i know das right


All right, hear me out: I am so proud of Dorian Pavus.

This is a man who used to live in a lie. A man who had to act all the time and love himself because noone else would. A man who had to guard his emotions because at best he was a port in the storm. A man who was thought that what he is and how he feels is deviant and shameful and it must be hidden. A man who was afraid of dancing with his beloved because what will people say? A man who was afraid to hope for more and didn’t want to talk about the future in case everything goes to hell as it always did before.

But he has so much love in himself. So much strenght that keep him going. And when he finally finds his place Dorian makes such a wonderful progress. He has friends. He has plans. He’s happy. And I believe he will change Tevinter for better. Because who else if not him?

I am so freaking proud of Dorian Pavus.


So…I was inspired by this post to try my hand at making my children, albeit tweaking just a few things 😊


I’ve successfully avoided major spoilers for Trespasser so far, except for one but it’s alright because I kind of found it inevitable and it was already my headcanon for my inquisitor anyways so thats fine anyway it’s the (seriously stop reading if you are avoiding all spoilers for Trespasser) fact that the Inquisitor loses their arm. And I’m losing my shit about it. In a good way. In an excellent way. In the best possible way.

Prosthetics, you guys. So many different kinds of prosthetics.

Mages with runes etched in to their hands, with focusing crystals embedded in to knuckles, with veins of lyrium literally at their fingertips.

Knight Enchanters whose Spirit Hilt is built directly in to their prosthetic. Who trained for hours and hours under the mantra of This blade is an extension of you. It is part of your body. It is part of your soul. Knight Enchanters who can now embrace that truth more literally, who modify their Spirit Hilt so that it runs the length of their prosthetic. So that the magic can come sweeping out in different shapes or forms–a slash of light running alongside their arm, a burst of energy in the form of a repelling shield, or the original swath of magic like a sword sprouting from their body.

Rift Mages who create a prosthetic of their own out of latent sympathetic magic. The powers of the Fade still whisper to them, still catch around their arm where flesh used to be in swirls and eddies, trying to embody what once was there, what memory still holds in fine detail. Rift Mages who have temporary prosthetics made out of condensed magic. Who cast Stone Fist quite literally now as their formed hand goes rocketing forward. Rift Mages who can curry the favor of small wisps and delicate spirits that will hover around their arm and perhaps hold a thing or two until it is needed.

Necromancers who stride in to battle and capture the spirit of fallen enemies in order to create an ethereal prosthetic that’s faster and stronger than any human hand. Raising the dead to guard their left flank because they are not so readily able to defend it now. Necromancers who know exactly what a raised corpse is capable of depending on its state of decay, on what it still has, on what it is missing–and who know exactly how much they are still capable of.

Rogues with weapons built in to their forearms. Crossbows easily winched and fired. Static hands that can hold a bow steady.

Artificers who well know how to make, and maintain an articulated prosthetic–just as delicate as any one of their carefully spun traps. Artificers who embed their prosthetics with traps, who make little compartments full of dangerous things. Rogues who rig their prosthetics as a last resort, leaving it behind to explode and rain hell on unsuspecting enemies.

Assassins who hide deadly poisons in the spiked fingertips of their prosthetics. Who store terrible venoms in small vials carefully slotted in to the thing. Assassins who use the fact that their enemies will underestimate the false hand–see it as a weakness and a liability. Assassins who play that to their advantage, use it to strike when it’s least expected. Assassins with retractible blades hidden in the wrist in such a way that would make Ezio envious.

Tempest rogues who coat their arrows with concoctions embedded in their arms. Who can release compressed smoke from hidden compartments. Fast. Chaotic. Pulling one alchemical mystery after the next out of thin air, rigging their prosthetics like the Artificers do–except this one explodes with fire and ice and fury.

Warriors with heavy-wrough prosthetics to suit their more aggressive fighting style.

Champions who have shields latched on to their arm–quick release built in, in case of emergencies. Who can throw their entire body in to a shield blow, because the shield is part of them now. Champions with prosthetics of gilded silver and gold that can be raised, gleaming to catch the light and inspire defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. Champions with prosthetics that are essentially an extension of their armor, throwing their arm forward to take the blow that would have slain a friend, and continuing fearlessly where their flesh would’ve other wise been torn asunder.

Reavers with prosthetics embedded with spikes. With rivulets carved so that streams of blood flow along it with grotesque ease. Reavers with prostetics permenantly stained with the blood of each enemy felled, who can work themselves in to the beginning of a frenzy by scenting the blood that has seeped so deeply in to the limb. Reavers who charge on ever further, ever more enraged if the prosthetic is damaged–their fury only fueled by its destruction.

