#but damn remember when I used to post drabbles on a consistent schedule 🙃 i miss being able to WRITE

[darethshirl]

I posted 2,122 times in 2022

That's 1,509 more posts than 2021!

68 posts created (3%)

2,054 posts reblogged (97%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@noire-pandora

@potatowitch

@wildercrow

@dreadfutures

@transfenris-truther

I tagged 431 of my posts in 2022

#my writing - 42 posts

#dragon age - 39 posts

#arcane - 18 posts

#art - 18 posts

#ask meme - 16 posts

#not da - 16 posts

#solas - 16 posts

#solavellan - 13 posts

#my oc - 10 posts

#zevran arainai - 9 posts

Longest Tag: 129 characters

#and the inherent satisfaction of pushing our own parental issues to a martyred fictional character that we have full control over

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

No matter how well Solas dons his armor—literal and metaphorical both—Lyanna always finds the cracks in it.

When they embrace, the rotunda hushed around them, she rests her head on his shoulder, the scent of her hair subtle and earthy as he inhales. Her lips land on his neck, on his fluttering pulse-point, a pressure as soft as a butterfly’s kiss. The weight of that simple gesture leaves him breathless. Brings him to his knees.

When they lie in bed together, naked and entangled, she clutches at his back, digs her fingers deep into his flesh. Her gasps are pressed against his cheek, his ear, the sounds sending a line of fire down his nerves and skin and core, the entire totality of his being. She finds the vulnerable junction of his neck and shoulder and bites, hard and merciless, claiming her due. He comes undone, an earth-shattering convulsion he is helpless to stop.

When they sit by the campfire, the air filled with soft crackling and softer murmurs, she smiles at him. The curve of her mouth is sweet under the starlight, the gleam of her eyes kind. She reaches carefully between them and touches his hand, lets her fingers fall on his palm. Her grasp is loose, gentle, easy to break. Asking for nothing.

He always returns it.

69 notes - Posted January 7, 2022

#4

“My dear man,” Zevran said with badly-suppressed amusement, “it’s only a small needle.”

“That is not small.” Alistair crossed his arms protectively over his bare chest, glaring at said tool with hate and mistrust. “That’s not even in the same category as ‘small’. Look at it! It’s as long as your finger!”

“Hmm. I suppose It bodes well for me that you’re impressed by such a size.”

Alistair ignored the glint in the other man’s eyes as well as his own blush. “Look, I’m just saying, some things were never meant to be this big. Things like nasty needles that are supposed to go under your skin, over and over again!”

“Don’t you want your own tattoo?” Zevran adroitly changed the subject, his voice going playful and honey-sweet. “An impressive, intricate, awe-inspiring tattoo to showcase your virility and good taste?”

“Well… well, yes.”

“Excellent! Then come, let’s get started. You’ll barely feel a thing, I promise.”

“Oh, sure, I believe you,” Alistair said with all the sarcasm he could muster. “Not!”

A loud sigh suddenly interrupted them, coming from Morrigan’s side of the camp. “Alistair, stop acting an overgrown toddler and get this over with already!”

“Stop butting into my personal business!” Alistair yelled back. “What do even care what I do?”

“I don’t!”

“Good! Then act like it!”

“I will, once you stop bothering us all with your donkey braying!”

Alistair scoffed. “I’m not bothering anyone. Am I bothering you guys?”

“Well,” Leliana offered cheerfully, “you are being rather loud.”

“You’ve been bothering me since the day you were born,” Sten muttered darkly.

“That doesn’t even make sense!”

“Alistair,” Mahariel finally spoke up, and everyone fell quiet as he lifted up his eyes, his gaze serious. “You don’t have to do anything you feel uncomfortable with. You know that, right?”

Alistair deflated, feeling both warmed and slightly embarrassed by his friend’s worry. “I—I know…” Coming to a decision, he inhaled sharply and clapped his hands. “Okay. Okay, I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

He kept quiet as Zevran approached. He made nary a peep as the needle touched his skin, its tip sharpened and much too cold.

He squealed at the first prickling. 

