#rosy-codex

[mr-mansnoozie]

hello! I just came across your blog and I really love your work! 💛✨

I was wondering - since Sandy sends dreamsand to basically everyone on the planet, how would he deal with lucid dreamers? Especially ones that sometimes have nightmares?

Would it literally be a battle where Sandy and Pitch are in the same bedroom, both of them fighting to make the dream good or bad? How would the sleeper react - would they twitch a little, or toss and turn? Going off of another headcanon here: can Pitch see the nightmare the same way Sandy can see the dream?

That could also beg the question: who is really in control - Sandy, Pitch, or the sleeper themselves?

I’d really appreciate it if you did something on this! Thanks so much 💛

Hello friend!

I can only imagine you sent this in an age ago and I am so sorry for making you wait so long for a response, hopefully this comes as a welcome answer to you, out of the abyss of time that are my hiatuses. I am glad you enjoy my head canons, I can only apologise for them haha. I hope this one lives up to any expectations you had.

I think lucid dreamers are a whole other kettle of fish for Sandy. While I do believe that the realm of dreams is something Sandy can enter at will and just as easily as stepping through a door since he can fall asleep on cue. Maybe he spots lucid dreamers roaming around places they shouldn't be or doing things that he has not weaved into his dreams.

He does not take any offense to these people though, if anything he is more likely to admire their work and what they're doing. He never ceases to be amazed at humans and their creativity so while he was definitely surprised when he encountered the first lucid dreamer just wandering around he only turned all the more fascinated and amazed at the dreamers of Earth and that they too could walk freely in dreams as he could. He takes of note of who the lucid dreamers are though and makes a special effort to ensure that despite their lucidity, they are still getting proper rest.

Sandy will probably happily watch a lucid dreamer as they go about their business in the dream world. Maybe even taking inspiration from a few of their ideas. He is not human, sometimes he misses things. Who knew that people apparently not dreaming about phones was a thing? Not Sandy! At least not until a lucid dreamer pulled one out.

However, as your question alludes to, it may not always be fun, smiles and mischief for lucid dreamers. While Sandy does try his best to protect them, the world of dreams is a dangerous place. I do think Pitch can see nightmares the same as Sandy can see dreams. I imagine it is easier for Pitch to change a lucid dream into a nightmare, he need only whisper enough fear worthy things into a lucid dreamer's ear and that blissful adventure can quickly turn into a horror.

In such cases and where Sandy is not already out distributing dreams, if he can see or sense a dream becoming corrupted he will rush to wherever it is the lucid dreamer is suffering and yes, attempt to battle Pitch in the bedroom of the sleeper to convert the nightmare back into a dream. Sandy will always try to soothe a sleeper back into a nicer dream, hoping that whatever horrors Pitch has unleashed will be easily forgotten by the lull of sleep, he will do his best not to wake a dreamer. Pitch on the other hand wants to scare someone awake, and try and have the final image of his horrors imprinted on their mind so they can't forget it. This creates quite the impasse.

Sandy and Pitch will fight it out in that bedroom, yes very likely causing the dreamer to twitch and toss and turn in their sleep as their dream switches between comfort and nightmare as one tries to keep them asleep and the other to scare them awake. Sometimes Pitch wins, sometimes Sandy wins. However the difference is that Sandy is a presence that attends every night. No matter how determined Pitch is, Sandy will always be there every night and every time that person falls asleep, ready to fight and chase away the Nightmare King and the little Starling is relentless and eventually always wins.

That could also beg the question: who is really in control - Sandy, Pitch, or the sleeper themselves?

An excellent point. I do believe for lucid dreamers, Sandy at least creates a safe almost 'base' dream for them to enjoy, like putting them in a park or a fancy castle, but leaving the rest of the creativity and actions up to the dreamer themselves as that seems to be what they relish, he's also probably learned that lucid dreamers do not follow his weaved stories and can often go very far off track where everyone involved is confused. So he simply tries to put them somewhere safe and let them loose. Sandy does not seek to control these dreams. When Pitch corrupts these dreams, he is trying to gain control of them by manipulating the dreamer. So Pitch himself is never actually in control of a lucid dream, he's more steering the sailboat without being able to predict the wind. His aim is to instil enough fear to wake them up- and no doubt cause more fear in the waking world.

The lucid dreamer has a lot more control over the events of their dream but they also cannot fully control it when Sandy and Pitch are battling in their bedroom and both entities are trying to steer them one way or the other. Sandy tries not to steer but to prevent a nightmare taking hold, he is for sure going to do his best to push a dreamer back into the sweeter side of dreams.

In the end for lucid dreamers, it may be whoever genuinely has the most power that night. Sandy will leave them be once the nightmare is chased off, Pitch will of course linger until Sandy turns up and the lucid dreamer may even get to decide either way themselves. Dream or Nightmare, maybe even in a dream it can come down to one seemingly insignificant action or another. Maybe the fate of these battles is determined by which the lucid dreamer inadvertently sides with, making the fight two against one.

[wardensantoineandevka]

[revvethasmythh]

WEEPING about this codex entry, which was delivered unto me immediately following a Lucanis and Taash party banter about how Taash thought the Crows were WICKED cool as a kid despite Shathann's best efforts and Lucanis replies, "this explains SO much about you."

[roseverdict]

curiosity striking me in the middle of the night lol

[sunlight-shunlight]

I thought the way Felassan came off as extremely relieved and immediately hugged Briala after she dropped the line of questioning about his people suggested that, while he would have been duty-bound to kill her if she had pressed him on her suspicions about his people, he very much did not want to. The ancient elves at the temple of Mythal also kill any elves (excluding children) that venture too close to the temple, so I figure it’s an ancient elven secrecy thing as much as it is an agent of Fenharel thing. He also tells her something ominous like “you don’t want to meet my clan da’len”. It’s too bad they dropped both of those factions from the game so we never got to find out more about their whole deal, it probably would have added some context to his actions. His hesitance and his relief that she didn’t press him on the issue did come across quite strongly to me though.  But you’re right that the way that Mhiris and the Dalish are portrayed is WIIIILD. Crazy that they’re framed as inhospitable when they nursed a woman who burned down an alianage back to health, they should have stone cold killed the empress while they had the chance lol

yeah!! i was also very hyped to see what his ~clan~ was ahahah. i guess they all just retired by veilguard. F to pay respects.

my hottest take (unsubstantiated, but it's similar in a lot of the tabletop rpgs lore that gaider and weekes were inspired by) is that i think they may have been angling to show like... there were multiple immortal elf servants of various evanuris that survived to the modern day, and they're all kind of in a shadow conflict for different goals while trying to avoid notice.

personally i also thought it was really specific how the codexes said that the meaning of "harellan" only changed from "rebel" to "traitor" after the dales fell, and how wolves had a very honoured place in their society. which one could consider a very mythal-esque culture, of having a nobility structure but some respect for the concept of rebellions, having wolves as honoured servants, and not being as extremely hierarchical and oppressive as orlais or tevinter.

