Lover of books. Dragon Age, doggos, Theater and food, and much more in between. A03 writer. See something you like? Feel free to hit me up with questions or comments!
Currently I am accepting Fic Prompt requests for Dragon Age for @thedasweekend! I will gladly write something From Origins To Inquisition ONLY. (No DATVG at this time please)
As of now I write the following characters:
DAO: Female Warden (Tabris, Surana, Amell, or Cousland), Alistair, Zevran, Leliana.
DAII: (F! Purple) Mage Hawke, Varric, Fenris, Isabela, Anders
DAI: Female Inquisitor Lavellan or Trevelyan, Cullen, Leliana, Dorian
Note: As I have a multiple worldstates with a different warden or Inky (depending on my roster) if you want to request a specific Warden or Inky with your ask, Please send the request along with their name!
See something you like on one of these lists? Feel free to send them to me! Or you can send me one of your own! I am interested in writing Fluff, Angst, First Kiss, Mutual Pining, and more! If you have a specific topic, song or prompt you want to see that includes any of these, let me know! My ask box is OPEN
In the meantime, I have a current list of some of my work (including a few WIP) from the fandom here
Just before we do the Warden Commander Weekend, let me also announce the prompts and dates for the Hawke Appreciation Week, which is going to be happening in the middle of April.
This is going to be a week for all sorts of Fanwork dedicated to your Champions of Kirkwall. Like always: you can put on any sort of fanwork for this. Fanart, fanfiction, aethetics, stimboards, gifs... Whatever you want!
We have Rules of course, but I feel most of you already know the rules for this: no stealing, no AI, works posted will have to be new. And so on.
One character carefully tends to the other’s minor injury, their touch gentle and reverent.
For Cullen and Cordelia? 💖
Ohh this one inspired me! Thanks for sending it! I hope you Enjoy this one! As Always, this was written for @thedasweekend!
The Map of Survival
Candlelight flickers softly across the stone walls of the loft above Cullen's office, casting dancing shadows that sway with each small draft. Moonlight filters through the broken section of ceiling in the far corner, silvery and ethereal against the ancient stones. The mountain cold seeps through that gap, a reminder of Skyhold's disrepair and the harsh climate beyond these walls, but Cordelia has long since stopped minding it. Not when she has this space that had quietly become hers too.
She sits between his thighs on the bed, the thick blanket pooled around both their waists, her back pressed against the solid warmth of his bare chest. His arms wrap loosely around her waist, his skin warm against the thin fabric of his shirt—the one she'd claimed after their last war council meeting ran late into the evening. It hangs loose on her smaller frame, the collar slipping off one shoulder, and it smells like him. Soap and leather and something indefinably Cullen.
His lips brush against her bare shoulder, feather-light, and she sighs contentedly. Another kiss finds the curve of her neck, then the sensitive spot where neck meets collarbone. Unhurried. Reverent. His stubble rasps pleasantly against her skin, and she tilts her head to give him better access, her eyes drifting closed.
"We should do this more often," she murmurs.
"What, exactly?"
"This. Nothing. Just... being."
His arms tighten around her, pulling her closer, and she can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her back. "I'm not opposed to the idea."
Cordelia lets herself melt into him, into this perfect pocket of peace they've carved from the chaos that never truly stops.
Her hands rest atop his forearms, and she flexes her fingers absently. The movement sends a small jolt of discomfort through her left hand—the one bearing the anchor's scar. She tries to work out the stiffness, massaging her palm with her thumb, but the motion only makes it worse. One of the small cracks along her knuckle flexes, threatening to split further, and she can't quite suppress the sharp hiss that escapes her.
Cullen's head lifts immediately from her shoulder. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, it's—" She tries to wave it off, but he's already reaching around, gently catching both her hands in his larger ones.
"Cordelia."
There's no demand in his voice, only concern, and she relents, letting him turn her hands over in his. The contrast strikes her immediately—her hands look so small cradled in his palms, his fingers dwarfing hers as he examines them with careful attention.
But it's not just the size difference that catches her eye.
