strewn throughout their lands and Mando, not being one to concern himself with impractical decisions, chooses the first one his eyes lay on; his hand vaguely gesturing to the open door of the middle hut.

Omera nods her head and orders a flock of children to prepare their quarters. “We can organise your friend next door.” She flicks her attention past his shoulder and he follows, acknowledging how stiff the Girl looked as though she could be blown over with a docile breeze; her eyes silently pleading to him through his visor.

It’s unusual looking at her this way, as though he’s violating her with just his eyes. She’s typically so snarky and talkative, but her lips are bonded together and her eyes bounce from his visor to the speculative crowd; nervous and uncomfortable.

She assures, “You’ll only be a few metres away from each other.”

Mando has no intentions of letting her occupy a separate hut, not after he’s been so distanced from her all this time. “That’s okay. We don’t want to take up more space than necessary.” The Girl relaxes somewhat, shoulders flaccid, and her hands return to fight against the Child’s tantrum.

He notes how the villagers share some questioning glances towards each other, their prying prompting an unsettling weight on his shoulders—Omera shares a hasty gander between the two of her visitors as if assembling a deconstructed blaster from scratch, gears turning in her head.

It’s too much attention for him—too much visibility for a Mandalorian clad in ancient shiny Beskar steel.

His shoulders tense, his fingers flex into fists; they know, they have to know.

His throat bobs underneath his cowl, mouth dry and cheeks warm, though he’s learnt to conceal it through his mannerisms—the constant tension between him and the Girl training him over time—he remains stoic, statuelike, displaying no visible signs of confirmation to their silent queries.

It’s none of their business; nobody’s other than him and the Girl’s.

“If that’s what you wish,” Omera breaks the silence. “I’ll leave you to situate yourselves.”

Mando inhales sharply and nods his head, walking past her to their new residency. The cluster of children straighten upon his arrival, organising themselves in a single file to allow their guest to investigate their work. It’s a small cabin, less spacious than the barn he occupied last time but more secluded—the windows sturdy and the door possessing a lock—with a bed fit for three in the far-end of the walls; it’s been too long since he’s slept on a mattress, too long since he’s been allowed the privilege of stretching his limbs rather than compact them.

Alongside a comfortable mattress comes the Girl’s warmth as they’ll indeed be sharing a bed. Mando will make certain of that.

There’s hushed whispers behind him, helm capturing some of their words—baby, ask, play—and he redirects his vision to the rucksack resting among the Girl’s hip, the children bursting with excitement at the sight of their playmate. He’s just as psyched as they are, his little claws outstretching for Winta in the middle of the group.

“It’s okay.” Mando nods his head towards the children. “He can play.”

The Girl nods and transfers the kid to the floorboards carefully, stepping out of the stampede of children excitedly taking themselves outside.

Tarrying presences now gone, the Girl joins him in the examination of their cabin. “Good thing the Crest isn’t far,” she jokes.

“It’s not that bad.” Mando twists his body to follow her, pauldrons clashing into her harshly. “I suppose it could be a little bigger.”

“Or you could be a little smaller, tin-man.”

He cocks his head to the side, visor leering. “You’re looking for trouble today.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes,” he grumbles in his throat, sweeping his vambraces around her to hug her arms against her sides. “You are.”

She struggles against his grip, well aware of her impending justice, but he’s too sturdy—too determined to seek revenge. “Don’t,” she warns.

Mando simply smiles, a large toothy grin that makes his eyes crinkle.

What little gap remained between them abruptly narrows as Mando compresses his build into her, squeezing out the krill water from his flight suit and into her garments. Beskar wipes itself clean on her shirt, caking the textile with heavy mounds of sludge.

“Mando!” she gasps and rolls her shoulders back in false hope it’ll aid her escape. “I don’t have a change of clothes!”

He chuckles, deep and throaty that makes his shoulders bounce. “Neither do I, but you didn’t think of that when you pushed me in,” he growls, the vocoder filtering the sound as a crackle that reverberates in the structure and through her bones; she shudders, her shoulders and chest twitching against him—his blood pumps hot.

“I was doing you a favour. When was the last time you hit the ‘fresher?”

“Need I remind you I have you trapped, mesh’la?” Mando presses the curvature of his helmet against her cheek and rubs the excess droplets onto any surface area he can manage, her cheeks, forehead, jaw, staining the pretty skin she’d been blessed with.

She tries to disguise her laughter with anger, but it comes out through her voice—light and airy; Mando hums at the delightful sound, like a lullaby to his ears. “Okay, okay. You win!”

Unwilling to wrench his grip from around her, he continues pressing himself against her and inches forwards until her back is flat against a pillar—his vambraces slipping around sandwich her between two sturdy foundations, one of splintered log and the other a living, breathing tower of a man coated head to toe in steel.

He’s breathing hard, filters whistling with each exhale.

“Mando--” she purrs, teeth nibbling at the soft insides of her lips.

Eyes bore into the cushiony flesh, his tongue swiping across his own in the thought of them against him. Soft and warm—he knew that much when they were around him—but that’s as far as his understanding reached; were they gentle and sweet or rough and hungry?

Would they be addicting, like every other part of her, or simply satisfying; something to pluck as a treat here-and-there?

He grunts and squeezes his vambraces against the wood, his chest following suit against her. “We’re alone,” he murmurs, head tilting to the side as if to silently voice his thoughts.

She’s not as convinced, searching the cabin for eyes infused into the walls, the floors.

“Mesh’la, it’s safe.”

Her head twists to the entrance, a rush of heat tagging her cheeks in soft hues of pinks. She quietly squeaks, “The doors open.”

“Nobody is looking.”

He’s pushing boundaries he put in place decades ago; parading around a relationship—or whatever this is—like some big achievement, which, to be frank, was pretty extraordinary for the Mandalorian. Flings and casual partners—sure—they weren’t feats but this...He’s never encountered someone so remarkable, so special, so necessary; she’s squirmed herself into his life and now she won’t ever be able to leave without causing a disturbance in his lifestyle. He needs her.

She composes herself at his odd comment and brashly collects a batch of his cowl between her teeth to tug him closer—arms still inoperable against her—and uses the newfound angle to assault his neck with a tauntingly hot breath.

“Clean yourself up first,” she tempts. “You’re grimy.”

“To be fair,” he grumbles, “I don’t recall you having a chance at the refresher in a while.”

She pulls away, eyes squinting at him. “Tread on your words very carefully here, Mando.”

He chuckles and loosens his grip moderately. “I mean—you could join me.”

Mando’s growing confident—too confident, it’s the first signs he’s setting himself up for disappointment—and he slides his hands from the pillar to the curves of her hips, his leathers slipping underneath the oversized shirt to explore the bare flesh; her torso being the only place he hadn’t been given the pleasure of researching—all the chalky scar tissue, the slopes of her abdomen, the contours of her chest.

Pair that with the suds of soap cloaking her skin, her hair, it’s every man’s dream to be the one to apply it to a woman, to feel and pull on slippery skin in such a personal way—to scrub her spic-and-span only to ruin her until she needs another.

“Join you,” she repeats mulling for a moment but she shakes her head with rejection. “That’s too conspicuous.”

She doesn’t voice her concerns regarding his helmet—how in the hell do you clean yourself with me there?—and he himself is uncertain, he just knows he wants to be the one to wash the grime off her. He’ll fix himself up after he’s tended to her, if need be.

“Everybody already has their suspicions.”

She sighs. “Guess I wasn’t very discreet earlier, huh?”

“No,” he confirms, his digits stroking leisurely lines to-and-fro. “you weren’t. What happened? I’ve never seen you look so uncomfortable.”

“I...don’t do well with crowds.” She casts her eyes between their feet, examining the size difference of their boots. Mando removes himself from her to allow her to breathe, to continue without feeling pressured. “That face mask I wore… It was a layer of me. It helped me deal with spying eyes. When Tika destroyed it, I dunno, I guess a piece of myself died with it. It-it doesn’t make sense.”

You’re talking to the expert of masks, he thinks.

“I understand.” he says. “It mustn’t be easy having to deal with the lack of something so integral.”

Mando has yet to experience that fear—that overwhelming sensation of uneasiness; people’s eyes so effortlessly studying him without the disguise of his armour to protect him—it’s something he’s appreciative of everyday.

She sighs, hot and heavy and laced with exhaustion. “Well, life continues either way and I can’t exactly hide away here forever.” She initiates a stare-down with the ajar door, scanning the wilderness that reached her vision; a couple of women standing among the pond waters scooping for krill, a pair of children on the banks assisting with their catch. “I’m not one for fishing but I guess I should help out a little, as thanks.”

He grunts as a reply, lacking the confidence to trust his voice—stay here, stay with me—and lamely takes a few steps back, assigning his amban rifle to a nearby flat surface, some storage units, and sinks to a rustic chair.

She considers him, eyes bouncing from his helmet to his lap where his cloak is pulled between his hands. Mando rings out the sopped material, murky water seeking refuge in the crevices of floorboards.

“You’re making a mess.”

“I need to dry,” he retorts.

“Take it off,” she says.

Mando’s shoulders stiffen, his back straightens. “I can’t.”

“I won’t look.” The Girl turns on the heels of her feet and shuts the door ahead of her, casting the room into darkness except for the timid rays of sunlight shining through the narrow gaps of the window—not enough for somebody outside to see, but plenty for him to undress himself without a hassle. “Just put in my hand when you’re done. I’ll find somewhere sunny to hang it up - shouldn’t take too long to dry in this heat.”

There’s no movement on either of their sides, their hut as though it was in suspended animation or the Crest on one it’s many malfunctions just idling in the vastness. She shifts on her feet restlessly in wait for the sodden garments to weigh her hand down.

“What, so I just sit here until it’s dry?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Unless you want to walk around the village naked with a helmet on, yeah.”

Mando grumbles under his breath. It’s not really a choice. It’s not as though he can just remain drenched all day until the air inevitably dries him off. Still, it’s not easy to remove himself from his armour somewhere other than the Crest; it provided security, a reassurance that nobody will see him so exposed.

Both boots are dismissed from their positions and come to lay rest beside the chair while he works on the beskar platings riddling his body—the steel branded to protect him now nothing more than a nuisance as it resists against his efforts and continues to cling to the suit against his wishes. They’re slippery and contain no traction on behalf of the clumpy muck, his leathers sliding out from underneath each time. It’s like a suction seal against his chest, inconceivable of success, but he’s just as stubborn and lures the rim underneath a stitch of his glove and plucks the guard off harshly.

One down, too many more to go.

The other platings put up just as much of a fight as the first but, with a few tugs, they withdraw from his body and reside on the ground alongside his boots. He’s practically naked without his beskar—the air light and crisp as he breathes without the weight—practically naked in front of the Girl. It’s the most he’s been so revealing and, even though she’s not looking at him, his cheeks grow warm, his stomach pulled taut.

He dabbles in intolerable concepts—thoughts he shouldn’t act on for the sake of his Honour, his Creed—the overwhelming suggestion of standing behind her and letting her feel his bare heat radiate off in potent waves; like a strong glass of spotchka, irresistible but ultimately an unhealthy decision.

There’s a deep shudder that runs through the base of his neck down to his coccyx, goosebumps brandishing him and refrigerating him far greater than the krill waters could. Underneath his helmet, he casts his eyes low to devour the curves and slopes of the Girl’s body, his teeth grinding against each other until there’s an ache in his temples.

His Beskar is gone, solely a clump of shiny steel that serves as a warning of what he could be throwing away—everything he’s risked his life for, everything he’s spent decades consuming, altering his physical attributes to suit that of a stoic, emotionless pillar of flesh and bone fortified with not just his armour but his code. His faith.

The Girl precariously shifts between either foot and cocks her hip out, sighing dramatically that pulls his thoughts back into the present.

“Patience,” he instructs.

The air is thick, hot, or maybe it was just him—his filters rendering inoperable when confronted with the foreign bashfulness; it’s not often he encounters such a outlandish emotion, so unknown and disorienting, and it’s quite possibly the worst fucking issue he’s faced with. There’s no shooting or piloting his way out of it and his brain only works in a handful of matters at a time—none of which included addressing the electricity in his chest, the bubbling in his stomach, the clenched muscles throughout his anatomy.

The Mandalorian—if he could still be considered a Mandalorian without his armour, his essence—stands, prompting a squelch from the pool of water he formed underneath, and reaches around his neck to unclasp the heap of his cloak; it’s nothing new, she’s seen him without it before. The shirt is a different story. That’s new. That’s untouched boundaries. His build is infrequently subjected to the perched star in the clouds let alone another lifeform.

Fingers dip underneath the hem of his shirt and bundles the material, his second knuckles sweeping against his abdomen that leaves his jaw tight. That famished growling in his chest is utterly pathetic—his own touches manage to provoke such a humiliating reaction, he could only fathom what the Girl would do to him with those soft hands of hers, her gentleness as she nurses the bruises with her thumbs.

Mando hoists the shirt over his head and slips free from the sleeves and drops it to the floor with a displeasing schlup and neglects the choking in his throat, the rise of his heart rate. Are your eyes closed, he seeks answers to voiceless questions, or are you staring at wood, counting the twigs? Why aren’t you looking at me? There’s another sigh that fills the quiet, whether it’s from her or himself is uncertain; his heart is pleading for a moment’s break.

It doesn’t come.

Next is his trousers—something she had seen before, but under different circumstances, totally contrasting. Perhaps it was all that Tatooine heat that got to them or the severity of the events catching up—Mando nearly dying, nearly stranding her and the kid—that caused them to collide with desperation, their hands working at whatever little article of clothing they could eliminate from the equation to feel each others warmth; the indication they were both alive, safe.

Mando takes pity on her restlessness and forces his reflections to the dark recesses of his mind for later, stripping out of the trousers adhered to his thighs, his calves, noting how the temperate air licks his legs dry. It’s too exposing, too public for his comfort, and he swiftly bundles the cot’s blanket around his shoulders to conceal himself from eyes that weren’t even aimed at him. She wouldn’t go undermining the trust they’ve built, but it’s his Honour, his code—at least that’s what he tells himself.

The Mandalorian tells himself he’s weary because that’s how he was brought up, he was trained to be cautious. To prohibit connections that’d tie him down and crush what little valour remained within him.

He ignores the pestering inkling at the back of his brain telling him that’s not why he’s so high-strung.

There’s scars tainting his flesh, painting the tan skin in slithers of off-whites, bruises on his knees and shins, thick callus paddings on his fingertips. He can’t help but imagine what the Girl might say if she saw him so bruised, so broken. Would she still want to touch him, or is it the shiny beskar that allures her—a mere status symbol.

Securing the blanket around his frame, Mando shimmys a hand out between the folds and grabs the pile of drenched cloth, striding across the room in three steps and gingerly placing it in the Girl’s outstretched palm.

“Is that all?” she asks, her fingers tightening around the stack of black. “I won’t be able to come back for more.”

Mando swallows, his throat bobbing against the air rather than his cowl; it’s such a bizarre situation, being so bare before the woman he struggles to contain himself around, his thoughts jumbled in his head—turn around, please don’t turn around—and he finds the strength to back away from her. “That’s all.”