and this perception of wolves/rebels completely flipped for the dalish diaspora afterwards. like that's SUCH a specific change, which you can't put down to chantry influence, bc they still hate the chantry. nor did the concept of wolves, rebellions, or fen'harel have anything to do with why the dales collapsed, they just got rolled over by orlais as a larger country. so who would have any reason to promote this change... aside from like "disaffected elgar'nan follower who woke up from uthenera and got Cranky"?

and! the dalish in general have SUCH a rosy view of the evanuris that it becomes implausible for them to have developed that without some kind of pressure? like they would have some oral histories which should not all be the same, they have actual ruins and texts which they seem to place great value on, even just going to a ruin and seeing "wow this place has like a torture dungeon and a sacrifice altar, looks bad" would tip them off that something's up.

the only explanation (aside from "it's bad writing" which is also possible) would have to be some kind of quiet pressure being placed by a few evanuris following immortal elves, pretending to be dalish, who maintain some kind of orthodoxy and prevent anyone from getting too spicy with their takes.

which is neat! and would explain solas and felassan's disdain for the dalish - they would see it as partisan loyalty from the dalish rather than just being misinformed. and i think as a metaphor that is unironically very fun, like the toxic historical revisionism and whitewashing of an old empire's atrocities, is Literally A Person that is haunting the culture and preventing them from growing.

[linka-from-captain-planet]

WIP I'll Probably Never Finish Wednesday

sometime in October, I posted a list of kinktober concepts I'd write if my brain weren't soup. I picked at a couple here and there, but none really went anywhere except "Neve and Rana once got sex pollened while working a case together and that's why they act so weird about each other." I wrote the fun part (the lead-up and Neve in full ಠ_ಠ dying mad mode over her lack of control over the situation) and don't feel like writing the boring part (actually banging) or adapting it to suit canon better (re: Brom and such; I wrote most of this pre-release) but I had fun writing it, so I'm posting what I have for funsies

Fun fact: one of Neve's codex entries about the wisps mentions they avoid her notes on "the Opal Rose case" for an unknown reason and I thought that sounded juicy, so I stole it for this fic

Somehow this managed to be a rambling and barely edited 2800 words and I would issue a warning about dubious consent because of the nature of the trope and Neve finding the arousal variably unwelcome, but there is no sex below the cut

The Opal Rose. Western fringe between Docktown and the lower market district. Well past midnight.

The reputation is good enough—but also bad enough that the rumors already seemed credible even before she began her investigation and found a few people willing to speak up. 

Unusually urgent arousal. Erratic behavior. Reckless spending, of course, in desperation to scratch the itch. Someone—something—has Docktown bewitched, and Neve is no prude, but who or whatever is taking advantage of her neighbors won’t get away with it.

Of course, she’s too well-recognized as a gumshoe to simply waltz in the front door; she wouldn’t make it past the bar before the perp wiped all the evidence. Fortunately, it wasn’t hard to track down a disgruntled former employee, who was more than happy to lead them to the back entrance of a back entrance in exchange for a little coin. 

Them, being herself and Templar Rana Savas.

She doesn’t quite buy that this place is harboring a desire demon, as the most dramatic version of the rumor holds… but she doesn’t quite not buy it, and in that case, it’d be risky for anyone to try and face it alone, let alone a mage. She needed backup, someone she could trust—and specifically, someone she could trust possessed enough self-control to resist enthrallment. 

Tightly wound as she is, as contained and orderly as her pristine braid, Rana fit the bill.

Rana left her heavy Templar plate in the barracks and instead donned her lighter—quieter—leather set; fortunately so, as the back passage of this place is so tight that her well-built shoulders already nearly scrape the walls, and she has to hold onto her sword to keep it from bouncing off her shapely ass and clattering against—

Neve stops short, abruptly aware of a sweet, heady humidity and an unnatural warmth wafting down the corridor.

Magic.

Suddenly close enough for Neve to smell the beeswax and mint of her lip balm, Rana leans in and whispers, “What’s wrong?” In the low red lamplight, the full apples of her cheeks are dusted in a far-too-pretty faux flush, and her lips look plump and rosy, as if freshly bitten and sucked by an eager lover.

Tearing herself away, Neve signals for Rana to be quiet so she can re-focus. With each step she guides them closer to the other end, the hallway only grows warmer and the air within it, more charged.

And, with each step, a small shock reverberates up Neve’s legs and settles between them, setting her lightly abuzz and her teeth on edge.

There have been few times in her life when Neve really resented being a mage, but she’ll surely chalk this up as one before it’s all over. Being attuned to the subtle thrum of magic in the air means she can feel it thrumming, all too well, while Rana remains oblivious and collected just an arm’s length away.

If there’s any luck left in her, they’ll finish soon. 

With the investigation. With luck, they’ll be finished soon, with the investigation.

Teeth grit, Neve continues to lead them forward. It’s hardly a minute before they come to a triple-padlocked door, but by the time they reach it, Neve is almost panting and definitely sweating underneath her ascot and coat.

Whatever this is, whatever’s doing this to her—it’s behind that door.

She nods at Rana, who in turn touches her gently on the waist—despite herself, Neve’s skin screams for the contact even through her thick layers—and guides her aside. She listens through the door for a few moments, then fishes a Templar skeleton key from her pocket. Enchanted to open any lock in Minrathous so long as it’s pursuant to orders, it makes quick work of it.

Rana then wraps one long-fingered, dextrous hand around the doorhandle, and the other around the hilt of her sword; her strong shoulder, she braces against the door, preparing to break through if need be. Neve blinks and readies her staff as well as she can with shaking fingers. But when the door swings in, the hardly-more-than-a-closet room is empty save for a workbench laden with jars, boxes, scales, and distillery equipment.

Alchemy, then.

“Love potions” may be the stuff of fairytale, but aphrodisiacs? Feel-good stuff that keeps the hips pumping and the inhibitions lowered far longer than the flesh—and purse—would ordinarily permit? Certainly not unheard of, and needless to say, an illegal use of magic. Neve knows no such brew offhand, but a handy sheet of paper pinned to the wall illuminates the simplicity of the scheme: the active ingredient is some kind of pollen that can be distilled into a spray. Spritz a bit into a room before the client enters, and it’s practically money in a bottle.

Neve would have preferred the demon. Now they’ll have to track down the suppliers, too.

At least they’ll probably be done here soon, and she’ll be able to abscond to her apartment and, well, blow off some steam.

Sighing, Neve steels her nerves and begins to look for a ledger while Rana barricades the door behind them.

The small room is stuffy and over-warm, far worse than the hallway with its proximity to the cookstation and lack of airflow. Dried bits of caked-on gunk on the workbench reveal the cook to be an amateur or at least a slob, and Neve internally curses their clumsy hand. Within minutes, her clothing comes to feel far too heavy and her skin, far too tight; she longs desperately to shed at least her outer layer and accessories, but she has more than a hunch that if she were to start to undress, it’d be difficult to stop at just one layer.

