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tagged by the incredible @wishforhome @xkatchy @gatesofminrathous @depmode and @lotusfueltofire 💕💘💖
This was my very first year publishing fic and y'all could not have been more welcoming! 🥹 Between the BG3 and Dragon Age communities I have met some of the most lovely people and some of the most talented authors / artists !!
Highlights
Total Word Count: 102,310
Works: 21
Fandoms: Dragon Age, Baldur's Gate 3, Dropout
I also started learning to draw this year!! so it will be very exciting to look back from the end of 2026 and see what has changed 🫶💖✨
Most Popular Fic
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Astarion x Ceri (Named Fem Tav)
Explicit | 39,657 words | Incomplete
Indulgent comfort smut long-fic
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Shortest Completed Fic
oh, make it good
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Teen | 822 words | Complete
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Teen | 6,297 words | Complete
Inquisitor Mirwen Lavellan and Solas end up on a horse together. Flirting ensues!
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In Progress Fic that I want to work on More
Inevitable [series]
Solas x Mirwen Lavellan (Named Female Inquisitor)
Teen | 7,669 words | Incomplete
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i call & you come through ♜❤️🔥🐦⬛ [series]
Viago de Riva x Maeve Aldwir (Named Fem Rook)
Explicit | 18,238 words | Incomplete
I can't believe how much I've written about these two idiots since *checks notes* the end of March??? I think about them literally constantly.
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Viago/Teia/Rook/Rook | M | 1500 words | cw: sexual content | read on ao3 here
No one teases like the Crows of House Cantori; no one suffers them like Viago de Riva.
A little something that is mostly Vibes™️and an excuse to torture Viago a bit 😌 set in the sibling spouses AU I share with @mxssful and @wishforhome, where all three of our Rooks end up in the crowlycule (:
(divider credit)
There’s a shirt thrown across the chaise in Teia’s bedroom. Silk, with obsidian buttons that have little snakes curled around the edges. It is wrinkled with wear and there’s a stain of something on the cuff and just there at the collar.
Viago cannot stop staring at it.
Even with Marisol atop him, fingers working deftly at a different set of obsidian buttons. Even with Teia’s hands in his hair, one leg stretched out along the length of him. There’s plenty focus on, but he cannot look away from that shirt.
It is his.
He did not leave it there.
And he shouldn’t stare, because they’re going to notice, and once they notice there will be no end to his suffering. But he cannot stop, because there is only one way his shirt ended up here without his involvement.
Marisol’s fingers still and the metal claws of their trap snap closed around Viago’s throat. Her curls curtain their faces as she leans forward, and smirks.
“Rosa was here the other day, did you know?” And there is— a bite to her words. Of course he didn’t know, but now he does, because there is no one else who steals his shirts and wears them about all of Antiva as if she has rights to every piece of him.
“And she what,” he musters a bit of dignity, even as Teia laughs quietly above them, “walked back across Treviso, half-naked?”
“You say that as though you don’t think she would.”
She absolutely would, because Rosa sheds her clothes at the slightest provocation. Skin is just skin, to her, and it means nothing to show it, or not, and she does not think of appearances or implications. Certainly she did not think of them when she left his shirt where he would be sure to see it in the not so distant future that is today.
Pointedly, he does not think about what led her to discard her—his— shirt in the first place. Does not think of flirting and banter and teeth. How Rosa might have blushed like the flowers she was named for, and how she would have repaid the favor with lightning on her tongue.
He does not— he does not—
Because there are reasons and boundaries and rules that keep him safe, and if he touches Rosa without gloves he will burn and burn and burn—
But the Crows of House Cantori have a fire all their own, and no one has bothered to tell them that they are not the exception to every rule.
“She likes to wear your clothes, you know.”
“I am well aware.” Viago scowls. “They go missing often enough, and they need particular laundering—“
The silk against his shoulders pulls taught as Mari undoes the rest of his buttons and takes the tails of his shirt in her hands. Her teeth are a wicked grin, all sharp edges and the kind of confidence that Viago knows as the shape of a knife pointed straight at his throat.
“Not what I meant.” She curls forward over him once more, puts her lips right by his ear, and he can feel the curve of her smirk as she says, “she likes to wear your clothes in bed. With us. When she has my fingers, or is taking Teia apart with her tongue, with your shirt on she gets—mm. Intense.”
And— he would like to say he doesn’t immediately picture it, red hair thrown back over black silk, someone else’s pleasure shining on her chin. He would like to say that his cock, still in the confines of his trousers, doesn’t stir and twitch, but he would be a liar, and Marisol, astride him as she is, knows.
She grins, triumphant. And presses further, because she has never met a boundary she did not like to push, and Viago will not set this one, not yet, not until he knows what else she has to say.
(Because wayward Crows from House de Riva do not get to hide parts of themselves from their Talon, not when they are sharing those parts with menaces from House Cantori.)
“It is like— she is so pretty when she comes, you know? Or I suppose you don’t know, but she is, and if the light catches right it looks like she has fire in her hair and she glows and it is all very—“ A shiver runs down Marisol’s spine and she clicks her tongue and hums, pleased. Ambivalent, for all appearances, to the tension thrumming through Viago beneath her. Teia abandons his head and slinks down, behind, leaving Viago adrift for all of three seconds before her hand is in his trousers and Marisol shifts up, curling tighter around his ear.
