i'm gonna be self indulgent and use this post to yap about the Lighthouse As A Queer Bar AU, thank you for the tag @basedonconjecture <3 i'll be tagging @lucaniseyebrowlicker, @no1lucanispegger, @thewardenisonthecase, @corvus-frugilegus and @covertleathers <3
Bea De Riva
the mother of all collaborative AUs, with 100k words poured into it as of today, the premise is simple: the Lighthouse is reimagined as a historical queer bar in Wherever, Modern Thedas, and is staffed and frequented by a variety of Rooks and canon characters (Lucanis is a drag queen! Felassan is still dead and haunting the narrative, but this time he adopted two runaway queer kids with his wives! Dorian has to act as a Dad stand-in for Bea after Felassan dies! and Felassan is ALSO a drag queen! you get the idea.)
My favorite barbie, Bea, is a hot bartender. she's every bit Felassan's daughter despite not sharing any blood with him, and Felassan introduces her to the world of drag. Bartender Bea is very hyperfeminine, in your face tits and grin, a true character. And gradually, as the story progresses, she realizes there's some They in that She, maybe even some He. Largely with the help of Lighthouse manager, Rafe @nonagesimus, who happens to have some She in his He. Repressed Boygirl meets Repressed Girlboy and they fuck real gender-y about it after dancing around each other for months (long, agonizing, secondhand-embarassment-inducing months, if you ask Ayden, little sibling extraordinaire). They also get married eventually because I'm a sucker for Bea in a suit and Rafe in a dress.
Gonna share a bit from the next chapter of Theme Nights, featuring @classicleechaos's Ziva "Mercar" Fontaine! Going to tag Lee, @orangeandclover and @no1lucanispegger!
“Is it too awkward if I admit I was scared to meet you?” Ziva says, and Daphne chokes on a nervous laugh, takes a sip of her margarita to cover it.
Salt clings to her lip and she licks at it, a little more sloppily than she’d like. Looks over Ziva’s shoulder like she’ll find backup on the mostly empty patio.
“You were?” she mumbles, picking up a napkin, shredding it between her fingers.
She catches Ziva watching her, tucks the strips of paper under the basket of chips, and her hands in her lap.
“No,” the elven woman says, with a wry smile, “the idea of working with my boyfriends’ ex while we all shimmy around each other in spandex and high heels was actually quite comforting to me.”
Daphne snorts, “Yeah, well, the view’s pretty similar from my side of the fence too.”
“So why’d you say yes?” Ziva asks. Her tidy nails drum once on the side of her glass, and the look she gives Daphne is not unkind but it is demanding. Like she’s been wanting to ask, holding herself back from it. She has been, Daphne realizes.
But Daphne doesn’t know how to answer. There’s a thousand different reasons that all leap to her head but none of them seem to work their way to her tongue. She owes him, so much more than she could ever begin to make up for, and this is the least she can do. She owes Hex. She misses Hex, misses dancing, misses feeling like she’s part of something. Any answer she’d give feels like an admission of more than she’s willing to reveal, though, so she settles on being evasive. Swallowing the uneasy feeling she’s given herself considering the options and firing the question back at the other woman.
“Why did you?”
Ziva’s stare remains fixed on her, unwavering. Unrelenting. A flush creeps up her chest as Daphne wills herself to remain steady under the other dancer’s attention.
i fear giving illario a pseudo-sister in the form of Donella in the Lighthouse Bar AU may be my biggest stroke of genius yet. they're so. fun. i can't.
Thanks for the tags @hightowerqueen, @nonagesimus, and @defenseattorneyofneve! In return, I tag @orangeandclover and @lucaniseyebrowlicker, if y'all haven't done it already.
So, this one hurts. This one hurts real bad. It's set in the Lighthouse Verse Queer Bar AU that I have going with my very talented friends.
It's set in the months before Felassan died. Mirevas/Felassan. cw for grief.
I was tagged by @nonagesimus and @classicleechaos. Thanks for the tags! I tag @saltyowlets, @defenseattorneyofneve, and @thewardenisonthecase if y'all haven't done it already.
To no one's great surprise, I'm gonna go with Mirevas.
In regular Dragon Age canon, she wears dark, form fitting attire that shows off as much skin as elvenly possible. Back during the rebellion in Elvhenan, she ate a lightning blast direct from Elgar'nan on the battlefield. It left a scar that up the right side of her body, starting from the point of contact on her left hip and branching vertically up to her cheek and down to her shin. Nobody expected her to survive, but she did. The scars were proof to her allies and her enemies that Elgar'nan's wrath could be survived, so she took every opportunity to show 'em off.
A few thousand years later, the habit stuck.
(And also I, the No1LucanisPegger, really wanna be able to see the body paint)
In the Lighthouse AU verse where she's a regular none-of-your-fucking-business-year-old agender drag queen and bar owner, she dresses much the same as she does in regular Thedas but with a little more punk and a lot more gender fuckery.
