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rosykims · 5 months

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my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder.

Impatient as he is, he greets his uncle first. He’s the king, after all, and his advisors deserve at least the pretense of an attentive ruler.

Pleasantries are exchanged between them while his squire helps him out of his gaudy golden excuse for armor. Not unexpectedly, the elephant in the room goes undiscussed, as do the half dozen marriage proposals he's certain have piled up during his absence. After six years, Eamon knows better than to press him on that issue. Likely he'll try his luck in the morning, but tonight the wells of Alistair’s patience have been run thoroughly dry. It must read plainly on his face, given how bad he is at cards.

As the arl's debrief draws to a close, Alistair's eyes, for the tenth time in half as many minutes, dart towards the exit. Eamon sighs.

“Well, Your Grace,” he says, tactfully clearing his throat. “The hour is late indeed. I imagine you're weary from your travels?”

Alistair nods. “Oh, very weary. The weariest.”

It's not entirely a lie, but his uncle frowns nonetheless. “Then I won't keep you. Good night, Alistair.”

“You as well, Uncle.”

“I will see you in the morning for your small council meeting. Do try not to be . . . waylaid.”

Well. Hint received. Awkward. He lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when he finally presses the door closed behind him.

Next up: a bath. It's sorely needed, after five weeks back and forth across the Waking Sea. His arrivals home are typically received without much ceremony, per his request, and so the palace is pleasantly quiet. A few saluting guards here, a scurrying servant or two there. It's for their benefit that he keeps his footfalls slow and measured, instead of breaking into the wild sprint down the hallway that he's aching for.

One of those servants must have drawn his bath for him already, he guesses, stepping into his chambers to find it warm and awaiting. He wonders if Teagan roused them from their beds for this, or if they've simply clued into his routine after so many years of it.

He forces himself to bathe slowly. For his own sake, but mostly for hers. The heat soaks into his bones, the grime and dust from the road melting off of him as if little more than a bad memory. He tries to enjoy it, despite his restlessness. And the excitement, Maker, like he's still twenty years old and the anticipation alone might just undo him. Or do him in.

He only hurries as he dries off, reaching for the fresh (and mercifully plain) clothes laid diligently aside for him. A part of him considers forgoing clothes entirely – palace denizens be damned. He wills himself to dress anyway, reluctantly. Quickly. It hasn't been that long since he last saw her, anyway, and they've gone far longer stretches before than this. Nonetheless, between Kirkwall's tyrannical templars and the lingering Qunari threat, he feels as if he hasn't held her in an age.

Clean and fully dressed, he frowns at his reflection. Older, harder, more weary. But happy, still, despite it all. Because of her. Her, waiting for him, just a few rooms away.

Naked, ideally.

He does away with all pretense and hightails down the hall, paying no mind to his kingsguard and their poorly suppressed grins. Smile away, Alistair thinks. I'll be smiling too, in a minute.

Her door is up ahead. And then before him. The handle is inches away from his outstretched hand. He hesitates.

How’s his breath? His hair? He should have shaved, should have put in a little more effort. Can she hear his creepy breathing behind the door? He fixes his clothes. Squares his shoulders. Knocks.

“Elles?”

A pause. Then, “Alistair?”

His heart tightens painfully in his chest. How he's missed that voice. If Ferelden could speak, it would do so through Elspeth Cousland. The strength of the Frostbacks in that voice of hers. The grim beauty of the Kocari Wilds. Rough like the Highever seas.

He can tell she’s been brooding before he’s so much as closed the door behind him. Not that he’s surprised — Maker, does the woman know how to brood. She shoots up quickly to her feet, straight and rigid like a soldier standing at attention. Not, mind you, like a Warden-Commander; at this moment Elspeth more closely resembles a clammy-handed recruit, next in line for her Joining. She’s nervous, that much is obvious, with her hands white knuckled and clasped together with uncertainty. From past experience, he’d wager anything she’s spent the last several days convincing herself he’s somehow fallen out of love with her in the time they’ve been apart.

And they say he’s the idiot.

