i think about Zevran. how much his open bisexuality affected me at 19. how much he loved the HOF. how obvious it is. i think about the deep roads. i think about Hespith’s poem. i think about the landsmeet. i think about Loghain’s betrayal.
i think about dragon age 2 all the time.
i think about Hawke. i think about all the companions, their interactions with one another, with Hawke. i think about all that remains. i think about Fenris leaving Hawke at first, not ready to be with her. i think about how shocked i was the first time i played, and how much i loved his path. i think about Anders’ destruction. i think about Isabela and Merrill, their adorable friendship.
i think about dragon age: inquisition all the time.
i think about Solas’ betrayal. i think about Vivienne. i think about Sera. i think about Cullen’s arc and how sweet his romance is. i think about Blackwall. i think about that famous Corypheus line. i think about wicked hearts wicked minds. i think about in hushed whispers. i think about how calming it is to traverse all the beautiful maps.
i think about the mass effect trilogy all the time.
i think about the atmosphere of me1. how starting up me1 feels like coming home. i think about Garrus’ romance, the bond between him and Shepard. i think about virmire. i think about the Reapers. i think about the Illusive Man. i think about meeting Aria for the first time on Omega. i think about Mordin’s sacrifice. i think about punching Udina. i think about exploring all the beautiful planets.
i do not think about veilguard.
none of the quests, companions, arcs really stuck with me. there are companions i liked (hello davrin and bellara) but when they lack so much content what’s there to think about? when i finished the game i didn’t feel that sad emptiness from completing and experiencing an amazing story.
gladiatrix, gladiatricis N (3rd) F - female gladiator
Content warnings: ancient roman bloodsport, rape, object insertion, period-accurate (extensive) slavery
You are circling her in a dusty arena, waiting for a bell to toll. You are identically armoured: a shortsword and a buckler, shin greaves, a pauldron on your sword-arm, and a loincloth. She is covered in scars; some from branding – maybe a smithing accident, maybe a punishment – but most are the straight gashes of a sword wound from combat. Hunched over, she looks like her fat might hide as much muscle as an ox.
You are circling her in a dusty arena, waiting for a bell, it tolls: she moves with it. You barely get your shield up in time, and the force of her blow knocks you back three full steps, and she’s on you again, you with your shield down and front wide open. She slashes at your upper shield arm and blood wells up and flows, catching on her blade as she pulls back, dripping into the sand.
You aren’t dead, and the pain isn’t real, yet. You rush at her and she’s too ready, she parries your sword and almost twists it out of your hand, but you withdraw, your shield up against your arm’s protestation, and her next blow slashes across it, making you beat your own chest. You meet her next blow better, with well-timed force, and her sword arm wheels out and back. The crowd, at a roiling boil since the bell, go quiet – they’re on her side.
You try to take advantage of her opening but she recovers too fast and she mirrors your shield block with the force of an uninjured arm. She takes advantage better, too, darting forward and slicing the side of your belly, darting back before you can do anything. The crowd is back into it now. You feel the certainty of your imminent death and everything clarifies. You rush at her, shield raised to beat her downwards, blood trickling warm down your shoulder, and only half-seeing behind your shield you stab at her inner thighs, scoring into her leg before pulling back.
The crowd is silent again, but the blood coming out of her is flowing down her leg, not spurting – you’ve missed her artery. Her mask of concentration becomes a knit-brow scowl, and she launches at you. You move to strike her but she parries your sword and twists it out of your hand, slashing across the front of your thighs and keeping in close. She takes another, deeper slash at your guts and, as you try fruitlessly to block, turns it quickly into a slash that breaks against your ribs.
You are stunned. The crowd’s silence is anticipation this time as she knees you in the guts. You vomit, and feel a wave of blood flow from the wounds at your sides. Already doubled over, she grabs your shoulders and twists you onto the ground. She lines her sword up to your neck, swings back, and the bell tolls again. Her anger turns, momentarily, to a figure you can’t see, then evaporates. Your vision begins to blur as she works the crowd for her victory lap. A pair of slaves – attendants by the combatants entrance you recognise from earlier – grab your arms and legs and haul you out of the arena.
You make it to your ludus’ camp without losing consciousness. Ursinus, the lanista, and a Greek slave are waiting for you when they put you down in the tent.
“I’m Herakles,” he says to you, and, as he goes to inspect your wounds, adds “I’m a doctor” in heavily accented Latin.
After a pause, Ursinus asks “Is she salvageable?”
Without turning to face his master or being reprimanded for the same, he replies “She has lost a lot of blood. But, her wounds are shallow. If we clean and close fast, she lives, all better.”
“I see. In that case,” Ursinus trails off, sticking his head out of the tent. “Maxima, in here,” he calls. She comes in.
“You made this mess, you clean it up. Herakles will explain how. Follow his instructions. If she dies, you’re paying to replace her.” Ursinus turns to leave, until
“But she tried to kill—” Ursinus’ glare cut off Maxima’s protest. Her shoulders fell.
He adds, on his way out: “You can patch yourself up when you’re done with her.”
They strip your armour, and wash your wounds with vinegar-soaked sponges that Herakles swears have never seen a latrina, and stitch them closed. Maxima works diligently but resentfully, Herakles offering scant commentary. He gives you heavily diluted wine while she sews herself shut. Soon enough the porters from the arena bring another one in, drawing Herakles’ attention and leaving you and Maxima alone.
“Watch yourself,” she says, getting up and leaving the tent.
