viddy gaymes

Trying to distract himself, he forced his attention to what was physically around him. The campfire crackled soothingly beyond the thick fabric of his tent. It wasn’t the low crackle of smoldering ash, but the sharp snap of fresh logs catching flame. Someone was tending to it still. Despite how close his tent was to the bonfire the Chargers had built, the bitter cold of Ferelden still seeped its way into Dorian’s bones. He wondered idly if he’d ever feel warm again. Cursing himself for enabling his insomnia, he slipped out of the bedroll and got to his feet.

He tried to stretch a bit to appease his angry muscles. It did little good. Ignoring the aches, he leaned down to rummage through his pack. He pushed aside wrapped rations, quills, inkwells, scribbled notes, and rolled maps of the area to pull out a thick tome. Its old worn leather was soft against his fingers. He turned it over in his hands, letting the weight of it comfort him. He had been elated when he’d found it hiding among the other books of Skyhold’s library. Vetrani was a visionary of magical theory, difficult to find in Tevinter due to his radical ideals on the Fade, and it had been a damned miracle to find one of his books so deep in the south.

He stepped out into the night. The scent of woodsmoke was thick in the air and Dorian hurried to get closer to the warmth. The trees around Ferelden weren’t found in Tevinter and, when burned, Dorian found the campfires smelled different. Much more floral. Less of a robust spiced edge of what he remembered of his home. The flames of it twisted up in shades of orange and gold. As he approached, he noticed a familiar figure sitting in the grass.

- By Blood & Lyrium, Ch. 5

My Dragon Age long fic is perhaps one of my favorite pieces in totality that I've written, which I'm still planning on finishing. A sprawling lore overhaul guised as a parallel plot retelling focusing on the relations and growth of primarily side characters. It's told in a tone meant to evoke not only character voice but older pre-90s fantasy epics. Chapter 5 was originally seven years ago now and I think it really holds up. Some of the language could be tweaked to be fully on theme, but it has some of my favorite setting descriptions I've ever written. Specifically, I remember really wanting to get across to readers that this Dorian is an academic and noble in a foreign land - and I do think I evoke his conflicted homesickness throughout this chapter.

Eoin looks up at him with a quizzical frown as they walk out towards their usual spot among the scruffy grass. “Why do you do that?” “Do what?” “You don’t call Mum ‘mum’ anymore,” Eoin says. Ciaran winces at the question, his frown deepening as his little brother continues. “You used to, but you don’t no more.” Ciaran sighs. “It’s complicated.” He pushes a few stray hairs from his face. When he looks down at Eoin, he sees the expectant patience there. He takes a deep breath. Eoin won't let it go now without a satisfactory answer, so there's no use avoiding it. “She’s never really here anymore and, when she is, she doesn’t hang around the house. She doesn’t really feel like my mum anymore.” Eoin worries at the hem of his shirt, twisting it between his fingers. “I don’t think she likes it when you call her Rebecca,” he mumbles. “I think it makes her feel sad.” Something tightens in Ciaran’s chest and an old bitterness crawls up his throat and makes a home behind his teeth. “It makes me sad, too," he manages to mutter. 

-Scarlet Welly Boots, Ch 4

A series of truncated vignettes meant to capture snapshots of my OCs life, Scarlet Welly Boots was a very experimental piece for me. It was a brief return to multi-chapter fics after a long stint doing one-shots, but I was playing around a lot with shortform chapters (anyone who knows me well knows I prefer my chapters 5-8k words) and challenging myself to capture what I needed to in a limited word count. It's also just a deeply personal piece to me. I'm very proud of how a lot of the dialogue in specific turned out.