Her hands, once soft and unmarked from years in the Circle, have changed. Calluses have formed along her palms where she grips her staff, across her fingers from countless hours of combat practice. Scars crisscross her knuckles—some from training, some from actual battle. A fading bruise yellows along the base of her right thumb. And on her left hand, the anchor's scar traces an unmistakable path across her palm and up her wrist, the skin around it slightly raised, slightly rougher than the rest.
They're starting to look like his hands. Like a soldier's hands.
She finds herself wanting to pull away. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I should—I should take better care of them. Maybe take a page out of your book and see if someone at Skyhold can get me some gloves I can fight in. Something that won't interfere with the mark, but—"
Cullen lifts her left hand to his lips and kisses her fingertips, silencing her apology.
"Don't apologize," he says. He kisses her fingers again, one by one. "These hands closed the Breach. These hands saved us all."
Her throat tightens.
He turns her hand over, his thumb tracing the anchor's scar with infinite gentleness. "These scars, these marks—they're a map of your survival. Of how much of a fighter you've become. You should be proud of that." His lips brush across her knuckles. "I adore your hands, Cordelia. Everything they've done. Everything they've endured."
"Cullen..." His name comes out barely above a whisper.
He releases her hands only to shift behind her, reaching for something on the small table beside the bed. When he settles back, he's holding a small tin—plain, well-used, the kind of thing a soldier would carry in his pack.
"I've picked up a few things over the years," he says, a smirk in his voice. "This should help."
She watches as he opens the tin, the scent immediately familiar. Her brow furrows as she tries to place it.
"Is that elfroot?" she asks. "And... embrium?"
Cullen glances up, a hint of surprise in his amber eyes. "You have a good nose. Yes, both of those. There's prophet's laurel as well, and heatherum to strengthen the mixture."
She's collected all of those herbs countless times on her travels, marked locations for scouts to gather more, sent them to the Inquisition's herbalists. But this combination—
"I've been gathering these for months," she says, bewildered. "How did I not know they could be used like this?"
He scoops a small amount of the balm onto his fingers. "It's fairly specific to colder climates. Something the herbalists in Ferelden developed—I'm not sure if it originated with the Circle there or the Templar Order, but it became standard issue for both templars and soldiers. The Grey Wardens use it too, I believe." He takes her right hand in his free one. "When you're stationed somewhere like Kinloch Hold or fighting in the Frostbacks, cracked hands become more than just uncomfortable—they become a liability."
"How have I not heard of this before?" She shakes her head, marveling. "Does everyone use it? In Ferelden, I mean?"
"I..." He pauses, considering. "I honestly don't know. I've always had access to it, so I never really thought about it. It was just... there. Part of the supplies." He begins working the balm into her palm, his touch firm but gentle. "I don't know how to make it myself. I came to Skyhold with a couple of tins from my last posting."
"We need to keep this in supply," she says. "If it helps our soldiers, especially those from warmer regions who aren't used to this climate—"
"The herbalists who work with the Inquisition should be able to make more," Cullen says. "I can provide them with a sample if needed."
"Good." She relaxes back into him, letting him continue. "Good."
He works the balm in slowly, methodically, his thumbs pressing into her palm in small circles. The sensation is... Maker, it's sensual in a way she hadn't anticipated. Not overtly sexual, but intimate beyond measure. Each press of his fingers, each slow stroke across her skin, feels deliberate. Reverent.
He pays special attention to the calluses, working the balm into the toughened skin with patient care. When he reaches her knuckles, he's careful with the small cracks, his touch feathering light over the damaged areas.
She opens her eyes to watch him work. His brow is furrowed slightly in concentration. The candlelight catches the planes of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, serious and focused, as if caring for her hands is a mission of vital importance.
And maybe, to him, it is.
"Where did you learn this?" she asks. "Not the recipe, but... this."
"The templars weren't exactly known for their creature comforts," he says, finishing with her right hand and reaching for her left. "But winters in Ferelden are brutal, and cracked hands make it difficult to hold a sword. One of the older knights taught me early on. Said a soldier who can't care for himself is useless to his brothers."
He cradles her left hand with extra care. His thumb traces the scar before he begins working the balm into her palm, and she has to bite her lip at the sensation. The anchor-scarred skin is more sensitive, and every touch sends little shivers up her arm.
