#branson rutherford

[beezhive]

type of ppl to say they are from ferelden even tho it’s obvious they are from ferelden

[chernychnyi]

lavellans and rutherfords meet The Baby bonus:

[warpedlegacy]

The finale of “‘Til Winter’s End”, the first arc of my ongoing “While Time Remains” post-Trespasser series, is now up!

After months of idling in the pristine countryside of Ferelden, it's finally time for Theresa and Cullen to leave. With them comes Rosalie, who was left with the unenviable task of breaking the news to Mia. And if that wasn't enough, the Rutherfords have one final surprise in store for them.

DAFF server tag list! @rakshadow, @rosella-writes, @effelants, @bluewren, @breninarthur, @ar-lath-ma-cully, @dreadfutures, @ir0n-angel, @inquisimer, @crackinglamb, @theluckywizard, @nirikeehan, @oxygenforthewicked

[characterwedge]

The Rutherford siblings

“Cullen was the second oldest of four. Mia was his elder sister, his brother Branson was younger, and his sister Rosalie was the youngest of them all. Before their father Stanton had gone white at the temples, he had been flaxen and fair, a trait Cullen and his siblings all shared. Their eyes were their mothers however, Lysa Rutherford had been dark of eye and dark of hair, with high cheeks and a toothy grin. Branson and Rosie took after their mother the most, while Mia and Cullen were their fathers double. Yet none could deny the thread of genetics that strung them all together, for each were beautiful and bright and golden as their hair.”

[pinayelf]

OC Style Boards pt 2

Violetta Amell - former Circle mage, rebel mage, Amihan Amell's long lost twin sister

Maya Tabingdagat - former Circle mage, ex-tranquil, Inquisitor Gabriel Trevelyan's close friend

Marikit - former Circle mage, fused with the spirit of Resilience, elven-blooded

Caridad Lacanilao - former Circle mage, disgraced & removed from the noble Trevelyan house, Red Jenny member

---

These are my other DA OCs, some in my canon worldstates and others in their own. Did this cause I like making style boards lol ✌🏽

[vietsoul]

Nate Karlton & Mitch Branson Hot Bods, 2009 - Colt Studios, dir. John Rutherford

[nightowlwriting]

summary: (he never kisses her left hand, always her right, because she once told him that she’s nothing more than the anchor on her hand and the history of the fight with the archdemon so many years earlier.)

word count: 2.2k

warnings: subdrop, mentions of past child abuse, torture, and allusions to past almost-sexual assault (no assault occurred or is described in the fic)

note: i haven't written in a long time, so this is me easing myself into ktober24. also this takes place in MY canon for the dragon age series which heavily diverges from bioware's canon. eventually i'll get around to novelizing the warriorverse (my warrior playthroughs of the game) but with veilguard coming out in less than thirty days that will have to wait.

title credit: sufjan stevens

kinktober masterlist: here

amalia cousland: here

mobile masterlist - request - ao3

Cullen Rutherford is a strategist at heart and a man of his word. Born from a lineage of farmers, put through trials and tribulations that most men can only imagine - all to rise to the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces. Not without struggle, of course, especially as he falls deeper into his Lyrium withdrawal. But those struggles, the demons that come for him at night, and the gnarled roots of addiction inside of him don’t stop him from being the man that Amalia always knew he would grow into.

She remembers being a child in Honnleath, before the blight and before Ves and before shedding the heavy Sulzbacher name for the equally heavy Cousland name. She remembers being friends with Rosalie first, one year her senior, and then Branson next. Branson was a few years younger than Amalia, but she got along with him fine. Mia came next and then, finally, Cullen Rutherford.

She remembers that he was three years older than her and golden. Golden hair, skin touched by the long hours with his father and farm hands in the fields, and fundamentally benevolent. She first saw him through a curtain of her then-black hair after Branson had tripped her as she trotted alongside Rosalie, smiling down at her. She was only six at the time, to Cullen’s nine, but she knew. She knew that he’d go on to do great things, knew that he’d escape Honnleath like she wished that she could, that he would find a great love like in the stories her mother used to tell.

The world seems so simple when you’re less than a decade old.