She resents Rana's freedom from the effect again; finished with the door, she joins Neve at the bench completely unawares, yet her close presence makes the effect even more pronounced. She reaches to examine the supplies, and Neve shivers and curses under her breath as a crystal-clear image of those sword-callused but meticulously-manicured hands gliding over her slick skin flashes across her mind’s eye.

It’s not—entirely new. It’s not that Rana isn’t attractive and Neve has never idly entertained the thought of them, well. But—she shakes her head, turning away, but catches another glimpse of Rana in the reflection of a glass flask, and her whole body shudders—there’s a big difference between checking someone out from time to time, and imagining one of their strong hands holding her down—she’d play at resisting, of course, but Rana is simply so much stronger—while the other—

As if on cue, Rana pulls a fist-sized drawstring pouch from a small chest and rolls it between her hands, hefting its fullness curiously before slipping two fingers into its tight velvet opening, stretching it wide open and—

Far too late, the alchemical symbol for volatile stamped all over the pouch registers through the haze in Neve’s mind. She doesn’t even have time to cover her mouth and nose before Rana, recoiling from the puff of fine pollen that surges out of the pouch and hits her in the face, drops it onto the bench with an ominous thunk and a white-hot, shimmering cloud overtakes the small room.

The wash of it is so intense that Neve reflexively touches her eyebrows and lashes to make sure they hadn’t been burnt off; to her relief, they’re intact, as is her skin even though it feels like it’s prickling with heat like a sunburn. 

But the heat is internal, and Neve swiftly realizes that she’s flushing intensely, and then the effects she’d already been bothered by slam over her like a wave: her skin tingles, her stomach flutters, her skin blooms over with sweat, her heart races…

And a pang of desire hits her like a brick to the gut, so hard it staggers her. 

She scrambles to catch the edge of the workbench to keep from crumpling to the floor, but a jittering hand grabs her by the elbow and steadies her first. Even through layers of leather and silk, the touch is searing; and even though it’s hardly an erogenous zone, the sheer pleasure of being touched at all when she needs so badly makes a humiliating squeak of a moan tumble through her lips before Neve can clap a hand over her mouth and stifle it.

Rana snatches her own hand back like she’d been bitten, the pupils of her wide eyes dilating so fast that they turn her cool green irises nearly black. She may not be brushed up on her alchemical symbols, but she at least seems to understand what she’s done; despite her deep flush—real this time, not a trick of light—she looks absolutely ashen, and scrambles away into the corner farthest as possible from Neve to hastily blow her nose into her sleeve and spit on the floor. 

That’s how Neve knows this job has really, truly gone shit-sideways. In anything even close to resembling her right mind, Templar Rana Savas would absolutely never. 

“It’s well into your system already, I’m afraid,” Neve warns through grit teeth, her grip on the bench white-knuckled. Nothing she’d gleaned from perusing the documentation strewn about indicates this stuff is harmful—nor would it make sense to maim the clientele, anyway—but, in its concentrated and unprocessed state… this experience is guaranteed to be unpleasant, to put it delicately, but precisely how or how much remains to be seen.

“Well, what else can we do?” Rana snaps over her shoulder, and Neve shudders as one explicit, tantalizing answer flashes across her mind immediately.

She should not entertain the thought—will only make it worse, surely—but. Standing just beyond her reach, Rana’s breathing is labored, rushing in and out of Neve’s ears just as it does her lungs, stretching her stiff leather jacket tight across her fit back. Neve can imagine the moment when even this trivial restriction becomes overwhelming, and could hardly blame Rana for clawing at it, her deft fingers working feverishly to free herself. Neve can’t actually see them with Rana’s back turned, but she can imagine them, and in turn, her cunt clenches so hard around nothing—empty, excruciating nothing—that it honest-to-the-Maker hurts.

It properly knocks the wind out of her, and for that Neve’s actually grateful, because it keeps her from even the remote possibility of opening her mouth to suggest…

Distress and arousal alike flood her system, raising her heart rate to a sickly, shallow race and filling her mind with static. With her every nerve peeled raw and her every sense aflame, Neve couldn’t miss the discontent rumble from the other side of the room, despite Rana’s apparent attempt to shrink enough to disappear. Neve risks the glance, and finds Rana nearly doubled-over, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her red face pressed against the cool block walls. Her attempts to cool off by removing her jacket, obviously, failed; she’s already sweated through her linen undershirt such that it clings to the muscles underneath and Neve can watch them roll, one by one, with her every breath and fidget.

Unable to bear it any longer—and besides, Rana started it (both, this mess—why did she have to fondle the damn bag!—and the undressing)—Neve finally lets herself whip off her fascinator, ascot, and leather gauntlets. Her overcoat, she wrenches open with such clumsy urgency that one of its studded buttons pops off and plinks across the floor, a tiny tinny sound that may as well have been a gaatlok explosion to her harried senses.

Rana’s nerves must be fried, too, or at least this situation hasn’t dampened her usual level of vigilance; she turns around briskly at the clatter, hand hovering over her sword, in just enough time to watch Neve also yank open her high collar and top buttons, exposing the slick column of her throat, the notch of her collarbone, and the hint of the swell of her breasts clinging to the plane of her chest.

Her stare is so intense that Neve can feel it needling her skin like a tattoo, following the exact path of a drop of sweat that meanders down from her throat to the underside of her breast with a hawk’s focus. Rana’s full lips lull open, panting; and then she grimaces, and her legs seem to tremble with the effort of holding herself up, or… perhaps. Back. 

It’s enough of a foothold for Neve’s overwhelming need to seize control, overriding her better judgment and shattering the remainder of her hope that she may escape this excursion with her dignity intact.

“Rana,” she breathes cautiously, her voice so thick with desire that she hardly recognizes herself. Perhaps that’s for the better. “We—,” she starts, and grimaces through another painful throb, this one even more urgent than the last, “—I think we can make this more… bearable.” 

“You can reverse it?” Rana asks, through great effort tearing her gaze off Neve’s tits to look her in the eye, her voice raspy but hopeful. She looks on the verge of collapse, leaning heavily into the wall. Fidgeting, seemingly desperate to do anything with her hands but what her own addled mind is undoubtedly suggesting, she pushes her sleeves up to the elbow, rubbing absently at her own skin. From the heat, or perhaps from how hard she’d been clutching them, the muscles and veins or her hands and forearms all have popped under her skin, glowing with a light dew of sweat.

After an embarrassingly long pause, during which Neve realizes she’d been leering—and salivating—rather than answering, Neve manages to reply, “No. Sorry.” 

Rana groans, and it’s no different than her usual complaining, but it sounds so good that Neve fears she might actually be going insane. Rushing ahead of her self-consciousness, she continues, “But, I think if we… It might be over with faster, if we… got it out of our systems.”

The roundabout suggestion isn’t lost on Rana; her jaw drops, scandalized, and crosses her arms defensively. “If we—I’m working!” 

As grave and humiliating as the overall situation feels, Neve can’t help but chuckle and, half-horrified to have said it before she’s even finished saying it, teases, “Oh, and you never think about throwing me up against a wall whenever we work together?”