Tagged by @nonagesimus , thanks!!!! Gonna also go with Modern/The Lighthouse Verse AU because I’m unfortunately a console player who doesn’t Love any of the in-game outfits for Daphne so she usually just ends up in the Crow casual outfit 😭
Tagging @classicleechaos and @defenseattorneyofneve !
Updated Theme Nights, with a chapter that includes mentions of OCs from @nonagesimus , @classicleechaos , @orangeandclover , and @hightowerqueen . This chapter is a direct sequel to the first chapter of @nonagesimus ‘s mixology, so you should read their’s first, and then mine!
Hey look at me, you guys! I'm actually posting this on Wednesday! And I actually have a WIP! Look at me go!
Thanks for the tag @lucaniseyebrowlicker. In return, I pass the tag onto... @marvelous-goose.
Right now I'm working on an addition to the Lighthouse Verse (that one AU my friends and I have going where the Lighthouse is a historic drag bar).
It's something of a prequel to the stories that @hightowerqueen, @nonagesimus, @orangeandclover, and @classicleechaos have been writing. The night Mirevas, the owner of the Lighthouse, met her children Ayden and Bea.
Mirevas had a fucking headache.
The thrum of the bassline knocked against her skull like a debtor at her door looking to collect. The deep, dulcet baritone of the Iron Bull's voice boomed through the Lighthouse, punctuated by the rabid screams of dozens of half-dressed queers clamoring against each other to get the best view of the Bull and his spectacular vitaar-slathered tits.
The Bull's Chargers had just debuted with their first album, Tal-Va-Fucking-Shoth, which had skyrocketed to the top of the charts and cemented their status as local heroes. The neighborhood had been in a frenzy since the album's release, everyone who knew them as a gang of lovable misfits eager to get in time with them before they left for their first national tour (and get them to sign shit that they could then sell on the internet once they got big-big). Everything happened so fast that they were only able to put on a half-dozen local shows in the brief window of time before the start of the tour.
Their farewell show was, of course, happening at the Lighthouse. After all, before they were celebrities, they were Mirevas' employees. She had Bull and Skinner at the door; Dalish, Rocky, and Grimm behind the bar, Stitches in the kitchen, and Krem the inside bouncer standing on his favorite chair to look out into the crowd for foolishness.
And then there was Dorian, who sat prim and proper at the bar with his legs crossed, manicured fingers tapping impatiently against his knees. His gaze was locked onto the big lug on stage, who at that moment had stopped singing to catch a pair of pretty pink panties with his teeth. The crowd roared and Bull, triumphant, hung the panties from his horn. Bull had a collection going. From his right horn hung, with the addition of the pretty pink panties, four separate pairs of underwear ranging from boyshorts to a lacy thong, and on the other horn were five different jockstraps, each one a different color.
"It's obscene," Dorian huffed. Mirevas rolled her eyes, and when she failed to respond in a timely manner he repeated, "It's obscene," spitting out the last word through neat but gritted teeth. "Who knows where those filthy things have been?"
Mirevas knew from experience that her manager would keep repeating himself, each iteration a half-octave higher than the last. Sighing, she passed him his third martini of the night—extra dry with three olives. Dorian snatched it up with a flourish, nodding his thanks before taking a long, languid sip.
"Grouse all you want," Mirevas chuckled, reaching for a fourth martini glass, "But you and I both know who that sunflower-yellow jockstrap belongs to."
Dorian nearly choked on his drink. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh really? You wanna play this game? Sure, we can play this game." Mirevas jerked her head in the direction of a nearby wall mosaic of Polaroid pictures. They called it the Wall of Fame. It was a well-known truth that only half the people who went to the bathroom at the Lighthouse actually planned to use it how it was intended. The other half just went back there to fuck.
And when they were finished, they would inevitably have to do a walk of fame (not shame, never shame) down the long, narrow hallway where the bathrooms are housed, where an employee (usually Cole, who they somehow never see coming) would be waiting with the Polaroid camera. It was a tradition that was far older than Mirevas and Felassan. The drag queens that came before them had started it, and when they passed the bar down to her and Felassan, they passed that tradition on down with it. They themselves had well over a dozen pictures up on the wall taken over the years. Mirevas eyed them fondly for a moment before leaning over the side of the bar and pointedly jabbing her finger at one of the Polaroids.
In it, Bull was sauntering out of the bathroom with the biggest, dopiest drunken grin on his face that he directed right at the camera. Dorian was slung over his shoulder, and the both of them were so incredibly sloshed that neither of them realized Dorian's dress pants had fallen down his thighs and exposed his ass, which was sporting a bright red hand-print that took up most of the real estate on his right cheek, and outlining the (as Dorian never failed to remind her: perky, bouncy, and delicious) ass in question was the sunflower jockstrap currently hanging from Bull's horns and smacking against his cheek as he moved across the stage.
Dorian tried to hide behind the rim of his now-empty glass. He locked eyes with Mirevas through it and grumbled out, "I hate you so much."
Mirevas shrugged and passed him another martini. "Love you too, princess."
