𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘮𝘦

𝚠𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚜    [ ... ]    a  multi - fandom  based  multi - muse    centered  heavily  on  personal  interpretations,  focusing  on  world  building  and  relationship  formations.    selective  and  mutually  exclusive,  fed  by   𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠   ( 35  she / they / he  est. )   and  ruled  by  none.    this  blog  contains  varying  degrees  of  mature  content,  discretion  is  advised  as  triggers  are  rarely  tagged.    minimal  rules  and  simplified  muse  list  below  the  cut.

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sooo... my aunt (46) has been battling a traumatic brain injury for about 2 months now and she lost that fight early this morning. if you know me to any degree, this is the 3rd major loss in my family in the last 6 months. i have another family member in the hospital with severe double pneumonia (she's much older) and one ate up with cancer (also much older) hanging on to bury his wife.

i'm?? idk y'all. i'm coping but this is a lot. it's one of the reasons i've been gone and i don't want to disappear again but i'm gutted these days. i apologize for any and all lost contact. it's never intentional, i just don't know how to have fun with all this going on.

@enregards: 🙌 ;* from [ x ]

it's the pulse that does it. the rapid thrum against the pads of his fingers. zevran hums his contentment with the first of several small, intentional squeezes. to bring him closer. push him back. pin him pretty by his throat to a wall that's loomed for some time while this game carried on. made him walk the delicate line between foolish and bold.

" oh ? " a tease that shudders 'round itself, one final pace leaving little room between them, " and what game might that be ? "

the sort that brings a tickle to his belly. weighs eyelids heavy and turns a golden gaze to a a heady draw, " is that what you wish ? to play ? " away from blades and barbs and a bite not so kind as the one caught at his own bottom lip. " it could be fun, yes ? unless danger is a bad thing, hm ? "

his fingers aren't so sticky these days. far disposed from a life spent scrounging for scraps, the weight of the coin purse on his hip, leather and heavy with — well, that was stolen — a good rattle of sovereigns, zevran's smile is earnest at her appraisal and acceptance. " good, the pleasure will be mine, i am certain, judging by the beautiful sights in your shop.. also the clothes are quite nice. " she's said yes, but that doesn't keep his generous lean from weighing on the counter, nor eyes from falling heavy-lidded with his own ample appreciation. " you wouldn't happen to play with leather from time to time, would you ? "

fuck. fuckfuckfuck. oh, varric was going to kill him. it was supposed to be a quick provision stop, in and out, no muss no fuss and yet here he was, trying to drag the unconscious guardsmen in full plate armour behind the privacy screen and out of sight of the door.

this penchant is an adopted one ; stood back to watch a show as it sprawled out across the whole of the chamber. a muffled exchange. the clatter of armor and the hollow thud of a body hitting the floor in said armor. over the lip of a nicked tankard, against the wash of pilfered ale that sits inside, zevran's chuckle is, at the very least, well-meaning. embodied amusement with crossed ankles and a lean against the wall, only after he's addressed does he take the time to access the situation and.. laugh.

" you are helping him limber up then ? " honied and warm, despite a tension that speaks toward a need to keep his place, a healthy distance away, but not so far to lose him. " stretch out his legs, hm ? " zevran's mockery comes with a crooked grin and twinkling eyes, his hood still high, albeit slipped enough, now, that he allows torchlight to graze sharp features. " might i suggest, next time, recommending some squats instead. for you, not him. makes it easier to help a guard limber up behind a cupboard without breaking your back. "