#tumblr snippets

[darethshirl]

solavellan, sharing a bed tent

"We've accomplished enough for today. Let's set up camp," the Seeker said brusquely as the sun set on of their first day of excursions, in the Hinterlands woodlands, with the green light of a healed Veil tear still veritably crackling over their skin. She tossed her pack on the ground and knelt, taking out pegs and tools with her strong hands. "Herald, help me with our tent."

Lavellan paused. She'd been in the middle of turning towards Solas—an unthinking, instinctive show of preference, one he refused to think too hard about—and so was stuck in this frozen position, unmoving as a startled halla. "Oh," she started, and failed to continue. Unable to find a tactful way to say no. Her expression, usually unreadable, now looked uncomfortable.

The silence stretched long enough to draw attention to itself. Varric raised his eyebrows with an author's—or gossip's—bloodhound instinct for intrigue. Even Cassandra eventually looked up, more confused than affronted. "Is there a problem?" she asked.

The problem is that you are a Chantry official and she is from a persecuted group, Solas thought, and you are completely blind to the imbalances of power you yourself perpetuate.

But he didn't say any of it aloud. There would be no point to it. He waited instead to see how Lavellan would extricate herself from this tangle, observing without interfering.

"I'm a light sleeper," Lavellan said, her voice taking on the laughing hue of an apologetic joke. Her mouth curled up; it didn't quite match her eyes. "Your heavy armor would keep me up at night." A subtle enough attempt, if inelegant under the circumstances. Solas approved.

Sadly, it seemed understanding subtlety was beyond the Seeker's capabilities. "I don't wear armor when I sleep," she said with a frown, painfully straight-faced.

More silence. Lavellan's smile stretched thin—Solas could see the strain on her cheeks, the way the corners of her eyes tightened. He could also see the moment she gave up, that split-second display of resignation. She really was going to agree, and spend all night tense and drawn, and pay the price for it tomorrow.

Solas drew breath to speak. "You can sleep in my tent if you'd prefer, lethallin."

Lavellan's relief was immediate. It rushed our of her in a sigh, her body completing its movement to turn fully towards him. "Thank you, Solas." Her eyes were wide and deeply green, looking up at him with more gratitude than he deserved. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all." Solas made a courtly gesture—offering her what? Crude canvas in an even cruder forest?—and schooled his face into an expression he hoped was reassuring. "After you."

"Wait!" Cassandra scrambled to her feet, looking so genuinely alarmed that Solas wondered if he'd somehow missed a step. "You can't do that!"

Lavellan stuttered in her motion again, her shoulders tensing. "Why not?"

"Because he's a man!"

The silence that descended this time had a distinct tinge of incredulity to it. Lavellan showed her most open emotion so far: honest confusion. "…So?"

Cassandra spluttered, her face reddening. "But—that's—surely you'd be more comfortable with—with another woman!"

"Elves don't care about shit like that," Varric cut in, his gaze and grin taking on a mean glint. "But I guess you've got your mind in the gutter, huh? For shame, Seeker," he added, shaking his head theatrically. "I'm suddenly afraid for my virtue."

"You shut up," Cassandra hissed menacingly—then turned towards Lavellan, stiff and blotchy-faced. "Is this truly what you prefer?” she asked, then at Lavellan’s answering nod deflated. “Very well. Then I won't get in your way."

An unexpectedly honorable response. Made in earnest too, if the Seeker's serious, guileless expression was any proof. Solas found himself reconsidering the woman, and Lavellan herself seemed both surprised and moved by the act. "Thank you," she said, and this time her smile warmly touched her eyes.

The rest of their preparations went on uneventfully enough. Solas and Lavellan worked in silent tandem together, their teamwork efficient as they ignored the bickering happening behind their backs. Before long the tent was set, the sun was setting, and goodnights were said.

"Thank you again for the save," Lavellan said with a sigh, her tension having disappeared the moment the canvas cloth flapped closed. She was kneeling, unwrapping her bedroll with unhurried, graceful movements. Her eyes twinkled when she smiled at him. "I hope this isn't too much trouble for you."

"It is nothing," Solas replied, willing it to be so. "A small thing to sacrifice for your comfort. Remember, I am here to help."

Small was also the inside of the tent; a fact he hadn't considered, back when he'd opened his mouth with such uncharacteristic impulsiveness. Even with space left courteously between their bedrolls, reality was undeniable: they were too close together, their shifting too loud, their bodies too aware of each other. Or maybe that was just Solas. He told himself he couldn't actually feel her body heat warming up the side of his arm, drawing up goosebumps. Not literally.

"Goodnight, Solas."

"Goodnight."

A steady breathing. Solas listened to its constant rhythm, slowed down his own to match it. His hands were clasped demurely over his belly. He didn't look over.