"Does it hurt?" he asks immediately, noticing her reaction.
"No. It's just... sensitive."
He continues, even more gentle than before, working around the scar with patient attention. When he reaches her fingers, he works the balm into each one individually, from base to tip, his touch maddeningly thorough.
"Thank you," she whispers.
He presses a kiss to her temple. "Always."
She feels it then—a prickle behind her eyes, the threat of tears she won't shed. Not from sadness, but from the overwhelming tenderness of this moment, of him.
He finishes, but doesn't release her hand. Instead, he brings it to his lips again, pressing a kiss to her palm, right over the anchor's scar. Then another to her wrist. Her pulse jumps beneath his lips, and she knows he feels it.
"I love you," she says, because she can't not say it, not when her heart is so full it aches.
"I love you," he echoes, setting the tin aside and wrapping both arms around her again. "I just— you are— that is to say—"
She giggles, and he laughs too, warm and a little embarrassed, and somehow that fumbling, imperfect moment is more than any polished declaration could ever be.
Silence settles back over them, easy and complete.
She settles back into her place against his chest, her newly tended hands resting once more over his forearms. The balm has already started to work, the tight, painful feeling in her skin easing. But more than that, she feels cared for. Seen.
Cordelia laces her fingers through Cullen's, marveling at how perfectly—despite the size difference—they fit together. How her scarred, calloused hands feel right when held in his.
"Stay with me tonight?" he asks against her hair, though they both know she will. She always does.
She turns her head just enough to catch his lips with hers, the kiss soft and sweet and full of promise.
hello, happy THWEE! how about "One character massages the other’s shoulders after a long day, humming quietly." with warden/leliana?
Happy THWEE!! I'd love to! I really hope you like this one. As always, this was written for @thedasweekend! Enjoy!!
A Moment's Peace
The steam rose in gentle wisps against the darkening sky, curling between the ancient stones that ringed the spring. Leliana had found it while scouting the camp's perimeter with Zevran, a gift from the Maker, she'd called it, her voice soft with wonder. The assassin had merely smirked and agreed to keep their secret, disappearing back toward the firelight with an exaggerated bow.
Now, as the last violet hues of twilight faded to indigo, Rosalind stood at the spring's edge, feeling the weight of everything she carried settle more heavily on her shoulders. Redcliffe. The possessed child. The choices that had no right answers. The undead clawing at the gates, the screams, the desperate magic she'd channeled until her mana burned hollow.
"Ma chérie," Leliana's voice was gentle, her hand warm against Rosalind's lower back. "You are thinking too loudly."
Rosalind managed a tired smile. "I didn't realize thoughts made sound."
"Yours do." The bard's fingers found the buckles of Rosalind's traveling leathers with practiced ease. "They are practically shouting."
She didn't protest as Leliana helped her shed the road-worn layers, each piece of armor falling away like a small freedom. When Leliana's fingers brushed the nape of her neck, loosening the collar of her undershirt, Rosalind closed her eyes and let herself simply feel, the cool evening air on heated skin, the quiet comfort of hands that touched her with such care.
In the Circle, everything had been utilitarian. Functional. Robes handed out by the templars, hair braided back efficiently, bodies kept clean with the same impersonal attention given to scrubbing floors. No one had ever undressed her like this, as though she were something precious.
Leliana moved around her to face her, still fully clothed, her expression unreadable in the dimness. Then she smiled, that particular smile that made Rosalind's heart do foolish things, and began unlacing her own leathers.
They slipped into the water together, and Rosalind couldn't quite suppress the sound that escaped her throat, relief and pleasure intertwined. The heat enveloped her like an embrace, seeping into muscles that had been taut for days, perhaps weeks. How long since Ostagar? How long since her life had been her own?
"Come here," Leliana murmured, settling against a smooth stone with the water lapping at her collarbones. Her copper hair was already beginning to curl in the steam, framing her face in damp tendrils.
Rosalind moved to her, mindful of where she placed her feet on the rocky bottom, and Leliana guided her to sit between her legs, back to front.