Quick as a whip, Rana retorts, “Sure, Neve, and you spend half the time investigating my ass because you like my pants.”

Judging by the way her eyes widen in disbelief and her ears turn fully red, the quip slipped past her self-control just like Neve’s did hers. In any ordinary circumstance, Neve would be mortified—maybe she slightly undersold ‘checking someone out from time to time’ mentally, but surely she’s not that careless!—but in this bizarre one, she finds the callout… thrilling. 

[What would have happened next: 

Having accidentally acknowledged that they ordinarily are attracted to each other, the energy shifts slightly. 

A pang of arousal staggers Rana, and this time Neve catches her. The contact gives them both such relief + a feeling of light euphoria that becomes clear Neve was right, and that it’s the way to stop the agony.

Rana tries to rationalize everything like “they can still be professional after” and blah blah but Neve pushes her against the wall and kisses her to cut her off (classic)

They finger or grind or whatever

As soon as they’re both done, they feel weird about it but Neve can’t quite find it in her to regret it

They agree to pretend it never happened even though it's clear neither of them are quite satisfied with that conclusion (pro move) 

Back in her apartment, Neve can’t help but write up some notes on “the Opal Rose case” in her journal but tells herself it’s just any other case and pretends she doesn’t feel Some Type of Way about it]

[ddwcaph-game]

We're almost there...

Hello again! I'm glad that the majority didn't mind the lack of updates, but since I just finished the most troublesome scene of Chapter 4, I thought I'd post another update.

The only big scenes left I need to write are some conversations with Rosie's parents and Lily's mom, and a short extension to the Chapter 5 preview.

There's still a lot of stuff I need to clean up (like missing code and flavor text), but that shouldn't be as hard as writing a whole scene. Part of why it's taking me so long is because Chapter 4 has LOADS AND LOADS of new secrets, and it's hard to figure out how to structure the scenes around them, especially when I keep adding new variations as I write the scenes.

As much as I hate trudging through Chapter 4, it did flesh out a lot of the subplots and backstory that I've been ignoring.

To finish off this update, here are some of the new stuff I've been working on (on top of what's already in the beta):

2 new traits, 1 new heritage passive, 3 new trinkets, 3 more status effects, Outfits now grant bonus effects

Unlockable Lore/Knowledge Codex in the diary!

New diary entries and updated the old ones with more detail/variations

Choose MC's preferred interjection/swear word (with limitations of course)

B has been added as a crush option in Chapter 2

Revamped the whole crush confession scene with your twin in Chapter 3 (each crush option including B has now their own scene)

Roselyna's BFF scene!

Alternate way to receive The Leap Day Lady sidequest

Reworked "In denial" crush option mechanics

Reworked heritage passives

New setting to toggle background color transitions

New character art

Chapter 5 preview extension

I don't even know how many new secrets I've added

and TONS OF OTHER THINGS

[catboyfever]

Tag 9 People You'd Like to Know Better

Was tagged by @toonfinatic TY FREN 💗💗💖💖

Last Song: Alone Tonight by Above and Beyond

Currently Reading: Manga wise, Manly Appetites I'm on the last volume :( it's incredible!! Book wise, I'm reading the warrior cat series again from the beginning! Still on Into the Wild.

Currently Watching: Survivor Nicaragua, Bob's Burgers (up to season 8 and absolutely loving the experience of binging it), and Dt2017

Current Obsession: Omega Strikers, Neopets (BIG!!), aaand League of Legends bc Naafiri comes out in TWO DAYS!!!???!?!?

Tagging if yall wanna, no pressure! @skwtches @thr3pio @winniepocalypse @candiebar @itsamepatches @explosivesmilingsquirrel @rosy-codex @zoomiesvondoomies @satyya

Tag 9 people you'd like to know better

Was tagged by @just-spacetrash THANK YOU SUNNY!!!

Last song: according to Spotify, Stand My Ground by Within Temptation

Currently reading: if comics count I very recently started reading Lackadaisy!

Currently watching: Rewatching s1 of Good Omens! At the time i was tagged I was watching the movie Casablanca. Also watching s5 of WWDITS whenever episodes drop :]

Current obsession: really into the whole Good Omens/WWDITS/OFMD trifecta rn. Also liking Lackadaisy a lot but haven't read it that much yet!

Tagging @mansikka-wizard @esinahkabanjo @willthegreenpistachio @winefeathers @clearcatastrophe @2oppositesidesof1coin @justagirlfromfinland & anyone who wants to do this!

[glorykill-a]

doom   slayer   edits   (    3   /   ?    )

[uroboros-if]

Omg I'm speechless.

The background, the transition, the codex? Everything was just so pretty, different and chefs kiss 💋 .

Thank you for the hard work put into this, and I can't wait to play the rest of the chapters. Also, torn between the ROs...I need to know more about them, plzzz anything, even crumbs.

I'm so glad you recognize and like the design! I can't tell you how much time and tears I spent learning how to get all of them working (somewhat) 🥹💕

Oh, I am so awful with coming up with what to say about each of them that would be interesting! If you ever have any specific questions to grill them on, send them in!

For now, I'll be assigning each RO a body wash/shampoo from my bathroom! Maybe that'll entice you, or give you a vague sense of who they are!

SALVATORE. This one's easy! I have a body wash simply titled "Sun," which comes in a cute, orange-pinkish package with a dash of golden specks. It is the scent of orange flower and sandalwood. I also have Sunshine Mimosa, with both the packaging and the substance itself a lovely orange. Lastly, I also have honeysuckle and orange burst, which is a yellowish-orange that has such a pretty substance! They're all quite strong, though.

LUCIEL. A nice and elegant Silk and Magnolia. The smell isn't overwhelming, but mild and pleasant! Also not over-the-top like some of the others. I also have lavender and vanilla, which of course comes in a lavender and white bottle with a gold accent. Lastly, for a more interesting scent, I have neroli blossom and bergamot, which also comes and simple but tastefully clear bottle! The kind of scents and wash you'd expect from a person who has it all together.

CIOCANA. Oh, so here are the really fancy scents. I have Steeped Invigoration, a dizzying blend of rose, tangerine and tea, and it is so very pretty with flowers and a tangerine strewn on its front! There is arabica coffeefruit and waterlily, which comes in a rich red bottle adorned with leaves and what appears to be the arabica coffee. Lastly, I've got white strawberry and sweet mint, enclosed in a clear bottle and rosy motifs! These all sound fancy, but they definitely give me a headache, since I have a sensitive nose.

ALESSI. Definitely have to be some refreshing scents! There is rosemary and lemon, which is a shampoo that comes in a BIG, clear container with lively lemons and greenery! Fresh eucalyptus and mint, which is so invigorating, just as bright and alive as its bottle! This wouldn't be complete with something fruity for Alessi, so juicy pomegranate and mango definitely suits them! I think I typically like these best, since they're simple but enough to wake me up in the morning!