Life’s too short to waste on “hello”’s, or “I’ve missed you”’s, or "I brought you a souvenir, but silly me, I accidentally dropped it overboard on the voyage back”. They’ve got less time together than most, after all. Crossing the distance between them is a blur; one moment he's at the door, the next he's hoisting her legs up around his waist, arms enveloping every part of her he can get his hands on, lips working relentlessly against her opened mouth. Whatever insecurities she'd tried to voice in the time it took him to wrap her up in his arms, he doesn't care to hear. He'd much rather focus on ridding her of those doubts entirely.

She gets the message — they've always been in sync like that. Her lips catch up with his, matching the hunger and resolve of his kiss. Her hands, calloused and smelling perpetually of iron, snake around his shoulders. The rest of her smells like roses; she must have come just recently from the garden he’d had built for her, the one place he specifically forbid her from moping in. He takes a moment to refamiliarize himself with her scent, lost in the feeling of her fingers tangled up in his hair, pulling him closer, ever closer, close enough to lose track of whose body belongs to who. And still it's not enough.

He needs her. Badly. She can probably feel as much, too. He carries her to the bed, laying her down amidst the pillows and furs. He finds within himself just enough self restraint to stand back for a long, brazen ogle. Maker, everything about her turns him on. Her freckles, her fingers, her breasts. Her long ashen hair in that ever-familiar braid. Storm gray eyes, pale pink lips. Her nose, one of his many favorite parts of her, set crooked after one too many fists to the face.

That perfect, powerful body of hers, hidden away under just a few thin, tearable layers of clothing . . .

She's way ahead of him, of course, because at this point they've got reunion sex down to an art. She casts off her Warden-blue tunic with only a button or two lost in the process, then grabs him by the front of his own shirt (red, naturally, with a tiny embroidered ‘I love you’ she'd stitched so sneakily behind the hem of his collar) and pulls him down on top of her once it's properly discarded. Their pants and various stubborn affects follow suit, until they’re both left blissfully bare and pawing feverishly at one another, limbs tangled and lips locked.

His fingers venture down the valley of her breasts, past her stomach to settle in between her legs. He smiles at what he finds, reassured by the proof that he’s not the only one so blatantly aroused. Her thighs part wider for him, hips lifting from the sheets to sooner meet his digits. She moans, perhaps less so from pleasure than the sheer relief of being touched — loved — for the first time in over a month. And he's right there with her. He sighs (or whines, if he's being honest) into the crook of her neck when her own hands find what they've been looking for, working him all too quickly into a frenzy.

She stops just as suddenly as she'd started, pushing at his chest until he relents and rolls over. She straddles his lap, grinding once, hard and agonizingly slow, for good measure. He moves to drape an arm over his face in some futile attempt to cool his burning cheeks, but she cruelly intercedes, pinning his wrists by either side of his head. He struggles playfully for a bit, laughing breathlessly. His hips buck autonomously at the sight of those strong, muscular arms holding him firmly in place.

They used to spar together, innocently, when they first met. How time flies.

He needs so, so desperately to fuck her. He has all night — all week, all year, all of the rest of their lives— to savor her body the way it's meant to be savored. To make sweet, tender, Chantry sanctioned love to her. But what he needs right now — what they both need, he recognises — is something desperate and ragged and mindless to the point of being no better than animals. The type of fucking that comes from a shared loneliness he's not certain anybody else has ever experienced before.

He's glad she doesn't give him too much time to dwell on that. Her hips rise just enough for the right angle, before guiding him slowly inside. They both sigh. Elspeth frees his trapped hands to splay her own out against his chest, steadying herself. Her nails dig into his skin as she sinks down onto him, inch by inch, although she's bitten them too short to do any real damage. Alistair fights to keep himself still inside her, waiting for her body to adjust, to give him the go ahead. An uphill battle, really. When he's fully sheathed inside of her she settles, save for the frantic contraction of her muscles around him, driving him to the brink of insanity.

“I dreamt about this every night I was gone,” he manages. “Maker, I love you, Elles. I love you so much.”

Her eyes go glassy and her bottom lip quivers. It's that old, familiar grief, the one he's never been able to fully free her from after those long, bleak months in the Deep Roads. But as he moves his hips carefully against hers and feels Elspeth moving back, he's confident he can coax it down again, at least for as little as tonight.