She won’t—turn, that is—it’s too overbearing, too unlike her. No matter how easy it could be for her to witness him so vulnerable, so human-like, she won’t fiddle with the bindings of their mutual loyalties. Won’t stick her hand in the wet duracrete because she knows it’ll leave a permanent mark, a stamp of her backstabbery.

“All right.” She inches backwards so she can open the door ahead of her. “You out of sight?”

“Yes.”

She nods, her fingers wrapping around the handle and twisting but it stays firmly against the frame. “Get some rest. I know you didn’t sleep on the way here. I’ll get these tended to and then you can hit the ‘fresher.” She opens the door and takes a step outside. “Don’t forget to lock it.”

He watches her leave, observes how the sun swallows her in a breathtaking glow, watches the room be cast into darkness once more—isolating him from the outside; if it’s not beskar or the Crest, there’s always something between him and the natural beauty of the planets he frequents.

The sonic detectors pick up her departing footsteps, light and reluctant, until her boots make contact with the grass, dulling their resonance until he’s left with the laughter of children and hushed gossip concerning himself. He sighs, clicks the lock into place and precariously removes his helmet—cold, dirty with mud and silence leering through him. It’s insides are comforting, a shelter he’s incomplete without, but it’s exterior is the polar opposite; sinister, an insignia for his kind to instill fear into their enemies—the Girl never displaying that trepidation he’s so accustomed to.

Mando is endowed with the sight of the Girl’s beauty, how her eyes crinkle when she smiles or how she chews on her lower lip when in thought, her hands never static for more than a minute at a time, there’s not a detail in his sight he hasn’t engraved into the forefront of his mind.

She’s not as fortunate as him, stranded in the cold surrounded by steel rather than warm skin, unable to pursue the comfort of another without the constant reminder that he can never provide her with anything more than a slab of metal servicing as her shield. And yet, despite those factors, she remains beside him—voluntarily puts herself between him and danger—looking past the visor, all the walls he put in place, and into his eyes.

The helmet expires atop of the chair he’d been seated on, positioned away from him as he sinks his weight onto the mattress—bouncy and cottony, feeding his aching muscles with some much needed attention. For the first time ever, the bed is too large, too empty—she should be here.

Mando’s head stoops against the bundle of organised pillows, cushioning the healing wound underneath the thick of his curls. Curls her fingers nursed. He groans, deep that resonates through his chest, and distorts his head towards the door in wait for her return, his eyelids heavy as they fall shut.

Sleep doesn’t come to him easily in territories he’s been deprived of conquering; the nooks and crannies of each aisle between the huts unaccounted for, the instability of wooden walls establishing minimal security. It’s not optimal in contrast to his Crest but it works enough to achieve a couple hours of sleep. When he wakes, the orange tint leaking through the cabin has evolved into a blend of soft pinks and purples that blush against his tan skin as he paces the room, the blanket wrapped around his build dragging along the flooring with each lengthy stride.

He’d discovered a small refresher deposit in the shack and decided to clean himself up best he could—despite his hormones advocating against the idea, begging for him to wait it out until the Girl returns and he can share the space with her—which now leaves him stranded with his thoughts. A dangerous game he’s not prepared to dabble in presently. Fortuitously enough, he doesn’t need to—a steady knock on the hut’s door pulls him from his thoughts.

“I’ve brought your clothes,” Omera says from the outside, Mando quietly hums to himself and slips his helmet on before speaking.

“Thank you,” the vocoder crackles to life.

“I’ll leave it at the door for you to recollect.”

Mando enables his thermal vision, outlining her body through the door as she bends down to place the garments at the foot of the entrance and turns away for him to steal them. He does so, swiftly and with such minimal sound she doesn’t hear the door open or close behind her.

She’s unmoving, her hands clasped behind her back in patience for him to dress himself.

Assuming she wishes to commune about their sudden arrival, Mando doesn’t leave her waiting long—the flight suit smelling of soap and hugging his muscles with a pleasant residual warmth from the sunshine, his beskar, boots, gloves, and cloak following suit; electing to disregard his bandolier and holsters.

He’s not as hesitant to make noise now that he’s back to donning his layers and widely swings the door open indicating his decency. Omera turns to face him, her eyes casting over his clean clothes and offering a smile. “I was wondering if you’d like to take a walk before nightfall,” she asks, gesturing to the stairs below. “It would be nice to catch up with you. It’s been a while.”

“Where’s-”

“She’s out in the ponds with our finest catchers and your boy is with Winta and the other children.”

Mando doesn’t object against her proposal. Perhaps it’ll do him some good to get some fresh air, to clear his thoughts of the Girl, the wavering uneasiness of his Creed.

They leisurely stroll beside each other following the gravel paths of the village, the sinking sun ricocheting off the front of his helmet as they draw nearer.

“The ponds, huh?” Mando thinks aloud.

She chuckles. “Quite talented at fishing at that. She’s made a name for herself. We can swing by on our way, if you’d like.”

He faintly nods, his helmet inclining to the path as he walks. “Has the village encountered any issues recently?”

“You mean the raiders? They’ve kept their distance and the villagers know how to fight if that changes.”

“And what of you?” Mando asks. “How have you been? Winta?”

“Better, because of you, thank you,” she says, her feet coming to a halt among a cluster of krill ponds. They’re all empty, the inhabitants packing up for the remainder of the night, though his eyes land on the Girl in the distance. She’s switched her tarnished trousers and shirt for a village dress, hitched up to her mid-thigh as she dries the limbs coated in krill water.

The Mandalorian’s stomach contracts, his throat narrowing as he rakes in the image—the fluidity of the material in the wind, her skin lambent from the sunrays, the unclothed legs tormenting his self control. She hasn’t detected his prying, too concentrated on communing with a flock of women thanking her for the assistance.

It’s almost...domestic; Mando can imagine them settling down in a place like this, rough hands that manipulate blasters and spacecraft dedicating themselves to lenient chores like a regular townsman. Gummy blood that sticks to his leathers washing away in a tranquil stream. Their nights spent witnessing the stars emerge from the vastness of the sky above.

The weight on his vambrace suffocates his daydreaming with grungy splotches of soil and he reluctantly returns his attention to Omera, who’s studying his inattentive stance.

“The offer still stands.”

“Offer?” he asks.

“To settle down here with your boy.” The bothersome weight snakes along his beskar and to the thick of his flight suit, her fingers working their way into the strained bicep. She lowers her voice to a dainty murmur, “There must be a reason for your return.”

The weight on his arm is unnatural, forced—so unlike the unfiltered gentleness of the Girl’s—he refrains from shrugging her off, not wanting to appear ungrateful for her hospitality, but it’s like venom seeping into his veins and numbing him from the inside.

Their little game of tooka-and-womp-rat from the last time he was here starting to catch up with him; this is what he was afraid of. She’s a kind woman, she’s great with kids and can handle her own, but she’s not the Girl. She’s not who he wants to see right now.

“You like it here, don’t you?”

“It’s-it’s not an option. We can’t stay still for long.”

“It’s safe here.” Fingers dig in, feet inch closer, eyes dusky.

Mando finally pulls away, unsettled, and shakes his head. “The Child is still being hunted by the Guild. We may only last a few days here before needing to move on. They need a break, is all.” He shies from mentioning he requires a break as much as them; the Girl’s initial idea stimulating the selfish desires that influenced his return. “We’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

Omera’s eyes stall downwards, her hands clasping together ahead of her. “I understand,” she says. “Since you’re on a break, how about I take in your boy for the night? It’ll allow you some rest and I’m not sure if I can separate Winta from him.”

“I don’t think-”

“We’re only a few huts down from you,” she reassures.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Omera, she’s demonstrated her loyalties before, but they’ve spent so much time apart since Tatooine. What happens if the kid latches onto someone and Mando can’t stomach meddling with their bonding? What happens if he no longer wishes to journey with him? The Mandalorian is responsible for him—he can’t just abandon him, but who’s he to insert himself in places he doesn’t belong?

Then again, devoting time to other children his age—well, about as close they’ll reach to his age—could be beneficial; it’s one of the reasons why he had chosen Sorgan.

Mando exhales and seats his hands on his hips. “Okay, but if he’s too much to handle let me know.”

“Of course,” she whispers, clasping a hand on his tricep as she passes him, the burden slinking down his elbow until he’s too far from her reach and it falls away. He cranes his head to look behind as she strides back towards the village, his eyebrows crinkling as he studies her.

“You two are real chummy,” the Girl says from ahead of him, brushing her shoulder against his pauldron as she continues towards their shared hut. He releases a grunt as he’s pushed out of her way, the confusion inscribed into his brows only multiplying—what the fuck is happening?

“Hey.” Mando stalks her, towering and threatening that induces the locals to pitiful onlookers, silently wishing the Girl her best as she enters the hut with him not far behind, the door slapping closed. “What’s gotten into you?”

The Girl scoffs and shakes her head with disbelief, her hands working at the fastenings of her dress to loosen it from around her thighs, framing her legs in wrinkled tapestry. “Me? You’re the one changing around all your little rules you put in place. Should’ve seen the two of you out there. What happened to privacy?”

His legs don’t operate with his wishes, the boots cemented in a debating stance with his arms crossed against his chest. “What are you talking about?” the vocoders buzz.

Baring her teeth like a tooka, she hisses, “She likes you.”

She likes you—he mulls it over, sifting through the dust for the underlying meaning—do you like her?

Mando’s muscles sag and his feet bound across the room to near her, needing her warmth; needing her. He can’t believe she’s skeptical of their connection. He can’t believe she’s doubting how he feels. It burns him. Leaves a searing scar where his heart belongs.

He wants to reach out for her, feel her pliable tissue underneath his gloves, but there’s a meek hesitance; a miniscule drops-worth of concern he’ll incur further stings that eat at his flesh.

“I--”

“Turn around.”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

“Need to get out of this stupid dress.”

Does she not realise what it’s doing to him?

How his fingers are clenched into fists against his sides. How his breathing is heavier. How his shoulders are hunched and his head is preoccupied with images of that blasted skirt hitched up to her thighs with him between them. Does she not see that?

“Keep it on.”

It’s almost an order. Almost.

“It’s hers,” she spits.

Oh. That makes sense.

“I get it, all right. I don’t...have you, Mando. I’m not allowed to-to be jealous when another woman touches you, but—” She unzips the top unconcerned of his peeping, furious and desperate to rid herself of the confining garment. “I won’t wear her clothes. I won’t dress up as another one of your flings. That’s - that’s…”

Mando’s features soften, his fists unclenching, shoulders slacking, and—wait. Back up. Is she that clueless?

He carries his feet towards her, heavy and laden with purpose.

“You’re wrong.”

“What?”

“You���re wrong, mesh’la,” he repeats. Another step.

She’s no longer concerned with the dress, the fabric that once felt like acid against her skin now nothing more than the means of coverage. The Mandalorian isn’t radiating any expressions that she’s learnt to pick up on—he’s completely unreadable.

“About what?”

“I don’t have you,” he recites. “That’s what you said.”

The Girl’s quiet, too quiet, as she stares him down. There’s a falter in her movements as she recedes from her own nerves reflecting off beskar. Finally, ever so slowly, she breathes out another, “What?”

His modulator thrums, his boots clink, his flight suit rustles. Their radius is shortened, Mando’s beskar brushing against the material of her dress as he closes her in like he did before. His leathers stroke against her cheek, bulky and unsatisfying; preventing him from the intimacy he seeks. It’s not fair. He can’t remain like this—so quarantined from her, so fucking removed.

There’s no thinking, no self-interrogating, as his hands fumble against the beskar plate strapped to his chest in haste—concerned that if he slows down even a second he’ll lose the confidence building up inside him—his fingers curl underneath the boundary and tears the steel off his build, clanking to the flooring beside them. The impact causes her to jump, her eyes widen as she inspects the vacant space of his torso.

“Your Creed,” she whispers.

Seizing her hand in his, he compresses it against his pectoral and breathes in deep—lungs inflating against the appendage, his heart stammering at the unacquainted sensations of her nails digging into the flesh underneath. Inconsistent palpitating of his organ travels from the surface of his chest, through her fingertips and to her core, tightening and coiling as her own beating soars to unhealthy speeds.

It’s an adrenaline rush in itself, her fingers so temperate and alive abutting his dense suit—he conceptualises them slithering underneath to nurse the ache of his organ.

He’s not afraid of being burned. He told her that back on Tatooine and he fucking meant it.

Mando is durable; he can take a few burns if need be.

“You make me do foolish things, mesh’la.” The beskar slides across the room with a kick of his boot and he takes another step closer, her back forced against the walls of their dinky cabin. A gloved forefinger hooks the thread perched among her neck and lifts, the steel pendant revealing itself from beneath the top of her dress and he rubs a comforting stroke on the face of the skull. “This is the only part of me I never removed.”

Her face is hot, her lungs heavy. She’s listening, though she makes no effort in concealing how her fingers insistently grasp at his shirt to develop an understanding of the unfamiliar territory.There’s a gentle squeeze across the back of her hand and she tears her eyes away to glance at the visor, tilted and lenient. “This-” He absentmindedly fidgets with the necklace. “-means more to me than my beskar. It was a...beacon of light, hope. It was my compass when I lost myself in my commissions—reminded me of why I chose this life, why I chose to isolate myself—I’m not sure if I need it anymore.” He hopes he’s exhibiting the connotation inside his head as successfully as he believes—I don’t need it when I have you and you have me.

“Mando…” she exhales.

He chews on the gums of his cheeks, his lips, until they’re sore and tender.

“Not -- not good with words,” he confesses, his thumb massaging circles into her cheekbones. “Let me show you.”

Her head angles to the side in consideration. “Show me?”

It’s not an exact approval of his request but it’s enough for him to act—enough for him to demonstrate his devotion to the Girl—and he sinks his hands behind her thighs and hoists them around his waist, pressing his chest into her for stability against the wall. Her hands find their place on his pauldrons, quizzing eyes searching his visor for assurance. Baffling, how she’s so precarious for his Honour’s sake despite him being the initiator; his toes absorb his weight as he lifts himself to insert the face of his helmet into the crook of her neck, his modulator eliciting a grunt as his arousal awakens and rubs against the bottom of her thighs.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

She doesn’t—Thank the Force, as Peli would say—and he transitions them to the cot, her legs tightening around him with each step he takes. He deposits her onto the mattress on her back with his body hunched over hers, though his feet refuse to tear from the floor, either hand on the cushions beside her head.

“Take it off.”

She doesn’t need a stupid dress for him to look at her that way.

The Girl whirs melodically like a comforting warble from his Crest welcoming him home and she carefully slips her limbs from his shoulders down his chest and out from their sleeves, the dress supported by nothing but gravity and her fingers bundle the skirt, impishly stripping the garment inch by slow inch.

Mando rids himself of his gloves, hell-bent on pursuing the pillowy flesh and engraving his fingerprints. Her stripping wavers at her abdomen and he takes the opportunity to slip the rough pads of his hands along the tops of her thighs to beneath the cloth, fingers blindly studying the miniscule scars puncturing the smooth skin. They find the most recent one, still tender but glossed over with rough tissue, and he circles it like a tooka with its prey.