They raise their hand to knock and the door swings open, bringing them face to face with Ricardo. He's dressed up for going out, in a silky purple shirt and a nice pair of slacks that hug tight across his hips. A hint of musky cologne lingers around him. He blinks once and then again as if not convinced they're really here. "Shadi?" Rashad swallows down the tightness in their throat at the old nickname. "Sorry it's so late." It used to be so easy to talk to Ricardo, especially when it was hard with everyone else. Now it feels like they struggle with the most basic conversation. Or they argue. And they'd really like to not argue tonight. "I didn't mean to interrupt" -they look over his outfit and gel-tousled hair once more- "your outing." "What are you doing here?" Ricardo's tone is abrupt and confused. His eyes widen just as Rashad's do as the question leaves his lips. He scrubs a palm over his face with a groan. "That's not how I meant that. It's just, I wasn't expecting you." He laughs sharply. "I guess it almost feels like-" "Like I'm avoiding you," Rashad finishes honestly, regretting it immediately as Ricardo flinches. "I've just been busy." Ricardo looks at them, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. "So you keep saying."

-Love That Doesn't Have a Place to Rest

This is easily my favorite piece I've written in the last six years, with a close second being Don't Let Me Break This. I have such a deep fondness for the the way I explore Ricardo's sexuality and how he's struggled and thrived with it in time. For all I wish FHR would get more into the nitty gritty political details, I'm glad the lack of it has given me the space to breathe and fill in those blanks as I choose. Publicity and how it takes a toll on one's identity and particularly on what aspects of identity one is allowed is a topic I find deeply fascinating and, while I have a more explicit fic in the works on this topic, I'm glad I could lampshade those themes here. But I did highlight this particular excerpt because I'm deeply proud of how it showcases that Rashad and Ricardo know each other so well as to know how their conversation will go but still languish in the void of things they can't say to each other. It's a really fun dynamic to play with.

He knows he shouldn’t, but Felix has never been one to not take risks, and this is such a small one in comparison. Sliding his hand a little closer across the table, he brushes his little finger against Julian’s. He watches Julian’s gaze flick down to the touch, his expression infuriatingly unreadable behind the walls he’s erected. But then his expression softens, ever so slowly, like watching water run down the icicles that hung outside the windows that one winter up north. He hooks his little finger around Felix’s, stilling them both, and he tilts his head slightly towards Felix. His expression gives away little, but Julian feels emotions like a radio turned up just too loud for Felix’s empathetic senses. He feels himself losing his footing in the stream of it and, instead of fighting it, he lets the undertow pull him into the depths of Julian. Julian feels like loneliness and isolation so often - cold and profoundly deep and ancient as the oceans - but there is more deeper in the blue. There is warmth like volcanic vents, giving life to passion and drive and something small that Felix has to pay closer attention to in order to realize its name. There is hope there, cracked and brittle under the pressures around it, but bolstered by the attraction that tastes sweet on Felix’s tongue. Would he drown here, in the currents of Julian’s heart? Could he, knowing that as soon as they catch Julian’s hunter, he will be gone with the rest of his team?

-Catalyzing with a Breath of Calefaction

A deeply silly title for a very soft fic, but I can't be bothered to change it. I have such love for Julian and Felix, especially in this fic. As much as I love established relationships or romance born from them, it was really fun to write a relationship of just two people getting to know each other, especially when one has stopped opening up at all. It also let me play with Felix's empathic senses and decide how I felt they should manifest. Which, in turn, let me do my favorite thing in writing: metaphorical descriptions.

Lastly, something from a WIP for fun!

"Right," Ricardo announces. He rolls his shoulders and, much like Rashad in the car, Anathema watches him become the Marshal. "Let's go save the world again." He turns and steps towards the barricades, leaving the rest to follow suit. As Anathema widens their stride to keep up, they bump gently into Rashad's arm. "You gonna be okay?" The silhouette of their cowl shifts, no doubt as their jaw works in mild annoyance. "Yeah. I'll just keep to the fringes." "Well, you know I'll watch your back." They elbow Rashad playfully. "Hard to kill the indestructible, even with spooky mind powers." She wiggles her fingers for effect.

