apfelgranate's art & fic blog (occasionally nsfw, please don't follow if you're a minor). don't repost my art, credit or no. back on my bullshit, aka dragon age â fic tag â art tag â pillowfort â spicy twitter commissions closed | ko-fi
someone poke me about this tomorrow or something once my brain has calmed down. i'm sitting on like 7 chapters of feral verse fic that has been Almost Done for years and i need to inflict it on the world
depends! i think leon kind of defaults to big spoon when it comes to being comforting and such, but
a) reader turns into an octopus when she sleeps so he usually ends up the little spoon by morning and doesn't mind at all, bc
b) little spoon is the person with their face to the door and their arms free, and old habits die hard, so
tbh i think they also end up really often just half on top of each other and not SpooningTM?
12. favorite non-sexual activity?
cuddling. like they spend so much time just draped all over each other it's unreal
close second is probably watching ridiculous cooking shows together, like reader is a professional cook so she gets hilariously annoyed about v specific stuff (y'know how i am with yelling about scientists in Open Labcoats in movies and shit? yeah, that's her) on the other hand, cutthroat kitchen is completely fine XD
23. who steals the blankets?
reader, and she feels really bad about it. leon meanwhile is like, literally every person i've ever shared a bed with has complained about me being a space heater, so i'm completely fine, actually
reader, when he actually does steal the blankets at one point: you're sick, aren't you
leon, actively suppressing a sneeze: no
BIG FAT DOMESTICITY QUESTIONS MEME (ETA: I ADDED SOME MORE)
Do we all agree that thinking about your ship being domestic is hnnnnnng? Ok. And I want to do an askbox meme. But I donât like all the questions from the two usual domesticity memes. SO I compiled both, reorganized the questions, took away repeats, tweaked some of them, and added more questions that I thought of, and you should feel free to reblog or message me with more questions to add to the list, and then also ask me ships with a questionâs number and we can all drown in domestic feelings.
Because domesticity, is why.
how did they first kiss?
who flirts more?
how did the relationship start?
how did they start living together? do they move? how do they choose the place?
do they have roommates?
do they get married (or equivalent)?
do they have kids?
do they have pets?
do they act different in public and at home?
big spoon/little spoon?
sleeping habits?
favorite non-sexual activity?
favorite sexual activity?
how often do they have sex?
what habits of the other drives them crazy?
how often do they fight?
most trivial thing they fight over?
who uses all the hot water?
who does most of the cleaning?
what do they watch on tv and do they fight for the remote?
who calls up the super/landlord when the heatâs not working?
who answers the phone?
who steals the blankets?
who remembers things?
who does the groceries?
who cooks normally?
who leaves their stuff lying everywhere?
what kind of stuff can be found around their place?
what do their cupboards or shelves look like?
what does their closet(s) look like?
what do they do when theyâre away from each other?
do they have nicknames or pet names for each other?
how do they refer to the other in public? how do other people refer to the other? (i.e. âmy partnerâ, âask your fatherâ, âdad and papaâ, âhowâs your wife?â, etc)
who is more likely to pay for dinner?
how often do they go on dates?
typical date night? out or at home?
do they celebrate birthdays, valentineâs day, anniversaries?
what would they get each other for gifts?
how do they spend christmas and new yearâs (or equivalent family gatherings)?
who cusses more?
what would they do if the other one was hurt?
what are little gestures they do for each other?
do they know how the other takes their coffee/tea?
do they feel they see each other enough, or do they have activities that take too much of their time?
do they friend/follow each other on facebook/tumblr/livejournal/skype/etc?
The sword is plain. An unadorned pommel, a disintegrating leather ribbon wrapping around the grip, a simply functional crossguard. No runes etched along the length of the fuller, to weave magic into steel.
But the blade is black and shimmering like ravenstone, and the edge is sharp.
It cut him, when he first found it. His blood on gray steel and gray stone and black something. It almost felt like glass. Hidden amidst strange ruins, towering slabs of rock above a network of caves and tunnels with alien writing along their walls, all for a grave that held no body, only a sword.
The dreams started soon afterwards.
A tall figure, wreathed in a cloak of shifting darkness. It stood beside him, in a field of grain bathed red from the setting sun. Foreign mountains rose in the distance. Its voice came from everywhere.