“I love you,” she eventually whispers back, and then begins to ride him in earnest.

Ten minutes blurs into one long wave of curling, cresting euphoria. Alistair groans brokenly. He feels absolutely deranged, delirious, gazing up at her while she takes him so completely. Sweat beads at her forehead, and a deep flush creeps from her chest up to her cheeks. His own face must be beet-red, too.

He's not going to last long, not with the angle she’s hitting and sounds coming out of her mouth. Though, taking those sounds into consideration, he suspects that she won't last much longer, either. They're both too keyed up to pace themselves and too jittery to try, so better to play it out in a wild crescendo. He grabs at her hips, lifting her up and back down onto him, coaxing out one hoarse plea after another. One hand releases its grip to run unfettered across her breasts, and she groans again, falling forwards onto his chest and wrapping herself around him as if she might never get a chance to again.

Once, a hundred lifetimes ago, his friend Zevran gave him some unsolicited advice about arching. He really hadn’t appreciated it at the time, but he does now, right in this moment, with the friction of this exact position to aid him in such an endeavor. She’s done in half a minute if he can keep her held firmly above him. He’s done, too. He doubles his efforts, recapturing her swollen lips and soon reaching with his tongue to greet the muffled cry when her pleasure finally peaks. Normally he would let her ride it out, but he’s rapidly approaching his own climax and his brain can focus on nothing but her gray, glazed over eyes, her hair in the candlelight, the frantic rise and fall of her chest as she writhes and bucks and bounces against him. Her muscles pulse and he feels himself twitching inside of her in response.

He’s so close, at the precipice, suspended in mid air, floating . . . And then she tightens around him once more and he finishes inside of her with one long, obscene moan that vibrates through the room and every part of his utterly spent body.

They’re going to get so many looks from the guards come morning.

His every muscle sings with bliss. Their bodies grow slack and boneless together and their movements slow to lazy, drawn out rolls of the hips. He holds her, one hand rubbing her naked back and the other cradling her head as they find their breaths again, together, in the most comfortable of silences. He counts her exhales, and in the afterglow of their efforts he finds himself blinking back tears. Returning to Ferelden, to Denerim, to the palace itself . . . none of it had felt like coming home until this very moment, enveloped in one another, reacquainted at last with the sound of each other’s breathlessness.

He hates it when she rolls up and off of him, but he’s a grown up, apparently, so instead of whining about it he begrudgingly rises from the bed long enough to grab the nearest clean cloth. Then he’s right back in bed with her, his hand returning between her legs to wipe her down, followed by a cursory clean up of himself. She lets out her now thoroughly dishevelled braid while she watches him, not smiling as he’d hoped, but warm and tender nonetheless. Her fingers trace slow and deliberately along the curve of his bicep, frowning at the jagged scar she knows still gives him trouble in the colder months. He makes a mental note to get at least a half dozen laughs out of her before the night is through, just to keep that damned frown of hers at bay.

He offers her a worldless arm when he’s done tidying them both up, and he’s rewarded with a smile, sweet and sheepish, as she moves to snuggle into it. He pulls her close to pepper the top of her head with kisses, humming contentedly in the quiet.

“Marry me,” he says eventually.

Elspeth tenses, and then sighs. “You’re never going to give this up, are you?”

“Ha! Of course I will. The second you say ‘Yes! Yes! Oh, Alistair! One thousand times yes!’”

“I don’t sound like that. Also, do I have to say it a thousand times, or just the once?”

“Well . . . a couple times couldn’t hurt, right?”

And there it is: her first, exasperated chuckle of the night. Winning that laughter means more to him than every battle he’s ever come out of victorious.

“You know I can’t, Ali.” Her laughter fades back into her usual grimness as she runs her palm across his chest, charting routes in the space between his freckles. She places a kiss above his heart, likely in the hopes of avoiding his eye. “We’ve broken too many rules as it is, and I won’t be the cause for yet more unrest in Thedas. I bear responsibility for enough of that already. Besides, I can’t just abandon my men. The Wardens need me.”