Only when nightfall had truly fallen, hours later and with the forest's sounds adding their counterpoint to the ambience, did he risk a glimpse. Lavellan slept curled in on herself, lying on her side with a hand slightly outstretched. Did she have a companion back at her clan? Someone who would grasp that hand and curl towards her, sharing her breath? Her sleeping face looked like she wouldn't reject such acts, her expression slack and defenseless.

Solas turned his gaze back to the tent's roughspun ceiling. He closed his eyes, and shut his mind.

[ariadne-mouse]

Clawing my way out of writer's block, here is a new snippet of the Mercaleb interlude, looking for light inside an ocean:

--

When Essek arrived at the cavern, there was a glimmer of amber visible over the edge of the thumbprint pool.  Caleb was already there. Smiling, Essek drifted over.   His floating feet disturbed no stones, which he was glad of when he reached the edge and realized that Caleb was sound asleep: a peaceful portrait illuminated by the column of the sun.  Essek watched him for a long moment.   Caleb’s head was pillowed on seagrass above the waterline, eyes closed, his chest gently rising and falling as he breathed the air.   He looked so vulnerable like this. As Caleb basked in the sunlight, Essek basked in the feeling of being trusted, of being given permission to come and go from this place as he pleased. Finally, still taking care to make no sound — it felt now like a game he was playing, for no particular reason — he knelt and touched the water with just the tip of his finger. He hadn’t thought about what to say, exactly, but before he could come up with words Caleb was already opening his eyes. ‘Hello, dear.’

[writersbloxx]

Body Language

When someone is...

Sad

Face/Body:

Avoidant/reduced eye contact

Drooping eyelids

Downcast eyes

Frowning

Raised inner ends of eyebrows

Dropped or furrowed eyebrows

Quivering lip/biting lip

Wrinkled nose

Voice:

Soft pitch

Low lone

Pauses/hesitant speech

Quiet/breathy

Slow speech

Voice cracks/breaking voice

Gestures/Posture:

Slouching/lowered head

Rigid/tense posture

Half formed/slow movement

Fidgeting or clasped hands

Sniffing or heavy swallows

Self soothing gestures (running hands over the arms, hand over heart, holding face in palms, etc)

[ariadne-mouse]

"Stand up straight, Widogast."

A flicker of movement from under his raised bicep: the trajectory a knife would take on its way between his ribs.  But perhaps more surprisingly, it was Essek's hand, sliding past mortal injury and coming to rest flat against Caleb's sternum, elegant rings glinting.  When Essek pressed lightly there, Caleb was so distracted that he did in fact straighten up.

"Good."  

The word hovered close to his ear, breath against the nape of his neck, and Caleb wanted to say something — to crack a joke, maybe, about keeping focus, but he didn't want to break the two-fold spell weaving between them, only one part of which was arcane.  Essek paced another step behind him, circling, audible with his feet on the floor for once.  His hand slipped away, trailing slightly - quick enough to be unintentional, but Essek was a man who was constantly aware of personal space and deliberate in how he moved. 

Caleb swallowed.  With practiced movements, he progressed into the next somatic configuration of looped platinum thread.

It was fingertips behind his elbow next, lifting his arm a fraction higher.  A floorboard creaked under Essek's boot as he passed by Caleb's other side.  His presence and the weight of his attention was as tangible as touch, and more maddening still when accompanied by these too-brief tastes of it.  The hairs on the back of Caleb's neck stood up.

"Now, the last," Essek directed, finally standing square in front of him.  He lifted his arms a few inches to the side, palms forward, an eyebrow lifted in challenge: an open target.

Smooth as breath, power crackling like a thunderstorm, Caleb sliced the arc of the final somatics.  The cord in his hands became light, became liquid, lashing around them both — through them both — and pulling taut.  Tension sang on some frequency Caleb hadn't known existed, remaining even as the light faded to a slim thread between their chests before vanishing entirely.

Tilting his head, Essek traced the spot on his own chest.  "You do not need to put quite so much into it," he said, eyes quicksilver and smug.  "But that is the idea, yes."

Caleb stood there, vibrating with the frission of this new arcane energy and the infuriating potentiality of the last few minutes.  "So.  Everything you feel, I feel, and the other way around?  Is that it?"

"More or less."

"Fascinating," Caleb replied.

"Indeed."

The charged moment hung between them in silence for a beat too long, reality not yet caught up with all they might become.  Caleb was the one who finally took a step forward, and Essek's shoulders pulled back at his approach, his chin lifting, their positions abruptly reversed.  Within the boundary of Essek's space, and yet not touching, Caleb savored his next words on his tongue before he spoke.

"I should copy this now, ja?  May I borrow your spellbook?"