âWho are you?â it asks.
âSer Ludwig, knight of the Serpentsong.â
âAnd what is your task, oh knight?â
âMy Lady bid me purge the Dark from her lands. I drive back its encroaching wherever I find it.â
The figure turned to him, but there was no face within the cloak. Perhaps not even a body. He stood firm. The figureâs head tilted, first to the side, then down to him.
âA task that requires a sharp blade,â the voice whispered. âYou shall have it.â
His fingers clenched around nothing. The scabbard sat at his hip, empty.
When he awoke, the taste of blood was on his tongue.
.
The sword is warm when he touches it. It seems to hum in his hands, coming alive like an animal from sleep. He cleans it, he oils the blade, he replaces the leather ribbon around the grip. Supple goatskin, dyed oxblood red like his dreams have been.
As he sleeps, even the mountains are red. The figure is nowhere to be seen, but his scabbard is no longer empty.
.
The sword is warm when he touches it. It seems to come alive like an animal from sleep in his hands. Its edge is sharp.
He cuts down a pack of bandits who thought to ambush a lone knight as if they were hewn from straw and twine. The monsters born of the Dark that follow them fall just the same.
You shall have a sharp blade. The sharpest there ever was.
He stands there, exertion driving sweat onto his skin, his breath echoing within his helmet. He stares down at the sword in his hand, the blade drenched red with blood and shining with whatever the Darkâs creatures possess in place of it.
âYou must be a gift of the Saints,â he whispers and takes the hilt in both hands and lifts the sword to press a kiss to the pommel. His helmet is in the way, but even through the cold metal he can feel the swordâs warmth against his lips.
From all around him, he can hear a sad laugh, as if out of a dream.
âMy life force now sustains the Veil,â the Dread Wolf says.
His blood drips to the ground, dull red in the green light of the Veil rifts. Drip drip drip. The Fadeâs humming is so loud. The archdemon's corpse looms like a mountain. The blight still sings.
â
The Dread Wolf binds himself to the Veil. Rook has other plans.
mermay time!! aka tiny eel boyfriend doing a scarf impression
(which only works with kubide when he's in his giant eldritch horror hagfish form, bc kubide is a sperm whale merfolk aka 16 meters long (saar's ~just~ 8m bc she's an orca))
You wake up in a hospital bed, in a hospital you donât recognize.
Your body feels wrong. You donât know how long itâs felt that way.
â
A woman wakes up in a hospital with strange scars and no memory of how she got there. A man who introduces himself as Leon Kennedy seems to know what happened, even though she doesn't know him. But he feels familiar, and safeâŠ
And then the memories start coming back.
Your body feels wrong.
It hasnât felt right in a long time.
You think. Youâre not sure how long itâs been.
â
A mutated zombie with more than one kind of hunger catches Leon unawares in the depths of the Rhodes Hill care center.
But it turns out they have a deeper connection than their violent first meeting makes it seem.
2k, resident evil 9
# leon/zombie!reader, pegging, bizzare noncon to bizarre con, body horror, hugs
on AO3
@bisappointment made a post saying "where are the pegging re9 leon fics⊠i need this middle-aged man obliterated", @wanderingnork sent it to me with the comment "look! it's your bat signal!", i said "AND ROHAN SHALL ANSWER"
and then my brain said, hey. hey. can we make it work with the reader being a zombie?
The eagle cleans its bloody beak on the skin of Prometheusâ pectoral.
âYour children,â it says absently, âthey build nests of stone now.â
Prometheus can scarcely think past the pain, even after all this time. But that sentence worms its way past the wash of seething red.
â
Do not be fooled by the blood. This is a love story.
3k, hades 2 but also just the mythology, prometheus/eagle
Rating: Explicit
Content Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence
Fandom(s): Dragon Age: Inquisition
Major Pairing(s)/Character(s): Adaar/Solas, Adaar/Merrill/Samson
Several years after Corypheusâ defeat, Adaar has convinced Solas not to tear down the Veil and instead return to work with her to bring spirits and mortals together. But that tenuous peace is broken when Mythal reveals that Ghilanânain is working to free herself from the Evanuris prison. Adaar and her companions set out to stop Ghilan'nain, and in the process find a lot more, and a lot worse, than they expected.