She’s otherworldly, all soft curves and smooth skin in contrast to the dead of steel.

The weight on his chest, or lack of, evokes shameful thoughts.

“Come here,” he whispers, catching her hands and placing them on either of his pauldrons, her fingertips hooking underneath the rim. “Drag it down and then up.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, pretty girl.”

The nickname pulls a shudder out of her bones and her fingers tighten around the steel, heeding his instructions until the layers unclasp from their fastenings—protection he’s bonded with now nothing more than inanimate alloy in her hands. It’s a physical weight off his shoulders but it reaches so much deeper than that, as though he could finally breathe for the first time in years even with the blockade of a helmet.

He repositions her hands to his vambraces. “Curl your finger underneath-” She follows, either forefinger arching beneath the rim and finding a small shrouded dial, the plates slackening around his wrists and she carefully peels either off. “That’s it.”

That ugly trepidation from before isn’t even a consideration—his eyes glowing and fingers stiff as she shucks him from his beskar piece by piece, her own garb partially removed and covering the last portion of her body he’s yet to see bare. He won’t undress her further, not until they’re equal and she’s more comfortable.

Mando slips free of his boots, nudging them to the side, and ascends to the surface of the cot to sit on his knees between her legs. Their hands shift to his tassets resting among his hips and he aids in her attempt to dislodge them from their joints, tossing them to join the growing pile of steel below the bed. She stops with her hands sprawled across his cuisses, the last of his armour; the last physical manifestations of his essence.

“Is this what you want, Mando?” she asks, the tips of her fingers caressing small strokes into his thighs above the steel.

“Say my name,” he pleads. “No one will hear.”

She repeats, “Is this what you want, Din?”

Dank Farrik. He’s no longer The Mandalorian, Mando, but instead reclaiming a long lost name and wearing it with pride, ingraining the sound of it slipping through her lips into his bones. Din. A name he’ll only ever hear come from her. His name.

And the Girl was no longer just the Girl—she’s His Girl; all his and he’ll brand her body to prove it, label her skin with his crescent nails if he has to. They deliberately dig into the meat of her thighs, skin raking underneath his fingernails, and he nods his head in response to her question - this is all he wants. To be suspended in time right here and now; triumphing buried insecurities with her unwavering support.

Her fingers progress independently, hitching underneath the borders and tugging the final two pieces of pesky beskar from his body, sans helmet of course, and languidly drops them to the flooring with a clank.

She stifles her breathing, reducing it to a slow wisp that flees her mouth and circles around them dragging them against each other. “You-you can touch me, mesh’la.” He expresses his covet for her touch by depressing his hips into hers, rocking once and twice rhythmically until she wads a fistful of flight suit to draw him in—her breath fogging the visor as she analyses his build with her hands; trailing along the front of his chest and around his sides, the featherweight touches tickling the body parts scarcely disturbed.

“Smell so good,” she moans and tucks her face into his cowl. “Much better than before.”

Din chortles. “Should’ve joined me.”

“Next time.”

He’ll take her up on that.

There’s a hand on either hip and he observes from the clouds as she aligns their pelvises together, her heat bucking against the emerging bulge.

“Show me,” she alludes to his previous proposal, eyes swallowed with inky lust.

Din fucking growls—the modulator contributing very little to the deep crackle—and his hands return to soft flesh, shoving the galling dress up, up, up and over.

“S’pretty.”

The garment is discarded across the hut, finding its home somewhere among the clutter of beskar trailings. She’s faultless, something he already had an impression on but seeing her so bare, so unguarded and trusting beneath him, is record-breaking.

Trauma lesions encompass her skin, little choppy lines of faded tones splotched across her abdomen, her chest, shoulders, waist—mimicking his own—and he returns to the healing wound on her abdomen to brush a tender stroke along the surface; an injury he was there to witness, the blade tucked into her flesh still so fresh in his mind.

“Din.”

The vermillion slipping through his gloves as she faded out of consciousness. Those dreadful cries of pain each time he touched her. The unyielding environment of Tatooine attacking his muscles and composure as she bled out in the arms of a stranger.

A prodding at his back plucks him from reliving the memory, crumbling it into miniscule debris fragments upon the revelation that she’s here with him, breathing and safe and alive. She’s poking at the wound he garnered all those days ago, when she took the first step to progressing this little thing they have going—all of their intimate milestones triggered by one or the other inflicting a wound of sorts; Din seemingly the culprit in both instances.

But not this time.

This time is different. Spurred on by passion and a necessary need to show each other themselves defenceless.

“Sorry,” he whispers and compensates for lost time with a gentle grind of his bulge into her sex, her feet digging into the matress behind him and holding him stationary against her.

She raises to her elbows, seizing a clump of his cowl in one hand to stabilise herself and uses the newfound leverage to rut against his lap. “Shit, Din,” she moans.

It’s so fucking lewd; she’s just using him to get herself off and fuck if he doesn’t like it—the pressure around his neck with each tug, the warmth against his lap, how light and freeing each movement is compared to last time.

“Supposed-” He’s cut off with a tumbling grunt, fleeing out of his throat and into the silent cabin as she quickens her pace; stroking the underside of his length raw. “I’m-I’m supposed to...fuck.”

“Taking-” she breathes, “-too long. Fucking--taking off your beskar, what’re you thinking? I need you, Din.”

She’s forced back onto her back beneath him with a hand flat against her abdomen, his figure looming over her exuding lust and desire and pure dusky thoughts he’d be ashamed of admitting. “Wasn’t done,” he declares, a hand grasping at the hem of his shirt to eradicate the article from the equation. Din needs to feel his skin against hers, more than just roughened hands, he wants her nails in the muscles lining his back, her teeth retreating to the skin above his collarbone, lips and tongue labouring at his neck.

The weight around his neck and shoulders commands him to cease his stripping—fuck. Why’s he got so many fucking layers for? Din rips the cloak from around his neck, bundling it into a tattered ball and tossing it across the room impatiently.

His hands return to his shirt’s hem, elevating the fabric until a sliver of his abdomen is assaulted by frigid air. The downwards dragging is unexpected, quaint, and he stops to heed her interruption, “Only if you want to, Din. Don’t - don’t force yourself for me.”

“Sweet girl,” he muses and removes his hands so she’s left clutching the fabric alone. “Take it off for me.”

It’s too intimate, too liberating; so much more than just sex and a means to receive relief from each other’s bodies. This is something they’ve both been denied for far too long—the meek touches of another to lull each other, reassure themselves events that have yet to unfold will be okay so long as they’re together.

She discards the shirt beside them and runs her nails along his spine gingerly, recording the bumps of bone buried underneath the flesh and muscles. His front is in her face, on direct display for her eyes to collect the slithers of off-whites; her lips brushing his pectorals.

“Been through so much,” she whispers against his skin, her breath prompting a layer of goosebumps in its radius. “Too much.”

“As have you, mesh’la.” His fingers trail a slash across her shoulder.

The time she contributes to identifying each scar, memorising the feeling and positions, is staggering—as though she’d be content with just studying his body for the next week alone—those impressions of her only wanting him for his armour and protection, not for what else he can bring to the table, are lit in unforgiving flames.

She’s not in it for the reputation he withholds, but simply for him.

There’s a tightness in his chest, an ache, something new and terrifying—a word to an emotion he’s not acquainted with circling his mind, bouncing along his tongue in jest towards his confusion and uncertainty.

He doesn’t entertain the thought; the thought that maybe, possibly Din is having his initial encounter with something bigger and more dangerous than any commission he’s dealt with before. It’s not possible. He’s not that fortunate. He can’t process those emotions—he’s not built for that.

Din needs a distraction, pronto, otherwise his head will be so clouded with the thought that—

She banks a wet stripe across the front of his throat, the groan oscillating through his flesh and onto her tongue and she rewards him with a benign kiss—his throat bobs and he ruts against her pelvis unquestionably eager.

Yeah, that’ll do.

Din’s hands surrender behind her back and blindly unclasp the hooks of her undergarment and yanks the blasted barrier off, his hands working the soft mounts before his eyes gain a chance to rake in their appearance.

“So soft,” he murmurs, palming the tissue vigorously. “How’re you so soft?”

The Girl opens her mouth to utter something snarky—he’s beginning to sense her incoming sass—and he devilishly clips a nipple between two fingers to disrupt her train of thought, her fingernails raking against his shoulder blades in an attempt to stifle the rising noises in her throat. It’s hypnotic, like watching electricity react against metal, her back arching as he flicks a thumb over the hardening peak sparking her nails to bare down into the meat of his slackened deltoids.

A hand trails down to his abdomen, digits soaking through the hairs of his happy trail but she doesn’t stop in her endeavours and sinks lower, past his bulge and buries her hand underneath her undergarments so that he can only see the outline of her hand working away at her crotch.

Din exhales, one of his hands fleeing from her breasts to remove the garment so he can watch her. She plunges three fingers inside of herself, stiffly pumping her hand in and out—preparing herself for him; it’s so fucking vulgar.

“Gods,” he groans. His final piece of clothing retires to his ankles, too overzealous to put in that extra effort to be completely free, and instructs her hand to his cock, using the slick on her fingers to lubricate himself. “Flip over for me, pretty girl. Let me take care of you.”

She enthusiastically obliges and squirms underneath his weight to lay on her stomach, he uses the pillows to prop her ass up to avoid her overstraining herself and reserves a moment to consider the view—far greater than his mind would conjure up. There’s additional scar tissue across her back, lengthy slashes and the remnants of blaster bolts, but those only highlight her features; the dip between her shoulder blades, the arch of her lower back joining the curves of her ass perfectly.

“Beautiful.” He adjusts himself between her folds, rubbing the tip to amass more of her slick, and eases inside her gradually; his hands never leaving her waist, eyes refusing to tear from the scenic sight.

“Shit--”

“So beautiful.”

“--Din, please-”

Din hums and thrusts inside her, pulling moans and gasps from her lips like music to his ears. “Beautiful...mesh’la.” It doesn’t require further explanation, the connotation straightforward with two simple words.

She asks, nonetheless, words muffled with bedspread and moaning, “That’s what you’ve been calling me all this time?”

“Do you like it?”

“Do I like it—you’re… you -- Maker. Shut up and fuck me.”

Fucking her, that he can do. Shutting up, on the other hand, was a little more difficult. It’s worthy of a comedic performance, how contrasting Din is in bed to in his armour; usually so stoic, a Mandalorian-of-few-words, now so whiny and talkative underneath the Girl’s charm.

Even if he wanted to stop murmuring dulcet words—and he really fucking doesn’t want to; the pent-up statements flowing from his throat so smoothly compared to earlier, like a tender creek current—he can’t stop.

Din applies his weight onto her back, uses his knees to continue his thrusts, and dips his helmet to mutter filth into her ear, “Gar jatnese be te jatnese-” He grunts, a hand squirming it’s way underneath her body to snatch a breast - just to have his hands against parts of her reserved for him. “Gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?”

Of course she doesn’t understand—-Mando’a isn’t a well-known language, with few aruetii capable of articulating the speech. It’s no surprise when she doesn’t respond to his comments but the quiver reaching her shoulders and toes is a clear indication she’s savouring the sound of his voice manipulating a foreign language—whispering endearments only he can understand.

He’s touching her everywhere, running along her sides and across her shoulders, fingers dipping to draw lines across her cheeks and forehead where sweat is beginning to accumulate. Din’s inquisitive, it goes against his nature—habitually so cautious and attentive—and he sweeps two fingers across the cushioning of her lips, tapping against the flesh until she parts and immerses the digits within the pocket of her mouth.

There’s no sense of direction, no suggestion for what she should do cause he’s fucking splintered like a log; he’s had her fingers in his mouth before but he’s never felt the warmth of her saliva without a leather barrier. The helmet tucks into the crevice of her neck and shoulder as she bobs her head on the fingers, performing identically to how she had at Tatooine on his cock—sultry and slow, simply exploring the body he’s honoured her with sharing.

It’s an overload of sensations. Being rooted so deeply within her it’d be best to pitch his residence to refrain from laborious movement, their lungs synchronised against each other, his bareness, his withering Honour, so apparent and she’s focused on serving him with anything he desires; fingers in her mouth, weight crushing her, a hand grabbing at her chest, she doesn’t care so long as he’s satisfied and touching her.

Din can’t handle it. He’s a fucking Mandalorian. A warrior. He’s killed thousands of lifeforms in his lifetime. He’s survived wars. None of those even came close to shattering him like she does—a pretty girl is the cause of his skeptical questioning of his Code. A pretty girl is the sole motivation for his fingers to dip underneath the beskar rim, floundering for the feel of a fastener -- click!

There’s a hiss that interrupts her pace, the gears in her head turning, and she pulls away from his fingers to stare off into oblivion. Her body’s tense, the cushiony flesh abruptly hard and taut underneath him. “What’s the matter, Cyar’ika?” he mulls, stopping his movements to console the change of attitude.

“Din—you can’t.”

She doesn’t need to explain herself. Doesn’t need to clarify she understands that sound, having heard it twice before now. She understands the reality of the situation he’s pushing themselves into; quite possibly more than Din himself.

She inhales and inclines her head, sealing off any possibility of catching a glimpse of something unforgivable. She murmurs, “You’ve shown me, I get it -- I understand. The pendant, the beskar, the flight suit... It’s too much—I can’t reciprocate. You can’t give all of this to me, Din.”

The beskar is slack, mobile, as he shifts so he’s directly behind her. “Oh, Cyar’ika, you’ve given me plenty.” he hums, the vocoder continuing to operate. It modulates his vocals into staticy droid-like sounds; it provokes a rise in his chest, a tightness in his abdomen, and he rips the steel from his face—as though he’s submerged in krill water, drowning and in dire need of the Girl—and his mouth latches onto the back of her shoulder in one foul swoop. There’s no time to consider it, his actions overcoming his rationality and faith to his Creed.

It’s all teeth and tongue. Biting and tugging, licking and lapping.

The Girl springs at the sensation, the contact so heavenly she’s uncertain whether it’s real.

“Din, you...fuck, shouldn’t-shouldn’t…” She struggles for a deep inhale with the weight on her back, her face swallowed by blankets for his Honour’s sake.

The enamel works out the knots in her muscles, his warm tongue lulling the skin to relaxation after he’s finished abusing it. It’s fucking surreal. Dreamlike. Who knew something so small could elicit such a primal feeling inside of him. She’s even softer in his mouth than his hands—how is she so fucking soft—all warm and salty from sweat that attacks his tastebuds, leaves him thirsty for more.

He marvels whether the beating in her chest is as fast as his, whether he’s spurring on some deepened arousal like she’s doing to him; his cock hardens like that of his beskar, tight and sturdy to the point of ache and he’s compelled to grind his pelvis against her ass to relieve some of the pressure.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, voice rounded and deep and alive; goosebumps rise to the surface of her skin, which he nurses with delicate pecks. “Should take a look at yourself.”

She bites back, “Should listen to yourself.”