Essek blinked, and his throat bobbed.  "Of course."  The spellbook appeared with a gesture.

Caleb took it carefully from the air, its embossed leather a familiar texture.  "Danke, my friend."  And he left to sit at their shared table with a smile curling the corners of his mouth.

Perfecting their form

[philomena-famulok]

©Philomena Famulok

mixed media, 2022

[helianthus21]

i NEED to see Armand laughing out loud, head thrown back, maybe even giggling at something Daniel said while Loustat are in the room, turning to each other in surprise like "did you ever see him like this??"

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hello, I've always been a huge fan of your writing and especially how you write heroes and villains! If it's not too much trouble, I was wondering if you could write the villain putting the hero into an enchanted sleep rather than fight them, sort of an 'it's for your own good' sort of thing.

Thank you if you do, and even if you do, thank you for all the wonderful writing over the years!

"The world is a harsh place, my doveling," said the evil queen. "It will hurt you and break you and ruin you. I would spare you that."

"That's not the world," the princess said. "That's just you."

"But the world is mine, and so it is the same thing." The queen lowered the princess's body gently to the lush meadow, cradling her close, for once despite the dirt coating her fine skirts. "And my world is not a fit place for the likes of you. You have proven that time and time again, with your tears and your sorrow and your ever bleeding heart. You should have stayed away."

"No. No!"

It already sounded embarrassing when it left her mouth. Slurred, so quickly, as the remaining strength drained from her. It was nothing like what she had planned. Nothing like how the world being too cruel for the tender-hearted should mean making the world a gentler place, not a colder one. Nothing about how they could be better.

Didn't the queen see? Why couldn't she ever seem to see?

How could someone who spent all their time looking at mirrors be so blind?

"You're wrong," the princess managed. "You've always been wrong."

"Oh, shh." The queen brushed a tear away from the princess's cheek, cupping her cheek, tilting the princess's lolling head to the light like she was examining something precious. "Just rest, now. You do not want to fight me, and you could never have won, so let me give you some peace. You are a sweet little thing, so go sweetly."

The princess wanted to say that just because she didn't want to hurt the queen didn't mean that she didn't want to fight. Of course she wanted to fight. They both knew she wanted to fight. That, at least, the queen could see. The knowledge gleamed in her diamond-hard eyes.

The princess glared.

The queen huffed. In an instant, her touch turned clawed, one set of nails piercing into unmarked skin like she could brand it.

"You know, you really should be grateful," she said. "Honestly. A less benevolent queen might have killed you. Plucked the flower of your youth just blooming in jealousy! This is for your own good. I will have you just as you are, perfect and sleeping and untouched by life's hardships. You have no idea how lucky you are."

The princess's breath hitched in pain.

The queen's temper died as quickly as it always came. She released a breath. Her touch turned back to a caress, stroking the princess's hair back perfect from her face.

"You know I can appreciate lovely things," the queen continued. "I always have. And you...oh you..."

The princess wanted to flinch away from the queen's cool and possessive touch, but her body would no longer move and her eyes felt unbearably heavy. Every second was a greater struggle to keep them open. The spell that bound her was not a soft, pretty thing like the queen had pretended to be. It was as firm as the hold of any self-respecting snake about to devour its prey.

Still, the princess fought it. As hard as she'd ever fought anything.

A strand of hair slipped free of the queen's grasp, curling messy over her face. Her cheeks flushed with the strain.

"Don't do this," the princess whispered. "Don't do this to me, please."

For a heartbeat, the queen looked almost human, almost like she meant it, and regretted that it all had to turn out how it had. Then, the moment was gone, and the queen's face was smooth because - as she always told the princess - emotions gave one frown lines.

"Don't be silly. Rest," the queen said, her voice brooking no more argument. She tucked the hair back behind the princess's ear. "I will not destroy you. And you are not so unkind as to make me do that. So, there. It is done, my doveling. I have saved you."

You are destroying me.

It came out a broken little wheeze. It sounded too peaceful, by far, compared to the maelstrom in the princess's chest.

"You always were stubborn."

The queen leaned down to bestow a kiss to the princess's forehead. She dragged her fingers over the princess's eyes while she was still glaring. Her magic tugged at the rest; mind and body and soul.

The world was black.

The queen's hands were everywhere.

There was only her, her, her.

Then, there was only dreaming.

[sorryiliketoscreenshot]

➣ Appreciation Post ››› Connor's Eyes

[ominouspuff]

Kote’s House

Kote’s first house is a pathetic thing, and he is incurably proud of it. The twi’lek he purchased it from very evidently could not make up his mind what to do with a man that grinned while he haggled, but it was the first time Kote had haggled over a purchase of his very own. He had thoroughly enjoyed it.