Now, though, nothing has really changed. Amalia is still friends with Rosalie and Branson, though only by the letters she sends and receives from the South Reach. Cullen is still all of those things he was as a child, except now he’s been tested by the Maker in tragedy, war, and now one of the Magisters who first entered the Golden City. Selfishly, she’s glad that it’s Cullen. She’s almost thankful to the Maker and Andraste for all of the shit they’ve mucked Cullen through - and the shit that they’ve mucked her through - because it brings the two of them to now, this exact moment in time.

The truth of what nearly happened at Fort Drakon ten years ago had come out at the war table, but Cullen hadn’t looked at her any differently. They’d had the night together at the Winter Palace, after Amalia’s disastrous decision to dule that Duchess in front of the entire court, and Cullen remained stalwartly at her side. And then, when she’d gone up to his office to try and escape her meddling family he’d asked her to go back with him.

To Ferelden. To the Redcliffe arling.

To Honnleath.

She had been hesitant. Matthias surely wasn’t still there, but Amalia also didn’t want to risk seeing her father again, no matter the circumstances. She also didn’t want to see where so many of her happiest childhood memories took place - always at the Rutherford farm or sitting underneath the shade that Shale provided and never inside of her home - after the blight and after ten years of abandonment. But Cullen smiled so sweetly at her, took her right hand and pressed a kiss to her scarred knuckles, and said please.

(He never kisses her left hand, always her right, because she once told him that she’s nothing more than the Anchor on her hand and the history of the fight with the archdemon so many years earlier.)

Cullen had taken her to the lake, had given her his coin, and then taken her back to Honnleath where the bulk of the force they’d traveled with had finished the job they set out to do. Amalia doesn’t mind that they’ve gone through the small home, and dungeon beneath it, that had been her childhood abode. Doesn’t mind that they’ve taken her grandfather’s writings and research and loaded them in heavy boxes on the back of the bronto-drawn carts. She’s not a mage, just mage-blooded enough to pull off rituals as seen by the time she spent with Morrigan’s grimoire and the survival of her Grey Warden siblings. Amalia, at heart, is a warrior. If her grandfather’s works will help the Inquisition mages, then they shall be taken back to Skyhold.

It helps that Wilhelm Sulzbacher was a bastard of a man to everyone in his life, including his elven wife and golem. Amalia has nothing left for him, or her father, Matthias. It helps that he was also a bastard of a man to his elven wife, and elfblooded daughter. It’s almost cathartic to see the Inquisition soldiers - Amalia’s soldiers - carting everything up out of the dank basement she was so terrified of.

Cullen had let her watch for a few moments, standing in the spot that Shale used to stand in, before he took her back to the Rutherford house. It had been cleaned, probably at his request, and then…

Well, and then Cullen made good on his promise.

When she’d been nervous at the Winter Palace, he hadn’t pushed her into sex. They’d shared pleasure, yes, but not sex. Amalia hadn’t wanted their first time to be because of a duel and she agreed with Cullen’s sentiment: neither wanted their first time laying together to be in Orlais. They’re Ferelden at heart, and no amount of satin bedding or hearty foods could convince them otherwise. He’d promised her as he brought her off on his fingers that she’d know nothing but pleasure from him. He’d take her back across the border into Ferelden, he’d find a place comfortable for both of them, and if she wished it they would lay together.

Of course, being in the throes of an orgasm made Amalia agree to anything he was saying. Cullen Rutherford is a strategist at heart and a man of his word. As soon as the missive had crossed his desk about needing Wilhelm’s research, he knew that it was of the upmost importance that Wilhelm’s granddaughter, Amalia, be there when it was retrieved.

The fact that he had his childhood bedroom prepared, cleaned, and fitted with more expensive sheets before their arrival is none of anyone’s concern.

Except Amalia’s, but she’s not very concerned about that. She’s more focused on the way his skin feels against hers, hot and slick, and the way that pleasure still lays heavy in her limbs. Cullen has her pulled as closely as possible to him, legs tangled, as his hands roam up and down her bare back. He has been right when he’d told her that she needn’t worry with him. When Cullen had tried to press into her body for the first time and Amalia had flinched - barely noticeable but she knows that he notices everything about her - they’d prepared more.

(Prepared, of course, meaning that he’d put his mouth on her again until she peaked once more.)