It encourages him, welcomes the husky tone from the depths of his throat as he nears her ear and deliberately exudes a hot sigh to assault the cartlidge, “Kaab jate, Cyar’ika? Is that what you like? My voice?” He pokes his tongue at the base of the side of her neck and slides upwards to the bottom of her ear. “Or—ner uram—my mouth?”

It’s not a question needed to answer; she makes it apparent that yes, his mouth, his voice, his vulnerability, his sacrifice, is what she likes—she likes him.

“Ke-ep talking like that and I’m gonna-”

“We’re not done,” he rumbles. “I wanna-wanna taste.”

“Ta-st-e…” she stumbles. He can’t see her face from this angle but he imagines a tint of pink across her cheeks, her teeth chomping away at the bottom lip.

Din buzzes against her ear in confirmation. “Want you in my mouth. Is that okay?”

“Oh fuck. Yes. Where - how do you want me?”

So fucking eager—he swallows the opportunity to assuage her appetite for his tongue by flattening the organ against her spine unloading a thick stripe of saliva in substitute for the sweat that nestles its way down his throat. “Not yet, sweet thing, let me take care of you first.”

Din lacks experience utilising his mouth to get someone off, isolating yourself in a layer of steel tends to do that to a man, and he’d be unable to reveal himself from his beskar again if he humiliates himself like that—he’ll just exploit what he can and swoop in to lap up the remnants between her thighs.

It’s greedy wanting to experience the flavour not for her pleasure but his own. That aftertaste that’s so highly spoken about so unidentifiable on his taste buds; he can’t continue living not knowing what that’s like.

But first; he’ll make her scream his name and come on his cock until she’s leaking down her thighs.

His helmet idles beside them, lopsided visor leering at him from it’s position—he scowls at the heinous thought jostling around his mind and repositions it ahead of the Girl, the steel weighing down the blankets. He verifies it’s perspective and slithers a hand around her throat to pry her face from the depths of the blankets and mattress.

She’s rigid as she finds herself in the reflection of the visor, sweaty and flushed and practically drooling with thirst for his thrusts. “Fucking——look at yourself,” Din moans.

“Shit, your face-”

“S’okay,” he slurs, “can’t see me from your position.”

The Girl relaxes somewhat, her shoulders still taut but her neck melting into his hand and moulding her flesh around his digits as he continues to incline her head—look how gorgeous you are—and his teeth latches onto the skin of her throat, twisting and pulling to leave a mark for later.

His hair is thick and unkempt, subsequently flat and jungly from the helmet, and his wild curls wash against the bays of her jaw; strands peering into her field of view even though her eyes are almost at the back of her head. She obliges with her eyelids requests, respecting his Creed, and seals themselves together to submerge her vision with black—it’s all sensory, all touches and gentle kisses against her neck to counterbalance the unforgiving thrusts he’s gifting.

Din labels her with his teeth indentations, breaking the blood vessels in splotches across her throat, painting crescents into her shoulders with his nails. He mouths her name but the word refuses to vocalise, latching onto the tonsils and taking residence there; in his mouth, where it belongs.

“Din--”

His response is nothing short of filth; muffled moaning pressed against the back of her ear as his hand captures the swelling nub of her clit to draw eager circles.

“--Din, fuck. Din, Din, Din...”

“That’s it,” Din croons, his lips curling at the over abundance of his name spewing from her gullet. “Let go.”

There’s a quaint delay, her body working overtime to comprehend all the sensations without overloading her brain, then she’s writhing and twitching underneath him; his hand and thrusts never-ending as he pulls every single quake out of her involuntarily. Her walls tighten around his cock, that unmistakable warmth engulfing his length to attract his own undoing like a magnet—he could keep going for hours if not for that fucking warmth.

“Din! Di-”

“Shh,” he advises, setting his palm against her mouth to blunt the ecstasy cascading from her vocals like a waterfall—a downside to being so close-quartered to others; he wants to hear those whines, the unstoppable call of his name at her peak, but he’ll settle for rewarding muffles.

Din works her down from her orgasm, pecking soft kisses against her healing slashes and softening the fingers against her clit until she’s no longer twitching underneath his weight. She lays there for a moment, simply memorising the tingling between her thighs and how his pelvis compresses against her ass with every delicate thrust.

Energy recovering, rather quickly, she meets with his lunges, sloppy and trembling on her knees but he appreciates the effort—not that he needs it. She doesn’t need to do anything special to aid his high; Din could just come if she asked him to.

He’s reaching deep, the tip of his cock nudging against her cervix, and they stagger in unison. “Fuck. Vaii, Cyar’ika. Where-where do you want-”

“In,” she mewls between his fingers. “Don’t stop.”

“In.” Din fights his conscious for a breath, his windpipes narrow and clogged. “Dank Farrik. You’re sure?”

“Definitely.”

In, it is.

Din’s cock anchors in her warmth, his pelvis rocking back-and-forth lightly, and he savours how her walls contract with each flick of her sensitive nub—edging on his orgasm by the inch starting from the tip and sliding down to the base like vine tendrils wrapping around him and encouraging him to just fucking let go.

He heeds his own advice and relaxes, allowing the overwhelming pulsations to pump strings of softening whites inside of her, her name falling out his mouth in broken moans. Their warmths mix together within her walls and stick to his length with vengeance as he numbly extracts himself until only the tip is concealed. Cock still semi-hard, Din irresistibly thrusts into her one final time—pathetic ego reaching new heights when she mutters a final bleat.

Din runs rough fingers up the backs of her thighs and to her shoulders, palming the flesh tenderly until she’s nothing but a pool of lax muscles beneath him. His mouth delivers delicate kisses across the back of her neck to provide a break for her to regain her breathing.

“Can you continue?”

She nods her head, a simple response he holds close to his heart as he carefully readjusts himself behind her.

She’s poetic from this view, a body crafted with wise hands the greatest bards would struggle to write about, but there’s nothing that comes within range of outstanding like her face does.

He needs to see her.

“Think you can hold your eyes shut while I go down on you?” Din groans in desperation while she mulls the question over. “Please, Cyar’ika, I need a taste.”

It’s a big ask and if she can’t ultimately gather up that courage to comply he won’t pressure her, no matter how much his mouth salivates from the thought of finally consuming a piece of her.

It’s the greatest test of trust; she’d easily be able to slip open those pretty eyes and pulverise his Creed to molecules—he wouldn’t trust himself if he was in her position.

It should terrify him; should render him into a solid beam of sturdy beskar.

It doesn’t. Din’s paralleled to that of the Girl, soft and warm, not an inch of him cold and solid.

His Mandalorian helmet contains a blackout setting and, if it comes to it, he can slip it over her head so he can sate his cravings without the paranoia in either of their heads—no.That picturesque face of hers shouldn’t ever be covered up again; that stupid face mask stole too many moments from his vision.

There’s enough concealment behind beskar to provide for both of them. Too much concealment.

The Girl gasps, “Okay. Okay.”

The stretched lips across his face is disgraceful; finding pleasure in something so filthy. Din couldn’t give a fuck. Who wouldn’t be smiling in his position?

They silently reorganise themselves with her on her back, eyes firmly shut, and Din planted between her thighs, quite possibly his favourite place in all of the galaxy.

Din doesn’t rush things; he’s not that kind of man. He works her up with ribbing kisses across her sternum and tooka-licks on either nipple simply to hear her breathing hitch and her hands fist the blankets underneath them. She white-knuckles the fabric when his teeth collect the sensitive skin and brutally sucks his markings into her, red and blemished that’ll welt nicely by morning—the only form of bruisings her body should be subjected to.

The hand assaulting the blankets transfers into the thick lock atop of his head with his guide, the digits snaking through the curls for leverage and tugging as he makes sloppy open-mouthed kisses around the pendant resting between her breasts.

“Cyar’ika.” The newly-adopted nickname floats through the air and into her core. “What’d I do to deserve all this?”

There’s no sarcastic comeback this time, not even an attempt, though he knows what she would say—destroyed my rifle—and he makes route lower and lower and fucking lower.

She’s straining to keep her hand in the mess of hair, his head lowered between her thighs where she can feel his breathing against her heat.

There’s a trail of translucent along the insides of her thighs and he follows the streak with his lips, digits digging into the meat while he collects it onto the cushiony brims. His tongue doesn’t delve out for a taste—not yet—until he’s made a path directly to her sex to place a final kiss against the peak of her clit triggering a miniscule buck that nudges against his nose.

“Tell me to stop,” Din pleads; fucking pleads because he knows if she doesn’t he won’t be able to stop himself.

His scalp burns as she stiffens her grip. “Please.”

There’s an experimental lick at first, nothing short of the tip of his tongue running through her folds, but once he’s obtained a taste of her there’s no end in sight—the finish line sprinting so far away from him he doesn’t even want to make an attempt to reach a conclusion. He’s happy to sit there and lap up everything until she’s dried out.

The Girl was spot-on. They’re a combination of sweet and salty—sweet on the account of her, salty because of him—and its so fucking addictive. His tongue flattens against her to collect as much slick onto the muscle and retracts, swallows, and repeats.

The bump of his nose stimulates her oversensitive clit for a second round, his fingers deviously slipping inside her canals to accumulate what his tongue can’t reach, his eyes spying on her face for every reaction he plucks.

Din can’t prevent the famished growl that slips out of him when his fingers plop into his mouth, shiny whites blending with his salvia to slide down his throat and lay rest in his stomach.

“Sweet girl, you really are sweet.”

For someone so inexperienced, Din sure knows what he’s doing. His tongue is in hyperdrive, working at her clit and suctioning every last drop of her out from within.

“O-o-h,” she moans and writhes on the mattress. “Gods, Din... Right there. Sh-it.”

The mewling words of encouragement boost his ego, as though he’d been replaced with his younger self; overly-enthusiastic and mindless, but possessing far more maturity—nurturing quirks that go against his amour propre youth.

Din heeds her commands, unrelenting licks jerking against her clit while his fingers get to work pumping in and out of her.

He’s not trying to make her come again, he didn’t think he had it in him, but fuck she’s right on the edge—he can feel it. Maybe it’s the over-sensitive nub collapsing into her core prompting her to tremble and twitch, or maybe he’s not giving himself enough credit; regardless, he’s working overtime to quench her needs.

When her thighs pinch the sides of his head, he really loses the plot—a heavy grunt expelling from his throat as he angles his head to the side and quickens his pace, poking and prodding at the spot she likes best.

“Din, Din-fuck.”

Thrumming journeys through his mouth and onto her clit, stimulating it just that extra mile to cross the finishing line. Her thighs stabilise his head in place while she violently bucks into his mouth, her second orgasm much stronger than her first.

There’s a surge of slick coating his fingers and he sinks to hoard it in his mouth, tongue-fucking her up till she’s a whimpering mess beneath him. It’s all her—his saltiness long gone—and he revels in the warmth; focusing on it slipping down his throat and sheeting his taste buds with a sweet syrup that immediately destroys the memory of those pitiful pancakes.

“So fucking delicious, Cyar’ika. You deserve a taste. You want some?”

Her head nods faintly, the exhaustion catching up to her; thighs trembling and fingertips taut in his curls.

Din accumulates a mass of her slick on his fingers and reroutes himself for her mouth, but stops himself. It’s glistening at him, taunting and just begging to slip into his mouth—he fulfills it’s wishes and plunges his digits inside for his tongue to lap up the remnants before hastily ramming his lips against hers.

It’s too authentic, too nerve wracking, as though he’s being initiated into the Creed for a second time; all butterflies in his stomach and outpaced blood flow through his veins. His hands quiver as they find her face, cupping her jaw as he deepens the kiss with a flick of his tongue across her gums.

The Girl’s eyes nearly slip open from the initial shock but she’s mastered her self-control, slinking into the mattress and pulling him with her.

It’s not like the kisses you’d see in holoplays, where it’s all soft and delicate but rather hungry and needy, a lot of teeth clashing against each other as they attempt to find themselves.

They exchange flavours, Din offering up her slick on his tongue in return for her saliva; tasteless in itself but it’s hers—his favourite flavour.

It’s all over him. In his mouth, on his chin, his fingers, his cock. It’s where it belongs.

Breathing is essential to life: they’re reminded as they reluctantly pull from each other's seals. Din’s not done just yet, then again, he’ll never truly be quenched of her. There’s just not enough of her. His lips disturb every speck of visible skin on her face, pecking her chin and across her cheeks all the way up to her eyes and back around the opposite side.

He’s much more gentle now, having gorged himself on her lips and taste, and is mindful of the scratchiness of the scruff along his jaw as he runs the pillows down her throat to come to rest in the cavern between her shoulder and neck.

She’s so bouncy, so padded, Din could rest his head on the bare tissue and sleep for centuries; recuperate for all the decades of blood and sweat he’s put his body through, replenish the colour underneath his eyes, permit his muscles and bones to be reborn.

His eyelashes brush against his cheekbones as he rests his eyes and evens out his breathing.

“Din,” she breathes, hands sketching idle lines across his back. “Hate to ruin the mood but your helm-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just rest,” he mumbles against her flesh, a hand blindly reaching out for the blanket to cover themselves; he doesn’t plan on moving from this position. She’ll have to pry him off herself. The beskar pendant is wedged between their chests, the skull's tusks digging into his muscles but it’s somehow fitting, comforting.

She is worried, though. There’s a crinkle between her eyebrows that he heals with the padding of his thumb. “What if I wake up-”

“I’ll be awake before you.”

“But--”

“I promise.” It’s not a pledge Din should initiate. She’s too comforting and he might never wake if he remains in her arms. His stubble pricks against her collarbone as he finds an abode among her chest, the beat of her heart against his eardrum.

“Please, Cyar’ika, don’t make me put it back on.”

How can she oppose that?

“Oh——okay.”

This is bliss.

This is his Manda, his paradise.

Her, not the location, though Sorgan will always sit somewhere special within his heart.

His Girl is all he needs.

If Din didn’t have a mission, a green mischievous baby, to tend to he would spend the rest of his days nestled into her body, pampering precious skin made of the elements themselves with sentimental kisses and delightful touches.

If she was to ask him to retire his blasters to their weapons unit, he would do it in an instant.

“Din?” He placidly drones in feedback. “Thank you.”

“Hmm? For what?”

A hand lazes on his head, tufts of ungroomed curls separating through the gaps of her fingers considerably slow as to not lug a knot. “Believing in me. I don’t ask much about Mandalorian culture ‘cause I figured you get asked a lot; I only know of that from Legends, but I can see it’s a part of you. Trusting me with your Creed...after everything I’ve done… Thank you.”

She’s still beating herself up about previous events. He could just wedge open her eyelids so she can look into his eyes; maybe then she’ll realise he’s already forgiven her. Instead, Din exhales a low-toned sigh and pecks what skin his lips can reach from his position.

“We agreed to a cin vhetin, remember?”

“Yes, but-”

“Sweet girl,” he shushes her. “In Mandalorian culture we use that term in initiation; it’s to clear all previous debts. Everything that occurred before is erased. Only what will happen in the future will be considered.”