A story about horror, helplessness, and how to keep going anyway.
More from edda: AO3 | @edda-grenade
More from Winter Hart Arts: BlueSky | @winterhartarts | AO3
solas has a job in the garden section of a hardware store, blood on his hands, a past that probably wants him dead, and a tattoo he really wants to get rid of. saarâs a vitaar and tattoo (removal) artist, who is definitely, totally, 100% the normal one in this scenario
au tag bc yes this is escalating
4th meeting
Solasâ shift runs long. First there is an issue with the delivery of the dayâthe flowers declared as multi-colored are actually single-colored. Then a cart with brightly blooming sunwatcher flowers nearly upends on him, leaving him spattered with earth, petals, and pollen. Just before he is due to leave, a truly staggering number of customers appear to arrive at once, and all of them have immensely pressing questions about everything from the correct soil in which to plant felandaris to whether andrasteâs grace is frost-hardy.
He manages to change out of his obnoxiously branded work shirt at the very least. But he is already late; there is simply no time to take a proper shower.
At the door of the tattoo parlor, Solas hesitates. A male human sits in the client chair of the front room, Saar in front of him, bent over his exposed chest. They appear to be⊠arguing.
âYouâre trying to annoy me,â Saar is saying. âNeon yellow? Thatâs gonna clash like fuck.â
âTrying to distract you, actually,â the human replies. He lifts his armâcovered in tattoos of flowers, in a deep crimson red and blackâand points at several inkless spots, then at his chest again. âBut you said yourself a bit of a contrast color would work well.â
âYeah, but not neon blighted yellowâSolasâ!â
Saar is on her feet and through the room in a flash. âEverything all right?â she asks quietly. âYou were real punctual the last timesâŠâ
Solas has to swallow. âI am well,â he says. A lie, considering his overall stateâbut not in regard to her question. âI apologize, work ran late.â
The relief plain on Saar's face has unexpected warmth bloom in Solasâ chest. Was she that concerned for him?
âSee, I told you he'd be fine,â the human comments glibly, dressing once again.
Saar rolls her eyes. âHush, Sam.â She cocks her head at Solas. The motion, oddly, reminds him of a curious drake. âIs work at a garden center?â
Solas freezes.
âYou, uh, smell like it. Earth and plants, I mean?â Saar reaches up to touch a spot on the side of his neck. âAnd youâve got pollen, right hereâŠâ
Solas finally manages to gather himself. âNot quite,â he says. Hesitates. But the way Saar is watching him⊠âThe gardening department, at FDC.â
She snorts out a strangled laugh. âFine Dwarven Crafts has a gardening department?â
âOh, yeah,â the human pipes up. âThey've branched out, it's not just mushrooms anymore.â He ambles close to Saar's side with a casualness that implies either deep-seated rudeness⊠or deep-seated familiarity. Given how Saar shifts to lean her elbow against his upper arm, it is the latter. Solas feels a strange pang in his chest at the sight, but then the human greets Solas.
âSamson,â he introduces himself. âIf Saar said she's seen worseâI'm worse.â
âMushrooms are not plants, actually,â Solas replies on autopilot. âI meanâSolas.â Samson smiles in a concerningly genial manner, and Solas finds himself wondering whether he is a former Templar, a runaway Gallows mage, or a different type of âall sortsâ altogetherâŠ
"Good to meet you, Solas." Samson nods at Saar, then at him. "I'll see you around." As he leaves, he pats Solas' shoulder. On instinct, Solas' magic rises up inside him, trying to sense whether the human carries the same, and if so, how strongâand dangerousâhe is⊠But there is nothing. Only a deep, empty well. Solas glances after him in morbid curiosity. Would Saarâor any free mageâreally be this familiar with a former Templar?
As far as Solas is aware, the Order has no foothold in Wycome, which was part of the reason he chose the city. But Orlais has all but legitimized them, and some Free Marcher cities like Kirkwall give them free reinsâŠ
#
"I have a suggestion for today," Saar tells Solas once they're in the back room, with the silencing sigil activated. Solas, who rather reassuringly had settled right into the client chair, straightens. Saar gestures at his limbs. "Given how fucking big your tattoos are, at the rate we're going that's gonna take a really long time, and a lot of sessions. Like, dozens and dozens. And I suspect they don't exactly pay you first rate, at FDC."