There was never a moment in which Amalia Cousland felt like Cullen Rutherford was just fucking her to own her or taking what he wanted without considering what she wanted. His body over hers, so broad and muscular and golden, hadn’t felt like those moments before Alistair had kicked the door to the machine room down. Cullen’s hands handn’t felt like brands upon her skin - well, they had, but the good kind of brands. The kind of brands Amalia can see herself becoming addicted to. The way Cullen held her as he pressed into her hadn’t made her panic with claustrophobia or cry out in terror.

Amalia isn’t even sure she can call what they did fucking. That seems too… Primal of a word for what they shared. Love-making, maybe. It had felt like love, and she knows that she loves Cullen but can he love her? If he doesn’t, could he? Her past weighs heavy on her shoulders, and she can’t even escape it. Everyone knows the story of the girl who took the final strike on the archdemon at Denerim, of the Grey Warden who refused to let her die, of the Ashes that brought the girl back to life. The scar on the left side of her jaw, from just below her mouth to underneath her ear, is proof that she did die at the hands of the archdemon, that when Ves used the Ashes of Andraste leftover from healing the Arl of Redcliffe that they not only brought Amalia back to life but darned her face back together and left a mottled line of proof.

And now she’s the Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste. She half believes it herself, because why else would the Ashes have worked? Why else would the Joining not have taken?

Why else would Ves and Alistair, both set on keeping her away from the Conclave and the fact that their Calling was shouting at them to be there, sent her with Bethany and Carver to see if they could find the other Wardens?

Why else would she have been the only survivor? Another moment of death and loss, and Amalia is still standing.

Before she knows it, she’s crying. She doesn’t want to worry Cullen, he already carries so much on his shoulders, but she can’t stop. Before long the heady, heavenly feeling of being in his arms, of knowing him and his body, twists and sours into panic and sorrow.

“Amalia?” Cullen asks, pulling only slightly away from her. Just enough to see her face, really, and she wonders what she looks like. Hair and eyes leeched of color because of her brush with death, scarred face, Anchor… She can’t possibly be the woman he thought he’d be in bed with. The woman that he thought he’d end up betrothed to. “Amalia, darling, what’s wrong?” His voice shakes and he cups her face with one hand, tilting her head up until she’s looking at him.

And, well, she can’t let him think he’s done something wrong.

“I am,” She finally warbles, shaking her head as best she can when she’s laying on her side tangled up in him, “I’m wrong. I should have died in Denerim, and I should have died during the Joining, and I should have died at the Conclave. How can you stand to look at me, Cullen?” Her voice breaks as she begins to cry in earnest, tears blurring his face as he looks at her.

“Oh, darling,” He whispers, bringing her close enough that his lips can press against her forehead, and then her nose, and finally on the jagged scar that reminds her of what she was willing to give up to protect Ves and Alistair. “I don’t care what should have happened,” Cullen finally says, pressing himself as close as possible, “I only care what has happened. Everything leading up to this moment, with you in my arms, is all that matters.”

“But we’ll never be free of it,” Amalia allows herself to sink into him, to press her nose against the side of his neck and drown in oakflower, eldermoss, and the faint scent of leather. “We’ll never be free from people knowing who I am, what I’ve done. I don’t care if it’s all good, if they think that I’m the Herald of Andraste. I just want a normal life. I want you to have a normal life, and I can’t give you that.”

Cullen shifts and for a brief second, Amalia is afraid that she’s chased him away. He only sets her down on the mattress and disentangles himself so that he can prop himself up over top of her. His hand cups her neck, large enough that his thumb can press and lightly rub back and forth over her scar. He smiles down at her, his own scar pulling slightly as he does so.

“You needn’t worry about me,” Cullen kisses her briefly, “Especially not about whether or not I want normal. I don’t care about normal, Amalia. Maker’s breath, the only thing I care about having is you. That’s all that matters to me.” She hiccups, tears still trailing over the sides of her face as she looks up at Cullen, and tries to believe him.

“But would you be happy with me?” Amalia asks, voice pitifully quiet. “If we were to stay together past the Inquisition, I mean.”