The house is built for one being, and a compact being at that, but Kote doesn’t have much. Moving in is quick, and most of his efforts during the next few days after go into attempting ambitious repairs for things he doesn’t know the first thing about. 

His plumbing is an issue, he knows. Something is getting blocked up. Somehow while trying to fix the kitchen tumbler, his fresher spout explodes.

He hadn’t kept his new house a secret from anyone by any means, but it is still surprising when Fox barges in through his jamming front door. He finds Kote on the floor in his cramped kitchen while the fresher rains water in the adjacent room, laughing so hard and so crippled with delight that he can’t get up.

He tries to explain how wonderful it is —

“I-I have to fix my plumbing on my own, vod—”

—but judging by Fox’s single raised eyebrow he knows it doesn’t translate.

Fox, it turns out, is moving into the neighborhood. Kote doesn’t ask about the house Fox already has — the house he has visited, which is very nice and fancy — or point out that Fox’s contract there cannot possibly be up, which begs the question of why he’s here in Kote’s neighborhood — except that Kote already knows the answer to that question. So he doesn’t ask.

Fox doesn’t show him any grace or forbearance, though.

“Don’t even know how to fix a damn pipe, front lining show-off—” His brother snarls, but it is muffled; his top half had to go down beneath the floor they’d pried up to get at the plumbing issue.

“So that’s what they had you doing all these years.” Kote says, because he really is in a criminally good mood. He barely ducks the foot-long pipe Fox throws at his head, feeling giddy.

He makes dinner that night in thanks. Fox stays, ostensibly because now that he’s fixed the fresher he intends to use it, because his new house isn’t hooked up properly yet to all the supply lines and power grids. 

They choke on homemade tiingilar (vode-style; Kote can’t pretend at the real thing yet) so heavily spiced it’s got grit to it that sticks between the teeth. It’s disgusting, but Cody had bought fifteen different spices and while usually he likes to keep his approach to the unknown more cautious, more methodical, he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do more than use them all at once for the first time. 

Wolffe joins them not long after; brings a few others along by recommending the apartment he picks out, so that soon most of the complex is taken up by vode, Kote hears, but he doesn’t visit yet. Everyone’s too busy coming over to his house, it seems; filling up his kitchen and asking why he hasn’t fixed the trash disposal yet, why he doesn’t have a couch, doesn’t he know they’re all the rage among civilized folk?

Kote fixes the trash disposal with Rex, who is better at it than he is but says it’s only due to Skywalker’s influence on managing all things mechanical. 

“How is Skywalker?” Kote asks, and gets more than he bargained for over the next hour. At first he’s a bit off-put, because he’s trying to get dinner sorted again and he’s not been very fond of Skywalker at the best of times, but Rex is snorting out a story and laughing and it’s contagious, so Kote just resigns himself and settles in to enjoy.

Skywalker has little ones, now. Obi-Wan is the only one that can get them to sleep. Ahsoka is distressed; she knows better, but every instinct in her is apparently in agony over the little ones’ inability to eat meat yet. She obsesses over nutrients in their diet — which, given what tiny natborn humans primarily ingest in the early stages, makes for some slightly awkward conversations.

Rex helps with dinner afterward, and they take turns being incredulous over natborn baby facts, shoving around one another in the tiny, uncomfortable kitchen.

“What’s your next project?” Rex asks at one point, glancing sidelong with a cheeky look, and Kote levels his vegetable knife at him (he’s got a vegetable knife. Specifically for vegetables. It’s a very new concept). 

“I make everyone’s dinner on Tuangsdays.” He says. “I’m productive.”

Rex’s sharp-toothed grin turns thoughtful. “Yeah” He says. “Everyone loves coming here, you know. You could be the new 79’s.”

Kote knows. He plans and plots, and puts more work into researching recipes than he’s put into any research whatsoever in months. It feels a bit like coming out of a shore leave; his thoughts quicken and his excitement grows. He hunts down a market. He brings a bag. He shops, bargains, and returns victorious.

He sends out a few comms., and can’t help but shake his head and grin at how different the responses are. 

What a marvelous idea, Cody. His general — ex-general — says.

Yus pls, Ahsoka sends back, with some sort of strange tooka vidclip that dances with wiggly gyrations Kote can only assume indicate excitement.

Where is your house, Anakin says, blunt and to the point, and Kote can appreciate that. 

He sends the address. He cooks all day. The sun sets, and Fox and Wolffe arrive, already bickering, Rex trailing behind with a long-suffering look sent to Kote, begging commiseration.

“Ugh, don’t you ever stop smiling, now?” He gripes when Kote just grins at him. 

“Nope,” Kote says, unrepentantly.