"âŠI possess certain savings," Solas offers after a moment. "If you're concerned that I would be unable to pay."
"I don't want to disembowel you like a feastday nug, Solas. Even if you could afford that."
He blinks, surprised. "Iâthank you." His expression softens, in a way that makes it really hard not to immediately burst out with the question that's been hounding Saar since Merrill showed her those articles.
Are you safe? Are you in danger, if that ink stays in you?
"So, the suggestion." Saar picks up a second syringe she assembled that morning. "Today's free. And we work on adjusting the enchantments instead of any actual removal."
For a long moment, Solas just stares at her. Then, a very small, cautious smile creeps onto his face.
"I'd like that," he says.
#
Solas eyes the cuts of exsanguinated pig. The skin has not been removed, and instead is marked with several lines of silver ink.
"You came prepared," he comments, unable to keep the wonder from his voice.
Saar shrugs. "Well, better if we do initial tests on something that's not you."
"It would not be the first time," Solas says absently, tracing the ink infused on the pig skin with one finger. It does feel subtly different to his own markings, but it ought to be similar enough for experimentation. After a moment, he realizes that Saar has not continued to speak. Instead she watches him with open, almost horrified curiosity.
Oh, no.
Please do not ask.
The words stick in his lungs, but perhaps they do show on his face in some manner, because Saar turns her piercing gaze from him. She huffs out a noisy breath.
"If," she says, "there are parts of your skin that have experimental magic woven into it, tell me before we get to those, yeah?"
"I will," Solas replies quietly, grateful in ways that make his throat tight.
When Saar knocks her shoulder against his, he does not move away.
"All right," she murmurs, setting the new syringe on the little table before them, "let's get started, shall we?"
#
Solas is not entirely sure what possesses him to ask. Perhaps it is the careful gentleness with which Saar holds his hand in hers as she tests the modified enchantment on the ink atop his wrist. The way overflow magic seeps from her in tiny sparks that slip down along her limbs towards the floor. The expression of focused concentration on her face, how her vitaarâstylized flames, in blue and whiteâshifts with it.
"Is Samson a Templar?"
Saar halts. Her eyes flick up to meet his, watchful. "He was," she says quietly.
He ought to leave it at that, out of propriety if nothing else. But he can still sense her magic flowing from her and into the enchantment, he can see the spell draw on her power, how she casts. Anyone could see it. A mage who embodies their magic this openlyâŠ
In a bittersweet, piercing way, it reminds him of Arlathan. In Tevinter, those in power flaunt their magical abilities, but it is not the same. There is an ease to Saar's magic, a simple existence that is strangely comforting, despite the sharp-edged memories it calls up.
So he asks: "How does a former Templar come to be so familiar with a mage such as you?"
This time, Saar's gaze lingers on him longer.
"A mage like me?"
"You do not hide. Your magic does not hesitate."
"Ah." She sets aside the syringe tool and reaches for wipes and disinfectant. "I think we're onto something here. This wasn't easy, but it definitely went quicker than last timeâŠ" Solas wonders if he pried into something painful, but as Saar takes care of his hand, her touch is as gentle as ever. "For the gory details, you're gonna have to ask Sam yourself," she continues as she works. "But⊠Sometimes people get into bad situations. Sometimes they don't get out before they break. But they still can get out. Can make amends, heal, change, whatever it is, y'know?"
Solas stares down at the now-broken line of his vallaslin atop his wrist. The way Saar handles him as if he is delicate.
"Do you believe that is true of anyone?" he asks quietly.
There is a pause. When he looks up, Saar is watching him intently. "Yes," she responds. "Anyone."
Caldarus had asked her once, during the late spring rains, if she might keep him company during such a peaceful moment. To his relief and delight, she had agreed.
He had not expected her to make a habit of it.