“If?” He asks instead of answering, “If? Amalia, I am in love with you. I would lay down my life for you. I don’t know what will happen past the Inquisition, I don’t know what will happen in ten years or twenty, but I know that I want you by my side.” He looks so serious, golden, that Amalia’s breath is taken away. “I want to be by your side.” He says, softer than he spoke before.

“You love me?” She asks, reaching for his face, “You love me?”

Cullen smiles crookedly, and it’s like the sun. It almost fully chases away the storm clouds that had settled in her chest. They’ll never truly be gone, not with what she’s seen and what she’s been through, but in Cullen’s arms and his bed, they don’t seem so scary. They don’t seem so all-consuming like they had been only moments before.

“Of course I love you,” Cullen says, “I can’t imagine a world in which I don’t love you.”

Amalia beams, then, even though her smile only reaches half of her mouth. It doesn’t bother her like it normally does because Cullen is kissing her, surging against her, pressing her into the soft cushion of the mattress underneath her. She lets him take her again, or maybe she shares herself with him again, and for a moment the world doesn’t seem so scary.

[lyriumlullaby-ao3]

hello i’m back from the dead (sleeping) and it’s time to talk about

why Cullen won’t let anyone fix the hole in his ceiling 💖

someone has probably said this before but it wasn’t me, so here we go!

so remember that Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath grew up with three siblings, who he describes as being “very loud.” i see him as always being a very disciplined child, kind and warm and willing to let Mia take charge (because fighting her for it would have been useless), but a steadfast follower with a keen sense of justice and fairness, willing to voice his objections when he had any, and very fastidious about not breaking rules when Mia or Branson tried to stir up trouble. you know, that whole second child archetype. he was prone to a bit of escapism, running off to that pier on some lake which is definitely not in Crestwood, which tells us he likes having somewhere to escape to, somewhere to run if he gets overwhelmed.

skipping forward a bit, when he lived in Kirkwall, he had quite a bit of freedom to come and go physically, but to me at least it seems like he felt trapped by his duties under Meredith. he explicitly describes her keeping things from him, things she thought he’d disagree with as her second in command. he felt lied to, deceived, manipulated by her (bc he was), i think, even before the events at the end of DA2 that expose her for what she is. can you imagine that feeling? like he actually wants to do good, to treat the mages fairly and help keep them and everyone else safe (that’s why he signed up, after all), but he’s got this nasty, evil commanding officer who’s whispering in his ear, twisting all that good intention to do her malicious bidding. it must have felt like beating his head against a brick wall, like no matter what he did, his sincere desire to believe that other people are fundamentally good disappointed him. i always say that Meredith gave Cullen just enough rope to hang himself with.

jumping forward again, let’s talk about the Winter Palace. Cullen is very obviously uncomfortable there, and it makes sense why: he can’t leave, not without being extraordinarily rude, can’t get away from the people bothering and sexually harassing him, can’t get out of that jacket that is too damn tight. if you bring Cole with you, at one point in his ‘Investigate’ tree he comments that, “Cullen is afraid. They’re hurting him, following fear. He shouldn’t be here.”

all of this is just to illustrate: man’s got a Thing about feeling trapped, stuck, unable to fight back or defend himself or just flat out leave. and why does he have such a hard time with this?

because of that one time that Uldred blew up the Circle at Kinloch Hold in Ferelden. for reasons we don’t fully grasp, rather than being claimed by the demons or simply killed in the fighting, Cullen held out. he resisted demonic possession completely, somehow, and was instead trapped within that magical prison with no possibility of escape, probably for weeks. no escape from his hunger, thirst, or lyrium withdrawal, and no escape from the (probably Desire) demon(s) that tortured him with freedom if he’d only give in to those things he won’t quite allow himself to want.

so the fact that there’s a hole in his ceiling, even months into the repairs at Skyhold, when almost everything else has been fixed but a few, hard-to-access bits of masonry, is not lost on me. and sure, you could always blame it on lighting for the romance scene that takes place up there. but i like to think that it’s there because Cullen refuses to let them fix it. here’s why:

Cullen doesn’t like to stray far from his post. he likes that there’s a loft with a bed where he can pretend to sleep that’s not far from his desk, where he commands the lives of thousands of people. (i think at one point in Absolution, it’s revealed that at its height, the Inquisition was composed of ~10,000 troops, plus all the necessary support personnel.) the fate of the world is quite literally depending on his ability to do his job, and when the lyrium withdrawals make him feel like he must be losing his mind, he likes that he’s got an easy choice between resting (like he knows he probably should) or working (like he knows he really needs to), separated only by a little wooden ladder and a few planks that make up the floor.

he needs that little hole in the ceiling. if ever something happened at Skyhold, and it wasn’t safe or possible to leave through the three fucking doors on the lower level, he needs a back up plan, a way to get out from the top of that tower, or he’s every bit as trapped as he was at the Winter Palace, or by Meredith, or by Uldred and his demons, and he can’t be, not here, not with so many lives in his hands. not after Haven.

he needs it when he wakes up shouting, drenched in sweat, from another nightmare where he’s back there, trapped with demons who’ve murdered or enslaved your brothers and sisters and are trying to break you next, or pinned under Meredith’s thumb, doing things that he knows are wrong, he knows, but she’s his commanding officer and he trusts her, so how wrong can they really be? he needs it, first thing when he opens his eyes, to know he’s got an escape route, a backup plan. he’s safe.

and when he finally gives in to temptation, that thing he wants more than anything that he really shouldn’t let himself want, when the Inquisitor confesses that she wants to be with him when this is all over and he very dramatically sweeps aside everything on his desk, his whole life, shattering it all over the floor, he needs that little patch of sky to remind him it’s real. he’s free to leave whenever he needs to.

and that’s what allows him to stay.

[greypetrel]

Ask game time! 🌩️

Love me some crack!

Hello!

Thank you for asking, I considered what exactly to put here... But the DadWolf AU won.

Here's for you all the "Dorian and Mia start an uprising not to clean the table".

🌩 Share something funny/cracky from your WIP.

Of all the outcomes Solas would have ever thought about waking up from Uthenera, a house full of teenagers with a big table to unpack surely was very, very low on his expectations. As low as in “if someone would have told me fifteen years ago I would have taken offense”.

The domesticity, tho, wasn’t all that bad, and he really waited for so long... The Veil could have waited some more, even if he could feel a headache incoming and wanted borderline to strangle Dorian that was doing all his best to cause a mutiny and convince three out of for Rutherford siblings and all four Hawkes to mutiny to the “unjust oppression of chores” and skip helping out in the house, against all adults in the room insisting. Five adults against eight teens, or well. Four adults, as Solas had to glare at Varric more often than not as he did the devil’s advocate and sided for the teens. Unfortunately, Mia Rutherford was with Dorian on this, and she was unyielding when she put her head to something, and charismatic enough that loud Branson, always up to some fun, and sweet, shy Rosalie, just followed them. The Hawkes were all more or less chaos gremlins: Raina followed ruckus where she found it, in spite of being the eldest of the bunch, Garrett followed his sister -trying and failing to tone her down-, Carver did the opposite of what Raina did but when it suited him -and avoiding a chore counted as such- and Bethany followed up the chaos as well, having fun. And then there was Dorian: brilliant enough that school and most activities had him awfully bored and in need for fun, enough so that he caused trouble on purpose. Like now. He loved him and was so proud, but today he also hated him for listening to him and taking the “fight oppression” discourse so litterally and chaotically against him.

If only the other two teens in the house were there... Kind Aisling, who always empathised, and shy, level-headed, responsible Cullen. It was their idea to celebrate First Day all together. After all, Leandra was one of the oldest friends of Varric, and for the Rutherfords ten years of friendship between the kids that brought on an equal friendships between parents. It all made them a kind of big enlarged family, and all the kids would have met right after lunch anyway, so it was only logical to stick together to eat as well, no?

Yes, but it also meant more teens to manage at the same time. Dangerous, as it proved to be.

So, he argued yet again with Dorian and Mia that it wasn’t oppression, it was just a matter of being kind and collaborate to the community, to which they replied that if so, no one should have made it an obligation and just reserved for the younger at the table, and they were fighting the very principle, it was an important battle.

“It’s a nice principle, Chuckles, weren’t you the one insisting for them to have some and stand up for them?”