-Untitled WIP

I'm finally braving writing pre-HBI character dynamics, which is something I've struggled with and lowkey been afraid of working on, but I'm really enjoying it as I get into the swing of things. I'm quite enjoying walking the tightrope between What We Know From the Books and understanding Sidestep has been through a lot of trauma and that's colored how they think of their past relationships with the Rangers. It'll be four chapters when it's done and I'm so excited to share it eventually.

He watches Tegan walk a cool down lap around the edge of the roof, forcing himself not to be nervous, especially at the risk the other man might pick it up. Maybe it was a sort of morbid fascination for him, looking over the edge, staring your fear in the face until it can't hurt you anymore — Daniel could understand that. Tegan wouldn't slip, he had too good of balance for that and almost uncannily quick reflexes. He might jump though, an unhelpful voice says in the back of his head and he closes the distance between them, hovering just within reach. Just in case.

"Hey um," he starts, giving himself a mental kick for not actually having any idea what he wanted to say, just that he needed an excuse to be closer.

"What?" Tegan snaps, short and annoyed. It's probably the heat, Daniel reasons, if he's being optimistic.

"I just wanted to apologize for…" Daniel taps his cheekbone as Tegan raises his fingers to his own.

"Fuck, is it actually bruising?"

"Yeah," Daniel clamps down hard on the small bit of wounded pride at Tegan's incredulity. He could have hit harder, maybe even a lot harder, but he didn't want to hurt him and Tegan was his friend. The word doesn't sit right in Daniel's mind, if he's being honest. Tegan was certainly something, but friend didn't seem to cover the man that was his inspiration, his coach, his hero with all the false shine rubbed off. His crush. Daniel quickly put that thought back in the box. "I'm sorr-" He tries to finish but he's cut off.

"Stop."

"Stop what?" Daniel pulls his legs up, sitting cross legged though he's still floating around Tegan's eye level.

"Stop apologizing. Especially when you did something right." He doesn't add the for once but Daniel can still hear it in his tone. Asshole.

"Does it hurt?"

"No." Tegan lies.

Daniel opens his mouth to call him out on it but is interrupted by the beeping of his pager. A quick look down at the number displayed on the small device tells him its not an emergency and he ignores it.

"Why the hell do you have that ancient thing instead of a phone?" Tegan scoffs, rummaging in his pocket for a carton of cigarettes and a book of matches, lighting one and taking a drag. He holds out the carton and matches towards Daniel, who refuses for what must be the 100th time. Tegan only shrugs.

"Easier to ignore most days." Daniel laughs. And harder to track. He doesn't bother censoring that from his forethoughts. Sometimes he was jealous of Tegan's anonymity, even if he wondered if it made him lonely.

"That thing's gone off like ten fucking times today, you sure it's not important?"

"It's not." Daniel says too quickly, unable to ignore Tegan's small double take at the irritated tone in his voice. Maybe it was best to just come clean. "It's probably just people trying to get ahold of me on my birthday." He trails with a sigh.

The pause stretches on too long and Tegan is looking at him with an expression he can't read. Annoyed? Tegan's usually annoyed at something or another so that's no help. Maybe it was closer to confusion.

"I just didn't want to make a big deal of it," he continues. "Birthdays kind of lose their shine when you're no longer a kid, you know?" Even more so being a hero in the lime light. Despite Ortega's flashy smiles, Daniel could still see the stress around his eyes and it wasn't lost on him that Ortega left earlier and earlier from the big, flashy parties every year he had known him. The Marshal flat out refused to have public birthday and Daniel was keen to take a leaf from Wei's book when it came to that. The Ranger's media team had different opinions.

"Yeah. Sure." Tegan takes another drag from his cigarette.

Daniel gives himself another mental kick, he knows there are things in Tegan's past he wants to forget. Maybe reminders of childhood were painful. Daniel could understand that better than most. And the importance of moving past it. And if he's honest, he was more than a little curious.

"So when's-"

"Nope."

"I didn't even get to ask." Daniel laughs helplessly.

"I don't do birthdays. Period." Tegan flicks his spent cigarette over the edge of the rooftop.