Their cabin falls silent as she mulls the significance over. Din can hear a fire crackling somewhere nearby, children laughing, and adults toasting each other to another successful day; lively and euphoric-sounding but he’s content laying atop of his euphoria, to feel each expansion of her lungs, each tardy investigative stroke on his bare form.

“Does that mean I’m not getting your rifle?” she jests.

Din laughs, a full-on throaty bellow that resonates through her. It’s so humanlike it shocks him, leaves him wiping at the corners of his eyes from the onslaught of tears he’s producing.

The Girl’s hand runs from his head to the back of his neck, her thumb and forefinger massaging out the taut stone into flexible cloth. She quietly murmurs, “Wasn’t that funny.”

Laughing gradually subsiding, he basks in the comfortable silence between them. The Girl was never overbearing, even before all the tension arised, never stepped her foot out of line purely out of respect for his wishes and now she’s breached obstacles that’d make him hang his head in shame in the presence of his elders.

“Didn’t you propose a challenge or have you already forgotten?”

She smirks with cocky confidence. “Gambling with your weapons, huh? That’s so unlike you.”

“As I said; foolish, foolish things, Cyar’ika.”

___________________

"atin" - stubborn "sleemo" - slimeball "mesh'la" - beautiful "gar jatnese be te jatnese" - you're the best of the best "gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?" - you complete me, do you understand? "auretii" - outsider "cyar'ika" - sweetheart/darling "kaab jate?" - sound good? "ner uram" - my mouth "vaii" - where

A/N: Sorry this one took longer than the others, it lowkey beat my ass up. In other news, I am currently planning my next series that'll be a Mandalorian!Reader if any of you are interested in that. If you wish to be added to either the LUNAR taglist or the upcoming series tags, please send an ask or a message!

tags: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex

[lunchador]

so when do we get the long post about your feelings about dragon age inquisition!!! i dunno if u wanna wait until dlc or not! i am i n t e r e s t e d (also its ok if u dont feel up to it im just!!!! again, interested in ur opinions/feelings)

kajsldkjf PLEASE I HAVE SO MANY DA FEELINGS ALL THE TIME and Inquisition was twice as long as the others so might as well do a word vomit now and I can always do another after the dlc (which several people have assured me are worth playing )

SO

Yeah so inquisition is long. I dislike open world games so a lot of the (super repetitive!!) side quests did grate on my nerves and that docks this game a few points but over all the LORE IS SO GOOD, and it tying in so many choices in from 1+2 is the greatest butterfly effect I ever experienced in video games. I thought telltale + Until dawn were fun for that but good LORD bioware has showed up all of those games and I am really stoked to try mass effect when its out later and play more bw games. I only played Anthem before this and that game seemed...idk, gutted against BW’s wishes.

ANYWAY

Yeah, I managed to go into the whole DA series knowing very, very little, despite how many artists I followed did fanart for it. Once I started playing, I added all the words I could think of to my blacklist but a lot of untagged stuff came through (fair, series is 10+ years old and inq is like what 4-5?). I allowed my friends to pressure me into playing an elf mage for the lore and to romance solas cuz they said he was as important to the story as alistair was. A lot of online followers said I should play how I wanted, which I def would recommend to anyone else, but honestly I can see where they came from and while he never would have been my first choice, I think he actually paired REALLY well with my Inq and how I was playing her. I put her as sensitive but trying to put her responsibility above herself, she was definitely the least funny of my 3 characters, but not incredibly serious. A bit reserved? Just more mature. She’s got faith but she didn’t think she was the chosen one but she’ll do her role the best of her ability. She makes hard decisions and then sobs her chest empty over them because how is one to ever feel like its the right one? I really like how the game lets you choose how you wanna approach the responsibility. Like i said, I wasn’t a reluctant chosen one, but she will do what she can. Versus my friend playing at the same time as me said he played as the second coming of jesus essentially lmfao Having so many characters come back for different roles was so GOOD!!! Like everyone told me Varric was in this one but were like ‘teehee you still cant romance him though’ but you how you play drastically changes your relationships with each person. Tons of characters I met I knew would be personal favorites but I ended up interacting way less because others were more fitting to my inquisitor. So i.e while I love Varric and would’ve smooched him a heartbeat with Hawke, I didn’t get that vibe with Clover. They were really good friends, he was a grounded friend with a sense of humor that was a good escape from everyone else and the ~inquisition~. At least, until the Beyond the Abyss quest. That obviously heavily fractured their friendship and hurt them both :( And i felt that for a long time, until the end. He looked tired. Poor guy is gonna be borderline dead in 4 at this point. But so many side characters you talk to coming back like Dagna and Samson??? Speaking of that quest, I got Stroud because, yeah...Alistair was dead for me and APPARENTLY IT COULD ALSO BE LOGHAIN??? If he stays a grey warden??  wish I did that so def would’ve preferred to save Hawke even if I think the wardens are more important as a concept but like.......i wanted to behead him, so....But yes even tiny details like..Varric wrote home to kirkwall to Carver for me because the rest of my family was dead and I never completed a full romance in 2 lkajslkdjf but the fact that changes based on your play through. BUT YEAH THE way this game weaves all your decisions in and how yeah, overall the story is the same but it makes it so personal to YOU and so different from everyone else ;w;

But I could see my Inq genuinely falling for Solas, and I see her best friends as Cassandra and Blackwall/Thom. Really close to Leliana and the Iron Bull as well. I just loved all their interactions. All the characters were so cool to get to know?? Like I thought I would’ve hated Cullen (hes a dick in O) and tbh I just got into the series as the VA was being a complete shit. But I liked him a lot!! I love the work buddies vibes between the Inq and the advisors. I thought I was going to love Sera!! And like, I did, but she hated my Inquisitor and their personalities clashed a lot. Shes the only one i didn’t get a cut scene for in the end :’) I loved coming back from story quests and having to take like 20 minutes to go around skyhold and make sure I talked to /everyone/ for their new dialogue. You genuinely feel connected to all these wonderful npcs ljkasljdf

I wanted to make Cassandra the new divine but I made leliana on accident and kinda dug it so I stuck with it. VARRIC IS THE NEW VISCOUNT??? h i l a r i o u s.

One of the things I loved the most in this game in particular, and while this is something in all of them it just really struck me in this one, was....everyone gave up so so much to devote themselves to the cause, y’know?? Like, it’s almost heartbreaking how much everyone loses and they’re still looking towards you with their belief and willingness to follow you to the end ;-;

The final fight almost felt, Idk, underwhelming? Dude dragons are way tougher than him asdkjhfkhjd. I even went up a difficulty in this game after feeling like I got the hang of the series. But at the same time, we just spend how many hours knocking down each and one of his advantages so fuck him lol.

But yeah there are so many things I wanted to do but I felt so worn out by mindless sidequests and story being level locked in comparison to the previous games. askdjhflkd

One of the things that blows my mind is so so many people were stoked i was playing DA and they couldn’t wait til I got to Inq, and so I find out most people I know only ever played Inquisition? TBH if I didn’t play O+2 I think I would’ve dropped inquisition and never finished it *shrug* all of the build up just means SO MUCH!!! Everyones argument seems to be the older games are ugly and yeah O has rough battle system but its easy to get over imo. Like, you need the chaos of 2 to get the real weight of the mage/templar stuff?? Theres so many characters and story and dialogue that go over your head without Origins?? Like yes inq can stand alone pretty well but, idk, I’m in love with this entire series and the world building and THE!! WAY!!! IT!!! ALL!!! CONNECTS!!!!!!!!!!!

I love how a quest can go differently by whos in your party, I love you can have more dialogue based on lore you’ve managed to pick up around, I love HOW COMPANIONS BICKERRRRRRRRRRRR!!!! The lore of these games are so good. It’s like playing an epic line of novels. It’s so immersive and I don’t think I’ve played too many games to this level.

I didn’t like the skill trees to being a mage in this one, Idk why. It wasn’t nearly as fun for me as 2, but then  again I really fucking liked being a force mage haha. I wanted to be a rogue to complete a diff class per game but everyone said mage brings a lot more interesting story/lore stuff so

but yeah I love having the full context now and seeing other peoples Wardens/Hawkes/Inquisitors and asking people how they played and how their options differed from mine and THERES JUST SO MANY POSSIBLE DECISION TREES!!!!! No wonder the fans play over and over.

but yeah ultimately so much fucking happened?? I’m probably missing a lot of key points.

[abbeyfangirl]

dragon age: all characters (companions)

I’ve been in this fandom for a hot minute now and I want to update my opinions on characters :)

Origins

Alistair: super sweet dude who literally is not the stereotypicalchantryguyfightme. He’s a great example of healthy masculinity and I totally wish he was bi because I have an entire essay on that— also: he’s a poc! His mum was brown. In game he’s got dark features. if you really want a blond/blue-eyes/white guy, make your warden that. or accept that brown people can be noble and moral. or just draw cailan, idk. just because BioWare whitewashes doesn’t mean you should.

Leliana: someone hug my singing girlfriend before I crush her under with my own hugs. Also: nugs. Yes! Shoes. Yes! She likes how I style my hair? YES!! I honestly think she’s super duper and it pisses me off whenever someone’s like: yeah she enjoys killing people and the Game. ok. and michel de chevin willingly participated in genocidal marches through the alienage he grew up in with his elvhen mum. 

Morrigan: dirty swamp witch that i stan and also have a v big crush on. tiddies. Have a son with a GW so we can raise him with our tiddies out in the forest. she’s also white-passing, as her father was chasind and all people we’ve seen that are chasind are black. therefore, she is biracial. therefore, poc can be goths and don’t shy away from giving morrigan a darker skintone. if the devs had of been thinking, she’d have a darker skintone.

Zevran: Actually is the best romance, I think. Loves consent, therefore I will stan him so hard my skull cracks a little. Also: he is a very brown boy and if he’s white in da4 I’m seriously going to throw all canon out the fucking window. genuinely a good person who needs to be told so. 

Wynne: grandma who only likes my friends who go to church. but also super sweet and I’d rest my head on her bosom (in a platonic way omg ZEVRAN)

Sten: angry quiet boi. the bestest boi. I totally would give him a kitten for a gift and bake him cookies. Thicc softie. I think if I had DA:O and i knew how to use mods i would mod the fuck outta him. sorry.

Sha(y)le: who’s gender? idk her. See also: fuck birds and authority. pound ur ass into the ground you feathery meatbag little shits. fuck songbirds.

Dog: such a good boi. thicc. thinks Alistair is a whiny fuck and is Morrigan’s only friend. love him. he’s the cutest companion. bet.

Ohgren: honestly forgot about him bcc he’s such a shitbag. also: he could’ve been a really cool addiction recovery type but NOPE. probably would have a trump shirt in a modern au and would catcall wlw and hit mlm. no thanks.

Awakening

Anders: he acts like rlly straight but he’s so gay I can smell it. also he’s rlly cute and fun and I love him so much.

Justice: MAYBE i’M selF CONSCious OF THE twitchING. is the friend that genuinely doesn’t get dick jokes but is ur 110% ride or die.

Nathaniel Howe: honestly is sort of a white knight/neck beard a little, but it’s kind of charming with his whole velanna m’lady?? grump boi. annoying soul patch that I’d mod out SO FAST—

Sigrun: would have ROMANCED the FUCK out of her. why she even entertains the idea of fucking with ohgren makes me realize most of the writers are dumbfucks.png. peppy little emo. 12/10 would die if she kissed my cheek teasingly.

Ohgren: why. why. why. I’d have brought Shayle over. Maybe Zev? Definitely Dog.

Velanna: she was written to be an annoying feminist and you can tell but I deadass am a kindred spirit with her bcc I too am deadpan annoyed with Thedas’ general population too. love her. Would’ve loved to romance her. She’d totally be one of those who’d get all tsundere and be like “n-no i hate you” *kisses the fuckin soul out of you then blushes so hard she’s now a tomato*

Dragon Age II

Anders: fuck the cops. i don’t care. fuck the cops. (vine reference). also: do i hate him for blowing up the chantry that would eventually annul a huge collection of his people? no. read dalishious’s meta on Anders. v intriguing. didn’t they retcon the fuck out of the reported deaths too? like there was like eight Templars and Elthinia in there. Templars killed more “abominations” in a day than Anders in the game canon—

Aveline: initially thought she was fine and then realized she’s shit to my lil brother and I will fucking clap her ginger ass. See also: whorephobia isn’t a joke so fuck off with treating Isabela badly, you tit.

Bethany: sunshine. Literal sunshine. I feel my freckles grow in her presence and i love it. she’s my little baby sister and I’d slam that ogre so fuckin hard before it touched either twin.

Carver: there has to be a mod where both twins survive. I love them both to bits. My babies. carver is my bitter, angry little brother and I can relate because I too am very angry and would totally clap my own ass. hes so genuine and I don’t get the competition between Beth and Carver. Like, both are fuckin stellar in different ways. In this essay I will—

Fenris: honestly, I don’t get the general hate between him and Anders. Fenris’ main arc should’ve been a recovery arc, not drunken moping and revenge. he deserves better. give him a soft sweater instead of his spikes and let him love himself as much as I love him for MAKERS SAKE. like when you really think about their relationship, it could’ve been an eye-opener for fenris and finally some legit sympathy for anders. but we all know that if they had of teamed up that Meredith would’ve been dead before the end of Act 1 so.

Isabela: whorephobia is not a joke. oversexualizing your only appearing brown woman is so poorly written. how about we appreciate her and her lovely bosoms but also let people tease her about her heart of gold? her innate understanding of freedom? instead of just a wave of dick? please?? can we give her some pants for when she fights? can we accept that i fall for rogues who hate themselves?? fuck. also whomever draws her x femHawke x Merrill literally is after my own heart.

Merrill: my fucking babygirl MARRY ME. Fenris could’ve been her older brother type, but NO. she and Isabela should’ve been canonical gfs instead of Isabela/Fenris (no shaming the pairing tho!!). I love how she’s written as neurodivergent. V nice. Sometimes I just look her up and cry because she’s fucking everything. Also: she’s in the Dalish origin and she’s far from being white. Why did they make the most innocent/naïve character really white? hmmmm.

Sebastian: whew that boy. Would totally be that annoying Mormon at your door but you still let him in bcc he’s super sweet. Also: huge ass bible thumper and should get his head slap because you said the maker loved all his children why do you defend a complicit old hag you annoying attractive fuck—

Varric: totally is a bard and the devs couldn’t handle the idea of him being one bcc it might make him look less straight. is the only grey morality person I don’t want to fucking bash in with a fry pan. he sees people and I like that, but you totally know he’s siding with mages every time bcc him and Anders are like besties. I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules. “Professional Younger Brother”.

Tallis: I know nothing about her but she seems okay. I think she was an escaped slave and honestly? Fucking props. Spy on a shitting organization, idk what you’re doing, but your VA was that cool lesbian from SPN so I think ur okay?

Inquisition

Blackwall: Redemption Arc 101. Love him to bits. Sad dad bunwall. good man. actually atoned for his sins by actively becoming a good person. his initial design is 80% hotter im so sorry but so not.