Varric was quickly added to the list of people Solas borderline wanted to strangle, as he brought back to the kitchen a pile of dirty plates, nonetheless. He would not spend the whole day with a dirty table out of silly rhetorics, no thank you, there were enough headstrong people in the room for him to join. And he hated a table full with dirty dishes.

Also, a nugging thought was gnawing at the back of his head: where were Aisling and Cullen, exactly?

He had made the talk with the girl, of course. And made it a strict rule that when Cullen was around, the door to whatever room they were in must be open at all times. It was maybe still to soon, but he’d rather be safe than sorry, and it was painfully clear that since a year or so, the boy has started to look at his daughter with more than friendship in mind.

It was, honestly, the cutest thing to watch develop. Particularly because Aisling seemed totally, hopelessly oblivious, and if he knew his daughter, Cullen would have needed to spell it out for her in very clear terms. Which wasn’t something he was bold enough to do. But still, as the current predicament and revolution happening in the dining room proved, it was ultimately better not trust teenagers with ideas of their own.

[lunareaum]

PLOTTING CALL!

REMINDER THAT THIS IS A PLOT BASED BLOG. without plotting there's very little chance we're interacting in any deep way. like this for me to chase you down to plot. my muses are here. list of fandoms and characters under the cut in case you wanna take a quick peek.

arcane - jinx buffy the vampire slayer - buffy, dawn and giles dceu - harley quinn game of thrones - drogon, nymeria, lady and sansa stark the walking dead - sophia peletier, sue rhee (oc) a song of ice and fire - elia martell twilight - alice cullen cyberpunk 2077 - judy and v detroit become human - alice, markus and north dragon age - artoria amell, athelya tabris, branson rutherford, linni lavellan, lydia achilleos (oc), lynnwith gregorius (oc), marian hawke, morrigan, oriana cousland fallout 4 - andy littleton (sole survivor) far cry 5 / new dawn - jane manfred, nicole rookfield, faith seed, joseph seed life is strange: true colors - alex chen mass effect - aria t'loak and commander shepard the elder scrolls - kynarethia (oc), lilith (oc), nocturnal telltale's the walking dead - duck jr.

[kourtneyreilly]

Title: A Multitude of dreams

Author: Mara Rutherford

My favorite read of the year would be A Multitude of Dreams by Mara Rutherford. In the beginning of this book it takes place during the after math of a horrible plague called the Mori Roja which basically causes the patient to bleed out and die. Only ways people can survive the mori Roja are to die and be reborn, never come in contact with the plague or be immune.

Princess Imogen of Goslind has been locked in the palace with many other higher born citizens for the past four years during the plague she wants to be set free same with many others but the king will not allow that. After Nico impersonating a prince shows up they quickly learn being locked up is what helped them survive so long but it is no longer possible when the food runs out.

When Nico realizes that Lord Crane is a reborn and learns of his plans he decided to impersonate a prince who died on his way to meet the princess for a marriage agreement. He died by a reborn. He does this to try to warn and save the people of the palace but he has no success when Lord Crane and other reborns invade the palace killing many.

This being the best book I read of 2023 I am having a hard time choosing just one part I loved the most in it. I did enjoy that Princess Giselle got the karma that was coming for her it was one hundred percent deserved. The story was really well written and extremely hard to put down. Another part I loved were all the moments between Jocelyn and Princess Imogen. Honestly only part of this book I disliked was that Jocelyn and Imogen didn't end up together. I thought they would because they were giving off more that friend vibes with the kisses and stuff.

When it comes to the characters my favorites were Jocelyn and Princess Imogen. I loved them from the beginning. One character who gave bad vibes and I knew couldn't be trust was Lord Crane. I could just tell there was something up with him. On the other hand Nico and Colin were both very trustworthy from the beginning. I didn't like Giselle, Henry or Branson either. Princess Giselle I could tell she was a backstabber. Henry I could tell he had an alternative motive and couldn't be trusted. Same with Branson. This book had a very good character development.

I recommend reading this if books based during or after a plague interests you. I also recommend if you enjoy books about vampires.