“And normally she does not hide, she takes her pleasure and enjoys it but this time— and maybe it was because Teia worked her up over and over and then walked her back down, or maybe—“
Marisol catches the loose ends of his collar, pulls them tight just as Teia slides her palm along the length of him and it is wholly unfair, Viago thinks, to be played like a lyre by the two of them, but he lays there and takes it and takes it and takes—
“—maybe it was your shirt, and I only say that because she had the silk in her teeth— and you know how she is with the biting and affection and getting those all mixed up, but regardless—“
“Do you ever stop talking?” Viago hisses, undercut by a gasp when Teia twists just so. And Marisol does pause, then, and something cold slips at the small of Viago’s back at the devious look that takes her face. She brackets her elbows on either side of his head and she does not kiss him, but her words are like a kiss when they ghost over his lips.
“I could. But I think you want to hear how she buried her face in your shirt when she came. How she breathed you in and pressed into it and needed to curl up and crawl inside and how in her pleasure she turned to you—“
He comes with a groan, a whine on his lips. Spills over Teia’s hand, with Marisol’s whispers in his ear, and with Rosa on his mind. And Marisol does kiss him, then. Swallows his pleasure and his shame and his guilt; the complicated tangle of the worst mistake he’s ever made.
He comes and he thinks maybe— what if—
Teeth catch at his lip and they are not hers but what if they were—
They bring him down with gentle touches and soft kisses and knowing looks that make his ears flare red. Teia is already up and fetching a cloth, because they know how he gets, but Marisol stays and smooths his hair back from his brow and grins.
Viago doesn’t trust his voice, not just yet, but he raises a brow at her, waiting for the blade to drop.
“She doesn’t even notice, really,” she says— conversationally, like his cock isn’t softening in the evidence of his pleasure (shame? he cannot decide). “She just does it, but maybe someone should tell her. Imagine if she were out on a contract—“
And then he is imagining it, of course— a contract he gave her and another person between her thighs but his shirt, him on her skin and between her teeth and—
Or one of her bards, with all their songs and stories and making memories of her while she is thinking of him—
No. For so many good reasons and once Marisol gets off of him, once Teia brings the cloth and cleans him up, once he is out of this hazy, liminal space they like to drag him into he will list them and remind himself, remind them, though it will not stick, it will not matter, in the end.
“Seeing as you’re her boss—“ Viago scowls at the weight she gives the word. It does not belong there; he is Rosa’s boss, her Talon, and he cannot be anything more but nor can he bear to be anything less. “Now that you know, you could let her know and then we’d all be in the loop, hm?”
Briefly, indulgently, he imagines it: when Rosa comes to him— interrupts him, inevitably— dressed in misadventures and a stolen shirt. Pinning her with a glare and perhaps a smirk, holding the upper hand, for once, for certain, and calmly informing her that if she wants him wrapped around her when she comes—
No.
His chest seizes tight and Marisol rolls off of him—a reprieve, then, as Teia comes and cleans him up and they curl around him like it was nothing. Normal, even. But Marisol slings her leg across him, over Teia’s hip, scrapes her teeth over his pulse in a mockery of a kiss. It jumps beneath her lips and he thinks—
crowlycule (viago/teia/lucanis/rook) | 507 words | rated t
for @viagoweek day seven: king
“Do you think he will make this one cry?” Rosa asks, her voice a quiet murmur.
“I don’t think so— this one is holding up pretty well, so far,” Teia replies in the same voice.
The two of them, along with Lucanis, stand off to the side, as Viago sits for his official portrait. The crown upon his head shines golden, the shape of a bird taking flight decorating the front, as if to say to whoever looks at it: I won.
Yet there is nothing triumphant about his expression.
Arms crossed tightly over his chest, Viago keeps scowling at the painter.
“If he keeps this up,” Lucanis laments up, “we are going to run out of artists, and then we’ll have to outsource.”
“Having to find an orlesian painter will make his mood even worse, and then who’s putting up with him?” Teia says.
Five paintings so far, from five different artists. All of them finished, and all of them deemed unsatisfactory by the reigning king of Antiva. All painters, with their slightly different styles, delivered perfectly good portraits— even if Viago’s expression had progressively darkened with each attempt.
He hasn’t really explained what the issue is or which specific faults he finds each time, only that the paintings will not do, and then he hires a new painter and starts the process all over again.
Rosa tucks herself against Lucanis’ side, leaning her weight against him as she watches Viago quietly. Five portraits— six, with this one. There is being particular about art— which Viago is, because he is particular about a great deal of things— and then there is… this.
There is a tension in the air, a tension to Viago’s jaw— he’s grinding his teeth, she thinks.
Tongue slowly running over the edge of her top row of teeth, point to point, canine to canine, Rosa lowers her voice even more, until it’s little but a raspy purr:
“He… does look quite a bit like his father, does he not?”
(It’s the first thing she thought, those two times she was in the late king’s presence— first, as she stood before him with her boots soaked in blood, leaving red prints on the polished floors of the palace, and later, sneaking into his bedchambers, with a contract to fulfill. Older, and shaved, and lacking the character of Viago’s customary frown, but the parentage was undeniable.)
Next to her, Teia shifts closer, leaning her head on Rosa’s shoulder, intertwining her fingers with the other woman’s.
“Oh, Vi,” Teia sighs, “you ridiculous man.”
Lucanis hums a quiet, considering sound. “It would not be the worst thing in the world,” he says, “if, somehow, part of the portrait hall burned.”
“A brazier could fall, a painting or two could be lost…” Rosa continues.
“And you,” Teia squeezes Rosa’s hand lightly, “could be far away at the time, so no one can blame you.”
They all know Viago will blame her, anyway, but that’s fine.
