it was just an awful dream.

─✴︎ resident evil.

❖ break room coffee. ─ leon x dso!reader (smut)

you meet leon kennedy at work, the absolute last place you should be looking to date anyone. too bad you're a sucker for blue eyes and vaguely pathetic-looking men.

❖ the sound a body makes when it's still. ─ leon x doctor!reader (ongoing, smut)

You and Leon Kennedy collide like stars—over and over and over again. It is as devastating as it is inevitable, and maybe there is some comfort in knowing that you will always find your way back to each other. A slightly canon-divergent retelling of the events of the Resident Evil series. Each chapter focuses on a different game/movie in the series with little interludes sprinkled in between.

─✴︎ a knight of the seven kingdoms.

❖ in bloom. ─ daeron x snow!fem!original character (smut)

daeron dreams of a flower among the snow, his only reprieve from the terrible nightmares of death and destruction that he drowns in his cups to forget. at ashford meadow, on the eve of the trial of seven, he meets a woman who brings new meaning to his dreams of snowdrifts and blossoms.

─✴︎ dragon age.

❖ simmer. ─ solas x f!lavellan (long fic, ongoing)

a canon-divergent re-telling of the events of dragon age: inquisition through to pre-veilguard. chapters updated weekly on saturday with sprinklings of codexes and interludes posted throughout the week.

─✴︎ superman.

❖ yes, ma'am. ─ clark kent x editor!reader (smut)

clark likes his editor, even if she's a little mean to him.

❖ six months. ─ clark kent x editor!reader (smut)

sequel to 'yes, ma'am.' clark and you have been dating for six months and he's acting... weird.

❖ no good, very bad day. ─ clark kent x editor!reader (request, smut)

companion to 'yes, ma'am.' and 'six months.' you have a bad day. clark makes it better.

❖ family album. ─ single dad!clark kent x photographer!reader (request, fluff)

clark doesn't want to ruin what you both have.

─✴︎ mcu.

❖ to know grief. ─ bob reynolds x witch!oc (fluff/comfort)

bob knew one thing - Lucy Jean was sad, and he would very much like her to not be.

❖ almost lover. ─ bob reynolds x witch!oc (fluff/angst)

sequel to 'to know grief.' bob and lucy jean are both idiots when it comes to feelings.

─✴︎ alien.

❖ for science. ─ kirsh x reader (smut)

you think kirsh fascinating. he reciprocates.

❖ punishment. ─ kirsh x reader (request, smut)

sequel to 'for science.' while kirsh grounds slightly and smee, he has a better punishment in mind for you.

❖ put him in rice. ─ kirsh x reader (request, ficlet)

❖ dandelion. ─ kirsh x lab tech!reader (request, ficlet)

❖ self-preservation. ─ kirsh x lab tech!reader (request, smut)

sequel to 'dandelion.'

Of all the tasks she's been asked to do, this is the one she fears the most. Court intrigue isn't something she particularly excels at or even truly understands. Even Josephine could see the cruelty of sending a Dalish elf to the pack of wolves that were the Orlesian nobility.

Fortunately, the ball at the Winter Palace was still a month and a half away, giving Iona a reprieve—her advisors kindly allowed her some rest before she needed to return to Orlais for the event. Iona was looking forward to it until she realized she would actually have to attend lessons with Josephine on court etiquette and the intricate connections among noble families.

And also, the dress fittings.

She frowns as the Orlesian tailor tuts and tsks as she measures every single circumference of Iona’s body—she doesn’t know why they need to measure her ankles of all things. Leliana is smirking in the corner, watching the puss on her face grow with each passing second, while Josephine is fretting about which fabrics will be out of season by the time the ball rolls around.

Coincidentally, the Ambassador is also giving Iona the silent treatment after a conversation earlier in the day in which the Inquisitor insisted that her entire retinue be secured invitations, not just the ones Josephine thought would garner more court approval. She’d initially pitched the idea of Iona bringing along Cassandra, Blackwall, and Vivienne, with the advisors also coming for additional support.