[warpedlegacywrites]

(avatar by @theluckywizard )

Prompts List

Here is where you can find my list of prompts for Dragon Age Drunk Writing Circle. I reserve the right to change and add to this list at any time - in fact I probably will do a lot of changes and additions, especially early on. I will do my best to update the list by crossing out completed prompts and adding links to writings as they apply.

NSFW and smut prompts are welcome! I don’t, however, deal with jealousy, non-con, or overt abuse.

For 1/26/24: I'm in the mood for some fluffy prompts, and I've added this year's Fluffuary prompt list to my links below. Some DAI-timeline prompts for Theresa/Cullen, or any of the DAI characters are especially appreciated! I'd also love some parent/child prompts for Theresa/Cullen.

My OC:

Theresa Trevelyan

Other Characters I Like to Write:

Cullen Rutherford

Cassandra Pentaghast

Josephine Montilyet

Varric Tethras

The Iron Bull

Leliana

Anora mac Tir

f!Hawke (purple, disaster bisexual)

Rosalie Rutherford

Branson Rutherford, his wife, and his kids

My Ships:

Cullen Rutherford/Theresa Trevelyan

Theresa~Bull (I really seriously love their queerplatonic vibes)

Dorian Pavus/The Iron Bull

Cassandra Pentaghast/Varric Tethras (and Cass&Varric, Cass~Varric, the two have a LOT going on lol)

Leliana/f!Cousland HoF

Isabela/Josephine Montilyet

Varric Tethras/Bianca Davri

f!Hawke/Fenris

f!Hawke/Athenril

Cullen&any of his siblings

Theresa&any of the Inner Circle (special mentions for Cass, Bull, Varric, and Dorian)

Hawke&Varric

Hawke~Pretty much the whole DA2 crew

Anora&Alistair (political but amicable marriage is my canon world state for them)

Tropes I Love to Write About:

Found/chosen family

Hope punk

Overcoming/coping with a traumatic past

Hurt/comfort

Healing

Fluff

Angst

Queer relationships

Queerplatonic (~) relationships

Political/courtly intrigue

Character introspection

Dichotomies such as want/need, public/private, light/dark, etc.

Situations I Love to Write About:

Cullen and Theresa post-Trespasser

Cullen and Theresa in Kirkwall

Cullen and Theresa being parents

Theresa navigating courtly intrigue

Cullen and Theresa - battle couple!

Cullen coping with addiction/recovery

Characters grappling with PTSD and how it manifests in their daily lives

People being messy

Relationship dynamics in all its beautiful/complicated/variant forms

Prompt Lists:

Halsey Prompts

Florence + the Machine Prompts

Hozier Prompts

Platonic Intimacy Prompts

Bottles of Thedas Prompts

High Dragons Prompts

Christina Rossetti Prompts

Enya Prompts

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[chernychnyi]

taking turns with Mia on a Family Computer

rip cullen rutherford you would've loved heroes of might and magic

[donttelljim]

Then There Were Three

Dragon Age Mia, Rosalie & Branson Rutherford Following the Rutherford clan’s escape from Honnleath during the Fifth Blight, from Mia’s POV. Writing this made me love Mia even more than I already do! Working out characterisation for Parents Rutherford was also a lot of fun. Cullen is most definitely a member of this family! For @chaos-company Angstpril 2022 Day 2: Can’t Go Home (On AO3 here) =================== We should have buried them. Every night, I think back to their faces - mother and father’s, and then Branson and Rosalie’s looking at them. If I’m haunted by leaving them there, I demand of myself as I lay awake, then how must Bran and Rosie feel? Branson is nearly a man - an even more terrifying thought than when Cullen was his age - but that doesn't make him immune to a memory like that. And Rosie? We should have buried them, but there wasn’t time.