You convalesce in a private bedroom – Ursinus wanted you integrated into the ludus after your first fight, but you’re too wounded for an introduction. You drift in and out of sleep interspersed with wine and bread. The edges of sleep and wake blur, until:
“Hey, slut” Maxima barks, slapping you awake. Now in a short tunic, she is straddling your chest, your arms pinned under her knees. A moment’s resistance makes your arm wound burn.
“Don’t try that shit, fuckface,” she glances down and you realise the cold feeling is a dagger pressed to your throat. She pulls it back and with her offhand slaps you, three times quickly.
“Ursinus wants to break even on you before anyone gets to kill you. Wants to see if you can be a brand. I guess they liked the naïve princess thing. But you need to learn how things fucking work.” Saying this, she lifts her tunic to reveal her wound.
“This,” she points, “is out of line. That’s a killing blow if you had better aim.”
“Aren’t we fighting to the death?” you ask. She slaps you again, hard.
“No, dipshit, are you dead right now? Look. You might die. But gladiators are expensive, gladiatrices even more so. Ursinus needs to make his money back. So mercy is the rule. What the fuck was he telling you, just to scare you? Fuck. OK, so, you know less than I thought. But what you actually need to learn is some fucking respect.” She takes a strip of cloth she must have brought with her, balls it up, and, holding your nose so you have to breathe, jams it in your open mouth. She takes a second one and, looping it around your head, ties a knot in it over your mouth, behind your teeth. You want to retch. Your mouth feels impossibly dry.
“You’ll stay still if you know what’s good for you. Do you know what’s good for you?” she asks, and you nod. She stows her dagger in a metal sheath, then crawls down you to straddle one thigh, seemingly making a point of first putting all her weight on your injured arm, then digging into your belly wounds with her knees.
You’re still in your combat loincloth, so when she throws the sheet all the way off you, and holds your legs apart, you’re fully exposed. Under any other circumstances the cool air would be a comfort on a night this hot. But she’s staring at your cunt with hunger. She presses the tip of her sheathed dagger to you, and the cold bronze is bracing. You tense up.
“Don’t get modest on me now,” she says, pushing in before you can exhale. The sheath is cold, the stretch burns, and you cry out. “Shut up, porna,” she snaps. You don’t need the Greek translated. She pulls a fraction out, then pushes back in, your whole body is as tense as a harp-string. She pulls back, and holds it there for longer this time, and as you exhale and start to sink she slaps you, higher this time so her gag can’t soften the blow. As you inhale she pushes in again, and the pain makes you curl up, immediately the wounds on your sides are burning. Your tears well up and flow freely. She grabs your throat and slams you back down and straightened out.
“I said to stay still, fuckface.” You can’t breathe. She doesn’t release her grip as she pushes the dagger in further, then draws it, with you too tense to let the sheath go. She releases her grip on your throat, holding the knife to it again.
“I need you to understand that even if I can’t kill you, I can make you suffer,” she says, drawing the dagger back. She stabs it at your cunt, and you flinch, but she sheathed it perfectly. “If you fuck with me again, no sheath, understand?” You nod.
She crawls forward, straddling your chest again. She unties your gag, dropping the wet ball of cloth on your pillow.
“Now you know what I can do to you. So now, you’re going to learn some respect.” She glares at you, until you slowly nod. “Good.”
She moves further up to you, now her crotch is at your chin. She unfolds at the knees, gets over you, then lowers herself back down.
“Have you done this before, slut?” she asks, then, not waiting for an answer, “its like kissing. Just keep your lips and tongue moving, no teeth. I’ll put you where I want you. If you need air, I’ll know when you pass out, don’t whinge about it before then.”
She lifts herself up over you again, and grabs a thick fistful of your hair closest to your scalp. She pulls you into her cunt, and you start to eat her. The acidic smell of her cunt is overpowered by her sweat; her bush is wet even before you tongue her open. She takes her hand away to hike her tunic up and belt it in place, grinding you into the bed instead. Her adjustments done, she grabs you again, pulling you up onto her her clit. At least you can breathe there. You quickly learn being given any slack is an instruction to go faster.
You lap at her like a dog, as she leans forward over you, doubled over, and she squirts on you, washing down your chin and neck. You stop, and breathe, and she sits back on your chest, catching her breath. She slaps you.
“Did I say you could stop?” She asks, striking you again when you shake your head ‘no’. She’s up again now, holding you deeper now, your tongue reaching into her cunt. She reaches back and grabs at your tit, first pulling at your nipple before digging into it with her thumbnail until you yelp into her from the pain. She slaps your tit before releasing, and grabs the wall with her free hand for stability.
You can barely breathe, your deepest breaths still not enough. As though she knows you might pull away to breathe, she grabs your head with her other hand, and pulls you deeper into her, her cries getting louder as your eyes water and your vision blurs, You are too scared of her to stop, though, and you keep going even as the base of your tongue aches. You feel her cunt clench around you as she comes.
You come to only seconds later. She is still over you, but back on your chest.
“You can stop now, by the way.” She says, sweet if sarcastic, less cruel and harsh than her voice before. “Good slut. Show me respect, keep me happy, and we won’t have any problems.”
She is methodical about adjusting her tunic again, taking her dagger, considering taking her gag but thinking better of it when she touches it. As soon as she’s done she gets off you, before leaning over you, and, almost as an afterthought, biting down hard on your neck, sucking hard.
“There.” She says. “Now the others will know you’re taken already.” And with that, she slinks back into the night.