He leaves the soup on the stove, simmering, and takes his cup of caf to the window. He leans on it, breathing in cool air, and just listens — listens to the squabbling as Wolffe gets on Fox’s case for not washing Kote’s dishes correctly the last time they visited. Hears the soft thumps of Rex sneaking into the cramped room Kote has set aside for plants and the sole pet he has; a pastel goullian, fins swaying ever so gently, permanent scowl in place. Thinks he catches, distantly, the sound of his remaining three guests (Padme couldn’t attend, and had made him feel very awkward by how thoughtfully she apologized for it) plodding up the hill. 

“Cody!” Ahsoka cries, coming into view and waving. 

Kote’s cheeks have stopped aching from all the smiling he’s gotten used to, so it’s easy to let another through.

[super-ion]

The Engineer

Part 1

I catch a glimpse of the pilot as she is wheeled towards the med bay. Her eyes have that telltale glaze of just having been wrenched out of herself.

I've never spoken a single word to her, but for a moment as the gurney slides by, those eyes briefly clear, ice blue pinning me to the spot. She raises an emaciated arm and her hand almost seems to beckon to me before something in the gurney clicks and whirs and she slips back into catatonia.

That brief moment of clarity, that piercing gaze, unsettles me. She recognized me.

It's neural bleed. I know it has to be. She doesn't know me, but Morrigan does.

Good god. In the pilot's present state of post combat haze, she probably doesn't even know where she ends and the machine begins.

Does neural bleed work both ways? Is it her head that I'm about to climb into?

My wrist strap buzzes. I have a job to do and I am late.

The pilot is a problem for the med team and the psychs.

The machine is my problem.

I hurry down the corridor, keeping my head down, avoiding the eyes of every passerby.

I don't like people.

I don't like how their eyes follow me. I don't like the whispered gossip that follows me.

One of the techs is waiting for me at the vestibule.

I don't know his name.

All clear, he says to me. Time to work your magic.

He says it without sarcasm. Others have been less kind.

Even so, he can't quite hide the leer as I strip down to the skinsuit. I don't have the physique of a pilot. My body hasn't been subjected to the stresses that ravage their bodies. Unlike them, I have fat and muscle and the skinsuit clings to every curve of my body.

I force a cursory smile and try to forget him as I walk barefoot to my destination.

The vestibule is small, windowless. It's impossible to assess the scale of the machine from here. The only part visible to me is roughly four square meters of pitted and scarred metal plating framing the access hatch and the pilot's cradle beyond.

B0-987T the stenciled lettering reads. And below, in flowing script, is “The Morrigan”.

She's a Javellin class, medium weapons fire support unit. She isn't meant to be on the front lines in a skirmish, but one-on-one, she can hold her own against a Wraith. Which is exactly what happened only a few hours ago.

I place a bare palm on the bulkhead. She thrums with some distant vibration. Her reactor is still online, still in the early stages of drawdown as she transitions to dock power.

“Hey beautiful,” I say to her.

I think of the pilot. I think of piercing blue eyes and I think of neural bleed.

I flinch my hand away.

The tech looks at me, asks if I'm alright. I'm fine, I tell him.

I climb through the hatch and into the cradle.

I feel like an interloper here. The cradle isn't calibrated for my body. Everything still smells like the pilot. Mingled with the smell of the machine is her sweat and her adrenaline and the particular scented soap that she prefers.

There is a faint whirring as her cameras track my movements from a dozen angles. The access ports open to receive me.

Against my better judgment, I imagine eagerness for this exchange.

This is immediately followed by an all too familiar sense of inadequacy. The engineers’ rig is not nearly as all encompassing as a pilots’. It's only the most basic neural interface. No haptics. No neurotransmitter feedback. No access to the suite of sensors studded throughout her hull.

I can't interface with her the way her pilot can.

My rig is a remnant from basic training. The pilot corps wanted me for my exceptional ratings in synchrony and neuro-elasticity, but after serval training exercises, they determined that I didn't have the temperament for the battlefield. I froze up too easily.

A neural rig is a massive investment and removing one will fuck a person up a hell of a lot more than installing one. The selection process is designed to weed out washouts before we even get to installation, but some of us still slip through the cracks. Most end up reassigned to logistics, operating loader mechs or piloting long haul supply frigates. But my aptitudes made me ideal for the engineering corps, so here I am.

Morrigan senses my mood and the cradle shifts slightly, aligning itself to my dimensions. Her eagerness to connect morphs into a sort of tender reassurance. It's a slippery slope, ascribing human emotions to these machines, but she does seem genuinely happy to see me.

I can never be part of what she and her pilot have, but I can be part of something in my own way.

The pilot knows about me, she would even without neural bleed. Does she envy the relationship I have with her mech? Does she envy that I can exist both together and apart with the machine?

Is she jealous of us?