Cassandra: was way browner in the last game. would romance the fuck outta her. I love me a butch lady who melts at my dorky recitation of poetry. BioWare is a coward. also is the worst choice for divine. but not a bad person. could use some more guidance or get her ass whipped by a dalish elf about religion or a circle mage kid whos like “yeah bud i didn’t ask for the templars to whip my ass everyday for existing.”

The Iron Bull: I think the Qunari/Vashoth were a little based off black people (the whole anti blackness thing where ppl are scared of them bcc of whatever reason) and it pisses me off that he had a weird ass dubcon thing with Dorian in banter. It doesn’t make sense— he’s an A+++ dom and would not jump straight in role play without at least checking in at first like wtf BioWare.

Cole: his mother was chasind so he’s like not supposed to be that white? or like biracial? albino? idk. love him to bits tho. He’s neurodivergent and I deadass love him. romancing him? idk. I see why ppl think it’s fuckin nasty but also like as a writer I’d age him the fuck up so fast before my inquisitor even THOUGHT about that. like idk. I’m down with him being a sweet little bro character tho. he’s a babe. love him.

Sera: had the worst fucking writer I’ve ever seen and I willingly read the twilight saga twice by a shit ass racist white lady who okay’d pedophilia. like. Fuck you Kristjanson suck your own dick you fuck. had the worst options in regards to speak to her. has a thicc case of internalized racism that literally most of the fandom just loves to use against her. my lesbian neurodivergent queen. Would write a thousand fix it fics for her. Love her to bits. im gay.

Varric: I haven’t played DA2 so i don’t get why everyone wants to romance him but like. a dwarf romance? yes please. Idk he reminds me of my uncle so I only see him as fun uncle material. Deadass should adopt Cole and Merrill and co parent with Blackwall for Sera. dads? fuck yeah. love me some wholesome, present fathers.

Dorian: is a gay stereotype that I love/hate so much. and he’s also just as bad about being a creep bcc he sexualizes qunari men (in banter). I attribute that to shit writing tho. I want to protect him from all the “omg gay best friend!” people. he’d clearly be that tired gay that wouldn’t give a diddly damn about ur het romance. wanna talk about politics? he’s ur guy/gay.

Solas: “me, an intellectual:”. I don’t hate him, but I’m not about him. He comes off as mysterious and suave (which he totally is) but I deadass would not save him from himself because he’s a racist, exclusionist eggshell. idk. not my cup of tea, but I can totally see the appeal. And he’s interesting, I’ll totally say that. “I think the Dalish are garbage but they made you” is not a compliment. it’s so offensive. and such bait for “quirky girls” which I’m no fan of. Would be Achilles and let Patroclus (Lavellan in his case) die before he realized how his pride is literally a waste of time. If he gets a redemption arc I hope Lavellan gets to slap him before getting him to teach all about ancient Arlathan and show that the Evanuris weren’t all total dicknozzles. (Aka I really have a hard time believing that they’d be slavery cult things. especially since they’ve compared elves to indigenous ppl, Jews and the Romani.)

Vivienne: it’s so racist that they’d make a black woman be pro-slavery. That’s such internalized racism. She could’ve been the cool ass “educate yourself first before you speak, fool” ice lady, but NO. the devs could’ve kept the “Templars are a tool that I proudly can mandate” and the “circles are very good education” and we. Could. Have. Romanced. Her. Like. Fuck. Sake. I just wanna give her a hug and say “love yourself omg!!” and not even in a romantic way. Also: she and morrigan should not have been so antagonistic towards each other. I’d expect them to have great respect for each other, as they both moved up in the world through hardwork and very little help. They could learn different magic from each other too and still maintain that rival respect “oh you” mood. Sidenote: probably the cooler option for Divine. if her approval is high enough she’ll love and be loyal to you forever and i can’t see her agenda being bad. she improves the circles exponentially and tells all the antis to suck her pretty painted toes.

Josephine: an actual disney princess. romanced her my first playthrough. I love her so much. she just makes me so happy. And she’s like: “Integrity, Loyalty, peace. That is what it means to be a GREY WARDEN good fucking person.” she’s the person who would let you hold her hand if you got anxious and she’d be that person who shouldered the whole group project with finesse and poise and would probably lie for everyone as to not be mean. i love josie. her and leliana’s relationship is so cute, too. whether it’s romantic or not: women supporting women.

Leliana: if you leave her hardened you must hate her. why. she becomes so against herself. i like how shes feminine and lighthearted because that’s so powerful-- to remain hopeful when the world is hopeless. (its hard to know when to soften her/harden her so i get it but. google it. she deserves to be happy and sweet again.)

Cullen: uwu war criminal with shit ass “redemption arc” that was actually a half-assed (at BEST) recovery arc. Recovery isn’t linear, it isn’t pretty, and even the broken need to be told they are wrong in order to heal right. Like I’m offended by that bullshit. I’ve had to do some mental health recovery in the past and unlearning lots of toxic ideologies— which I’m still unlearning— and it bothers me that he gets an easy pass because he’s hot. It’s one thing if you like Cullen, it’s another thing if you hold him accountable.

[freedomscall-aa]

DRAGON AGE II

      THE CITY OF CHAINS, ACT I

Fleeing from the Grey Wardens following his allowance of Justice into his body and the bloody events that took place immediately afterwards, Anders takes refuge within the walls of Kirkwall among the hundreds of other Ferelden refugees who now call the city home after the yearlong Blight laid waste to townships and smaller hamlets. He establishes a small clinic in the filth and crime ridden under city, Darktown, where he offers his talents as a healer near free of charge to suffering, displaced families and individuals. Through rumors his prior association with the Grey Wardens and the maps he carried with him eventually becomes a topic of interest to a fellow Ferelden and their growing gang of misfits.

This verse takes place during the events of the game's first act and thus encompasses Anders' first encounter with Hawke, the death of Karl, the trek into the Deep Roads, etc. The default state of this verse leans towards a friendship path with Hawke, but will be adjusted as needed.

      THE CITY OF CHAINS, ACT II

Three years out from the Dark Roads expedition Anders has found his connections to the now wealthy Hawke and their associates something akin to a gift from the Maker himself in various ways. Life is now somewhat easier with the support of those in the group he considers himself friends with, though the mage's personality is forever changed by the death of Karl all those years ago. Over time he has developed a propensity to further isolate himself when not following the call of Hawke and has been known to display forms of increasingly paranoid behavior by those he comes into close contact with. Despite this, Anders further commits himself to tending to refugees when not out and about with Hawke. In turn, he trusts their loyalty to protect knowledge of his whereabouts from Templars who've caught wind of his activities. Their protection is a small blessing in and of itself, as Justice's, now Vengeance's, strength has further manifested itself with his body-- Anders now finding it increasingly difficult to control himself from causing harm when face to face with those within the Templar Order. Overly sympathetic to the the plight of the mages imprisoned within the Kirkwall's Circle now more than ever, the blond has begun to dedicate himself to pursuing a feat he once considered madness before his merger with Justice-- the separation of the Circle from the Chantry. In-between his time spent with patients within the clinic and Hawke's adventures, Anders begins writing the first draft of what would become his manifesto and finds himself becoming involved in a small resistance group of like minded apostates to help ferry runaway mages out of the city.

This verse encompasses the whole of act two and the three prior mentioned years following Hawke's expedition in the Deep Roads. The default state for this verse assumes Anders begins the act on a full friendship path with a Hawke that has flirted with him, then after Leandra’s death said Hawke quickly swings towards a semi-rival in the later half, leaving Anders heartbroken. In this verse Anders is ultimately able to regain control of himself from Vengeance to prevent the death of the female mage in his companion quest, Dissent.

      THE CITY OF CHAINS, ACT III

Another three years pass, the time spent with the mage finding himself at constant odds with himself. His inner struggles with Vengeance are a day to day activity, Anders for a period of time devoid of all interest in the plight of his fellow mage due to seeing himself as nothing but an abomination after almost losing himself completely to Vengeance's urge to kill a young mage some years ago. He has become further withdrawn with his attempts to regain control over the spirit inhabiting his body, a battle that he will ultimately lose in the end. As a consequence of this fight of control he has further developed traits that reflect the current state of his mentality-- prone to increasingly wild mood swings ranging from fits of melancholy to purely manic phases of determination to channeling his bitingly vicious anger at whoever is unfortunate enough to be at the opposite end of his staff during his excursions with Hawke and company. To further this issue, he has begun to suffer lapses in memory when not out with the Champion; often finding himself in locations he has no recollection of traveling to and regularly discovering he is missing large gaps of time out of his day to day activities. To those who he considers himself closest to it is obvious that he's begun planning something, though what and if it is Anders himself in control of the process is unknown.

This verse features Anders at his worse, markedly mentally ill with no feasible way out of act three's inevitable conclusion. His relationships with Hawke and the rest of the gang are heavily strained and the default state of this verse assumes him to be a full rival path with a Hawke who, despite being heavily traumatized by what happened to their mother, ultimately sides with the Mages. You all know how it ends, so I imagine I don't have to say much more.

DRAGON AGE: INQUISITION

      WHAT VENGEANCE HAS WROUGHT

THIS VERSE WILL EVENTUALLY BE REVAMPED TO ADD EASIER INTERATIONS FOR INQUISTION BASED MUSES, BUT MOST OF WHAT IS HERE IS STILL ACCURATE. FOR A SNEAK PEEK REGARDING WHAT I’M PLANNING TO DO, SEE THIS POST.

Hawke should have killed him, is what Anders used to tell himself frequently before finally settling in his guilt--- mind rife in his knowledge that, despite it all, he would do it again in a heartbeat. There were no other options, despite his regrets, the blond’s actions a year later inciting a rebellion the likes of which hasn’t been seen in centuries.

Vengeance is sated, frequently quiet-- leaving the mage with nothing but his own thoughts for the first time in nearly eight years. Yet, in the scant moments where the spirit’s thoughts invade his own they’ve begun to slowly resemble those of the friend he once he had. He is full to the brim with anxieties, abandoned by those he called friends in the wake of his actions in Kirkwall and unwanted by the very mages he sought to free. Once again a lone apostate, or more accurately: a wanted abomination, Anders travels familiar lands following the path of the war his actions served as the catalyst for. Supposed sightings place him all over the world, the blond on the very rarest occasion finding some humor in the fact that he can apparently now be in several locations at once. If only it was so simple all those years ago when he was just a boy trying to get back home to his mother.

These days he finds himself like he did back in Kirkwall before everything came to a head, offering his healing services to refugee camps before moving on lest someone figures out who he really is. It stings, however, when even more non-mages refuse his aid-- perception of mages further tainted by the war. In between camps he lives a rather bare bones existence, sequestering himself away in the forests that dot his path to a place unknown before the Templar army or, worse, the Inquisition can find him-- all the while ignoring the cruelest of siren calls, one he recognizes well from his time with Hawke within an old Grey Warden prison so many years ago.

      WHAT LOVE HAS SACRIFICED

IM GONNA REVAMP THIS EVENTUALLY SO LIKE A LOT OF THIS DOESN’T APPLY ANYMORE, SORRY Hawke should have killed him, is what Anders tells himself frequently. Instead, however, they sheltered him-- from Kirkwall, from the Templars, from the world when the results of Vengeance's, of HIS actions boiled over and sparked a war. In fact, Anders could go so far to say that they sacrificed everything they had earned over that decade in Kirkwall for him. He's not sure how they tolerate him these days, awash in guilt as Vengeance whispers in his mind that Hawke is holding them back from joining the Mages’ in their fight against their centuries long oppressors. That Hawke covertly wants to sedate him, control him, lock him away, suffocate him--- The angry insistence of a spirit that is no longer his friend. Anders has worked for years to stifle the spirit's control over him and for once he finally feels as though he's winning, only at the cost of the world and everything else he held dear. His struggle is something Hawke knows, but he is, however, sure they think him insane, which is fair, and still something of a threat regardless of their feelings for him or his claim of control. Anders thinks himself completely mad these days too, especially when Vengeance falls momentarily silent and the blond is left with his own thoughts. Thus, it was no surprise when the day Hawke informed him that they’re leaving came. But what came after, however, was. Not that they’re leaving him, but that instead they’re leaving their makeshift home, together, following the call of an old friend who has seemed to find themselves involved in the Inquisition.

DRAGON AGE: ORIGINS, AWAKENING

VIGIL’S KEEP

twenty nine year old man loves a tiny kitten to death, the verse u//c, obviously

KINLOCH HOLD

actual baby twenty-something has to pretend that everything is okay after losing his bf for almost another decade all while silently plotting his next and greatest escape before getting chucked into solitary for a year. u//c, obviously

GREY WARDEN // UNPOSSESSED

A purely self indulgent verse to explore the what ifs if Anders had never ran away from the Grey Wardens. By default this verse assumes that by not merging with Justice, Kristoff's body eventually was unable to function and Anders instead helped him return to the Fade, despite how he would have otherwise been willing to go through with other plans if not for Rolan's presence when the moment finally came. I'm willing to adjust this verse's default assumption of what happens to Justice as needed to other character's verses where they instead become the spirit's host.

This verse extends through the same period of time as Dragon Age 2 onwards and certain events in it might put him in Kirkwall or Inquisition locations at various points in time. In this situation, Anders ultimately avoided possession by his friend, a spirit of Justice--- the blond finding himself unwilling to go through with such a thing while both mage and spirit were under then constant watch of a former Templar that was allowed into the Order shortly after the Warden Commander had moved on. Hesitant and suspicious of the fact that both of them were constantly given the same assignments with said former Templar by the Orlesian Wardens who outranked him ( and made him give up his cat ), Anders eventually sensed something was up. Mind rife with paranoia, he eventually deduced that Rolan was just waiting for him to make some small tiny mistake to justify outright killing him and, by extension, such a thing would also allow the Senior Wardens to wash their hands of the former apostate. 

Without melding himself with Justice, many of Anders' budding issues that the spirit would have otherwise taken issue to and attempt to correct only continued to grow through the years; the mage becoming something close to a functional alcoholic with a promiscuous streak that waxes and wanes in accordance to his moods and, ultimately, mental state. He is still an extremely skilled healer despite this, and, as the years past, has become expected to train both new mage and new non-mage wardens under him in the nuances of quick, messy field chirurgy and intermediate herbalism--- a role that he enjoys far more than he imagined he would.

INQUSITOR // HERALD OF ANDTRASTE

The Maker, if He does exist, certainly has a sense of humor. Or at least, this is what the mage grimly told himself when faced with the reality of the pulsing, agonizing wound upon his palm and the distrusting, angry faces that surrounded him once he woke. He had just wanted to see it, hope in his heart for the moment where the Divine sided with the mages--- wishful thinking for a man who had gone through all that he had. Yet, as with all things in his life: his wants never quite go to plan.

your typical ‘what-if’ verse, u//c

MODERN DAY

A licensed physician with a complicated past, and the mental illnesses to go along with it. Anders thinks he works best under the stress of the emergency department, though a part of him longs to settle into life as the owner of his own private clinic. A mundane man, with only _slightly_ eccentric interests ( an educated man, vaguely interested in the occult? ), who somehow managed to gather ( and keep! ) a gaggle of friends from all walks of life despite how ' depressing ‘ he can become at times.

mass effect? fallout? elder scrolls?