“I need you.” He scoffs as an afterthought. “And the Gray Wardens have Nathaniel, as much as it just kills me to credit that man with anything. But hey! Who said anything about giving them up? A king can be a general. I’m living proof he can be a court jester, too. Why can’t a queen be Warden-Commander?”

She ignores his quip, despite it being a really good one. “Because I don’t know how to be a queen.” She shakes her head hopelessly. “I barely know how to be a person most days. Maybe . . . maybe I could have done it, once, but now, after everything —”

Better to stop this now before it turns into another one of her signature doom spirals. “Every Arl and Bann in the Coastlands calls you queen already, did you know that?�� He grins, having anticipated the eyeroll. Of course she knows that, given how much her fellow Gray Wardens love to gossip. And tease. “The nobles have long been made aware that I won't accept anybody else by my side. And, Maker, it’s not like they would accept anybody else! ‘None but the Cousland Queen’ — that’s what they say about you. I know that because half of the bannorn have told me. To my face.”

Some small, dignified part of her — the part that still relishes being a highborn noble — stirs. Her eyes glint with cautious intrigue. “Bann Ceorlic?” she asks.

Alistair clears his throat. “Well, not him.”

“Hmph.”

“Marry me,” he says again. “Don’t you want to?”

“You know I want to,” she says, “but —”

“— Any excuse you give me will just go in one ear and out the other. Isn’t that just so classically me? Hey, here’s a crazy idea. Let’s get maaaa-rried!”

“You’re just getting funnier and funnier in your old age, aren’t you?”

“And you’re getting grumpier.”

He takes her face in both hands before she can deny it, kissing her slow and soft and with all of the comfort he knows she secretly needs right now, and likely always will. Now that he’s home - truly home - he can give her as much of that as she can stand, and then some. Tomorrow’s small council meeting be damned. “Marry me, Elles.”

She blinks up at him, searching his eyes for any sign he might one day get tired of waiting. She can find a lot in his eyes (he is really, really terrible at cards) but she’ll never find that.

“Can I at least ask you how your trip went, first?” she asks finally, softened by the crack of a tiny, rueful smile.

“Ugh.” How could he forget? “Right. That little thing. It -”

Alistair blinks, Kirkwall forgotten again just as soon as he’d remembered it. “That’s . . . not a ‘no’, by the way,” he says, dumbfounded.

Elspeth settles in closer against him, her leg wrapped around his, her ear pressed in snug at his shoulder. He knows she’s listening for his heartbeat, the thump-thump-thump she’d do anything - everything - for. He knows she put him on the throne to keep that heartbeat going for a few years more, and he knows that’s why it’s so hard for her to give up the endless fight for it now.

He knows. It doesn’t mean he thinks she’s right.

She looks up at him only after she’s satisfied that his heart isn’t about to cease functioning in his chest. Her hand reaches out to smooth down the errant hairs around his ears, and she opens her mouth several times to reply before pursuing them together in frustration. Then - finally, bashfully - she nods.

“No,” she admits softly. “I mean, it’s not. It’s . . . it’s not a no.”

‘It’s not a no’. Well, he’s certainly done more with less.

#dragon age origins #dao #alistair theirin #alistair x warden #oc: elspeth #mine: writing #we are so fucking back babey #considering i havent posted my writing in like. over an entire year at best. i did somewhat pop off with this one <3 #elle is so miserable all the time except when alistair pranks her into experiencing joy and i hope that shines through if nothing else <3 #ALSO TY MAIA FOR THE PEP TALK BEFORE POSTING THIS I LOVE U .

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greypetrel · 11 months

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✨Meet the Blorbos✨

Or: a small guide to my characters and AUs in Dragon Age universe. They’re all in continuity, I played more than once and suffer from a sever case of indecision, so here you go.

A small scheme, and more details under the cut! Yes they're colour coded of course.

