happy thedasweekend! how about "kissing your lover after believing you’d lost them ." for your pairing of choice?
hi hello!! it has been literal months but here they are 🫣🫶
Lavellan and Solas for @thedasweekend
seen from Germany
seen from China

seen from Austria
seen from United States
seen from China

seen from Brazil

seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from India
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Yemen
seen from Poland
seen from Japan
seen from China
seen from Canada

seen from Russia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Netherlands
seen from Germany
happy thedasweekend! how about "kissing your lover after believing you’d lost them ." for your pairing of choice?
hi hello!! it has been literal months but here they are 🫣🫶
Lavellan and Solas for @thedasweekend
Happy Thedas Weekend!
How about Bellara & Emmrich nerding out with the Wisp color palette from the Veilguard Color Palettes?
thank you for the prompt! i love drawing these two separately, so both at once was fun! toying around with style stuff again also
@thedasweekend
done for @thedasweekend - (my da sideblog: @elvhenprince)
leaning into the sideboob still counts as leaning into the side, right??
hi, happy thedasweekend! I'd love to see "non-sexual nudity" with iron bull/dorian!
Big, gushing streams," the Bull says, as they stop near the falls. "I'm starting to feel inadequate."
"Enough is enough," Vivienne says curtly. The Bull doesn't quite wince, but it's a near thing.
"Sorry, Ma'am."
"Not you, dear," she says, on an titter of amused laughter. "We all smell absolutely wretched. I am not going another step until we bathe."
"Fair call," Dorian says, "I may pass out if I have to be downwind of the Bull a moment longer."
He's not wrong, after a solid week in the Emerald Graves. It's been a messy affair, especially today. The stink of blood, mud, shit and red lyrium sticks to all of them. Still leers at Dorian for good measure, though.
"We're all in favour, then," Cadash says. "Let's do it while the sun's high, save Dorian complaining about the cold."
"I never complain," Dorian says, and then; "it'll be buggery to get the dirt out of my robe."
"I think perhaps you're doing buggery wrong, then," Vivienne says, before the Bull can. He laughs uproarously as he scopes out a spot for his axe, fingers already unbuckling his harness.
Metal and leather gear is off first, handwashed in the river with scraps of cloth from the boss' pack. Set out in a sunny spot to dry while they deal with the fabric stuff, with some fancy-smelling soap Vivienne had on her person. It's something sharp and citrusy, the edge of medical about it.
hello!! from the drunken confession prompts: "You're all I ever wanted. I'm sorry I can't say it sober." with emmrook?
Thank you so much for the prompt for @thedasweekendand thank you for the patience while I wrote it!
Pairing: Emmrook (Emmrich x Rook / Emmrich x Siobhan Ingellvar)
Words: 2,102
Warnings/tags: drinking/being drunk, fluff, slight angst but not really
Swirling his glass in his hands, Emmrich falls into despair.
As a professor and a researcher, that had not been born into any kind of fortune, it is especially important to have the right words at hand; to know whether he needs them to be soothing, enticing or evoking any other kind of feeling.
Words are magic, words are power, words control entire fates, yet words fail him around Rook.
Siobhan Ingellvar.
The name feels like a prayer on his lips, when he murmurs it into the silence of his empty bed, alone in the dark, the only time he truly dares to say it out loud. In those nights, he speaks of longing, he spills desires into the fabrics of his pillows, the one he feels almost escaping into the world when she is around but always pushes back into, only letting them out when nothing but his lovesick heart is there to accompany him.
But he wishes it to be her who hears it. She should hear it. She can never hear it. Emmrich keeps the hold on his tongue and for the first time in years, falls silent. For a considerate amount of time know, he is feeling like a yearning schoolboy, when she steals the eloquence from his lips and dances away, spinning yet another story with his heart.
Tonight this aching heart screams more than ever.