Of course, Josephine didn’t say she chose those three because they were human—the Ambassador was too polite to say so outright—but Iona was not stupid, so she refused. She wouldn't brush her other companions aside to appeal to Orlesian sensibilities. It would be easier, of course, it would always be easier, to play along with the part they wanted her to, but even with the collar of the Inquisition securely locked around her neck, she couldn't resist clawing and biting whenever the leash was pulled too tight.

Luckily, Josephine cannot hold a grudge for long, so Iona knows that it will only be a matter of time before she is back in the Antivan’s good graces; she simply needs to pout for now, and Iona is more than willing to endure the cold shoulder.

“What of the footwear?” the tailor asks, Orlesian accent grating against Iona like nails on a chalkboard.

“No shoes,” she answers, and the woman draws back, her eyes flitting to Leliana and Josephine behind her mask as if looking to them for approval or assistance.

“Your Worship,” she starts, cautious in her approach. “It would be indecent for a woman of your stature to attend the ball without footwear.”

The scowl that is already present on Iona’s face deepens, and the tailor shrinks back at the sight of it. “No shoes,” she reiterates.

“Perhaps we can make matching footwraps?” Leliana suggests. “A gauzy material might be quite fetching.”

“I am afraid I do not know much of Dalish footwraps.” The tailor says, not as slyly as she thinks she is.

“Then I suggest you do some studying,” Iona grits out.

The woman looks surprised, glancing over at Josephine, who offers a strained smile. “Ah, I believe that is all the time the Inquisitor has today,” she signals as politely as she can, starting to herd the tailor to pack her things and leave the Inquisitor’s quarters quickly, which she thankfully does.

As soon as the tailor leaves, Josephine and Leliana are not far behind, Josephine giving Iona a disappointed look while Leliana only gives her a conspiratorial smirk. When she hears the door shut with finality, only then does she slump down into the welcoming plush of her bed, a huff of indignation escaping her.

The light trickling through the window panes of her balcony streaks across her room. A subtle itch from her left hand draws her attention to the appendage, and she holds it up under the ray of light that illuminates the little scars branching from the center of her palm, twisting and turning in an odd curving pattern. With her other hand, she scratches the itch before she allows her finger to trace along the raised skin. It is something she’s done often since obtaining the Anchor; the new markings are an oddity for her, and strangely, it’s become comforting to trace along them.

Like a practiced route, she expertly navigates the winding scars, the familiar curves snaking out from her palm up her wrist, and just when she stops her finger right at the spot she knows the scar has not yet extended to, she is struck by the startling realization that the scar has spread further up her wrist.

With a sharp gasp, she sits up, her brows furrowing as she holds her wrist to her face, examining the markings more closely. When her investigation yields the same results, she goes so far as to light a candle to check beneath the candlelight. She’s sure it hadn't stretched so far onto her wrist before. In fact, she’s positive about it. Worry begins to gnaw at her heart, a kind of dread seeping through her skin like cold ice, and her thoughts are interrupted only by a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” she calls, hoping they do not hear the shake of her voice.

“Vhenan.”

She breathes out in relief at the sound of Solas on the other side. “Come in.”

She sits on her bed as she hears his steady footsteps climb the stairs, her right hand unconsciously covering her mark—if anyone were to notice the mark spread, it would, of course, be Solas. She doesn’t even stand to greet him. Her eyes follow his form at the top of the stairs, and even with the wretched mood she's in, her heart still sings at the sight of him. “I hope you are not here to ask my opinion of fabrics,” she says deadpan.

Solas chuckles as he walks over and takes a seat on the bed next to her, a hand coming up to brush a lock of hair from her face, thumb smoothing over the planes of her cheekbone. His eyes flicker down to her lips, as though he’s contemplating a kiss, but decides against it. There is a reason he’s come to visit her, and lest he be distracted by a kiss, he must stay the course.

The two have not talked much since Adamant, a refusal on her part to speak about what she endured, and his inability to broach the topic with her. He went searching for her after she decided to exile the Grey Wardens, finding her on her knees in the sands of the dunes with tears running down her cheeks.

His heart ached for her.

He pulled her up from the ground, thumbs smoothing out her tear tracks with a frost spell that cooled the skin beneath his fingertips. The Inquisition didn’t need to see their leader like this, nor would she want them to.