There are a lot here, but I promise I don't have a problem! Most of these have already been used up, and I just remembered a couple I've had recently! They are, however, localized entirely in my bathroom. 🥹

Sorry this is so tangential and random, but again, feel free to send in any specific questions and I'll be happy to answer!! Thank you so much for asking ✨💕

[trustmevhenan]

There is the theory that as a Dreamer he can get his sustenance through the fade (kind of like Cole as a spirit or maybe exactly like Cole as a spirit^^"). Felassan gives some information about this in The Masked Empire:

„Most of those who entered uthenara could survive on a simple potion. Water, with honey and herbs added to keep the body alive. Servants would brush it across the lips of the dreamer at the full moon, and then smell the naked wrist of the dreamer at the new moon. If they smelled the perfumed scent of the herbs, it meant that the concoction had been drawn into the body, and they would keep feeding the dreamer. If the wrist was bare of scent, then it meant that the dreamer had learned to draw sustenance from the Fade itself, and would never need to be fed again. Those true dreamers were placed in beds of purest white, signifying the dreamer’s achievement of perfection“

I would assume that Solas (as the ultimate Fade nerd) belongs to the Dreamers that achieved perfection x"D During Inquisition he had to take care to not blow his cover as a solitary modern elf, so eating real food like anyone else was probably just part of his disguise. Since he's curious he probably tried new food items like cupcakes from Orlais just to quench his thirst for knowledge haha pretty utilitarian overall~ (On a sad note: food from Arlathan apparently had a transcendental taste that cannot be recreated

"I expressed my incredulity to the shop's assistant, who coldly noted that he did not like my implication. He insisted that every article in the Black Emporium was genuine—no fakes, imitations, or cheap knock-offs. I must have appeared unconvinced, for the assistant narrowed his eyes at me and disappeared into the bowels of the shop, returning several minutes later. He removed the jar of pickled apples from its display case, and proceeded to carefully, reverentially, remove the wax seal from the lid of the jar. I watched with fascination as the jar was opened, and a single, rosy apple pulled from it. It looked as if it had been picked just that day, at the peak of ripeness. With a paring knife, the assistant cut the tiniest sliver of flesh from the apple and presented it to me. The flavor of that one small sliver was astonishing. It was as close to a perfect apple as ever there was. I was experiencing the essence of every apple ever eaten, and that ever will be eaten. When it was over, the sense of loss that filled me was sharp enough to move me to tears. The rest of the apple was returned to the jar, which was then resealed. I paid five sovereigns for that single taste, and I believe I got the better part of the bargain. —From the letters of Brother Ferdinand Genitivi to Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar" Codex entry: The Pickled Apples of Arlathan (DA2)

To eat normal modern food, on the other hand, must have reminded him of the world and incredible, overwhelming sensory experience before the Veil concealed the Fade that permeated everything...)

Out of curiosity, is it ever said about Solas’s specific diet what it is he eats as apparently he doesn’t eat much at all.

Also peculiar requirements regarding how he drinks tea which is weird since he doesn’t like to drink bar that one time we see him. So for that I’m assuming it’s a certain type of decaf 😂

But food wise, I’m curious why so little.

Anyone got any ideas or headcanons?

[revvethasmythh]

Taash’s fixation on how cool it is that the Crows have capes is legitimately one of funniest bits in the entire game

[roseverdict]

milky way has found ninjago which means IT IS REFIXATION TIME

[johaerys-writes]

Words Are Futile Devices

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Dorian Pavus/David Trevelyan

Summary: 

The last thing Dorian expected when he came to the South was to find love. In fact, he had entirely given up on the notion. Yet, when the gentle, shy and enigmatic Inquisitor Trevelyan came into his life, things started to change.

A (very belated) birthday gift fic for my dear friend @tessa1972 featuring Dorian and her OC David Trevelyan! 

Read here or on AO3!

A full, silver moon hung over the Frostback’s snowy peaks. Skyhold, for once, was quiet.

Dorian leaned back in his desk chair, rubbing the inner corners of his eyes between forefinger and thumb. It had been a long day; and an even longer evening, though he had hardly realised where the time had gone. He had spent most of it studying in the library, indexing books and codexes, helping the new apprentices find their way around. They kept streaming into Skyhold from all corners of Ferelden, and sooner or later they all came to him, asking him this and that, about the library and the hold and where everything could be found.

It was troublesome, certainly —Dorian had never sought to become the Skyhold library’s archivist— yet he found himself oddly drawn to the role. It wasn’t too different from what he used to do in the Minrathous library, where throngs of students from the university would follow him around to ask for his help on their research, or his opinion on various manuscripts. He had never admitted it outright, but he’d missed that sort of life; besides, being asked for help was much preferable to being overlooked and sneered at, which had, sadly, been the case for most of his stay in the South.

He tsked softly, letting the book he’d been reading fall closed. That Southerners could hardly appreciate genius even when it hit them straight in the face was no secret to anyone, yet it gave him a tiny bit of satisfaction to see that the tide was shifting, even a little.

The library was thoroughly empty at that hour, and the wick of the oil lamp above his desk was sputtering softly, close to dying out. It was the only sound in the Tower that could be heard, other than the soft cooing of Leliana’s crows overhead. Dorian stood up slowly and lifted his arms over his head, stretched his sore spine. Skyhold’s desk chairs were far less than comfortable, and his back was certainly not thanking him for it.

He was just about to leave when he noticed the bundle of books that he had gathered earlier that day, and left on the plush purple armchair close to the window. His stomach dropped somewhat.

It was Helisma that had informed him that the Inquisitor had been to the library the day before, searching for books on wyverns and dracolisks. He had left before Dorian had even arrived to his desk empty handed and hadn’t said another word to anyone.

When Dorian had teasingly suggested to Helisma that perhaps the poor man had been so confused by her archiving system that he decided never to step foot in a library ever again in his life, the Tranquil had given him one of her blank looks that somehow managed to speak volumes about what she thought of him and his observations.

Dorian sighed. The books were definitely on the heavy side when he picked them up, but he didn’t train every morning for an hour for nothing. He secured them under his arm, and, after putting the oil lamp out, silently walked out of the library.

Every step that took him through the largely quiet throne room, and closer to the Inquisitor’s quarters, made his heart sink deeper, ad deeper into his stomach. By the time he was standing outside his door —a rather plain, wooden one, considering that behind it lay the largest of all rooms in the hold— Dorian thought his heart would slink out of his ribcage and slither into his boots.

He took a deep breath, and knocked.

“Come in,” the Inquisitor’s smooth voice sounded from behind the polished wood.

“Good evening, my dear Inquisitor,” Dorian said with a wide smile that little belied his nervousness. If anyone was good at hiding his feelings, then that someone was none other than Dorian Pavus of Minrathous. “Or shall I say good night? It is rather late.”