As some of them have left the dining hall to retire to their own chambers, others have stayed. Davrin, Lucanis, Neve and Rook -Her name is Siobhan, say it his mind screams- and himself have chosen to remain for a gregarious evening. Emmrich had thought about leaving after Bellara had bid them goodnight but after hearing Rook voice as she and the others made their way to the sitting area, he had acted on an impulse and sat himself next to them. Words fell easily out of his mouth – none that truly matter anyway- and the others listened attentively and laughed when appropriate, as they took their cards.
Now they are on their third round of wicked grace, Emmrich is failing. The logic of the game is understandable, but the deceit fails him, as the others rook their cards. As a result he looses over and over, drinking more and more. One time he sees Rook having to take a swig and as her sweet mouth sours into a thin line in disappointment, he offers to drink it for her.
A few moments ago he wondered why he keeps sitting with them, as they laugh and joke and win but then he sees Rook smile at him at his offer and suddenly he is ready for five more dreadful rounds just to bask in that sight.
Neve deals the fourth round of cards and Emmrich sighs, his mind swimming with liquor and longing. Out of nowhere a warm hand appears on his shoulder, throwing him a lifeboat in the waves.
“Are you okay, Emmrich?” Rook asks and her voice is so warm and comforting, he wants to kiss her until that warmth seeps into him. Something in him urges him,screams at him, to confess and have her know his feelings but he swallows it down.
“Yes,” he hears himself say, his voice sounding far away and proper, although the edges begin to slur already. He refills his glass and smiles at her worried eyes. “I am in good spirits.”
Neve gives a throaty laugh and both Emmrich and Rook look at her. “Well, that’s one way to put it. Are you ready for another round?”
He nods and takes his cards, while Rook hands falls away but his shoulder feels as if it left a burn.
After the fourth round ends, his mind starts wandering. He is not drowning anymore but gently floating among the waves, his eyes focusing on Siobhan, who jokes and shuffles cards, while her voice is a symphony to his ears. Whenever their eyes meet, his heart begins to race and he glances away, before surely as ever, returning to her once again. As his eyes drink her in, he notices that there is a ink stain on her hand, having extended onto the seam on her arm and Emmrich furrows his brow. She never allows her clothes to stain.
Without thinking he reaches out, grabbing the fabric and knocks a drink over. Staring at his wretched hand
“Oh,” he hears Davrin say and faintly sees him standing up “He’s really drunk.”
“One is always the first,” Lucanis murmurs behind him and offers Neve a towel for a stain that appeared on her leg.
When did this happen?
“I’ll bring him to bed.” Rook says, lifting his arm around her shoulders and suddenly the Room moves as he is hoisted up with surprising strength. He means to protest, he is not a child and certainly not that drunk, but then he feels her hand on his hip, her strong, nimble fingers curling around him, and snaps his mouth shut. Something in him feels wretched to enjoy this so much.
Unceremoniously they stumble out of the dining hall, while he leans heavy on her frame. She is tall, but not as tall as him and if he would dare to he could rest his mouth against her temple and breath his desires through her skull into her brain.
He hears himself talking, about fabrics and ways to clean it properly and thinks about how he could fix this for her, as her smell fills his nose.
Spicy and floral and warm. He wants to come undone in it but he merely waxes about a good cleaner in Nevarra and how he could introduce her, maybe we could go tomorrow? For a moment he revels in the idea. Would they steal away together? Would the fabric cleaner think they are a couple? Would Siobhan deny it or just give one of her world ending smiles? Why is it that his heart yearns for her to say she loves him at a mundane spot in Nevarra just so he could dare to steal the confession from her lips with a kiss and breathe his into her mouth in return?
The door to his room snaps him out of the thought.
“Ah-” he says, disappointment flooding him. “We have arrived.”
There is a tug and the door opens. In a blink there are inside his room and he hears Manfred hissing something.
“Can you get us a bucket and maybe some water?” he hears Siobhan say and then another hiss as Manfred disappears.
“Where is your bedroom?” Siobhan asks and when he points to the place where his hidden bedroom is, she drags him there.
“We really shouldn't” he slurs and is unsure what he means himself.