Morrigan slips her jacks into my rig and my mind enters hers and I feel tension leave my body. Some dull ache that I wasn't even consciously aware of ebbs within me.

My senses dull and my visual cortex is fed a series of diagnostic logs and telemetry streams. The techs have access to the exact same data, but Morrigan highlights particular data points that she and the pilot flagged. I log them in the engineering report.

A wireframe schematic of the battlefield spreads out in my awareness. Green markers for our battlegroup. Red markers for the pack of Wraith interlopers.

I hear the ghost of music, strange and ambient, like whale song. The first time I heard it, I asked the techs about it. They had no idea what I was talking about. One even suggested I get an eval for some psych leave.

Later I realized Morrigan was singing to me. Or rather she was interpreting tightbeam comm links as something my brain could process. A human mind can't possibly interpret the full datastream, but with Morrigans's rendition, I can suss out the basic meanings. The battlegroup is a choir and Morrigan is playing me their song.

I caused quite a stir when I first made that connection and started flagging battle events the analysts had missed.

I survey the battlefield before me, reconstructed from feeds from TacCom and all the individual mechs.

Morrigan and I have done this enough times that she knows my preferred display layout, but she holds back, allowing me to pull off the virtual displays on my peripheral vision. There's an odd sort of intimacy to it, her letting me take charge like this.

God-knows how many tons of metal and ceramic and miles and miles of wire and optic fiber and see waits eagerly for me to start the playback sim. She wants to show off. She wants me to assess the actions of her and her pilot and tell them they did well.

Other engineers, few as we are, have mentioned similar experiences with their assigned machines.

“Alright,” I whisper so that only she can hear. “Show me the dance. Sing me the song.”

(Next)

[darethshirl]

First Kiss, solavellan

In the real world, Solas's lips were chapped.

Mountain air teased cool fingers through their clothes, fluttering the fabric. For all the pristine snow blanketing the dream version of Haven—for all its perfect sky, perfect clouds and perfect church, steady ground and life-like sensations—its weather lacked the bite of an uncaring wind, a missing detail only understood in retrospect. Lavellan felt her skin come alive in shivers, in heart-curling goosebumps. The contrast was muddling her brain: merciless cold next to Solas's heat, his lips hungry, insistent, warm.

His breath was warm too. It fanned over Lavellan's chin, her cheeks, sharp and desperate puffs that cleared out her lungs and filled them back in. She raised her head to meet him where he was, gripped at his clothes to drag him down to her level. Solas's hands came up to cup her face, to better hold her, to better devour her.

It ended with a gasp, with both of them reeling and wide-eyed. In the Fade they had smiled at each other, easy and joyful, Solas's eyes twinkling with that teasing light only rarely unearthed. But the realness of the world had changed the moment. Now Solas looked as serious as he always did in his wakeful life—more, even, his gaze somber, his frown heavy. A man in mourning. "This will hurt," he warned, solemn with the weight of prophecy, stricken as if he could already see, stamped behind his eyelids, the image of her mangled body dripping blood over a battlefield. His thumb still stroked her cheek, an unconscious gesture. "We should not."

Lavellan considered this the way she considered all revelations: reluctantly stoic, enduringly patient. Rooting around for all the small choices, if any, afforded to her. "Life hurts," she said simply, well-worn practicality settling down her bones. She took Solas's palm in hers—warm, strong, larger than hers—and pulled him towards her, towards the castle that was temporary-but-heartfelt home.

He resisted for a second, then allowed himself to be drawn in.

[ariadne-mouse]

the usual

Shadowgast, Rated G, 573 words, prompt: late night takeout

-

"We should perhaps take a break."

"We are getting somewhere, though." Caleb stood and cracked his back. A topographic map of papers, open books, and component jars was laid out on the floor before them.

"We are," Essek agreed. "But if we keep going, it will be several more hours before we pause a second time, and I may begin chewing on parchment to sustain myself."

As if on cue, Caleb's stomach gave a loud gurgle. He ruefully put his hands on his middle. "Ach, you've woken the beast. Well. I suppose you are right. Do you have food here, or should we go out?"

Essek straightened his robes and neatened his hair with an effortless wave of Prestidigitation. "The night is warm. Let us walk. I know a place." He twisted a ring on his finger and his image shimmered, though to Caleb - who wore a second, matching ring - he still looked like himself.

("You know it is an Empire tradition to marry with an exchange of rings," Caleb had teased him, accepting the plain copper band. Only a Detect Magic would reveal it as enchanted. Essek had looked a little embarrassed, but shrugged it away. "I only wish for you to see me as I am. You don't have to take it." And Caleb, warmed, had put the ring directly on his finger and it had been there ever since.)

