nothing sexier than that picture with the italian players on top of eachother after the win and the english ones going through the 5 stages of grief in the back
https://archiveofourown.org/works/85285391/chapters/225224446
Hi everyone! We're back with our twentieth piece for the Dragon Age Big Bang 2026!
Let's give it up for author Lore of Thedas and artist DovesnRoses; they did incredible work! Go check out their efforts over on Archive of Our Own, and we hope y'all enjoy!
Rating:
Mature
Summary:
Six months following the end of the Fifth Blight, Warden-Commander Haljra Tabris is tasked with a new mission — to rid the land of darkspawn. After being summoned by His Majesty to Amaranthine, Haljra embarked on a new adventure; yet, Haljra did not expect to meet a new foe: Nathaniel Howe. As time passed, Haljra realized Nathaniel was never truly her enemy. And in the aftermath of heartbreak and in the midst of battle, Haljra found herself falling for the disgraced noble.
Shout out to my teammate, @dovesnroses, who has been an absolute superstar throughout this event! And, I want to send a huge thank you to @purplejuni for beta reading this submission!
Tag List
@aetherflowers @bibutterflies @carako @dogot @dragonagedorks @opheliatrevelyan @priya-san @theluckywizard @tired-truffle
@tpseudonana
I wonder why powdered tomato isn’t a mainstream seasoning. It’d add such a nice little boost of umami without making your food too sugary or vinegary or spicy like other tomato-based food additives would. I just want to tomatey my eggs and toast yknow. tomatey my sammich. tomatey my salad perhaps
listen, I know how to use a search engine so I can see that it exists, and I can get it online if I need it.
I’m mostly curious why such a thing isn’t available in a typical grocery store spice section? At least none of the ones I’ve searched. Like we could be putting this on popcorn why is it not popular!!!!!!
SURPRISE BEYONCÉ DROP! FAILED REUNIONS AND FERAL CORVID LOGISTICS
(Or, how two people who wrote six weeks of love letters completely forgot how to be in a room together.)
Turns out six weeks of letters are easier than thirty seconds of eye contact. Gear up as our emotionally fluent penpals get one (1) homecoming and immediately set the War Room on fire.
Thankfully the cake-apology supply chain is as robust as the one for the Nevarran tomatoes, and the crow works for whoever brings the most bread.
Strap in, it's another long one. Oh, and the crow has a name now. (I'd die for him.)
Read Chapter 9 on AO3
Tag List
@aetherflowers @bibutterflies @carako @dogot @dragonagedorks
Reblogging with a snippet because I can:
Alistair x f!Hawke | E | WC: 43,500 (Complete) | DA2, Act 3 | Second Chances | Assassination Plot | Grief | Hurt/Comfort | Fast Burn | Fereldan Politics | Exiled Alistair | Angst with a Happy Ending | Flangst
(from Chapter 2: The Bastard)
The whole world lurches. Alistair’s first conscious thought— a muddy question— is whether he’s shipboard during a gale. He’s afraid to confirm it, keeping his eyes welded shut, clinging to sleep for a moment longer.
Unfortunately, he has to take a piss.
He’s met with darkness when he cracks an eye, but knows his rented closet of a room well enough to fumble his way to the chamber pot. He reluctantly throws back the covers, his insides squirming with a truly singular intensity, and shuffles to the exact place the pot is. But the room keeps going.
“Huh.”
Alistair swats an arm out, searching for a wall, a bit of furniture, anything to orient his well-marinated mind. He finds what might be drapes though and gives them a tug, at least enough to let in a beam of searing moonlight. Wincing against it, he squints back into the room.
He’s in someone’s bed chamber, fancier than any room he’s seen in a spell. But a large elaborate vase reminds him of his rather urgent mission. Alistair beelines for it, braces himself against the wall behind it and relieves himself. He hangs there, his guts and brains competing at cartwheels. When he looks up he finds himself leaning against a large mirror.
It’s been a year at least since he’s last seen a decent one and probably for the best. He looks like wyvern shit. Beyond the angry shadows of a battered eye socket, one pupil is blown wide while the other resists, setting his vision askew. His stringy hair could use a wash or three and his beard is a bloody war crime.
Alistair claws together a few wits, enough to take stock of today’s predicament. The bed is mercifully empty. If he had managed to charm some misguided lady he’d like to remember it. At the moment most of the evening is clear as mud, but what he can remember is fairly typical: a scrubby tavern, cheap booze, and traded insults.
He plunks on the edge of the bed to dress himself startled to find his stained clothes neatly folded. He pulls on his breeches and then puzzles over the gaping tear in his tunic. It wouldn’t be the first shirt lost to tavern mischief, but he has precious few and they’re… not here. He balls it up and tosses it over his shoulder.
It can’t be later than four, not with this potent moonlight. When his stomach lurches, he contemplates poking at the back of his throat over that vase, but it rarely accomplishes what he hopes. There’s a hammer and anvil ringing in his ears and his mouth is fresh as a frowzy codpiece. Maybe whoever is hosting him has a bottle of something that’ll take the jagged edge off this hangover.
Lighting the lamp on the bedside table with a few shaky strokes, Alistair then ventures out into the home, shuffling shirtless and shoeless. Halfway to the opposite door the hallway opens into a vaulted mezzanine that overlooks a grand foyer. A dark mass is spread on the floor below and then sends him staggering back against the wall when it yips. Alistair freezes.