“We should.” Her voice leaves no room for discussion. “Open it please.”
So he does. Once inside she lets out a stunned woah and he smiles brightly at her. The room is more modest than he could afford but similar to his one at home. He aches at the word. Home. If only he could show her, would she be as amazed as now?
She ignores the books and the various artifacts, leads him away from the fireplace, over the woven rug and onto his soft bed. There he topples him over and he loses balance, falling onto his bed.
Siobhan stands before him, painted in warm ember colors by the firelight, making her freckles come alive.
You’re beautiful, he thinks and she giggles.
“Well you too, man that drank so much he forgot to be shy.” There is amusement in her voice, but no malice. No. She is never malicious.
Then she bows down and starts touching his boots. With a motion that is less elegant than he would have liked, he props himself up on his elbows. “What-”
“Shhh…” she says soothingly. “It’s only the boots and the vest, so you can sleep. Nothing more.”
He stares at her, his mind awfully blank at the way that she unclasps hooks and unties laces with ease. When his shoes are gone, she changes her position and kneels between his spread legs, fingers flying to open his button. When he stills her hands, she looks up at him again.
“What,” he whispers, “are you doing, Siobhan?”
Her eyes flutter shut at her name and a sigh curls from her mouth. “Say that again,” she begs and he does.
“Siobhan. Beautiful, most unknowingly cruel Siobhan, in what spell have you captured me?”
Instead of answering, she takes his face in her hands and says, “Why do you never say this sober?”
“Because I am a fool,” he whispers, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “You are all I ever wanted and I cannot speak those words sober, because I am terrified.”
She stills, questioning eyes and brushing thumbs and then she half sighs, half laughs as she says: “I would like to kiss you now, but you are drunk. So you must wait until tomorrow.”
Emmrich feels like being lit on fire. “Kiss me now,” he pleads, the ache in his heart throbbing with a feverish haze. Siobhan lifts herself up and presses a lingering kiss to his cheek. The following whisper on his skin feels like a soothing balm. “Tomorrow, I will kiss your lips and whatever else you desire. Tonight, you sleep, beloved.”
It is a heavy word but tonight it feels like it makes him float. A boyish, drunken grin pools around his lips and he complies with her, just so tomorrow comes faster.
When his vest and boots are gone, he himself removes his cummerbund and folds it as even as he is able to manage, before letting him being guided underneath his soft covers. Siobhan tugs him in, pressing the fabric close around him and he lets his eyes slip close.
The worlds is spinning and Emmrich groans.
When he feels her knuckles brush his face, he leans into the touch, trying and succeeding to find steadiness in her.
There is another question that is edging around his consciousness, one that is so bold and earnest that its tearing down the already porous, crumbling wall. Opening his eyes, he fears that his heart will break if she leaves him now, with only ghosts of memories and his own yearning to keep him company.
“Will you stay? Please?” It sounds more like a whimper and he winces.
There is no silence, no hesitation, only simplicity in her honesty.
“Yes,” she says, pawns off her shoes and crawls over him to sit next to him. She puts a pillow on her lap and pats it and Emmrich crawls onto it, resting his head. Siobhans hands tangle in his hair, caressing his skin with tender care. “Would you like a story?”
For some reason, she always knows what he needs, no matter how buried his desires are and he finds himself agreeing. It has been a long time since he allowed himself to feel small again.
“Do you know the story of the cicada that wanted to go to a masquerade?”
“No. What is is about?” he murmurs, trying to imagine it against the waves in his head.
“Well… It began once upon a time but not so very long ago…” she begins and soon is weaving a story around him, cradling him in soothing warmth. Despite the turning of the room and the nausea building in his stomach, he feels himself relax. When Manfred arrives with water and a bucket – “Where were you so long, little one?”- he barely registers Siobhan slipping some down his throat before he is allowed to rest again.
Hands brush over his cheek and he cracks his eye open again, looking up to see her looming over him. She smiles and continues.
