A podfic of "Greatly Approved" by damalur. "An apostate's guide to popular fiction. (Or: Hawke runs headlong into Cassandra's book club, Varric comes along for the ride.)"

Andrew’s learned to like cake, he’s learned to like oysters, and he’s learned to like Steven.

Five times the #1 headliner All Might and underground scrub Eraserhead teamed up, and one time they didn't. Unfortunately, the first time they meet, both heroes are already high on weaponized ecstasy – or Dust, as it's known on the street. Let the good times roll.

This was not his bedroom; this was definitely not his apartment. It was a single room, with a small table across from the bed and a fireplace on the back wall. When he looked out the window, he could see evergreen trees and the chatty bird who wanted everyone to know what his plans for the day were. The walls and floor were plain wood, and a small painting of a tree hung on the wall. At the end of the bed—which was not Brian’s normal bed—Pat looked about two minutes away from an anxiety attack. Mentally, Brian gave Pat a pass for what he would usually consider an overreaction. “Are we,” Brian started, then tried again: “Is this—?” Pat nodded, holding out a small yellow pouch with a parsnip drawn on the front and an open letter addressed to Brian.

“There are two people I can think of who might know anything,” Lavellan said. “Experts - on the Fade, on the history of elvhenan. Unfortunately,” a grimace, “one of them has vanished, and if all the resources of the Inquisition can’t find him, I doubt you can.” “And the other?” Fenris demanded. “Something from my own history, for once. Not an Inquisition thing. There is - a criminal,” said Lavellan. “Exiled from the clans. She was the blood mage who murdered Clan Sabrae and its Keeper. Last I heard she was living in Kirkwall. A very dangerous woman - possibly insane, actually - but I met her once at Arlathven, and if anyone could help you -” “Merrill?” _ Hawke was left in the Fade. Fenris goes looking for him. He doesn't go alone.

Arya likes the way things are with her soulmate—playing softball in dreams, talking about nothing and everything. But it still feels like cheating when she dreams of Gendry.

“You know, you’re the one to beat this year,” Jiang Cheng offers helpfully, having seen the glare from right next to him. “Hanguang-jun’s been through juniors with the rest of us, he knows all of our tics. You’re an unknown variable, since he’s never competed against you before.” “Thanks,” says Wei Wuxian drily. “That’s very comforting.” Or: five nighthunting competitions where Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji were rivals, and one where they weren't.

or, one hundred and thirty-three principles of the Gusu Lan, pertaining to the state of marriage *** He bows to Wei Wuxian, sword in hand, sleeves falling properly. Wei Wuxian bows in return, and the sect leaders begin the opening courtesies, and for all of ten minutes Lan Wangji is under the impression that he is betrothed to a boy who is perfectly normal and acceptable apart from an unfortunate tendency to fidget with his clothes. That impression does not last.

Modern AU: Nie Huaisang is at University, studying business (as is his duty) rather than Fine Arts (his passion). He is also, however, moonlighting as a photographic artist anonymously posting a series of high-end erotic self portraits, under the nom de guerre of FanBoy, in which his face is never visible. He's posting porn online, basically. But it's none of your trashy amateur shit - it's GORGEOUS. Nie Mingjue has a certain "type" (the details of which he chooses very carefully not to reflect upon) and as such he very swiftly becomes the number one fan of this mysterious photographer/model. Identity porn and actual porn and angst and more porn ensue.

With a sound of quiet sympathy, Kit reaches out, tapping his knuckles lightly against Rex's pauldron. “Forgive me, Captain, but I believe you would be far more comfortable without your armor. The beach cannot be a pleasant place for you right now.” Rex pauses, almost startled by the idea of taking his armor off. He’s on a mission, or at least the disastrous tail end of one, and unless he’s on leave, he almost never strips down to his blacks. And it’s been…months, since his last stretch of leave that wasn’t cut off before it even started. “Oh,” he says dumbly, and then flushes, reaching for the clasps on his armor. “Right, sorry, sir.”