A mabari.
It’s been five years since he’s seen one. An unfamiliar mabari is a roll of the dice and he’d never quite been a natural with them. They could smell his uncertainty like an open wound, that’s what Ser Perth always told him. And since there was little to do about the uncertainty, he decided to have little to do with the dogs if he could help it. Mercifully, they gave him to the horsemaster.
Alistair slinks to the back of the house, as well as a man this groggy can anyway, searching for a pantry or a kitchen. If they’d put them in that swanky bedchamber, perhaps they wouldn’t begrudge him a snack.
The kitchen is cramped, hearth and larder and an enormous workbench practically piled on top of each other, little space for the elaborate feasts he’d seen prepared at Redcliffe. A window in the back bleeds moonlight and he peers out to see that the room presses up against a courtyard garden overtaken by polearms and practice dummies.
A half-eaten loaf of levain stares him down on the block beside a crock of butter. Nobody would miss stale bread. The stool beneath him is as sure-footed as he is, listing beneath his weight as he butters a hunk and scans the room for a nip of something potent to ease the bucking of his stomach.
“You look like death warmed up.”
If she weren’t so right, she might have startled him. A woman sways in the grip of his lingering intoxication, leaning against the doorframe with a pair of magnificent arms folded, frank gaze surveying him as she sucks on her teeth. Her dark hair hangs in limp curtains over a rumpled nightshift.
Doubt is his first reaction. He should be so lucky. And yet— he did wake up in someone else’s bed in his smalls.
“Forgive me my impertinence, but— who are you?” he asks, gesturing with the pilfered bread.
“Call me Hawke,” she says evenly. “I brought you home last night.”
Alistair nods like he remembers. “Did we—?”
Her doubtful look kicks him in the teeth. A brutal laugh escapes her. “No,” she says. “No, we did not.”
“Did you— want to?” he asks. He curses his impulse when she cocks her head with a pitying lift of her brow.
“Let’s just say I’ve seen better prospects at the pig farm.”
“Wow,” says Alistair. “I mean I know I’m no prize but wow.”
Her bulwark of an expression breaks, an unruly smile disappearing behind her hand as she scratches her nose. “Well. You stink like it anyway.”
Alistair takes a taunting bite of bread. “I can’t rightly argue.”
“Here,” she says, crossing the room to a cupboard and returning with a fiasco of Antivan wine along with a smaller medicinal bottle. She pours a half glass, adds a splash of the smaller bottle and then hands it to him expectantly.
“Hair of the dog,” she says. Alistair raises a brow, wondering what exactly he’s done to deserve such mothering.
“Thanks.” He takes a swig and promptly coughs, wine and whatever monstrosity she added misting the air. He holds the pungent mouthful of ruined wine with a questioning look.
“That’s a curative. Doesn’t go down easy but it works.”
Alistair chokes it back, wincing.
“What’s your name?” she asks, perching on the stool across from him, tearing her own bit of bread. Alistair averts his eyes from the sheer linen of her shift once he realizes how nicely she fills it. Hawke doesn’t seem the least bit concerned.
“I would have assumed you got that yesterday,” he says into his lap.
extra crazy to see people swinging so hard for big corporate copyright lawsuits on tumblr dot com tbh. alright girl whateverrrrr, I hope the lawyers come for your favorite fan artist next if you're so in favor of it ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
you're all frothing at the mouth for a queer climate activist getting sued now but oooh just wait until you can't order astarion keychains and baby yoda plushies and whatever the fuck else off etsy anymore
I guess in light of all the feedback I've been receiving tonight I'm going to turn over a new leaf and become a good citizen who defends copyright law. first up is snitching out the nice lady at the local farmers market who sells crochet pokemon plushies, I want to see nintendo sue that cunt into the ground
Copyright law has literally never been about protecting independent creators; laws are made by people who already have money and power.
From Wikipedia:
The concept of copyright first developed in England. In reaction to the printing of "scandalous books and pamphlets", the English Parliament passed the Licensing of the Press Act 1662, which required all intended publications to be registered with the government-approved Stationers' Company, giving the Stationers the right to regulate what material could be printed.
NEW CHAPTER DROP! WEAPONIZED POSTSCRIPTS AND SUPPLY CHAIN ROMANCE
(Or, how Cullen Rutherford lost a game of Tic-Tac-Toe and his entire mind.)
Ella thinks she's destined for a life of reading about romance instead of experiencing it, and our Commander is over here literally writing her letters to say, "I am going to take your clothes off."
Strap in, it's another long one folks!
Read Chapter 8 on AO3
Tag List!!
@aetherflowers @bibutterflies @opheliatrevelyan @carako @dogot
Summary: Even though Haljra lived through the last five years of her life, she couldn't reconcile how she became a ranking member of the southern Mage Rebellion.
Author's Note(s): This fic takes place after the events of the Duty. Love. Sacrifice. series. This fic will contain major spoilers for the ending of both the plot as well as Haljra Tabris' relationship(s).
Click to Read
Tag List @aetherflowers @bibutterflies @briannasroger @carako @dogot @dragonagedorks @inquisiorastoria @morganaofcamelot @priya-san @theluckywizard @tired-truffle
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