"Your shoulders," Leliana said softly, her fingers already seeking out the knots of tension, "feel like stone, ma chérie."
"I'm fine."
"Mmm." The sound was noncommittal. Leliana's thumbs pressed into the tight muscles at the base of Rosalind's neck, and she bit back a groan. "When did you last let someone take care of you?"
The question hung in the steam between them. Rosalind opened her mouth to deflect, to say she was capable of taking care of herself. She was a Grey Warden, a mage who'd survived her Harrowing, someone who could call down lightning and freeze enemies where they stood. But Leliana's fingers worked their way along her shoulders with such patience, such deliberate tenderness, that the words died unspoken.
"Never," she admitted quietly. "Not like this."
Leliana's hands stilled for just a moment, and Rosalind felt the press of lips against her damp shoulder, a kiss so gentle it made her throat tight. Then the massage resumed, those clever fingers mapping every line of tension, every place where responsibility had carved itself into flesh.
A low hum began, barely audible at first over the soft burble of water. It took Rosalind a moment to recognize it as a melody, something Orlesian, the syllables foreign but the tune achingly sweet. A lullaby, perhaps.
She felt something in her chest begin to unknit, some tightly wound thing she hadn't known she was holding. Her eyes burned, and she blinked rapidly at the stars beginning to emerge overhead. Somewhere in the middle distance, Barkspawn's distinctive snuffle-snort carried through the evening air, the mabari keeping watch from his post among the rocks.
"Let me," Rosalind started, beginning to turn, her healer's instincts rising. "You must be tired too. Let me—"
"Shh." Leliana's hand came up to cup her cheek, turning her face just enough for their eyes to meet. In the starlight, the bard's gaze was impossibly soft. "Let me take care of you, ma chérie, my midnight rose. Please."
It wasn't a command. It was an offering. A gift Rosalind had never known to ask for.
She settled back against Leliana's chest, and felt those skilled fingers move up to the tight braid that had held her hair in place since morning. One by one, Leliana worked the plaits loose, and Rosalind felt the heavy mass of black silk come free, spilling over her shoulders and onto the water's surface like ink.
"So beautiful," Leliana murmured, running her fingers through the dark strands. "I will never tire of this, seeing you let it down, watching you allow yourself to simply be."
"The braid more practical," Rosalind said, but her voice lacked conviction.
"Practical," Leliana echoed, and there was warmth in her tone, affection wrapped around gentle teasing. "Always practical, my Warden. But here—" Her fingers combed through again, spreading the mass of hair out across the water. "With me you can be something else. Here you can simply be Rosalind."
Simply Rosalind. The words made something tight in her chest loosen.
Leliana began to wash her hair, working soap into a lather before threading it through the dark strands. Her fingers worked in slow circles against Rosalind's scalp, and the mage's eyes fluttered closed.
"Tip your head back," Leliana murmured, and Rosalind obeyed, letting the bard cup water in her hands to rinse away the soap. The Orlesian lullaby resumed, wordless now, just a hum that seemed to resonate in Rosalind's chest.
But here, in this hidden pocket of warmth and steam and starlight, with Leliana's hands in her hair and that sweet melody wrapping around them both, something in her began to unknit.
"All done," Leliana said softly, smoothing the last of the water through Rosalind's hair. Rosalind made a small sound of protest at the loss of those attentive hands, and felt rather than heard Leliana's quiet laugh.
Rosalind turned in the water, catching Leliana's eyes. Steam curled between them, and the spring's heat had brought a flush to Leliana's cheeks, made her eyes seem impossibly bright. Her copper hair clung to her neck in dark, wet ropes, and there was something in her expression, tenderness and desire and fierce protectiveness all tangled together.
"Thank you," Rosalind whispered, and the words felt inadequate for what she meant.
Leliana reached up, cradling Rosalind's face in her hands. Her thumbs traced the sharp lines of the mage's cheekbones with a reverence that made Rosalind's breath catch. "Ma chérie," she murmured, "you carry so much. You are so strong, so brave, so—" Her voice cracked slightly. "So determined to save everyone. But who takes care of you?"
"You do," Rosalind said, and knew it for truth.