Templars who–like mages–have lyrium imbued in to their prosthetic, and may call upon it when it is needed. Templars who have etched their crest or passage from the Chant in to their new limb. Templars who summon the Wrath of Heaven with their glowing prosthetic, lifting it to the air as the lyrium in it burns and sizzles, and then slamming it down with the pillar of light like the fist of the Maker himself. 


Memory Lane

Part II

Part I

“You got an idea yet?”

It’s been three days since the redhead with eyes the colour of honey in sunlight first introduced herself and Asce can safely say his stay in hospital has brightened significantly. He’d still rather be out of here, but given his injuries he’s confined to bed.

But hey, at least they’re giving him the good drugs and allowing him good company.

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spookys-taco  asked:

Hi, I just saw one of your fics and I fell in love with it so here I am asking you to please write me 144 with jimon.

Oh My Gush!! Sugarplum this is so so so sweet, and I’m squealing all the emotions! I’d love to know which one of my FICs u saw first! That’s always fun💚😁💚 

I’m so sorry that this is a few weeks late, I read the prompt tonight, and just got so inspired…IDK if this is anything you wanted, but yeah…I wrote the arbitrary future family/kid FIC 😁 But if that’s not your thing, feel free to chew me out!

Hope you like it though!!💚💚💚

From This List

“Hurry up, hurry up,” Simon bucks up his hips, sliding greedy hands under the waistband of Jace’s briefs.

“You ever wonder if the romance in our relationship is lost?” Jace snorts, nibbling on Simon’s collar bone, across his jaw and finally landing with a searing kiss onto his lips.

“Mmm,” Simon flips him over so that Jace’s writhing underneath him. “Dude we have four kids under five! No time for romance between frantic hand jobs.”

“Freya’ll be six next month,” Jace points out, peppering kisses all over Simon’s face.

“Fine, we’ll have a really romantical, slow bone session right after we clean up all the cake and ice-cream from her party. But right now, I can barely remember the last time our dicks touched.”

“Two weeks, nine days, and three hours ago.”

Simon leers, “Bro I don’t know whether to be flattered that you’re counting down the hours till we fuck, or be concerned the my man is obviously thinking about me every second of the day instead of focusing on  his actual, very dangerous job.”

“One,” Jace pulls Simon back underneath him—always having enjoyed the push and pull of their relationship, the way neither of them let the other have anything easy. Always poking and prodding and forcing each other to do better. To be better. “I’m your husband, not your dude, or bro or any of the other colorful nicknames you like to use, pretending your some douchey, snapback wearing frat kid getting drunk off his ass in some party.”

“Oh, like you wouldn’t have been that douche in another life…You know one vacant of demons and vampires and all that shit.”

“Two,” Jace continues as if Simon hadn’t even spoken, grinding down into him and reveling in the little, gasps of groans that he lets out at the contact. “We’re doing much more than fucking, don’t ya think?”

“Oo, ah ah yeah, yeah definitely,” Simon almost squeaks out. “But we’re not going to be doing anything if you don’t shut the hell up.”

“My have the tables turned.”

“Ass face,” Simon latches their lips together with a fervor that Jace feels in his bones—making his toes curl and his dick shoot up in excitement. “Hello my old friend,” Simon simpers before wrapping it with one of is large hands.

“It—huh—It hasn’t been that long.”

“Says the guy who’s been counting down the hours,” Simon gifs another savage tug—using some of Jace’s pre-cum to rub up and down his shaft. Jace swears he sees light while he’s frantically smacking down on their night table, in search of some proper lube. That is until…

A bloodcurdling  screech bursts through their baby monitor.

Jace collapses onto Simon’s shoulder in defeat.

“By the Angel!”  

“God fucking damn it!”

They freeze there for a moment more, Elijah’s cries growing ever louder.

“One of us must’ve been a mass murderer in past life and that’s why Karma’s being such a bitch,” Simon reasons, slowly pealing himself off of Jace and throwing on the nearest pair of boxers he could find. “I put my money on it being  you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say vamp.”

“Touché, you want baby duty or going down stairs to make the bottle?”

“Fuck, we didn’t bring it up?”

“Ah no dude, we were—erm, otherwise compromised.” Jace suddenly remembers much of the same actions taking place last night, but rather than a fitful baby that haunted their plans, it was a very fear ridden Freya, who had watched a scary clip on Youtube with some school friends earlier that day. And then him and Simon had another argument over sending her to Mundy school and were angry at each other until this morning, when Jace agreed that he was acting a bit hot headed, and Simon offered to talk with her teacher—which then lead to heated kisses and the bright prospect of finally getting off.

A prospect which never came into fruition.

“Right, well I’ll grab Eli—he always likes your bottles more, for some reason.”

“What can I say,” Simon sniffs. “I have magical hands.”

Jace licks his lips on a swallow. “Don’t remind me.”

“Shhh baby, c’mon Eli, c’mon you’re okay,” Jace croons, rocking him into his arms. “You wanna hear a lullaby? Huh? Yeah kiddo?”