Caleb followed Essek through the streets of Nicodranas, which were not vacant even at this late hour, but peaceful and welcoming by the presence of others strolling by to enjoy the balmy air and the stars.

After twenty minutes of walking in companionable silence, they came to a storefront whose cheerful interior made it appear as a lantern in the dark. Steam and smoke fled the chimneys on the roof, and the clank of pots and pans and the murmur of people's voices from within broke the spell of nocturnal calm that wrapped around the rest of the city.

"The usual, please," Essek said to an attendant who opened a side window, releasing a billow of air fragrant with herbs and spices. "And... your special for today."

Twenty minutes more, and they were sat on a wooden bench nearby with cheap clay pots in hand, heavy with broth, vegetables, fresh seafood, and translucent rice noodles.

"Your usual," Caleb teased.

Essek raised his eyebrows and did not reply, as he was busy transferring a cascade of noodles into his mouth with chopsticks. They finally vanished with a less-than-dignified slurp. He patted his mouth with a handkerchief. "You have cilantro in your beard. And a bit of oil."

"Oh. Would you?" Caleb tilted his chin forward. Prestidigitation washed over him a moment later. The tingle of it continued down the back of his neck and to his collarbones. Caleb laughed. "I did not have soup all the way down to there, did I?"

Essek sniffed primly and busied himself with his next bite, humor tugging the corner of his mouth.

When they were done, the clay pots set aside to return to the bin at the back of the restaurant, they simply sat there for a long time, watching the passers-by on the street. The warm air wrapped around them, every so often carrying a hint of the sea. The stars glimmered above.

"This was a good idea," Caleb said, Essek's hand in his. He lifted it to brush his lips against the back of it.

Essek smiled. "I know."

[writersbloxx]

Body Language

When someone is…

Nervous/Anxious

Face:

Darting eyes/avoiding eye contact

Rapid blinking

Tense jaw

Looking upwards when talking or fixing eyes on a more distant point

Furrowed (or raised) brows

Frowning

Blushing 

Micro-expressions- quick/short facial expressions like suddenly widening their eyes or a brief grimace

Voice:

Shaky or trembling

Higher pitch or thin

Breathy

Wavering

Raspy or slightly cracked

Hesitant

Speaking quickly or stuttering

Choppy (many pauses in speech)

Shorter, clipped words (staccato)

Gestures/Posture:

Tense, closed off stance

Hunched shoulders

Body is stiffened

Crossed arms

Fidgeting

Touching clothes

Cracking knuckles

Bouncing knee

Subtly covering their mouth

[bookished]

( a collection of fun and adventurous dialogue prompts. adjust phrasing as necessary.) feel free to make edits to better suit your muse, but please don’t edit or add on to the original post <𝟑 if you like, please consider supporting me through tips, it's highly appreciated.

"Want to try sneaking into the movie theater?"

"There's this exclusive sky bar on the top floor. I bet if we act confident enough, we could just walk right in. Ready to blend in with the high rollers?"

"You know the 'Staff Only' areas in aquariums always look so intriguing. I've got an idea involving lab coats and clipboards. Interested?"

"There's a secret passage in this art gallery that leads to a hidden exhibit. I overheard the curator talking about it. Shall we go exploring?"

"I've always wanted to see a movie from the theater's projection room. I've got a friend who works here – you get what I mean?"

"So, that exclusive restaurant is fully booked for months, but I may have 'borrowed' a couple of names from the reservation list. Feeling adventurous?"

"The old amusement park's been closed for years, but I know a way in. Imagine having all those rides to ourselves under the moonlight."

"I heard there's an underground speakeasy in this library. Apparently, you need to whisper a password to the librarian. Wanna try our luck?"

"Remember that fancy pool party we weren't invited to? I've got two waiter uniforms and a brilliant plan. You in?"

"There's a secret rooftop garden on top of that skyscraper. I bet we could talk our way past security if we pretend to be lost interns."

"I know this sounds crazy, but I found a hidden door behind the museum. Want to see where it leads after closing time?"

"The local TV station does live broadcasts from that studio. I bet with the right timing, we could sneak onto a set during a commercial break. Ready for your 15 seconds of fame?"

"I discovered a hidden hot spring in the woods just outside town. It's a bit of a hike, but imagine a midnight dip under the stars."

"There's a secret room in the library that's usually locked. I copied the key while volunteering. Want to see what forbidden books they're hiding?"

"Remember that fancy cooking class that was full? Well, I may have found a way for us to observe from the kitchen's back entrance. Hungry for some culinary espionage?"

"I know how to get onto the roof of the tallest building downtown. The view of the sunset from up there is incredible. Shall we?"

"There's a masquerade ball at the governor's mansion tonight. I've got two masks and a wild idea. Care to crash a high-society party?"