"Yes." The word was fierce, almost defiant. "I do. And I will. For as long as you will let me."
Rosalind leaned in, closing the small distance between them, and kissed her.
It started gentle, a brush of lips, a shared breath. Then Leliana's fingers threaded into her wet hair, and the kiss deepened, carrying everything words couldn't.
When they broke apart, Leliana's eyes had gone dark. Her hands drifted beneath the water to Rosalind's waist.
"Rosalind," she breathed.
The camp wasn't far. But far enough.
Rosalind answered by drawing her in again, slower this time. Leliana made a soft sound and pulled her closer still.
The spring's heat wrapped around them. And somewhere in the darkness, Barkspawn kept watch.
It was a part of courtly etiquette - a respectful kiss on a lady's hand. But the moment his lips touched her skin, all the noise of the ballroom faded for them, leaving only the loud beating of their hearts.
Happy Thedas Weekend!! Could I suggest “We’ve mastered the art of loving in silence, but I’m forgetting how to breathe.”, perhaps for Alara?
So this one got away from me. I ended up writing both perspectives of this one (it was a bug that just would not let go) But this is from Alara's perspective. I may post Zevran's later, or if there is interest, but for now, enjoy! As always, this was written for @thedasweekend
What If
The ring catches the firelight as she turns it around her finger, a habit she's developed without realizing. Nelaros's ring, simple gold, worn smooth by hands she barely had time to know. Not a symbol of love, but of honor. Of a man who died trying to protect her when he could have simply stepped aside and saved himself.
She wonders, sometimes, what kind of person she might have been if she'd had the chance to know him properly. If they could have built something real from duty and kindness, the way her mother always said was possible. If she could have learned to love him the way she was supposed to.
What if.
The words follow her everywhere these days, heavy as the armor she wears, persistent as the ache in her mother's boots. What if her mother had lived to see her grown? What if Duncan had found someone else in that prison? What if she'd been born human, or noble, or anyone other than a nineteen-year-old city elf trying to hold together an army that barely trusts her?
What if she didn't have to carry the weight of the world in her hands?
Across the camp, Zevran laughs at something Wynne has said, that easy, practiced sound that could mean anything or nothing. She's learned to read the difference now, the subtle shift in his voice when genuine amusement breaks through the performance. He's performing now, all charm and glittering smiles, but she can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers worry at something hidden in his palm.
He's been distant tonight. Not obviously so, he's too skilled for that, but she knows the signs now. The way he deflects her questions with perfectly crafted compliments. The way he touches her like she's made of spun glass, precious but fragile. The way he watches her when he thinks she's not looking, like he's memorizing her face.
Like he's preparing to say goodbye.
The thought steals the breath from her lungs, leaves her gasping silently in the flickering firelight. When did she start needing him to breathe properly? When did the space between them become something she couldn't bear to lose?
She twists the ring harder, feeling the metal bite into her skin. Focus. Treaties. The kingdom. The army that barely trusts an elven girl to lead them into battle.
But even as she tries to center herself on duty, her mind drifts to this afternoon's skirmish with the bandits. The way Zevran moved beside her, never more than a blade's length away. How he'd shifted left when she went right, covering her blind spot without her having to ask. The precise moment he'd thrown his dagger to drop the archer who'd had a bead on her back, a threat she hadn't even seen coming.
Afterward, when she'd turned to thank him, he'd just shrugged with that easy smile. "I am yours, mi amor. Where you go, I follow."
I am yours. The words had made something flutter in her chest, dangerous and desperate. But how many people has he said those words to? How many marks heard that honey-warm voice promise devotion right before the blade found its home?
He'd sworn fealty to her for sparing his life, dropped to one knee with theatrical flourish and pledged his service. At the time, it had felt like victory, turning an enemy into an ally with mercy instead of violence. Now she wonders if even that moment was performance, carefully calculated to earn her trust. If he's just biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to finish what he started, or if he'll simply vanish one morning when the novelty wears off.
Zevran was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be hers.
What if he was just doing what assassins do? The thought creeps in unbidden, poisonous and familiar. What if the charm is just another weapon? What if you're just another mark, and he's been playing a longer game than you realized?