When they returned to Skyhold, she spent a few days holed up in her room, denying anyone who came knocking. Solas, however, would not let that deter him, employing Sera of all people to pick the lock to her quarters—the rogue was delighted to do so and begged Solas to ‘get a pair of Inky’s knickers for me, would ya?’

Solas would not be doing that.

While Iona looked surprised—and a bit more than mildly perturbed—by his intrusion, she did not throw him out, instead settling on silently seething at him as he made himself comfortable on her chaise and started to draw in his sketchbook, completely unbothered by her stare.

He continued this for several days, sitting with her as she stared out at the mountains from her balcony, or watching her dedicate hours to weaving a basket, a skill he did not know she had.

The worst day was when she spent most of it signing letters of condolence to the families of the soldiers they lost at Adamant. Her sniffling grew with each subsequent letter she placed her signature on, just below Cullen’s, and Solas stood behind her with a secure hand on her shoulder the entire time.

He eventually managed to coax her out of her room, even if it was to go down to the rotunda to watch him work on the frescoes, or sit with Dorian in the library as the mage quietly read. Before long, each of her companions offered a quiet solace for her, and even Sera would sit with her in silence, stringing and restringing their bows together.

Iona, though she would not voice it aloud, not yet, is grateful for that.

“I thought it might be time for us to speak,” Solas informs calmly, and Iona almost flinches back.

“Speak of what?” she asks with trepidation.

He takes her hand in his—her left—and she tenses. “About what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

She frowns and starts to pull her hand away, but he holds it firmly. “You know what happened, you saw the memories,” she replies, exasperated.

“Vhenan…” His tone is warning and pleading all at once.

She considers him for a moment. This was a conversation she knew they would have sooner or later; she only hoped it would be later. She sighs, eyes staring faraway behind him, as if she couldn’t look him in the eyes, and then her eyes slide to his, reluctantly. “I went to hunt like I said I did.”

They stand in the cover of darkness; the mountain air is cold, colder than anything she’s ever endured before, but even so, her fingertips itch to hunt. The last few weeks on the road were spent with the utmost caution after their encounter in Wildervale—or rather, Iona’s encounter in Wildervale, Solas refused to take any accountability for what transpired there. As a result, he was wary about allowing her to hunt any more than necessary, in fear that news of the incident might have stretched beyond the Free Marches, and someone might recognize her, which she reluctantly agreed with.

“You will be careful.” His request is phrased as a question and a command wrapped into one.

She scoffs as she pulls her shawl up and over her hair, though it does nothing for the snowflakes that have already coated her curls. “Are you worried about me?” she asks, her tone deadpan, but he could tell she was egging him on—teasing him.

Her eyes trace his features, illuminated by the moonlight, watching as he opens his mouth to refute her, but instead, his lips form a firm line. “I will meet you later, then.”

She gives a huff of sardonic laughter. “Later, then,” she agrees, and begins to walk off into the nearby dark woods, and he watches her go, grasping his staff like it is a lifeline, and only when she disappears into the treeline does he turn, heading into Haven.

The snow crunches beneath her feet, which are red and bare, bitten by the frost, but she, even so, refused to wear anything more than her thicker, insulated footwraps. The thought of shoes alone made her feel claustrophobic and scratchy.

It takes no time at all for her to catch the trail of some game, a deer, she determines from the hoofprints. It is definitely larger than anything she’d need for herself, but she figures she could offer it to the tavern in town to get free room and a hot meal for herself and Solas until this whole Conclave ordeal is over.

The rebellion of the Circles is felt throughout all of Thedas—change is heavy in the air, and there are many, Solas included, who are eager to bear witness to that change. Iona would be foolish to think that the plights of the mages would have no impact on her.

“The mages are beginning their uprising,” Solas said when he implored her to journey with him. “Don’t you want to see the world the elves—you—were supposed to inherit?”

Everyone is waiting anxiously to see what happens here, for what the future will bring, and no matter what decision they make, it will likely be met with hostility. Iona can't imagine a world where the mages and Templars can resolve their differences, or one where the Chantry will allow mages to roam freely and without oversight. The righteous fist of the Chantry has proven enough to beat down many a rebellion in the past; the Dales, scattered with the bones and ashes of her ancestors, is proof enough of that. Still, they have never encountered a might such as an army of mages—if the mages could manage to get themselves organized sufficiently, which Iona doubted very much they could.