Emmrich can see the story now, a cicada hopping and dressing up, running away with a mask made out of a peacocks feathers to a most lavish ball and while she describes it to him most vividly, he wonders about the fabric again. Why was there ink on her sleeve?
“And then the cricket said-”
“What happened to your sleeve?”
She huffs. “That is not what the cricket said, Emmrich.”
“What did it say?”
“You should sleep.”
“What did the cricket say about the ink?”
“She wrote you a love letter. And if you sleep now, she is going to give it to you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. He nods and lets himself sink deeper into the approaching waves of sleep.
He could not wait for tomorrow and all of its pleasures to arrive.
Joly! Anguish! A line from Richard Siken's Snow and Dirty Rain: and this is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me tight, it’s getting cold.
@thedasweekend
Pairing: Miraen x Felassan CWs: Angst, dead Felassan WC: 790 When the one you love has died, memories and dreams are not enough, and memories and dreams are all you have.
He comes to them in dreams.
Hi!!! Happy Thedas Weekend!!! (also thank you for organising all this !!) I hadn't really thought about Calpernia/Solas before, but you have me SO intrigued so for those two, can I suggest "what would you have done differently?"
you're so sweet, thank you 🥰🥰🥰 and you gave me a chance to write about one of my favorite niche ships >:3
ended up unexpectedly writing a calpernia-as-rook piece that got entirely away from me 😂 written for @thedasweekend !
available on ao3 -> Wishful Thought, Risen Up
ship: solas/calpernia, pre-relationship rating: t words: 4,703 veilguard spoilers
"Solas." Her voice cut through the myriad small sounds of this prison, a clarity in it that seemed to part the fog.
In a single moment, he thought he understood it all. Why Corypheus chose her. Why she led the Venatori. Why she managed these things. How she managed these things.
Corypheus had used her, of course. And the Venatori were a blunt instrument, violence practically for its own sake, gaining only a little depth under her command. But he knew—all too well—the need for such blunt instrumentation in the pursuit of changing one's world. He admired her command, her determination, and her perception, even if he could not admire the particulars of her choices.
Well. No more than he could admire the particulars of his own. Nonetheless, he thought he understood.
Happy Thedas Weekend! You up for some Rhela/Gelduran cowboy AU goodness? Perhaps the prompt, "I don't think your intentions are honourable."
I am always happy to provide some Rhéla and Geldauran nonsense. :)
@thedasweekend Ostagar Man @ AO3
It was a very rare day in Ostagar: the sun way out but not scorching, the breeze from the plains kept the air temperate, and both Rhéla and Geldauran had the day off.
Another first - Rhéla was driving. His truck, of course.
When they hopped inside, did he have to wait approximately 5 minutes for her to scoot the seat to a spot where her feet could reach the pedals? Absolutely. Did he mind it? Not so much.
Somehow she had managed to look at him both sheepishly and appropriately annoyed as the seat’s motor made that steady brrr while moving forward toward the steering wheel.
And yeah, it was worth every second.
Once those short - and did he mention, very attractive? - legs were able to press down the clutch, they were on their way.
Rhéla’s mood shifted after her annoyance. Geldauran understood her quite well, he liked to think, and he watched as her shoulders relaxed under her t-shirt. A deep breath. With the windows down, the wind kicked up her hair, the soft curls floating around her head as they sped toward the edge of the city.
Geldauran himself had sunk deep into the leather seat. A treat. His hand dangled out the window, hat tilted just enough to keep the sun from blinding him. He did not know their destination, though that wasn’t really the point.
No plan. No work. Just time spent together without the weight of their badges.
A quick glance down between them as he watched her shift gears. His attention drifted slowly to her hand tapping on the steering wheel, in time with whatever low country song that murmured through the radio. A brief thought of how nice something shiny would look on that 4th finger.
Not quite the time to lose himself in those thoughts, he reminded himself. Drumming his fingers where they rested on the open window.
They weren’t too far from the county line as they passed what appeared to be an older patrol car sitting next to a telephone pole. One of those that Hafter had decommissioned over the years - they were built like tanks and had a decent get-up-and-go but became far too expensive to maintain when Orzammar stopped making parts for them.