“Alright, my friend,” Zevran sighed, patting Alistair kindly on the shoulder. “We’ll work up to it.”

93 notes - Posted April 7, 2022

#3

“My liege.” Zevran gave an exaggerated, theatrical bow, bending so low that a strand of his hair touched the floor. “Your humble servant greets you.”

“Alright,” Alistair laughed nervously. His crown—already the simplest design he could get away with without inciting a rebellion among the nobility—suddenly felt heavy. “Ha, alright, yes, you’ve had your fun. Now stop making things weird.”

Zevran’s laugh sounded a million times more natural that Alistair’s pitiful attempt, not that this was particularly hard to achieve. His eyes glittered as he rose from his bow, his smile roguish. “Weird? My dear friend, I’m simply treating you with the respect you deserve. You’re a king now! A changed man.”

“No, no, definitely not changed—I mean—I mean, it’s only been a few months! People don’t just change after a few months!” A sense of doubt started to spread sinister tendrils in his mind. “...Right?”

“Some things definitely do,” Zevran said with overstated authority, then pointed a dramatically accusing finger. “Like this!”

“Like what?” Alistair glanced down in pure confusion. “My chest?”

“Your shirt. You’re wearing silk. Embroidered silk at that. My dear Alistair,” Zevran chuckled, trying valiantly to keep a straight face, “you have a fashion sense now.”

“Oh! Well…” Alistair thought about mentioning that this was simply the first shirt he picked out, blindly, from his fully-stocked closet this the morning, then decided against it. “Yeah, I guess it’s nice. Feels better than sweat-soaked armor, that’s for sure.” He snorted, and wasn’t even that sarcastic when he added, “Lots of creature comforts like that, when you become a king. Perks of the job.”

Zevran hummed absentmindedly, then walked up to Alistair and slung a casual arm over his shoulders. “I miss this, you know. You, babbling incoherently. Me, dazzling everyone with my presence.” He sighed expansively, looking around at the palace gardens as if to enjoy the view—which was hard to imagine, considering it was late autumn and all the trees were dead. “The road just isn’t the same without you.”

“Yeah,” Alistair said quietly. There was a lump in his throat all of a sudden, a twinge in his chest. “Yeah.”

Zevran’s gaze turned kind. He gripped Alistair’s shoulder, a subtle but much-appreciated show of camaraderie. “And how are you doing? Truly.”

“I’m… okay.” Alistair took a fortifying breath, then squared his shoulders. “Truly. It’s an adjustment, sure, but… I’m learning. And I am making a difference,” he said, the confidence rising in his voice. “I’ll make sure of that.”

Zevran gave Alistair’s shoulder one last squeeze, the clapped his hands. “Well! Enough catching up. Now, what kind of entertainment do you have in store for your esteemed guest? And I’m warning you, I’m expecting the royal treatment.”

“I’m gonna regret inviting you, aren’t I?” Alistair sighed, but he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. He smile was there for everyone to see, as bright as the sun.

113 notes - Posted May 5, 2022

#2

everytime I see a Solas hater be a weeny pissy baby over him being such a big part of the next game my petty lil grinch heart grows three sizes

123 notes - Posted December 4, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

For a single, heart-stopping second, Zevran thinks it’s his mother’s gloves he’s being offered.

It makes no sense, of course. Separated both by distance and immeasurable time, those well-loved relics are far gone from his reach, their soft touch only a memory in his heart. Still, these disappointingly new and clearly well-made gloves feel familiar in his hands, the brown leather crackling as he grips them tight.

Opposite him Mahariel sits quiet and solemn, his body limned by firelight. He stares at Zevran, expectant but not demanding, his dark eyes gleaming.

The glib words that usually come so effortlessly to Zevran now fail him. He swallows past a lump in his throat he refuses to acknowledge. “Thank you,” he says. His voice almost wavers.

Mahariel’s serious visage cracks into a smile, beautiful and warm, all the more precious for its rarity. “I’m glad you liked it.”

Such a simple line, such simple words. Zevran can only nod, and hold his own too-powerful, too-damning emotions back.

193 notes - Posted February 18, 2022

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