“That it is.” Inquisitor Trevelyan was sitting behind his large mahogany desk, half hidden behind a high stack of papers and scrolls. A merry fire was going in the hearth, filling the space with warmth and shifting amber light. It caught in the highlights of Trevelyan’s chestnut hair, his soft violet eyes. He seemed more than a little tired, the corners of his eyes tinged with red, but there was a gentle smile on his lips. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Dorian stood at the threshold for a moment, admiring the space. Though he had never found himself in the Inquisitor’s quarters before, he had heard lots about it. The rumours did it no justice. It was wide and spacious, if on the colder side, with plush rugs lining the floor and expensive furniture lining its corners. It was rather obvious that Ambassador Josephine had spared no coin when it came to their leader’s accommodations.

Said leader was certainly a more than impressive man. He was tall and broad of shoulder, with impeccable manners and a gentle disposition. He had stood up from his chair at Dorian’s arrival and was gazing at him calmly. He seemed perfectly at ease, if a little uptight, yet Dorian couldn’t help the feeling that the grandeur of his quarters made him seem a little… out of place.

He wasn’t quite sure why the thought made a wave of sympathy rush through him. Perhaps because he deeply understood the sentiment.

“A little birdie told me that you visited the library yesterday in search of books, yet you walked out mysteriously empty handed.” He confidently strolled into the room, setting the heavy bundle of leather bound tomes on the low coffee table before the hearth. “Naturally, I had to make sure that our humble library did not disappoint you. I would take that as a personal affront, you know.”

Trevelyan blinked at him, a lovely blush creeping up his cheeks. It was bright and rosy and warmed up his features, and when a soft, nervous smile graced his lips, Dorian felt the ghost touch of them against his own.

Maker, it felt like a lifetime ago, when Dorian had last touched those lips. In reality, it couldn’t have been longer than a fortnight.

“I am setting out for the Exalted Plains in a week, and one of Leliana’s scouts reported sightings of dracolisks in the Ferns. I wanted to be prepared, should our party come into contact with them. I searched for an hour but I couldn’t find—” He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his blush getting a deeper, more vibrant red. “I didn’t mean to inconvenience you. If I did, I apologise.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, never you mind all that,” Dorian said with laugh and waved his concerns away, though he wouldn’t have minded letting the man go on for a little while longer, just to watch that flush make its way down to his graceful neck, his pretty ears that were hiding underneath lustrous locks of warm brown. “It only took me a few minutes. I couldn’t well leave our precious Inquisitor walk into the wilderness without detailed knowledge of wyvern mating cycles. You know what they say: a thorough education is the best weapon for any situation.”

The Inquisitor laughed, shaking his head softly. “I believe you are quite right. My father used to tell me something of the sort; though I believe he was referring to an education of a different kind.” He threaded his fingers through his hair, pushing it behind his ear. “I… thank you, Dorian.”

Dorian was momentarily distracted by the sight of those long, slender fingers, the grace of their movements. He suddenly wanted to walk up to him, thread his own fingers through those locks. He could almost remember their smell— lavender and soap, the sweet musk of his skin. He swallowed thickly.

“Whatever for, Inquisitor?” he said with an easy, practiced smile. “It was no bother, I assure you; the whole search was done and over with in a minute.”

“I believe you. Still… you have my thanks. Just for thinking of me.” Trevelyan’s lips widened in that soft, infuriatingly warm smile again, and it was Dorian’s turn to feel a blush creeping up his cheeks. “It is much appreciated.”

The fire crackling in the hearth and the wind sweeping over the Frostbacks' peaks beyond the wide windows were the only sound for a long moment as they both gazed at each other. It seemed as if they were looking at each other across a great gulf; so near, and yet so far.

It was Dorian that tore his eyes away, as always. He wasn’t quite sure what he would be compelled to do, if he continued to stare into the face he had spent days thinking about, dreaming of, longing for.

“I see you are quite busy,” Dorian said, gesturing towards the high stack of documents on the mahogany desk. “I should probably leave you to it.”

He smiled and bowed his head respectfully, turning to leave. The tail of his silk coat fluttered with the motion, the light of the fire catching amidst the folds of the fabric. If there was something that Dorian was good at, then that was a dramatic entrance, and an even more dramatic departure.

His hand was almost on the door handle, when Trevelyan’s smooth voice stopped him.

“Wait.”

Dorian glanced at him over his shoulder. Trevelyan had left his chair and his desk and was standing before the coffee table. He made a small motion when their eyes met, as if wanting to take another step, get closer to him, yet he didn’t.

“Stay, please.” He smiled at him, just a little awkward, never taking his eyes away from Dorian’s. “My work is far from done, and yet… I would appreciate the company.” He shifted just a bit on his feet, then nodded towards the liquor cabinet at the corner of the room. “I was recently sent some Fereldan whiskey. It is said to be very good. I thought, perhaps… you might like to try it.”

The edges of Trevelyan’s lips quirked ever so slightly upwards, and there was something so earnest and childlike about his smile, about the look in his violet eyes, that Dorian’s heart did a painful little thump.

“Whiskey, you say?” He let his hand drop from the handle and took a step closer. He crossed his arms before his chest, cocking his hips slightly to the side in a confident stance— far more confident than he felt. But what was it that people said? ‘Fake it ‘til you make it’? “However can I refuse, when you ask so nicely and bribe me with fancy drinks? You certainly know the way to a man’s heart, Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan let out a quiet laugh, a deep and mellow sound that warmed Dorian inside out. “I’ll pour you a glass then, shall I? Oh, and please. Just call me David.” He tilted his head to the side, his gaze growing even softer, if that was possible. “All of my friends do.”

Friends. Dorian couldn’t help but wonder whether they were simply friends, or if there would ever be hope for something… more.

“Very well,” he said with a smile and graceful incline of his head. “David.” He watched the man’s straight and broad back as he turned around and moved towards the cabinet. The smell of the whiskey was strong and aromatic when he pulled the cork out of the bottle and prepared to pour it into glasses. Dorian’s voice stopped him. “Actually, I think I may have a better idea.”

David’s eyes were curious when he looked at him over his shoulder, and Dorian had to bite back a grin.

~

“I never pegged you for someone who appreciates the great outdoors,” David said with a curious smile, gazing at the vast expanse of glittering snow, jagged peaks and lakes covered in ice. “Quite the opposite in fact, judging from the last time we were outdoors.”

Dorian chuckled softly, leaning against the stone wall of the battlements. A cold wind was blowing, ruffling the fabric of his robes and combing through David’s hair, but the magical bubble that always surrounded Skyhold did not let much of the chill from the mountains pass through. It was tolerable, even for Dorian, and Maker knew his tolerance for the blasted Southern cold was exceptionally low.

He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to bring the Inquisitor -David, he reminded himself- to that quiet corner of the keep. It wasn’t too long ago that he had taken to visiting this place when the walls of his room became stifling, bringing with him a cup of wine or brandy, and simply gazing at the stars. He didn’t know why, but it brought him a strange sense of peace.

The fact that it reminded him of the night that David and he had spent together not too long before was an added, if somewhat confusing, benefit. It was an evening not too different from this one, with a crisp wind blowing and the night sky clear above them, the stars reflecting on the glassy surface of Lake Calenhad. David had accompanied him to the dreaded meeting with his father, and on the way back they had camped there, talking and drinking the night away.