[bisexualryder]

Okay dude i’ll bite, can i know more about your trio wardens au ? Like how did they meet ? Who did they romance ? What happens to them after dao ? In da2 ? Dai ? (Sorry im just a huge fan of ocs and i love the wardens)

Ahhh, first off - thank you for asking! I’m happy to gush about my trio of idiots wardens :D Secondly - don’t apologize for asking! I love talking about my OCs, I’m just bad about keeping up with posting and such lately (but hope to fix that soon, especially if I make this extra sideblog). ANYWHO, gonna jump in and apologize now if this gets long, lol.

—

SO I’ll hit romance first since that’s quicker and easier. Rylee and Ise (eventually) become a thing - they’re married by the time DAI rolls around. Typical grumpy asshole falls in love with ray of sunshine and doesn’t want to admit it at first. She tries to play it cool and ends up playing it too cool until she gets some help from the couple companions she befriends (mostly Zev, since Sten doesn’t care that much, but he offers his insight on what qunari do). But they don’t actually, like, really become a romance-y thing until after ghoul!Tamlen shows up and oof that one is painful.

Eleri I… don’t know yet, to be honest. She was a re-imagining of my old Cousland, who romanced Alistair, but with Eleri I’m actually leaning a bit more toward Zevran. But uh, still not sure yet, I’m mad indecisive on this one. tbh even Nate is in the running for her *shrug emoji*

On to the rest!

DA:O

They don’t all join the standard way, I guess, but they do all meet at Ostagar. Ducan officially recruits Rylee and Isethari, Eleri recruits herself, lol.

Rylee is recruited first. Standard Tabris origin there and it’s on the way to Ostagar that they plan to stop and see the Dalish elves and that’s when they find Isethari half-dead in the middle of the woods (it was sheer luck, really). Duncan sends Rylee, carrying the nearly-dead Ise, to the camp and goes to investigate the area. Other than Rylee wandering around the Dalish camp like an awestruck idiot, most of the Mahariel origin is the same. Rylee stays behind in the camp, though, when Ise and co. are sent back to the ruin where they run into Duncan. Once they leave, Rylee earns herself the duty of ensuring that Isethari doesn’t run on their trip to Ostagar, bc let me tell you Ise is not happy about leaving without finding Tamlen.

Now for Eleri, she escapes the castle with only her mabari after her parents sacrifice themselves to buy her time to get out. She manages to make it to the stables for her horse and rides as hard as she can to Ostagar, desperate to find her brother. When she basically gets told that he’s out scouting and she likely won’t see him before the battle, she asks about the wardens and is pointed toward Duncan. At that point, she goes up to him like: “I just slaughtered my way through an army of men trying to assassinate my family. I have nothing left but this dream, please.” He asks clarification, she provides, he eventually agrees and sends her off to gather the other recruits and report back with Alistair. It’s at that point she meets Rylee and Isethari, who are hanging around close together by the quartermaster (after Rylee nearly kills Daveth for hitting on that one woman, you know the one). 

From there up until the start of the fight, it progresses as it normally would in canon. They all get their quest, go out into the wilds, etc. etc. And once they survive the Joining, they have a pre-meeting meeting thing. Alistair and Eleri join the meeting as per canon, and Duncan assigns Rylee and Ise to the remaining warden forces. So from there, canon-typical for Eleri. Go to the tower, light the beacon, get almost killed and then saved by Flemeth, etc.

Rylee and Ise, however, have a much more trying experience. Rylee takes a genlock to the face (claws? blade? idk lmao) for Ise to protect her - this being around the time they can see the battle is going south. Duncan’s already been killed at this point and Ise starts to panic (she hates fighting as it is) and manages to half convince, half drag Rylee from the fighting and they flee the battle to the nearest town (naturally, Lothering). They end up meeting up with Eleri and Alistair (and Morrigan) again and explain what happened from their perspective and then work with Eleri and Alistair to come up with a plan of action.

Eleri takes up the role of warden-commander (since Alistair and Ise don’t want to lead and everyone knows Rylee leading is a Very Bad Idea™).

Uhhh, key highlights of what they do I guess would be:

Sided with the Mages

Irving saved, Uldred dead etc etc

Put Bhelen in power

Branka’s killed

sent Dagna off to study ofc

Sided with the Dalish against the werewolves

two elves with one being Dalish and the other violently racist made it a simple choice for Eleri to lessen a headache later (she had way too much else to worry about than argue with them)

Helped Redcliffe and saved Conner

demon killed w/Jowan’s help (he does the ritual and Morrigan is sent in to yeet the demon out)

Isolde’s alive

side note: didn’t poison the Urn

Anora rules w/ Alistair

Loghain alive & recruited as a warden (recruited post-final fight)

Alistair still performs the ritual with Morrigan

Awakening

Not too much of note here. Rylee is the one that finds Nathaniel, though, and it does not go well for him. It’s only Ise that stays Rylee’s hand from killing him. When they bring him to Eleri, she immediately recruits him when she realizes it’s her old friend. He’s still pretty ticked, but softens about the whole thing a bit when he realizes Eleri is around.

With more wardens, they’re able to more easily protect the Keep and Amaranthine. And the Architect does live (much to Rylee’s great annoyance).

DA2 & DAI

Sometime in here is when Rylee and Ise get married. They have two ceremonies - one in the Denerim alienage to honor Rylee’s culture and then again when they find Ise’s clan outside Kirkwall.

Hawke and co. do run into Ise and Rylee in the Deep Roads during the expedition (as they are canon with Ashley Hawke, there’s not a twin to save). BUT the two of them help Ash and crew gtfo and back safely to Kirkwall. Turns out they saw Bodahn on their way into the Deep Roads to investigate and got a tip to keep an eye out for some lost members of the expedition (the whole leaving suddenly without them thing didn’t sit right with him).

Later on, in that mission where you run into Nate? Eleri’s with him, though doesn’t actually advertise herself as the warden-commander while chatting with Ash. Ash isn’t dumb, though, (not always, at least) and gets a feeling Eleri might be kinda more in charge than she was told. So when wardens start disappearing, she takes a chance and makes contact. It ultimately pays off when Eleri sends Rylee and Ise to help the Inquisition.

During the events of Here Lies the Abyss in Inquisition, it’s Rylee that stays behind to buy everyone time to escape. And, much like when Ise was taken from her clan, she has to be dragged out - this time by the Inquisitor herself (Olivia, for the record) - kicking, screaming, and utterly sobbing that they’re leaving her wife behind.

BUT because fuck canon, Rylee survives and kinda wanders around the raw Fade until she finds another open rift. This ends up dumping her into the ass end of Orlais somewhere and it takes her a while to make her way back to Skyhold, but dammit! She and Ise do get a happy ending. It does take a while though, it really does. And for that duration, Ise doesn’t leave Skyhold for anything after they get her back there. Resigned, more than anything, she usually perches on an empty wall away from the hustle and bustle of the main areas near the stables. She also doesn’t eat much, only what small bits that Cole brings her.

As for Eleri, she - along with Nate, Velanna, and Sigrun - are searching for the cure. And I really haven’t thought much beyond that.

MAN this got long, I hope you don’t mind! I had a lot of fun thinking about this and gushing a bit about my girls and what they do :D So thank you, again, for asking! One day, I think I plan to write something detailing their journey from start to finish in DAO and maybe beyond, but it’d probably be a series of drabbles? I struggle with long fics and flowing from one chapter to the next, but maybe.

[rosykims]

DRAGON AGE QUESTIONS

tagged by: @nordxz​ thanks so much !!! *heart emoji* 

favourite game of the series?

origins! although inquisition is very close as well.  inquisition was my favourite for a very time, but like midway through last year i replayed origins and it just felt.....so good. i really struggled with enjoying dao because of the clunky fighting system but an amazing mutual introduced me to a mod that lets u skip fights basically lol, so i was just able to focus on the story/characters/exploration of the game, which just....made me realize how immensely beautiful the game actually is, and i fell in love all over again aaaaa

how did you discover dragon age?

i was a huge mass effect fan ! mass effect was the game that motivated me to make this blog, actually, and obviously through following people i saw a lot of posts from the da community as well. so i bought origins and inquisition (i had NO idea there was a da2 until half way through awakening lmao) and tried to play origins but HATED it gtrhutgrhugtr and then eventually gave it another try like a month later and completely loved it and now here we are

how many times you’ve played the games?

not as many times as some people on here have - i would say origins maybe four times, da2 maybe twice, inquisition three times. but that also doesnt count all the timesw ive created new games and then abandoned them lol bc theres too many to count 

favourite race to play as?

love me some elf booty ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

favourite class?

at first it was rogue dual wielder ! i played as a rogue in every single first-time playthrough and idk i felt that class has always been the easiest/most op. but in the last maybe 2 years it’s changed to mage. ive always been super intimidated by magic classes in every game i play but i LOVE inquisition’s mage classes/specializations and i can never go back now

do you play through the games differently or do you make the same decisions each time?

im so so so bad and i usually end up making very similar choices, but usually bc i just......replay the same characters every time hgtuhgtruhgtrui. i REALLY need to make more da ocs to explore more choices but....i dont want to lol i already have to many. i still havent sided with the templars in a playthrough like i just cant do it 

go-to adventuring group?

i always bring my characters love interest with them no matter what, just bc its cute, but usually i try to evenly cycle the other characters around that. i always try to have a warrior/rogue/mage in every party. but sometimes i’ll go warrior/warrior/mage/mage especially if i need to focus on straight damage and a LOT of healing lol

my favourite parties would probably be:

dao - alistair + zevran + wynne (wholesome and also funny)

da2 - anders + fenris + merrill (SO much chaotic energy)

dai - solas + cassandra + cole (i just love them ok)

which of your characters did you put the most thought into?

ashara lavellan, my canon inquisitor who was never supposed to be canon tghtgurhtrg. my original canon inq was a trevelyan rogue, who was super nice and good. i made ashara so that i could actually play as an evil/mean character without feeling bad lol, oh and i also wanted to see what the deal with solas was bc i had heard his romance was good ;;;;) anyway that backfired and i ended up completely falling in love with her, and i STILL couldnt make the tough choices with her so i was like ok maybe she isnt THAT evil and now shes just..... the way she is now i guess lmao

favourite romance?

trhhtruih okay u guys KNOW its solas. u know. i dont even have to say anythiing about it bc...u fucking know

(alistair’s is very close tho)

have you read any of the comics/books?

i havent :(((( im such a bad fan but i cannot deal with ordering online and thats the only place ive been able to find them. im planning on reading asunder and the masked empire as soon as i get the chance (and the money) tho !!

if you read them, which was your favourite book?

nope

favourite DLCs?

trespasser ! its pretty simple and very plot-driven like u didnt have to worry about side missions as much as u would with other dlcs so idk that was... refreshing. but obviously i loved it just bc it was so beautiful and intense and sad (since my chara romanced solas obviously) and that music score????? unbelievable i’ll never be over it

things that annoy you.

can i say the fandom trghuitgrhutrhui

mostly the thing that pisses me off the most is the grey morality. writers trying to make everything deep and Thought Provoking like..... no jerry, slavery IS bad theres no alternative viewpoint lol??????? also the fucking whitewashing makes me see red. 

orlais or ferelden?

ferelden!!!!! (*blows a kiss* for highever)

templars or mages?

mages <3 

if you have multiple characters, are they in different/parallel universes or in the same one?

i only have like 3 protag da characters and they’re all canon, although emeraude is an au. so ella is my canon warden and ashara is my canon inquisitor, but emeraude does exist in that universe, bc i hc she befriended the warden and alistair when they visited the alienage, and she was very outspokenly angry and didn’t really give a shit that alistair was going to be heir. which alistair really,,, appreciated i guess? so emeraude is made his official elven adviser after his coronation but she also kinda helps out as a royal protector because she’s one of the only people in court they both trust completely lol. also she is....stronk. 

and the only other characters i have for da are obviously side characters who are related to my canon protags so. they’re all canon as well lol

what did you name your pets? (mabari, summoned animals, mounts, etc)

ella named her dog ser bark gthutgrhutghruihtr she thought it was cute ok

emeraude just went with barkspawn since alistair came up with the idea as a joke but she thought the joke was so bad she made them keep it as punishment vjhuightui

i dont really have a hawke oc but.....he named his dog shepard in my playthrough ! like from mass effect ;;;;)))

have you installed any mods?

origins is modded to hell and back and i genuinely couldn’t play the game without mods at this point. inquisition is slightly modded but im in the process of removing them all, and only keeping a few because my game runs pretty terribly with them installed 

did your warden want to become a grey warden?

ella did ! but it was kind of,, a naive childhood dream, she had a really romanticized view of the wardens and she wanted a life of excitement and bravery and adventure, not really taking into consider all the bad things about it (and obviously not knowing the full truth about what it means to be a warden)

emeraude did NOT want to be a warden. she basically had to be dragged out of the alienage because she wanted to stay and protect her community. she never really enjoyed being a warden, although her friendship with alistair was its one redeeming quality 

hawke’s personality?

uh i cant remember the colour/personality thing but he was a combo of funny/ethical. mostly there for memes tho. 

did you make matching armor for your companions in inquisition?

for origins i do ! i always make sure alistair and ella wear the grey warden armour, as well as every warden in awakening. thats like, all theyre allowed to wear lmao.

if your character(s) could go back in time to change one thing, what would they change?

ella would obviously change her family’s murder lol, and emeraude would at least try and change what happened at her wedding, to prevent shianni and the others from being hurt. 

ashara would change romancing solas :((( she was so angry at herself after discovering who he was, and she felt weak and foolish which she HATES more than any other feeling, so she definitely wishes she had never met him for a long time. after she kind of processes it though, and learns to deal with her anger, her answer would be that she wishes she had saved the chargers. it’s the one move she made that actually keeps her up at night sometimes. 

do you have any headcanons about your character(s) that go against canon?

ghuitrhuigtrhugtr so many. canon? dont know her. 

the biggest example would be that i hc king!alistair was at the winter palace during the wicked hearts level. because uh..... celene and the fereldan monarchs had been corrosponding for over 10 years, trying to build up rapport, of COURSE the king would be there to see who the potential ruler/s of orlais would be and whether or not he ought to be worried. like. im sorry but alistair was there lol you can’t change my mind. i also hc he helps ashara with information about the grey wardens during this chapter, because ???? it just makes sense??? im so angry i wish this was canon

are any of your characters based on someone?

ok it was unintentional but ashara reminds me of an english teacher i had in highschool who was very scary but also....really cool and i loved her. it was an accident but,, still counts. 

who did you leave in the fade?

gtiturghtugh okay at the risk of pissing off EVERYBODY who reads this, i left hawke in the fade, even though it was a toss up between hawke and stroud. it was ashara’s fault tho !!! she would have 100% prioritzed an alliance with the grey wardens over like,, some guy. it broke my heart but yeah That happened. 

favourite mount?

i like all the elk mounts mostly ! but i never use them bc they sound ugly af

tagging : @trvelyans​ @f3nharel​ @allisondraste​ @ensevens​ @tethraas​ @talizorah​ @fereldun​ if u are up to it <3 and whoever else wants to do this ! 