She shakes her head at the thoughts—hunting is supposed to be peaceful, not a time for her to ruminate on the political strife the world faces.

It is different, she finds, as she hunts through these deep snowtracks, but Iona is a quick study and in no time, figures out where and how to step quietly so she won't alert any nearby animals. Her mark isn't too far off, she thinks, as she follows the tracks through the winding woods. The trees welcome her as they always do, and even in the cold of this winter night, they feel like a warm embrace.

She pauses, her brows furrow when she spots footprints starting to trail behind the deer. It wouldn't be unusual for another hunter to be out for a late-night hunt. She holds no claim to these woods, but after seeing how many footprints have muddled the ground, she doesn't think they're hunters—especially given how careless and clumsy their steps are.

The desire for a hunt rapidly morphs to a thirst of curiosity longing to be quenched. The trail leads further, deeper, into the forest. The darkness does not scare her, but she keeps an arrow nocked all the same. She would not be caught unaware.

Around her, the trees begin to give way as the footprints lead up through a clearing. Iona crouches, shifting through the snow so silently, as she shuffles up to a tree, peeking around it. At the center of the clearing, a deer lies there, unmoving—dead.

She waits a beat, green eyes squinting as she surveys the area, looking for any sign of movement. When she sees none, she steps out from behind the tree, slowly making her way to the animal, caution coursing through her movements. The sight she’s met with is unusual—unnatural. Her jaw sets as she kneels in the snow, examining it more closely. The neck is slit, but where she expects to see blood and viscera seeping endlessly from the arteries within, it is dry as a bone. Not even a speck of blood on the ground.

Her hair stands on end.

“Blood magic,” she hisses quietly to herself, teeth grinding in determination as she begins to follow the trail of footprints.

She doesn’t know how long she walks, but she’s like a dog with a bone, a wolf who's caught the scent; she's single-minded as she trudges through the snow. Eager to see where these prints lead.

The structure emerging over her makes her stop, and she pulls the shawl tighter around her as the winter wind bites at her cheeks.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes is more grand than she could have ever imagined, a sentinel to the passage of time that was restored to its former glory by the will of the Chantry—and no doubt through the deep pockets of some very keen investors. Iona creeps along in the cover of shadows, spotting two masked figures in the distance. She observes how fast they take care of the guards outside the temple, leaving their bodies in a pile. They likely will not be discovered until morning. The figures’ clothing looks familiar to her; ornate and far too fine for Ferelden—Tevinter, she realizes with disdain.

She follows silently, watching as they slaughter their way through the guards, and she quietly prays for each one that falls, but the desire to know where they are headed keeps her from intervening. They wind their way through the temple, the Tevinter infiltrators moving with confidence as though they’re not afraid of being caught—like they’re supposed to be here. Unfortunately for them, but fortunately for her, their ego and perhaps their lack of spatial awareness allow her to follow them all the way to the basement.

The winding halls of the temple lead to a large antechamber, and the infiltrators stand at the entrance, hands behind their backs as if they’ve just assumed guard duty. Iona sneaks up behind them, staring past, and what she sees makes her heart race. Grey Warden mages hold a woman suspended in the air, her head adorned, dressed in pure white robes; she could only be the Divine. In front of her, a monstrous figure looms.

“Now is the hour of our victory,” the figure’s voice booms, echoing through the room.

“Why are you doing this?” Divine Justinia asks the Wardens, wrinkled face twisted up in fear. “You of all people?”

She is met with silence from the Wardens.

“Keep the sacrifice still,” the figure commands.

“Somebody help me!” the Divine cries out, desperately.

The figure brandishes an orb.

Iona’s mind races back to the temple in Rivain. The orb on the pedestal. It practically sings to her now—it calls to her, begging for her to come and take it. Like a woman possessed, as quiet as a shadow, she dips behind one of the Tevinter agents, plucking her dagger from her belt. The slice through their throat is clean, and before they can slump to the ground, she catches them, lowering their body noiselessly. Before their companion can even notice the gurgling as blood spills from their throat, she thrusts the dagger up through the base of their skull.