1.8k, fields of mistria
# caldarus/farmer, fluff + emotional smut, DRAGONFUCKING BC OBVIOUSLY, sounding, frottage
on AO3
look i know they didn't design caldarus' human form for the dragonfuckers. but his dragon form? HELLO
Hey I just found you randomly on Tumblr and I have absolutely love your tattoo AU and I wanted to work the idea of full body vallaslin into my fic! Are you cool with that? Can I give you credit?
hey, i'm so glad you're enjoying it! <3<3<3
you can give me credit, as in 'x inspired me for y', bc i certainly don't own the idea
AND ALSO
you do Not need my permission to use that idea. like i'm certainly not the first person to use full-body vallaslin in their fanworks and i won't be the last, we're not doing iron-clad IP rights in fandom here
solas has a job in the garden section of a hardware store, blood on his hands, a past that probably wants him dead, and a tattoo he really wants to get rid of. saarâs a vitaar and tattoo (removal) artist, who is definitely, totally, 100% the normal one in this scenario
au tag bc yes this is escalating
(new ship tags! who is surprised! me, somehow)
research intermission
The bathroom mirror shows a bald elf with brown skin and faint freckles, barefaced even without any glamor. Solas looks away. He touches his right cheekâthe skin and underlying tissue is raw and aching from the needle. The needle that drew the ink from him.
The sensation calls the sameâa similar situation to mind, despite his best efforts.
How gentle her hands wereâŠ
He buries his face in his hands, pushing until the heels of his palms make stars sparkle behind his eyelids. Inhales deeply, holds his breath, exhales for longer. His lungs ache. Eventually, he finds enough focus to work a minor healing spell, easing the recovery of the skin along.
Before he prepares for bed, he checks the wards on door and windows, and smothers the impulse to ascend the stairs to Mythalâs private quarters and ensure the security measures there are all in place and functioning properly.
The apartment he stands in now has no stairs. It is small and far from new, but the rent is affordable, and just as his current employer, no one cared much for background checks before he was able to sign the contract. The fact that Solas Adahlen has no records of his existence that reach back farther than a few months did not present an obstacle.
He tidies away the dishes from dinner. He brushes his teeth. He checks the wards again. He dons his nightclothes. He goes to bed.
He falls asleep with the phantom sensation of a hand stroking his back.
Fear not. You will always be mine. I would never cast you outâŠ
You good to keep going?
#
Merrill is already in her pyjamas when Saar arrives: flannel, with ducks and frogs printed on it. Her hairâs still up, and a mess. Saar tugs the pencil out of the bun once she lets go of Merrill from their hug and tucks it into the breast pocket of Merrillâs shirt.
âYou sounded worried,â Saar murmurs as Merrill leads her inside. Merrill laughs, a sound that is too sharp and too bright.
âOnly a little! Probably!â She drags Saar to sit down on the patched-up couch. On the low table in front of it, pages from one of her vallaslin research folders are spread out. She sits down next to Saar, feet drawn up onto the cushions, puts her chin on her knees and wraps her arms around her legs. âThere. That was the article with the best pictureâŠâ
Saar scans the headlineâthe big splash of a tabloid, about infiltration by ancient nefarious beingsâthen the picture itself.
ââŠHowâd they even get permission to print that?â she asks after a moment.
âI doubt they asked.â
Itâs a photograph of a naked corpse. Clinical, with even white lighting, the body laid out on a slab in whatâs presumably a mortuary. The wounds may have been cleaned, but something had ripped open the stomach. Saar tries not to look too closely. She can handle fresh injuries, the scent of blood and viscera everywhere, but that⊠it looks wrong. Feels wrong.
Lines of dark, almost black copper form twisting ribbons and what might be stylized flower buds all over the skin. The motifs stretch from the cheeks down onto the throat, grow along the collarbones and bloom onto the arms. Above the sternum, a stylized panicle of blossoms points down towards the navel, its vines wrapping over the ribs. On the knees more abstract flowers bloom, stretching their leaf-ribbons out towards the hips and feet.
The pattern itself is very different, but the overall arrangement, the strange sheen of the ink even under that sterile lightâŠ
Saarâs insides feel cold, and heavy.
âYou said the victim wasnât Dalish?â she asks Merrill, leaning their shoulders together.