Dragon Age Origins: Alyra Mahariel. Double-wielding Rogue, Duelist + Bard, True Neutral, ❤️ Alistair / Morrigan

Dragon Age II: Raina Hawke. Double-wielding Rogue, Shadow, Chaotic Good, ❤️Merrill+Isabela > The Trash Raccoon Garrett Hawke. Mage, Spirit Healer + Blood mage, Chaotic Good, ❤️ Fenris

Dragon Age Inquisition: Aisling Lavellan. Mage, Lightning + Knight Enchanter, Neutral Good, ❤️Cullen Radha Lavellan. Double-wielding Rogue, Tempest, True Neutral, ❤️ Solas

THE AUs:

DadWolf AU: Modern time AU, follows da2 + Inquisition. Solas woke up 30 years before, Varric is older and Malcolm's best friend. They co-parent Aisling and Dorian, shenanigans happen.

Dark Lady AU: Someone on Instagram asked me if Aisling was Sauron. It's a crossover between Dragon Age and LOTR/The Silmarillion where Aisling is Sauron. "It was all a big misunderstanding". Read it here!

Whale AU: Fully historical, non fantasy AU. Aisling is a zoologist with an hyperfixation for sperm whales, she saves Cullen, a harpooner after a shipwreck caused by a whale.

Cuties Coexisting: A parallel world, Fenris met the Lavellan and hid with them until Act 2 in Dragon Age. Fenris/Lavellan, very very angsty, I'm not planning on writing more of it, but it's open for prompts if you like it. Read it here! (named by @/daggerbean )

Alyra Mahariel

Double-wielding Rogue, Duelist + Bard, the shade of True Neutral that’s tired of everyone’s shit and is not remotely paid enough to deal with your problems, but will do it anyway because somebody might as well.

No-shit-taken person, she appears to be cold and unsympathetic, dued to the mother of all resting bitch face and the nice tendency to not blink when you’re saying something particularly stupid and she wants to underline that she’s judging you. Will go down in a fight when she’s dead, and it will take a while to kill her. Under the surface she’s very caring: her Vallaslin is for Sylaise, the goddess of the Hearth, and she will do many things to protect her loved ones. She’s reliable, once you’re on her good side or she feels responsible in keeping you alive, she will. Would manage to sell ice cubes to penguins.

Pansexual and poly, romanced both Morrigan and Alistair. Currently Warden-Commander of Fereldan, in a tense relationship with Weisshaupt, Arlessa of Amaranthine and Chancellor (and mistress) of King Alistair. Did the ritual, Kieran is 100% her son if you ask her. Don’t speak good of the Guerrins to her.

Raina Hawke

Double-wielding Rogue, Shadow, Chaotic DumbassGood and official Purple trash raccoon.

Would reply with a witty remark even in a life or death situation, is the queen of awful coping mechanisms. Very street-wise, never had some formal training, learnt everything on the go becoming something very difficult to predict in a fight. Human disaster, disappointed her mother in every single one of her life choices, on purpose after Malcolm died and the mediator between them was no more. She took care of the farm and her siblings, will go the extra mile and some to keep everyone safe and fed and warm, but refused to abide to any other request. Is the chilliest person in the world, will not question and be friendly -if you like a witty, sarcastic friend that is- until you step outside her boundaries. Won’t shut up if the ideals she believes in are crossed, and can’t stand people in power who do nothing. She knits like her life depend on it, all her friends have hand-knitted garments as gifts. Will only refer to Varric as “Her beloved husband”, particularly if there’s Bianca around.

Lesbian, in a happy poly relationship (after fucking up gloriously with both) with Merrill and Isabela. Sided with the Mages, exiled Anders at the end. Carver with the Wardens, Bethany in the Circle, if you ask her it’s all her fault.

Garrett Hawke

Mage, Blood mage + Spirit healer, Chaotic Good and the one who just knew he would have better stayed in his bed today. He knew it.

One year younger than Raina, they grew up together, joined at the hip. He just wants to live a peaceful life, have his own farm, grow pumpkins and cabbages and go with the flow. As it is, will let Raina lead towards the next crazy adventure and tone her down a little, or catch her when she’s choosing something overtly risky. It was him who convinced Raina to take Carver but leave Bethany at home for the Deep Roads and he never really forgave himself for it. Particularly because Raina took the blame for it. Got the message from Malcolm that if he wanted to make it as an Apostate, the number one rule was to lay low, be pleasant. Will not stay at home if his family or friends are in danger, tho. Learnt Spirit Healing from Anders, but he’s not extremely talented for it: knows the basics, can stitch up cuts, his talent with Spirits are bones. Learnt Blood magic spending more and more time with Merrill when she moved in with Raina, and that’s his talent. He usually mixes the two things: if he’s a mediocre healer with Spirits, he is pretty talented drawing energy from blood, manipulating it and the body to heal. Keen for the same reason on manipulating and using Water in his magic. Everything that flows. Has a severe case of Dad humour.