The body hits the ground with an audible thud, and the creature quickly pivots to find the source of the noise. The Divine looks over, locking eyes with Iona, then, with all of her might, swings her arm, knocking the orb from their hand. She doesn’t even realize she’s reaching for it as it rolls toward her, like a moth drawn to the flame. As soon as it contacts her palm, an explosion reverberates in her ears, but it’s distant now, like sound underwater—and she is no longer in the temple.

She feels disoriented, like her body was pushed, pulled, and stretched all at once. The ground is unsteady beneath her feet, with the dark stone both warm and cold against her bare skin. Her palm is on fire, and when she looks down, she sees her hand surrounded by a sickly green kind of magic. The smell of rot and sulfur fills her nostrils, and she realizes there’s someone next to her.

Everything happens so quickly after that. There is chittering, a familiar sound that lives in the darkest parts of her memories, and she fearfully peers over her shoulder, already knowing what she is going to see.

Spiders.

The Divine grabs her arm, urging her forward—pushing her forward. Her feet, thankfully, obey without hesitation even as her mind rushes to catch up with what’s happening. In the distance, up on a hill, there’s a light—beckoning them home.

“There!” the Divine cries out.

They keep moving, and there is skittering behind them, though she dares not look back, dreading to see how close those mandibles are to nipping at their heels. They begin to climb. Iona is sure this is where it ends for them. The sound is so loud in her ears.

Just as they reach the top, the Divine gasps. Iona whirls around, watching as she gets caught by the spiders. When she reaches out toward the older woman, she is shoved away. “Go!” She is ordered, and as she stumbles backward, she sees the Divine being ripped away, disappearing into the creeping darkness. She thinks she's going to be sick, and as the ground steadies beneath her feet, she realizes she is standing amid burning rubble.

Then her eyes roll to the back of her head as she collapses.

“You say you’ve come across the orb before?” There is bewilderment in Solas’s voice as she finishes recounting the story. Iona glances over at him. His hand is gripping hers harder now, and something on his face scares her for a moment.

“Yes,” she confirms. “Back in a temple in Rivain.”

He breathes out as though he’s been punched in the gut. “Did you not think to tell someone—to tell me about it?” he asks, and Iona bristles at the tone he uses.

She rips her hand from his. “I only found out after Haven,” she insists. “It’s not like it would have made any difference, I can’t exactly go back and tell myself not to touch the thing.”

“You touched it?”

“At the temple in Rivain?” she questions to confirm. “Yes. It was only for a moment.”

“And you say that you felt as though it was calling out to you in the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

She blinks, scowling. “Yes.”

He lets out a huff that sounds like disbelief. “Corypheus never stood to benefit from it, then,” he informs. “The orb had already marked you.”

Her brows furrow. "Marked me?"

He nods somberly. "When you first touched it, it tethered itself to your energy—"

She frowns, interjecting. "But I'm not a mage."

"No, you are not, and while it is highly unusual for such an artifact to react to someone who is not a mage, it is… not unheard of."

Iona is quiet for a moment, and then she starts to laugh, grabbing at her stomach, full-on belly laughter. Tears flood into her eyes, and she buries her face in her hands, muffling the manic sound. “What awful luck,” she finally croaks out. “What rotten, awful luck.”

She lowers her hands and cranes to look over at Solas, eyes glistening and red, and she seems like she can’t quite decide between sobbing and laughing more.

“It's just a matter of practice, da’len,” Mamae’s voice echoes in her memories.

Her babae is off with Mahari, or at least he was, because he rushes over to Iona and Mamae, no Mahari in sight, claiming that ‘he’d only taken his eyes off of her for a second’, but that is all Mahari needs to perform her infamous disappearing act.

Her mamae firmly instructs her to stay put, and the other women do not hide their side-eye toward Babae as Mamae follows him to search for Mahari. Iona has yet to reveal her sister’s favorite hiding spot under Keeper Talas’s aravel, which is usually a prime spot for the two-year-old to watch her parents run around, the little girl giggling with delight at the sight.