"My friend works at the zoo and says we could help feed the penguins after closing time. Interested in a secret animal encounter?"

"I heard this old theater is supposedly haunted. Want to sneak in after hours and do some ghost hunting?"

"There's a secret beach hidden behind those cliffs. The catch? We'll have to climb down a rope ladder to reach it. You up for it?"

"I found an old map of the city's underground tunnels. Fancy a subterranean adventure date?"

[philomena-famulok]

©Philomena Famulok

mixed media, 2021/23

[gojosfling]

like pretty much everyone else who has watched sinners it is safe to say i have a bit of a thing for Remmick lmao

so i’ve been writing a little nsfw one shot with him and a reader who has some curse in her bones and a mind filled with fog— she meets him in the dead of night, nosferatu style, and the opening goes a little something like this:

the faint crackling of branches and dried-up leaves beneath your damp feet is the only sound that pierces (through) the fog— dense and clinging— that seems to be drowning your tired mind. cold winds nip at your bare arms, serving as an anchor against the pull of sleep and mist. they tether you to reality, though now, that’s little more than a concept in the state you reside in.

the woods are still.

but they breathe.

A gentle rhythm. croaking and rolling, almost like a singular organism, more alive at night than it dares be by day.

your eyes betray you.

lids heavy and slump, your view blurred by thick, curling lashes—not that it matters. you reckon you wouldn’t be able to see much anyway, not in the midst of all this dark.

and besides,

you are asleep.

at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

yet, you move.

onward, toward a place unknown.

your body moves of its own accord, out of your hands. it is the air, really—the way it whistles through the trees. like a guide, it carries you forth. you drift, but you do not float… not quite. twigs still tickle your toes, reminding you that you are, at least, close to solid ground.

your mind is worth even less than your eyes. it is filled with cotton—a thick, pressing feeling coming in from all sides. you hear whispers, maybe. feel a call, perhaps. but certainly, there is a pull in your gut. Something like a string, dipped in the likes of destiny, that runs through you. loosely tugged, drawing you ever inward. towards the center. the belly of the woods.

and then suddenly—

wood.

the sudden solidity beneath your feet sparks something in you. the sunken creaks beneath you are familiar, every step—even to your drowning mind.

your soles land, softly, on a porch.

“Well now… ain’t I just the luckiest soul this side of the Delta.”

the sound of a voice—soft and sulky like honey, yet deep and low, like a hum—snaps you out of this trance-like state. your eyes are finally allowed to blink.

once. twice.

the veil lifts. your vision sharpens. your breath catches.

you have woken.

though now, you begin to wonder wether you were truly asleep.

the mist pulls back, thinning at the center. the trees part, unraveling like ribs, expanding with breath. the subtle outline of a structure reveals itself.

it’s shaped like a house.

surprisingly crisp around the edges—too clean for the wild that surrounds it. it’s simple. quite elegant even. something you might expect on the white side of town. unexpected, this deep in the woods that circle the Mississippi Delta.

but the foundation looks wrong. feels wrong. the wood is old. soft. sour and hollow—like one good blow might bring the whole thing crashing down

it looks like a house.

but it certainly doesn’t feel like one.

and before better judgement has a chance to settle, a sharp sting blooms across your legs.

you look down.

thin cuts all over your sticky legs where a night gown could not reach. the black fabric clings to waist and thighs instead, wet with sweat and the heavy humidity of a southern summer. the scratches are shallow—nothing deep enough to scar.

you are bleeding nonetheless.

and around here, thats enough to draw attention.

you’re starting to wonder how you even made it this far out without something catching your scent. then again, you don’t know what still waits behind you in the dark—

or worse, what lies ahead.

right now, at the foot of some house, deep in the darkest part of the woods—you should be scared. terrified, really. to be lifted out of your own bed in the dead of night, carried through soil and sulk.

however, another feeling fills your body. something warm. burning. thick. it runs deep—blood deep. like a sensention passed down through the marrow.

it feels familiar.

similar to what your mother used to make you pray against in church and out of it.

similar to the sensation aunt Annie’s tried to push down with burned fingertips and oiled charms.

maybe you should be worried. probably. but it feels too good. and you’re too far gone to care.

whatever it is, has been waiting for you.

and so have you.

you inch closer to the door, and your feet melt into the soft, tired floorboards. the house grunts and coos in response. it’s as if it’s begging you to come closer.

the front door hangs slightly ajar—darkness spilling from the slip. a darkness filled with sounds so void, they seem to be coming from deep below. from those that are no longer among us. they chant and hum melodies, though their voices clearly miss soul. and you stop, the fear getting to you at last.

that’s when you hear that voice again - soft, warm, but with the slightest hint of desperation now:

“Well dear, no use in being shy now. Come on in.”