âMost likely not, yeah. There was a whole conspiracy going onâyâknow, âoh, the Awakened Ancient Dalish are coming to take overââwhich mightâve played a part, but no clan ever claimed her. AndâŠâ Merrill pulls out two different articles, scrawled over with her own notes. âShe got mauled by some kind of animal, no idea what because this was in the city, the reports just said âanimal attackâ. But the cause of deathââ she taps the first of the other articles, ââprobably wasnât that. It was poison.â
Saarâs starting to see where the potential murder is coming in. She looks at the second article.
âWhat does âElgarânan Goldenhand of Arlathanâ have to do with this?â The nameâs marked in neon yellow, and underlined. The photograph is of a tall elvhen man, in expensive-looking clothes, a kind of crown on his dark hair.
âHis wife and him are the leaders of a Creatorsâ Temple, in Arlathan. Like, they say they actually are splinters, or reincarnations, of the Creators? The Sun-Father and the All-Mother.â Merrillâs voice goes thin. âAnd their followersâthereâs not a lot of images, never mind naked ones, butâI think they have full-body vallaslin too.â
Saarâs skin crawls. She sinks down into the couch, head resting on the backrest. She looks up at the ceiling. When Merrill moved in, Saar helped her paint it, sky and clouds around a bright sun.
âYou think the person who got killed was one of those followers,â Saar says, not quite a question.
âI think they murdered her, because she left,â Merrill whispers. Hearing it out loud is worse than having just the thought in your head, and Saar has to take a deep breath. âLook, I knowâI know, all right, I know that thereâs no concrete evidence for that, butââ Merrill clambers onto Saarâs lap and into Saarâs field of view, her hands insistently cupping Saarâs jaw.
âPlease be careful, all right?â
âI will,â Saar promises quietly. Her breath is going all thin in her lungs, because her brainâs running off and imagining Solas laid out on a metal table like that, lit by dead light, his stomach opened up by something with many teeth. That Merrill feels cold and smells like fear even though sheâs practically in Saarâs arms is even worse.
She does wrap her arms around Merrill properly. When Merrill kisses her, Saar just pulls her closer.
âWant me to stay the night?â Saar asks quietly, once they part. Merrill nods and kisses her again.
#
The tattoos on the back of Samsonâs shoulder, spilling over the skin from the full sleeve, always move in such mesmerizing ways when Saar fucks him. Seems as if the flowers shift in the wind, petals opening and closing, from the bunching of muscles beneath the skin.
He twists a little to shoot a filthy grin at her over his shoulder. âGetting lost in your own handiwork again?â
Saar huffs out a laugh and a groan. She grabs his hair and pushes his face down into the mattress again. Snaps her hips harder against his.
Afterwards, while sheâs cleaning him up, Samson trails his fingers over her knee where she sits next to him on the edge of the bed.
âYou back on with Daisy?â he asks, voice very casual.
Saar goes still. How does he alwaysâŠ
âWe were never off,â she replies. âAnd how would you know?â
âIt doesnât take you as long to get really mean, when youâve fucked her first.â Samson smirks. âI should send her a fruit basket for that, one of these days.â
Saar canât help laughing. She puts the rag away and applies elfroot tincture to the spots on his ass and thighs where her claws went through the skin. âAnd what would you put on the card?â
Thereâs quiet for a bit, while Saar finishes up with the tincture. Samson never asks, but he also never tells her not to, when she does a pass over the old lyrium infusion marks in the bend of his elbows too.
âI do need a favor,â she says then. Samson just raises his eyebrows at her, looking not the least bit surprised. Asshole, Saar thinks fondly. âI have a client, whoâŠâ How does she even put this. I think he ran away from a maybe-cult lead by supposedly reincarnated gods?
Finally she settles on: âI think heâs got a similar history to you. Not a Templar, but⊠someone who got out of a very bad situation.â
âYou want me to talk to him.â
âOffer to, yeah.â
Samson considers this. âHow long have you known the guy?â
âUh. A tenday? We had three sessionsâwell, two. First one was for making an actual appointment.â
âSaar.â
âWhat?!â
Samson puts a hand half over his eyes, laughing hoarsely. âNo, no, youâre right,â he says. âI shouldnât be surprised.â
âSo youâll come by?â Saar canât help how hopeful she sounds.Â
areudirty
snowghoul
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
discoholicmusic