Geldauran barely gave it a second thought, that is, until the siren wailed behind them.
With a quirked brow, Rhéla met his eyes briefly from behind her glasses. The quiet click of the indicator as she pulled off the road. The trucks wheels kicked up dust as they came to a stop, engine warm and ticking as it settled under the Ostagar sun. The patrol car pulled up close behind them lights flashing but the siren now silent.
Rhéla glanced up in the rear view mirror, “Don’t think that’s one of ours.”
“Why do you say that, Rhey?”
A quiet huff, “Well, pretty sure that ‘Ostagar’ is spelt wrong, for one.” Sure enough, Geldauran dipped his head to look in the side mirror, and in big bold letters was OSTEGAR. When the Deputy stepped out of his car, he adjusted his belt. Male. Human. He wore the out of date beige and brown uniforms that Geldauran had transition the department from last year. They even wore the stupid-looking campaign hat with the tassels.
“And -” she continued, “he’s got the beige and browns we used to wear.” Clearly noticing the same warning signs that Geldauran had. A small tug at the edge of her lips revealed her usual crooked smirk was particularly amusing - or someone was being particularly stupid.
A brief look passed between the Sheriff and Undersheriff with a nod of silent agreement.
“License and registration, ma’am.”
The Deputy stood there with his thumbs in his belt like he watched far too many cop shows in preparation for this role. Rhéla squinted at him through her sunglasses, she could feel Geldauran sink lower into the seat, arms crossed and letting her handle it.
She didn’t recognize the Deputy, and while Hafter County wasn’t exactly small, she had made an effort to at least learn as many names a possible. From the name tag on his shirt, it said ALERION. Unless he married into a clan - unlikely - that was certainly not his name. His badge was missing its badge number to identify himself.
Though, at least Ostagar was spelt correctly this time.
Rhéla’s attention dropped to his belt. Handcuffs in the wrong location, the gun was clearly fake by the bright orange ring poking out from the end of the barrel, and the holster itself was not standard issue. By the Void, was this man even trying?
A sound escaped from the back of her throat - some bizarre mixture of disbelief and utter amusement at how idiotic this man was. With her sweetest voice, she handed him her license and registration. Placing her sunglasses on the top of her head so she could bat those eyes at him.
“What’s the problem, officer?”
Geldauran huffed behind her. She could just about feel the smirk that radiated off the elf. If she weren’t trying to get the fake Deputy to mess up, she might’ve slapped Geldauran’s arm.
“You were speeding a ways back. Mind stepping out of the vehicle?”
Oh, she didn’t like that. A brief glance to Geldauran who merely nodded, she slipped out of the car and heard the faint click of Geldauran’s seatbelt unbuckling. A flash of his phone screen reflecting light as he typed a message.
The Deputy gestured vaguely to the front of the truck. “Place your hands on the hood of the vehicle ma’am.”
Rhéla wasn’t sure if the man was going to try to cop a feel or was just feeling particularly racist. Maybe it was the power trip. Either way, she was not going to play around.
Before he could even put his hands on her, Geldauran appeared, hat tipped back enough for Rhéla to see those green eyes flashing with something it didn’t do often - anger. He grabbed the Deputy by the wrist and spun him, slamming him onto the hood of the car as he pulled out his own cuffs.
“Well, Katie Mae got back to me and seems as though that patrol car our friend’s got? Was stolen from the salvage yard. And I got a feelin’ that this man’s intentions aren’t so honorable. Is that right?” He asked the man as the handcuffs clicked around their wrists.
The Deputy let out a grunt, face pressed against the hood.
Rhéla snorted, “Looks like real bad luck, pulling over the Sheriff on his day off. Was really lookin’ forward to the beach, Geldy.”
Geldauran gave her that stupidly charming smile, the one that made something in her stomach flip just a little and her heart beat faster, “Now, now, sugar. We’ll get to the beach. I always keep my promises.”