Hello! I'm Mo. This post is mainly for fic links etc. A few things first:
30s, she/her, queer and Hispanic. This is a Dragon Age sideblog; I follow and interact from @buridanshorse
I try to keep my posts pretty organized by tag. Miscellaneous or personal text posts are tagged "dixeram". Reblogs of my own fic are tagged "self rb"
This blog is 18+. I block minors who follow me. Anything NSFW will be tagged: nsfw, nudity, or artistic nudity.
I prefer to keep this blog a positive space and avoid posting about characters and topics I don't like. If I do post critical content, it will be tagged "(name) critical" or "fandom critical"
If I ever reblog from a terf, please send me a dm. If you need me to tag something, send me a dm about it and I'll do my best.
Fic links:
Tumblr Fic: Collected by category: Origins (mostly Zevwarden), DA2 (mostly Fenhawke), Inquisition (mostly Cullavellan), and Veilguard.
AO3 (mortonsspoon): If you haven't read my writing before, I recommend As Two Reflected Stars (Fenhawke; 12,436 Words) or Search Your Hands (Cullen/Lavellan; 13,589) to start. Check the tags, as always.
Writing is tagged "shivunin scrivening." If you are looking for something I wrote for you, here is the masterlist for gifts
OCs: Here is an overview of all six for DA and each of their tags by name: Arianwen Tabris, Maria Hawke, Elowen Lavellan, Emmaera Lavellan, Salshira Lavellan, and Lenore Ingellvar.
I also love to talk about all my gals, so if you ever have questions about my OCs or my writing, please don't hesitate to ask!
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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art â
Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart
Like natureâs patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution âround earthâs human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors â
No â yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowâd upon my fair loveâs ripening breast,
To feel forever its soft fall and swell,
Awake forever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever â or else swoon to death.
Well, it seems that by some magical accident, the inquisitor has accidentally turned all of their friends into nugs. Join them as they roam Thedas and close Fade rifts using nothing but their little human hands.
In order: Leliana, Cullen, Josephine, Solas, Vivienne, Dorian, Blackwall, Iron Bull, Cassandra, Sera, Cole, Varric.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I love bisexual fans and bisexual characters and bisexual OCs and bisexual headcanons and bisexual ships and bisexual stories and bisexual friends and bisexual art and being bisexual. đđđ
like the betrayalâs always going to be worse if they cared about you and it didnât matter. someone discards you because they didnât give a shit, then you can be angry about that, you can feel vindicated in that, you can get over it. but if they can look you in the eyes and say âI love you. I would make the same choice again.â You will never sleep peacefully again, is all.
âI thought they cared about me, but they were lying this whole time.â <- tired. boring. removes all the nuance of this relationship to make it easier to move on from.
âI thought they cared about me, and I was right, and every minute they were there for me, every time they said they were proud, every laugh we shared leaning against each other bruised and breathless, all of it was real. and they still left me behind. They could put their love aside. I couldnât.â <- insane. will never leave you alone. reminds you that even the worst people are still people and can still care about even the ones they hurt the most and that undoes neither the harm nor the love.
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. Alistairâs first conscious thoughtâ a muddy questionâ is whether heâs shipboard during a gale. Heâs afraid to confirm it, keeping his eyes welded shut, clinging to sleep for a moment longer.
Unfortunately, he has to take a piss.
Heâs 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.
âHuh.â
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.
Heâs in someoneâs bed chamber, fancier than any room heâs 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.
Itâs been a year at least since heâs 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 todayâs predicament. The bed is mercifully empty. If he had managed to charm some misguided lady heâd 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 wouldnât be the first shirt lost to tavern mischief, but he has precious few and theyâre⌠not here. He balls it up and tosses it over his shoulder.
It canât 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. Thereâs 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 thatâll 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.
Itâs been five years since heâs seen one. An unfamiliar mabari is a roll of the dice and heâd never quite been a natural with them. They could smell his uncertainty like an open wound, thatâs 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 theyâd put them in that swanky bedchamber, perhaps they wouldnât 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 heâd 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.
âYou look like death warmed up.â
If she werenât 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 yetâ he did wake up in someone elseâs bed in his smalls.
âForgive me my impertinence, butâ who are you?â he asks, gesturing with the pilfered bread.
âCall me Hawke,â she says evenly. âI brought you home last night.â
Alistair nods like he remembers. âDid weâ?â
Her doubtful look kicks him in the teeth. A brutal laugh escapes her. âNo,â she says. âNo, we did not.â
âDid youâ want to?â he asks. He curses his impulse when she cocks her head with a pitying lift of her brow.
âLetâs just say Iâve seen better prospects at the pig farm.â
âWow,â says Alistair. âI mean I know Iâm no prize but wow.â
Her bulwark of an expression breaks, an unruly smile disappearing behind her hand as she scratches her nose. âWell. You stink like it anyway.â
Alistair takes a taunting bite of bread. âI canât rightly argue.â
âHere,â 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.
âHair of the dog,â she says. Alistair raises a brow, wondering what exactly heâs done to deserve such mothering.
âThanks.â 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.
âThatâs a curative. Doesnât go down easy but it works.â
Alistair chokes it back, wincing.
âWhatâs your name?â 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 doesnât seem the least bit concerned.
âI would have assumed you got that yesterday,â he says into his lap.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
And with that, we are getting things started! As a brief reminder for those new to the event -- AU Roulette is a casual fic-writing challenge encouraging fanfic authors to play around with different types of alternate universe stories, which will be randomly assigned to each participant regardless of the fandom they sign up with.
Writers will be able to sign up from May 10th-31st with a fandom of their choice. At the start of June, each participant will be assigned three AUs from a masterlist using a random number generator. Each author will then have the choice of completing the challenge one, two, or all three of the AUs. Any fic exceeding a 500-word minimum will be considered a completion, so long as it employs the AU premise. Fics can then be posted at any point during the month of June.
As a reminder: The fandom you signed up with is used to filter AU assignments, in order to minimize re-rolls! (For example, someone signing up with "The Lord of the Rings" will not be assigned a High Fantasy AU). Please only sign-up with one fandom.
The sign-up link can be found here. Please feel free to spread it around and get the word out about this year's event!