“Jace! Jace!” Simon clammers into the nursery, hair askew and shirt boxers slung low on his narrow hips. “”s broken! His bottle! ‘s broke!”

Half dazed from a serious lack of sleep, not enough coffee, and the worst tease of his fucking life, Jace plucks out the  aforementioned bottle right from Simon’s death grip.

“Ah Simon—You didn’t even screw on the nipple?” Jace points out, rattling it in his face.

“Is it bad if you saying the word nipple is really making my pants tight?” Simon ponders out loud,  biting into the nail of his thumb.

“Well considering your referring to the utensil our child needs to use to eat with, and that your not even wearing pants right now-“

“Does it take effort being such a dry witted ass hole so early in the morning?”

“You forgot functional. I’m a functional  dry witted asshole. Unlike you evidently.”

“Hey! I’m functional!” Simon argues, to which Jace just gives a pointed look to his disheveled mop of hair, and bare chest speckled with dried milk that spilled out when he must’ve been shaking the bottle without properly sealing it’s lid. Simon’s face goes a very fetching scarlet, and Jace very much feels the ache of their lack of, well…erm, private time, yet again. With Carson and Freya starting the school year, and the twins beginning teething—well it’s all been way too hectic, and something had to give way eventually…Jace just mourns that it had to be their sex life. “Hey! Don’t you dare use those judgmental eyebrows on me goldilocks!”

Jace’s eyes go owlish before meeting Simon’s glower. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Yuh huh,” Simon snorts unconvinced, taking Elijah out of Jace’s embrace, and tucking him into his own chest. “Well I’ll have ya know big guy that back in college,  I spent many a days fueled purely on Starbucks refills and sugar highs that these munchkins would salivate over.”

“Is that right,” Jace drawls, eyes flickering to the mural Clary had painted on the wall of the twin’s room—a family tree where each branch has an emblem dangling off it’s tip—symbolizing the most important people in their lives.. Jace feels a rush of pure elation when spotting the Lightwood flames combined with the Herondale bird and lone star of the vampires, glimmering on the very top. It’s so right and perfect, and never in a million years did Jace think he could have this. A set of friends and family who truly loves him, and who he trusts and adores implicitly. A partner that snarks at him at every turn, but also makes Jace’s knees go weak, and his heart swell with affection. Hell, never did Jace ever think of himself as being the fathering type—but with Simon, it all just feels natural, definitely not easy (Especially when Carson’s favorite blanket is in the wash and he refuses to go anywhere without it, or when Freya brings in some new critter she’s caught outside in a sudden save every animal and bring it back home with me kick.) but it all feels right. Like Jace’s not screwing up completely.

“Yeah, well that and your vigorous love making of course,” Simon clutches a hand over his heart, and flutters his lashes like he’s in a fucking mascara advert.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” Simon straightens up, hitching a now fast asleep Eli into a more comfortable position. “But I’m also right. I use to be the king of doing shit without even a blink of sleep.”

“You know Simon, it doesn’t bother me that you’ve become less spry in your old age.”


“Not in front of the children, they’ll be up soon for school.”

Simon’s face lights up at that, n almost kitty gleam pixilated in his eyes. “They are, aren’t they?”

“ah, yuh…That’s what I just said?”

“M’kay! Me and you got bout the same amount of sleep last night, right?”  

“Sure, I think?”

“Well I know for da both of us. So let’s prove who’s actually the spry one in this little  relationship of ours”

“Oh?” Jace perks up at the sound of that, moving up to settle a hand on Simon’s hip—his eyes going dark. “And how do you suppose we do that?”

“Definitely not in the way you’re thinking,” Simon sucks in a breath   when  Jace begins to  ravish his neck with a fresh batch of kisses.

Jace deflates at the clarification. “I don’t think anything else really interests me.”

“Don’t be such a sour patch,” Simon chides, cuffing Jace on the back of the head. “Me and you should have a competition.”

Jace kinks up one of his brows. “See who can get Carson or Freya ready for school first?”

Simon’s grin goes devious. “Winner gets blown.”


“Oh Jace, babe there are no losers in this game.”

“I’ve got Freya,” Jace calls, striding to her room, knowing full and well how difficult Carson could be in the mornings—probably because he stays up way past his bedtime without ever being caught.

“Succor, her favorite dress ’s in the laundry.”


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So I’ve been wantin’ ta do a drawin’ of ya for a while now, Crutchie…I hope ya like it! I had fun drawin’ it. Don’t know if I got da hair right, though.

Like… Like it?! Holy smokes I love it! This is real incredible! You’re so talented!! I’m tellin’ you, you should be drawin’ cartoons with Jack for the papes!! And don’t worry! You made my hair look ten times better in your drawin’ than in real life!!