Dorian wasn’t going to fool himself by saying that he hadn’t been attracted to the man the very first moment he laid eyes on him. Still, being attracted to a pretty face, and suddenly finding out that the pretty man not only had a heart and a brain, but enough empathy and understanding to sink a small barge, were two entirely different things. David had surprised him in more ways than one— with his kindness and his honesty, with his wry sense of humour and his sweet, childlike smile, with his steadfastness and his quiet, profound care.

Never before had Dorian bared himself like this to anyone. He had expected judgement and scorn, yet had received none. At first, he couldn’t quite believe it. He had kept searching for the catch, the knife hidden amidst the roses, but more time passed and he could find none. Until…

Dorian swallowed thickly as the memory of the kiss they had shared flashed in his memory. David was watching him patiently now, waiting for his answer that had taken a tad too long.

“I’m full of surprises, as you well know,” Dorian said with a teasing smile. He poured some whiskey into the glasses they had taken with them, and offered one to David. “It’s simply a quiet spot I like to visit sometimes. There are few lovely things the South has to offer, and I believe this view is one of them. It’s quite spectacular, is it not?”

“It is,” David replied, accepting the glass. He was standing in a square of crenelated moonlight, half obscured by the shadows, and his eyes seemed bright like lit up stars when they focused on him. “What are the others?”

“What others?” Dorian sipped distractedly on his whiskey.

“The other lovely things that the South has to offer.”

You, Dorian thought instinctively, and he hated how the thought made his heart flip and jump, his insides tie themselves into impossible loops. “Well, this whiskey, for one,” he replied quickly. “And I’m partial to Fereldan cheese. Much preferable to those smelly Orlesian ones. Tevinter doesn’t have much of a tradition in cheese-making. A pity, if you ask me, but my people tend to avoid consuming anything fermented, unless it can get them blind-drunk.”

David laughed, shaking his head, and the sound warmed Dorian inside out. “You don’t know cheese until you’ve tried the Marcher varieties,” he said. His smile was bright and earnest, and lit up his entire face. “Fereldan cheese is great, don’t get me wrong, but it has nothing on Ostwick’s soft blue goat's cheese, trust me.”

“Blue cheese? My goodness, you Southern barbarians have none of the Maker’s fear in you, do you?” Dorian hid his grin behind the rim of his glass as he watched David laugh even more. “I suppose you made it with your own bare hands back in Ostwick? How terribly bucolic of you.”

“As a matter of fact, I did. It’s a yearly tradition in Ostwick, for the children and women of the household to help in the cheese making on Summer’s day, when the cows’ milk is at its richest. My siblings and I used to have the fun of our lives on that day; we could play with the animals in the farm and get our hands and clothes dirty while milking the cows and hauling the buckets of milk to the dairy workshop, and neither our mother or our father were allowed to tell us off. We would eagerly await that day all year.” He took a sip of his whiskey, looking out over the vast expanse of snow below. “There are moments when I miss those simpler times.”

“I can imagine. Your childhood sounds idyllic indeed,” Dorian said softly, his voice mellowed out even more by the nostalgic smile on the other man’s lips. “You’ve never told me about any of your siblings.”

The smile of David’s lips lost some of its nostalgia, but only a little bit. There was fondness and a shadow of sadness in his eyes when he said, “There used to be more of us than there are now.” He took another sip of whiskey, leaning against the battlements. The wind combed through his hair, bringing a lock of chestnut hair before his brow. “Virgil was the eldest. He died quite young from illness. There was nothing we could do. And Sieden...” He stopped and took a slow breath. “I was born a twin. But my brother, Sieden, did not make it through the labor. He was stillborn. My family still celebrates his birthday every year, along with my own, but it’s different from other celebrations in the family. It is a day for silence and contemplation, and for remembering the brief time he was in the world.”

“I’m… very sorry to hear that,” Dorian said quietly, a lump lodging in his throat. “It must have been very hard for you, not to celebrate your birthday like other children did.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” David replied. His gaze still managed to be warm and friendly when he regarded Dorian, despite the mellow sadness in his voice. “We lit candles, and I got lots of gifts, from my parents, my other siblings and my beloved friends. I also got a kiss from my mother, and a hug from my father. But that stopped after—” He tensed just a little, looking away. His brows gathered in an almost imperceptible frown. “It doesn’t really matter now, I suppose.”

Dorian stayed silent for a moment, wondering whether he should urge David to talk or let the silence linger between them. Yet it wasn’t long after that David turned to him again, and a warm light was flickering in his gaze once more. “My family and I have lost much, but not everything. I still have two sisters who I love dearly, Fae and Leah. The first married when she was quite young and moved out of the house, and the other became a lay-sister. I still write to them both, especially Fae. You could say she is the closest to me, despite our age difference. She is quite lovely. I’m sure the two of you will get along perfectly when you meet. She’s rather eager to see you, actually.”

Dorian’s curiosity was piqued. He tilted his head to the side in question. “Your sister knows about me?”

David gave him a wide- eyed stare. “No! Well, yes. I mean—” He paused abruptly, then let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. It could have been a play of the light, but Dorian thought he could see a blush creeping up his cheeks once more. “We write to each other quite often. She always asks me all sorts of questions, about my daily life and the people I’ve met here and… I suppose… I may have told her a few things about you. Just a few, mind you,” he added quickly, seeing the surprised expression on Dorian’s face.

“You… told your sister about me?” Dorian was sure his heart skipped a beat right at that moment. Something bright and warm, something like hope rose to his throat, and then something like dread twisted his stomach. Had he told his sister about him… about them? About their late night talks, their slightly awkward and nervous banter, their… kiss?

That moment flashed in Dorian’s memory once more, and this time it was much harder to brush away than others. He still remembered it, crystal clear: the moment when David had come to find him in the library, the evening after they had returned from Redcliffe. Dorian remembered how the flickering light the candles had caught in the depths of his violet eyes, how his deep and soothing voice had carried in the empty library. He remembered the concern and the warmth in them, the care. And, most of all, he remembered his clean and warm scent in his nostrils as David had drawn closer, the softness of his lips against his own, the strength of his arms around him.

Maker, it had felt like heaven. Tender and gentle and… so brief, that it sent Dorian’s guts twisting again. They had peeled apart soon after, and each had gone their own way. The tension between them had been sizzling ever since, thick enough to cut with a knife every time they so much as looked at each other. Hundreds of times Dorian had thought to pull him close again, to feel his body against his own, but something always held him back.

What if it was just a one-time thing, never to be repeated? What if David didn’t want anything more, what if he’d simply changed his mind?

Dorian leisurely crossed his arms before his chest, hiding his unease behind a wide smile. “So? What have you told your sister about me, pray tell? I hope you’ve mentioned how dashingly gorgeous, impeccably dressed and impressively smart I am, for starters.”

Dorian had only been half-joking when he said that. He hadn’t exactly expected a serious answer, but David’s reply startled him.