[urdnotcadash]

Dragon Age Questions

i was tagged by @nordxz thank you so much!

&& IF YOU SEE THIS AND WANT TO DO IT, I’VE OFFICIALLY TAGGED YOU

i think this is a lot of rambling but i hopeit makes sense. feel free to ask if you have any questions about my ocs.

01) Favourite game of the series?

That’s a really tough question, honestly, because i love them all for separate reasons. I play Inquisition the most, but i love origin and 2′s story... so tough question.

02) How did you discover Dragon Age?

I played Skyrim for like 2 years (whenever i felt like playing) & finally got too bored to play. so i searched through my brother's games and found Inquisition. it took a while for me to finish it (bc i played on his console too). thennn i played the games backward. Inquisition, 2, and Origins. 

03) How many times you’ve played the games?

I’ve played through completely 2- 5 times each. but I’ve started countless games each in every game and just didn’t finish them

04) Favourite race to play as?

Dwarf! Especially in Inquisition. 

05) Favourite class?

Rogue! Wielding a bow is my go to. 

06) Do you play through the games differently or do you make the same decisions each time?

Honestly, it depends!  Likeee mage play through= mage rights, but any other class just depends on how i want to play or the background i gave the character. i’ve yet to side with the templars in Dragon Age 2 though. lol.

07) Go-to adventuring group?

Again, it depends. but i almost always have Alistair in origins, Varric in 2. my go tos are: 

dao: Alistair, Wynne, Zevran/ Leliana

da2: Varric, Bethany/ Anders and/or Carver/Aveline, Isabela

dai: Cassandra, Dorian, Iron Bull

08) Which of your characters did you put the most thought into?

i’ve done a lot of work on all of them. I’d say Roxy & Gavin Hawke(&Aidan Amell and Odette Surana bc their stories are related) and August Trevelyan. i don’t write a lot about any of my ocs but i’ve made full timelines and family members for all of them. i still intend to put bios out, but the only one i have finished right now is Stella. I’ll try and start those while im at my moms. c:

09) Favourite romance?

i really appreciate all of them, but i have a few favorites. 

Zevran, Isabela, Iron Bull- which i know they have one thing in common and it’s being known for being extremely sexualized. maybe im a sucker for falling hard and being able to open up to someone. but i really adore their stories and i just want to hug them, ok.

10) Have you read any of the comics/books?

I have the books and haven’t read them, yet. it’s on my long list!

11) If you read them, which was your favourite book?

I’m really looking forward to The Masked Empire tbh. 

12) Favourite DLCs?

The Descent, defiitely! but i haven’t played through them all yet, just all of dai and some of daos. 

13) Things that annoy you.

Representation, probably. yes they have lgbt people but i personally haven’t been able to connect to any of them EXCEPT Lace Harding & she’s not even a full romance! lol. 

theres nothing else that comes to mind or i feel comfortable talking about. 

14) Orlais or Ferelden?

Ferelden.

15) Templars or mages?

Mages.

16) If you have multiple characters, are they in different/parallel universes or in the same one?

They’re really all interchangeable. i need to make a few more characters if i want complete timelines though. for example:

Odette Surana & Aidan Amell, Gavin & Roxy Hawke, Augustine Trevelyan/Sunshine Cadash/ Austa Adaar can make one timeline. Except Odette couldn’t survive without Aidan whereas Aidan wouldn’t be the same without Odette. 

& Stella Tabris, Roxy & Gavin, Sunshine/ August/ Austa could also work. 

hell i’ve even thought about combining them all somehow lol. 

17) What did you name your pets? (mabari, summoned animals, mounts, etc)

(all mabari unless specified otherwise) 

Stella Tabris: Goose & Cricket(found after Blight)

Odette: Ser Barksy Aidan: Barkspawn

Roxy: Sweetums Gavin: Mighty

August: Yellow (named by Clem), Flower (a cat also named by Clem), horse: Pretty Boy

Sunshine: Rose (might be renamed tho) and her Battle Nug: Nugget

Austa: Precious (Josie’s mabari), 

18) Have you installed any mods?

Two for Origins, one to skip the fade in the circle and another for an all romance mod- i think. 

19) Did your Warden want to become a Grey Warden?

Aidan did far more than Odette, Aidan wanted out of the circle. Odette wanted to take Irving’s place- she wanted to make the circle better. 

Stella wanted the hell away from the life her dad imagined for her, she was scared but excited. She didn’t like how it happened, nor the responsibility that was placed on her shoulders.. but she knew she just wanted MORE. 

20) Hawke’s personality?

Roxy: Purple Gavin: Blue

The twins really help one another, yes they can survive without the other but they wouldn’t be the same. Roxy keeps Gavn from being so serious and Gavin reminds her to me more... sensitive.. even if it doesn’t always work. 

21) Did you make matching armor for your companions in Inquisition?

lmaoo noo, im so lazy about armor. as long as they look good i don’t reallt care. 

22) If your character(s) could go back in time to change one thing, what would they change?

August, would have done more for her daughter’s father.. she would have been on watch the night he was taken. Losing her best friend was very hard for her. 

Sunshine, once upon a time, wished to leave when her sister did... but after the Inquisition, she was thankful for it. For the people, she’s met, and the skills she developed during that time. 

23) Do you have any headcanons about your character(s) that go against canon?

Sort of? i have them work around the canon...sorta.

Odette only survives because of Aidan (two heros isn’t canon so), because if Aidan didn’t exist she wouldn’t have even told Alistair about the dark ritual and wouldn’t have let him go to the final battle. Thus sacrificing herself. 

Roxy and Gavin: Twin Hawke AU where all the siblings survive. Roxy and Gavin fight the Ogre, saving one of the twins. Carver becomes a Warden and Bethany joins the circle. 

Austa’s parent’s escaped the Qun, but they escape with two of their own biological children Oz and Austa.  & Valo Kas actually started from the remains of an old Tal Vashoth community and have since built to a large merc company her brother and father run. 

&August had her daughter Clementine at her childhood home and left her there to be raised- bc her parent’s used her status to have that privilege.

The Cadash Carta works a little differently. Instead of one person at the head: it’s a council, like orzammar, and several families run their expanded carta family. The children can inherit their parent’s position in the council unless they don’t have kids or are voted off. So since Sunshine’s father is part of the council meaning her younger brother, Wesley, is being trained for their father’s position. Zelde (oldest sister ), left before she could even be considered and Sunshine was trained to be an assassin from a young age.. so she also wasn’t being considered. 

so i guess they all do... oops. 

24) Are any of your character(s) based on someone?

not really. probably should bc they all look really similar imo. I do have different oc aesthetic boards that give you an idea though!

25) Who did you leave in the Fade?

im a weak bitch who decides they all somehow get out.........  but Stroud. poor guy. 

26) Favourite mount?

the war nug! <3 i love them. 

[bi-mirandalawson]

5, 6, 13, 15 & 31 for now? owo

REALLY LONG BC I LIKE THESE QUESTIONS SO IM ANSWERING THEM FOR ALL FIVE INQUISITORS 

5 i already answered 

6. Who did they romance and why?

cirhys romanced sera bc sera swooped in and stole her heart like so many breeches. she is so funny and she keeps cirhys from taking everything too seriously. she thinks sera is noble, and deserves more respect than she gets for all the work she does with the jennies and with the inquisition.

mellona romanced iron bull and also blackwall. she respects iron bull bc he is a good leader and they work together. bc he shows that he can be trusted. blackwall she really is only attracted to after she sees his dynamic with iron bull. they are like the three musketeers ?? she sees him as a good guy who is motivated by what is right. and she thinks he is very upfront with her (lmao) and she values that. 

rivaas romanced dorian bc hes So Fucking Charming. he’s witty and funny and always has a quip about everything and rivaas fucking loves it. they have really good Banter. rivaas really falls in love when he starts to see the softer more emotional side of dorian.

ev romanced josephine bc she’s so pretty. she’s pretty and smart and so good at The Game and diplomacy in general and she works so hard all the time and the way her hair falls around her face ?? ev first flirted with her bc she was pretty and after getting to know her better, she could literally spend all day talking about things she likes about josephine. 

romelos romanced solas because i wanted her to suffer he is smart and soft spoken mostly and she actually swooned the first time he did the rhyming thing. because he was there from the beginning and he saved her life. because she values his perspective and knowledge. because they talk for hours about magic and the fade. because he helps her make sense of things. 

13. What did they thing of Solas?

cirhys is indifferent ?? she is grateful for his advice and knowledge, and of course, for the fact that he saved her life after the conclave. but personally she doesn’t care much about him ?? trespasser is an awful surprise and it hurts but only bc she thinks its her fault for not realizing who he is and what he wanted to do. 

mellona does Not like him. she thinks he is full of himself and talks too much. she likes people who are straightforward and he always takes so fucking long to say anything and she’s so tired of talking to him. (my first mellona playthru is the only playthru where i got the chance to punch him)

rivaas likes him. he actually specializes in fade magic bc of solas. he sees him as a friend and mentor. likes the meandering conversations with him. not best friends but enough for him to take it personally when he finds out the truth in trespasser

ev considers him one of her closer friends. he reminds her of rivaas except older and not as ?? friendly ???? she likes his companionship bc he is pretty much always available to talk. takes his betrayal Super Personally and is really angry and hurt about it for a long time. she tells herself that she will stop him by any means necessary but i dont know if she actually would. 

romelos is in love with him. tragically. after the bit with the vallaslin she kind of has to hate him for a while to get over her hurt and not let it consume her or distract her (and she hates that bc thats what solas told her - to harden her heart to a cutting edge and use the pain) trespasser fucking hurts because she thought she was super over him and moved on with her life but she starts putting together the pieces and by the time solas shows up she Knows and she’s starting to understand why he left her like that but she has so many questions and feels so guilty because she should have been able to change his mind and also why wasn’t she good enough to change his mind. she also wants to think that she will stop him by any means necessary but she wants to try to save him. she doesn’t want to kill him unless she has to. 

15. Our of the followers/companions, who are they most comfortable around?

other than romances ?? 

cirhys’ best friend is iron bull and she adores cole. other than sera, they’re the ones she spends the most time with and feels most herself around. 

for mellona its iron bull blackwall and vivienne. maybe with a side of dorian. she isn’t really ‘comfortable’ around anyone else? she keeps everyone at a distance and these are really the only people she gets close to in any meaningful way. 

for rivaas its cassandra. solas a little but he feels like he can’t quite relax around solas ? he feels like he needs to sit up straight and make eye contact when they’re talking and shit. but he loves hanging around cassandra (especially when its him and cassandra and dorian omg they’re all bffs its great) 

ev is most comfortable around sera and blackwall. sera especially. blackwall is a little intimidating to hang out with at first just bc he practically kisses the ground u walk on and she doesn’t want that all the time but with sera he can let himself let loose and ev can leave all the inquisitor stuff behind. 

romelos is most comfortable around iron bull. she is practically a charger t b h. (hey if sera can make you a red jenny then iron bull should make you a charger ??) she feels more accepted with them than with anyone else. she doesn’t worry about disappointing them or not working hard enough or whatever. 

31. Did they let Solas kill the mages?

so only ev and romelos got close enough for him to even come to them with that problem ?? 

ev lets him kill them bc she thinks they deserve it tbh. 

romelos stops him because she doesn’t want to be accomplice to a murder. and she thinks they’ve been scared enough to learn their lesson and not do that shit again. 

[dykepaldi]

sort the companions too maybe? :)))

i was practically falling asleep as i wrote the one last night, so i had to wait until now, i’m afraid, but i’m ALWAYS A SLUT FOR DW HOGWARTS AUS

rose is definitely gryffindor to me, she always fights for what she believes in, and, obviously, she is incredibly brave. i’ve seen her sorted into hufflepuff which i guess works because she’s protective of the doctor and her family, but her actions are certainly more gryffindor, and she definitely values bravery as well. (if i were using the @sortinghatchats method, i’d say she’s hufflepuff primary gryffindor secondary)

jack is difficult, because he has quite a few aspects of all the houses, but overall i think i’d go with slytherin for him - the ways he saves the world in torchwood are often doing something bad for the ‘greater good’ (e.g. killing his grandson), and he has the slytherin trait that i love so much of not necessarily caring about everyone, but he has a few people close to him that he would unleash hell on anyone who tried to hurt them. also, he’s cunning and manipulative, and i’d say he was quite ambitious before becoming immortal.

the obvious choice for martha would be ravenclaw (and i actually sorted her there in my now dead and buried hogwarts au ask blog), but i think hufflepuff suits her slightly better. her main priority is her family, she was incredibly loyal to the doctor (which blinded her for a while, stopping her realising how much of a dick he was), she was kind to all the minor characters, and she’s very hard working. then again, i feel like she may be more likely to choose ravenclaw, so who knows.

i’ve always thought of donna as a hufflepuff, and that hasn’t changed, but i think she has quite a few ravenclaw tendencies as well. she definitely values kindness, is very protective of her family (even if she won’t admit it in the case of her mum), and she has a very loyal friendship with the doctor. she is also hard-working, as shown by her mission to find the doctor again in ‘partners in crime’, but that could also show that she’s inquisitive, hence the ravenclaw tendencies.

amy, rory and river are gryffindor, hufflepuff and slytherin, respectively. i don’t have detailed arguments for these three but i really don’t think i need to, they are the epitomes of their houses tbh.

ive sorted clara into every house before; after s7 i was like 'i… don’t…… know…….. but maybe hufflepuff??’ which we now know is incredibly incorrect lmao. after s8 i was very adamant that she was slytherin, but then after s9 im realising she has quite a few gryffindor traits. overall though, definitely slytherin. the scene in dark water when she tries to get danny back is 300% slytherin, and she would almost certainly risk everything to save the doctor à la heaven sent. i think there was a line in hide when That Woman was practically dying because of the metebilis 3 crystal, but the doctor was still in the pocket universe, and That Guy was like 'she can’t do it’ and clara said 'SHE HAS TO!’ which is super slytherin. she’s also manipulative, as shown in that scene, and her scenes with bonnie, and i’d say she was quite ambitious, particularly in the way she tried to keep up her normal life and her tardis life. the gryffindor recklessness only really came about because of danny’s death, so i think naturally she’s slytherin.

while bill was still in the queue to be sorted, the hat went 'right, she’s probably a ravenclaw. could be a hufflepuff though. a few gryffindor traits.’ then the hat touched the top of her afro and screamed 'RAVENCLAW!’ and that was that. she’s just!! so!! inquisitive!!! and so eager to learn!!!! the doctor is literally teaching her everything, she asks a million questions (that aren’t even necessarily relevant) every episode, she picks up on the tiny details (such as the bugs being a weird present in 'knock knock’), and once she’s interested in something she wants to know everything about it (the ninth legion). as a lesbian ravenclaw, i welcome this lesbian into ravenclaw.