Diligently, Iona continues her weaving for a few more minutes, and she thinks Andruil must smile down upon her, because the gaggle of women quickly becomes distracted when one of the hunters struts by with a fresh bounty. He is still unbonded, and even if some of the women in the group cannot say the same, it does not stop them from ogling the man as he walks by.

Handsome, they call him.

It is the perfect opportunity for her to slip away—an opportunity she gladly takes.

The clan arrived outside of Arlathan Forest not more than a week ago. It was unusual; normally, the clan was more than willing to traverse the density of a forest to find a suitable clearing among the trees to make camp at, but they dared not pass through the threshold of Arlathan.

When Iona asked her babae, the explanation offered was lackluster, a simple: “That forest does not welcome us, da’len.”

Iona thought that to be ridiculous at the time, and as she stares at the edge of Arlathan Forest, she still thinks it ridiculous because her blood is practically on fire with how it thrums in her veins at the proximity to the tree line. Without any second thoughts, she crosses over into the treeline, and it welcomes her.

The trees in Arlathan are larger than any she’s ever seen—larger than the oaks in Planasene Forest or the huge redwoods of The Heartlands in Orlais. She thinks they might even be taller than the ones in The Tirashan, and Mamae told her that the forest is as old as the world.

As she presses her hand to the base of one, she swears she can feel a heartbeat beneath her fingertips. It makes her giddy, giggling with excitement.

Above her, the canopy thickens, and in her wonder, she’s not sure when the forest became so dark, only that ahead of her, the path is near pitch black. She never explored the forests in the dark before, only ever in light of Elgar’nan’s sun. For a moment, fear grips her heart, and she hesitates, unconsciously taking a step back. The loud snap of a branch breaking beneath her foot makes her jump.

Stubbornly, she takes a deep breath, swallowing the lump in her throat. She will be brave, she decides, and marches forward, unaware of the eyes that have turned toward her in the darkness.

She should have turned back, but she realizes too late. Even as her vision adjust to the dark of the woods, it does nothing to help her find her way. When she looks behind her for the light of the path she was following, she sees not even a pinprick.

Above her, she hears chittering, and she presses her hands to her mouth to stifle the gasp as she sees large forms emerge from the treetops.

Spiders. Enormous spiders, bigger than any she’s ever seen—bigger than her. Beady red eyes glow against the dark, and as she swivels around, she realizes they are everywhere. With a shriek, she starts to run. There is skittering behind her, close at her heels, and white hot panic settles into her bones in a way she’s never experienced before. Tears gather in her eyes as she runs, and runs, trying to breathe as terror tightens around her lungs.

Then her foot catches on a gnarled ancient root, and she’s unable to catch herself, sliding along the forest floor, palms scraping against rocks. She scrambles, trying to find purchase to right herself, to get up, and she chances a glance behind her, coming face to face with the jaws of an arachnid. They snap out toward her, and she squeals in fright as she crawls backward, tears blurring her vision as a sob catches in her throat.

She wants to call out for help, but barely manages a whisper as a horde of beady red eyes converges upon her, jaws biting at her feet that she barely keeps from their grip. One of them, tired of the hunt, slams its leg down upon Iona’s, its claw digging into the flesh of her skin, pinning her in place.

She cries out in pain, scrunching her eyes closed, as the mandibles go to chomp down on her, and then, in the distance, a howl. The spiders still instantly. There is rustling in the forest around her, something bigger than even the spiders that surround her. Her breath stutters in her chest, and she holds it there, waiting for something to happen.

The spiders themselves don’t dare move as they listen, and then, a low growl reverberates—a warning. In a flurry of limbs, the spiders clamber away, up into the tree tops seeking the safety of height from whatever lurks in the dark. Iona can only look fearfully around her, searching for whatever it is that scared the spiders off.

“Da’len!” A voice calls, and suddenly she is scooped up into warm, sturdy arms. At the sight of the handsome hunter’s face, she begins to weep. The man, Ithelan, holds the child closer—tighter. “You scared us, da’len.” His admission only makes her cry harder, but the safety of her clan wraps around her. “Let us return home,” he murmurs into her halo of curls.