“That goes without saying, Dorian,” he said earnestly, his voice firm and unwavering despite his blush that brightened, distinctly visible even in the moonlight now. “Of course I told her all of those things, it’s only the truth. I also told her… that you’re brave and generous and kind. Actually, you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.” He smiled awkwardly. “I hope it wasn’t terribly forward of me.”

Dorian stared at him for a long moment, his breath catching in his throat. He wracked his brain for something to say, anything at all, but for the first time, perhaps ever, he was totally speechless.

He took in a shaky breath. “Do you truly believe them?” he asked quietly, holding David’s gaze. He couldn’t take his eyes away, even if he’d wanted to. “All those things you told your sister… do you believe them?”

“I do.” The other man’s reply was quick and sure, and his eyes met Dorian’s levelly. “There isn’t a moment that I thought otherwise, Dorian. I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while. You are… special. Special to me.”

If Dorian could stop time right there, he probably would have. If the stars and the planets had ceased their constant motion right at that moment, if the wind had stopped blowing and the moon had continued shining above them, silver and iridescent, Dorian would gladly stay in that moment forever and a day. Just so he could hear the fondness in David’s voice, watch that smile tugging at the edges of his lips when he spoke to him, the affection in his eyes when he looked at him.

Those eyes had always told Dorian so much more than David’s words had. And this time, Dorian understood.

He took a step forward, leaning towards him. The moments before their lips met felt like the leap from an impossible height. David’s breath skimmed Dorian’s skin, warm and spicy with the scent of the whiskey. Soft lips parted beneath his own, and Dorian was falling.

His fingers threaded through silky, chestnut hair, and David’s scent filled his lungs: lavender and herbs, that delicate soap he liked to use. Strong arms came around him, pulling him closer, and Dorian sighed softly, deepening the kiss as he let himself be drawn. He was helpless, utterly helpless when it came to David, melting against him, every one of his thoughts and defences melting away. Their kiss was tender and passionate, soft and just a little bit desperate, and everything he’d ever wanted, everything he'd dreamed.

David pulled slightly back, cupping Dorian’s cheek as he did so. He gazed at Dorian’s face through heavy-lidded eyes, his lips glistening. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” he asked quietly, his thumb brushing over Dorian’s skin in a tender caress.

His words washed over Dorian like a wave. He leaned against the other man’s chest, linking his wrists behind his neck. His heart was beating giddy and excited, making his head swim, and he could almost feel David’s heart through his clothes, beating in the same rhythm.

“Thank goodness one of us has a little initiative,” Dorian said teasingly, brushing his nose over David’s. "Let's not wait so long next time, yes?"

David laughed gently, the sound reverberating through Dorian where they touched. He leaned in for another kiss, slow and gentle, and this time Dorian really had no more words left.

"I'll make sure not to," David whispered against his lips, hugging him tightly.

[glitching-out-common]

Omg thank you so much for this love ya bestie Ɛ> (/p but you know that already)

Uhhhh… @rosy-codex ??? You did this to me once so hi didjskkeheisjsnen

I am bored so I’m starting a chain!!

Witch Picrew and your potion

Tagging: @obliqueletterkennyreference @sleeplessgreaser @tuff-ponyboy @motorcycleboy9 @dumbponyboykinnie @arieshasbrainrot57 and anyone else who wants to join it

[edwardskhakipants]

I'm reading ch 4 of your Eclipse story and HEY you can't just side-mention the Scrabble Incident of 1973!! What happened on that fateful day?

E-POV, 1973

Esme had one arm wrapped around Rosalie’s waist and her other hand clamped onto my arm, dragging us towards her newest attempt at family bonding: a board game named Scrabble.

“It’s basically like playing a game by yourself!” she explained to us, while also rationalizing her request to herself, “We get our own letters, we only place them on the same board. There’s hardly any interaction at all!”

She pushed me into a spot on the couch in front of the board game that had already been set up on our new coffee table.

She explained the rules quickly, then held up a little, velvet bag, “You pick your tiles from here,” she held it out, “Youngest first.”

I grinned at Rose until I realized Esme was referring to me.

“Go on, Little Brother,” Rosalie smiled, knowing good and well how much I hated being referred to as her little brother, despite being twenty-two years older than her.

Frowning, I snatched the bag and drew the appropriate tiles. I was pleased that the luck of the draw had given me a seven-letter word to play right out of the gate. Feeling proud, I arranged it neatly in the center of the board.

PHEONIX

Rosalie flicked the P at my face, “Proper noun.”

I caught the tile and placed it back into position, “It’s also a mythical bird.”

“Esme?”

Esme paged through her new Scrabble dictionary—the book that supposedly told us what were real words according to the Scrabble gods, “Sorry, sweetie, it’s not in here.”

Squashed under Rose’s self-satisfaction, I reduced the letters to PHONE.

After a few more turns in silence, Rosalie picked on up on a pattern. “Esme,” she took a deep breath to calm herself, “Edward is only playing in places I want to go.”

“What do you mean, Rosie?”

“Look,” she pointed to the board, “He could have played CODEX off your D to get the Double Word Score, but instead, he played COAXED just to stop me from going here!” She ran her finger down the board, where my C now blocked her from making her move. “He made a worse play just to ruin my turn!”

“You have no evidence to prove that,” I argued.

“The only evidence I need is that smug, stupid face of yours,” she growled.

“Rose, just make a back-up plan. Edward, stay out of your sister's head.” Esme had bigger problems than bickering children—she had to figure out what to do with two V’s and an M.

We continued the game. Esme quickly took the lead while Rosalie straggled behind. After a few more quiet turns, Rosalie abruptly turned my letter rack so it was facing her.

“Hey!” I protested.

“You can see my letters, it's only fair that I get to see yours,” she bristled, her eyes flitting between my letters and the board.

“Ugh, I knew it,” she growled, “You could have played HAWK, but you played CAKE to mess me up!” she took CAKE off the board and started placing down the letters for HAWK, “Here, let me help you.”

I tried to put back my tiles, but she kept moving them. “Stop doing that!”

“Then stop playing just to screw me up!”

I slammed my hand on the table and stood to loom over her, “It’s called playing defensively.”

“Watch the table, Edward,” Esme warned in a low voice.

Rosalie stood along with me, “It’s called being an obnoxious cheater!”

“Kids this is my first live-edge table. Made from a tree at our very first home.” Esme’s reminder fell upon deaf ears.  

“You know what words you could have played instead, you little brat?” Rosalie challenged. It was clearly a rhetorical question.

I smiled, gesturing for her to bring it on.

She elbowed me in the temple, “HEAD!”

She wound back to punch me in the face, “DECK!”

She bit off a chunk of my shoulder and spat it out, “CHEW”

She clasped her hands together and slammed her double fist down on my neck, “WHACK”

“And do you know what word you can play?” I asked, a huge grin spread across my face, despite the injuries.

If I were human, I would have caught pneumonia from the icy chill of her stare.

“Right here on this R.” I pointed to the board “LOSER,” I whispered, over-enunciating each letter.

Her guttural scream shook the trees around the house and she dove at me, slamming us both into the table.