She pushes the doubts down, but they cling like smoke. He was sent to kill her, that's not something you simply forget, no matter how skilled his hands are at soothing away the nightmares, no matter how his voice drops to honey-warm softness when they're alone. Trust is a luxury she's never been able to afford, and falling in love with an assassin feels like the most dangerous indulgence of all.
But then she remembers the way he looked at her this morning when he thought she was still sleeping, expression soft and unguarded in the pre-dawn light. The way he never asks her to be anything other than what she is, never pushes for more than she's willing to give. The way he makes her feel like she's nineteen instead of ninety, like her choices might actually matter.
What if this is real?
The possibility terrifies her more than any darkspawn, more than the Archdemon itself. Because wanting something means you can lose it. Because love is another kind of vulnerability, another weakness her enemies could exploit. Because she's already wearing the ghosts of everyone she's lost, and she's not sure she has room for another.
But lying in his arms afterward, when the world narrows down to just breath and heartbeat and the warmth of skin against skin, she remembers what it feels like to be just Alara. Not the Grey Warden, not the leader, not the symbol everyone needs her to be. Just a young woman learning what it means to choose something for herself.
In those moments, she can almost imagine a different kind of future. One where the Blight is over and the treaties are signed and she gets to wake up next to someone who chose her back. Where she can put down her mother's dagger and step out of her mother's boots and figure out who she might be when the world isn't ending.
What if we survive this? What if.... there is an after?
She catches herself holding her breath, waiting for his answer to questions she'll never ask. Because that's what they've mastered between them, this careful dance of unspoken wants, this delicate balance of giving just enough to keep each other close without risking everything on words that might shatter whatever fragile thing they've built.
They've mastered the art of loving in silence, but sometimes the weight of all her unspoken what-ifs makes it hard to remember how to breathe.
Zevran looks up then, catches her watching him, and his smile shifts from performance to something softer, something meant just for her. Her chest loosens, just a fraction. Just enough to let air back into her lungs.
"Care to join me for a walk, mi querida?" he asks, standing and offering his hand with that old-world gallantry that should feel ridiculous but somehow doesn't.
She takes his hand, lets him pull her to her feet, and for a moment allows herself to imagine that this... this simple choice, this reaching toward something good, might be enough. That maybe she doesn't need to know what comes next to know that she wants him in it.
"Lead the way," she says, and tries not to think about how much those three words cost her. How much trust she's placing in hands that were once meant to kill her.
Later, when they're tangled together in her bedroll, she listens to his heartbeat steady beneath her ear and thinks about all the small ways he's learned to read her. How he knows when she needs silence instead of words. How his hands find the knots of tension in her shoulders without her having to ask. How he never makes her feel weak for the moments when nineteen feels too young to carry the world.
In battle, he shadows her movements like he was born to it. Against the templars last week, when three of them had cornered her, he'd been there before she could even call his name. Blades spinning, deadly grace keeping them back while she found her footing. Never flashy, never showing off—just solid, dependable presence at her side.
"I am yours," he'd whispered against her neck that night, voice rough with something that sounded like prayer.
But assassins are trained liars, aren't they? Trained to become whatever their target needs most. Maybe she's just another job that's taking longer than expected.
The thought sits heavy in her chest, waiting. Always waiting for the moment when the pretense drops, when he remembers what he came here to do. She wonders how you're supposed to breathe when the air itself might be poison.
"They kissed again, slower this time but no less intense, as if they were trying to memorize the taste and feel of each other. When they finally did separate, Cullen found himself reaching for her hand one more time.
"Sleep well," he said, though they both knew it was a lie. His nightmares had been worse lately, the lyrium withdrawal painting his dreams in shades of red and gold and screaming.
"You too." She squeezed his hand once before letting go, then stepped away. "See you in the morning, Commander."
He watched her go, memorizing the way she moved, the sound of her footsteps on the stone. When she disappeared through the door leading back into the fortress, he remained on the battlements for a long time, staring up at the moon and thinking about all the things he hadn't said.
Tomorrow they would march to war. And he would prove that her faith in him, faith he still wasn't sure he deserved, hadn't been misplaced."