Bisexual, romanced Fenris. Same choices as Raina, he would have forced Anders to fix his mess up, but considering he used him and his sister and de facto involved them without telling them… Didn’t put up a fight.

Aisling Lavellan

Mage, Lightning + Knight Enchanter. So much of a Neutral Good she is your mom friend and therapist and she's not cottagecore, she's directly grandma-core. Will ask if you ate. And serve you something more anyway.

She was adopted by the Lavellans at 6 and put her whole effort into becoming the best Second ever. And she managed: she passed as First as soon as she got her Vallaslin. The former First, Pavyn, was more socially savvy than her, but didn’t put her effort. Could be a Spirit Healer, but when she was 20 she had to restore to Blood Magic to save her friend and got scared that she never touched any Healing spell again. Instead, she’s a decent herbalist, convinced that everything can be solved with enough Elfroot treated in the necessary way. Horse Girl extraordinaire and a very practical person who likes to work more than to talk. Nice and welcoming, will give a second chance to almost everyone (the big exception is Erimond). Hates being called the Herald of Andraste. Magically very savvy, she’s not the most powerful spellcaster around, but she’s extremely precise: would catch a running rabbit with a lightning. Loves to experiment on magic with Dorian, they formed a great team working together: he theorizes, she puts in practice, they’ll invent teleportation given enough time.

Bisexual, romanced Cullen (tried to romance Cassandra, you can mock her for having a Templar kink). The Inquisition is for all, strongly refused being the Herald of Andrasted. Mages as full-fledged allies, Wardens rehabilitated, Celene reconciled with Briala and on the throne (with some blackmail just in case, but she couldn’t bring herself to like Gaspard or trust he won’t turn on Briala at the first chance). Didn’t drink from the Well, disbanded the Inquisition and became a Red Jenny. Chose to redeem Solas if that was possible.

Radha Lavellan.

Rogue, Tempest. True Neutral and a person who’ll read you in five minutes, the Keeper told her her Vallaslin was either Dirthamen or none.

Elder adopted sister of Aisling, she and Pavyn (eldest) are the sons of the Keeper. She stood around mages for enough to know some theory and use it for her specialization. A woman of few words, won’t speak if she has nothing important to say, and passes as haughty and judgemental even if she’s not. She just likes to observe people and gather every single scrap of knowledge she can get her hands upon. She should have been the one to travel to the Conclave and spy, but Aisling convinced the Keeper and the Clan to go in her place. Feeling guilty, she jumped on the first ship as soon as Aisling wrote and told them she had to stay with the Inquisition, to help her. Sees her as her responsibility, and struggled to accept the fact that she was not. Since it was clear when she arrived at Skyhold that Aisling couldn’t get back to the clan any time soon, she joined in, and started to work with Leliana, as a spy. And oh she’s good at it. Hurt her hand badly in a fight, her right hand can’t grab fully and isn’t strong at all. Learnt to work around it, is pretty much ambidextrous in activities that doesn’t require a strong grip.

Romanced Solas. (ouch) Didn’t agree with Aisling on the Wardens, Celene or the Well of Sorrows, but she was the one educated to lead, and she trusts her judgement.

#dragon age #dragon age oc #warden mahariel #inquisitor lavellan #female hawke #aisling lavellan #aisling the dark lady au #dadwolf au #cuties coexisting #alyra mahariel #raina hawke #garrett hawke #radha lavellan #greypetrel #writing petrel #character masterpost #Ask me about my blorbos #it's been AGES since I planned on doing something like that and finally it's here!#Radha: “She's my sister.” *Aisling proceeds in making a joke about poop* Radha: “... She's adopted.”

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