We had clung to that cottage for as long as possible - a stubborn decision that I argued with Father over until our last day together. I still can’t decide whether I regret it or not: I wasted so many of our final moments as a family fighting with him, but then, had he listened, we might still be one. Staying angry helps no-one, however. Resentment runs hot in the Rutherford blood, in many ways our fatal flaw: oversensitive, overthinking, and slow to heal. I don’t think I can afford that any more. Weakness is fine when you’re one child out of many, but I suppose it’s on me to find mother and father’s virtue, now. Whether I forgive him or not, it happened the way it happened. “Redcliffe will send aid,” he repeated from his window vigil, ever the believer in people with banners, uttering the old lie to himself even as the wind brought sounds of the hoard across the hills. “Redcliffe has its own troubles!” my mother finally snapped. Always the worrier, she had loitered on the fence for weeks, taking my father’s side despite knowing he was wrong. She was a nurturer, a team supporter. And too slow. Once she finally spoke up, however, it was a relief to me, a rush of air in having my faith in a parent restored, despite knowing that we would probably not live to see it played out. There was no room for considering such thoughts: all that mattered was speed, smart choices and, above the rest, getting Bran and Rosie safe. My frustrated paranoia had not been wasted. The elder of my two little brothers had always been the industrious type, hard at work preparing for eventualities that may or may not ever happen. But, to his ongoing dismay and my ongoing glee, I was smarter - a point we had contested throughout our childhoods, and of which I remained the reigning champion. He wasn’t in our Holding any more (and Maker, I write often, and pray even more, but so far we’ve had no word from him), so I had gone about the task on my own: we were packed and ready. Not enough to worry anyone, not enough for them to notice, but enough to be able to take to the road if the Blight headed our way, and hopefully have a few days’ clear start before we needed to make urgent choices. “I’ll get the bags!” I leapt up from the kitchen table, running to where I’d hidden them in mine and Rosalie’s room. “What bags?” my father demanded, turning from his watch. He was poised and ready to be the first to greet Redcliffe when its copper soldiers arrived: he would be the only one left to meet them soon. “Let’s just move,” my mother urged. “Please.” I miss her. I miss them both. “Branson! Where’s Rosie?! We have to leave - now!” Branson was stood out the back of our house - a small cottage, built from stone and flint by our grandfather over many years, hence the reluctance to leave it. He barely noticed me as I rushed to his side, splashing through the sinking mud of our overused yard. He was staring, straight ahead. Stood amongst the greys and browns of our home, his skin was pale, almost milk-white, all the starker for the dark hair that he alone had among us siblings. I’ll never forget that look on his face, nevermind what I saw as I followed it: Out beyond our yard, the grey outhouse, wall and rack of tools was a view of our fields. Not ‘ours’ in any grand sense, but the ones we worked for the privilege of living here: wheat, due soon for harvest, usually golden in the sun. All had turned black. The crops had withered, their stalks shriveled and curled, the colour of pitch. I remember the stench - that of bad vase water left too long to sit. Even the windmills in the distance seemed reduced to charcoal: the whole view, our livelihood and our home, had been overcome in a day. For some minutes - important, critical minutes that I should not have let us lose - we could only stare. Finally, sense came back to me - I snatched Branson’s hand, despite his age, needing to feel that he was safe and close, and repeated the question; "Where's Rosie? We need to leave." Me carrying Rosalie and all of us bearing bags, weapons and traveling clothes, we set out. We left a nastily written note behind for our brother, in case he came back here for us before we could tell his Circle where we’d gone, and as we quit that threshold for the last time, I sent a prayer to Andraste for him: Wherever he is, keep him far from this. He would want to be a hero. I want him alive. Thinking back on it, I am not sure where we found the strength or the focus to creep from our home and away from those things, but it is a strength I reach for every day now, hoping it will be there again if we need it until we find somewhere safe. By the time we were leaving, the first wave had appeared. I remember taking a final glance back at the blighted fields and - there they were. They just stood there; twisted shapes, some squat and others far too tall, their skin the greys and blacks of our walls and ruined crops. My world froze, my mind unable to comprehend that these statues were the monsters we’d heard stories of as children, dismissed as folklore. If these things were real, why had we not planned and built for them every day?? I do not know if they truly stood still for as long as it seemed, or if for me, time simply slowed to a stop. After a horrible moment, however, I realised that they were not just standing - they were sniffing. And then they ran. I am not ashamed to say I screamed. Attempting to out-run the darkspawn would have ruined us, so we crept. Not all of our neighbours shared that fortune. I covered Rosie’s eyes whenever I heard someone we knew cry out, directed them downwards. I won’t ever forget those sounds. Those few minutes were a full day of war, as far as they felt to us, every second dragging out around us with all of its looming dangers and fleeting, life-saving chances. As we snuck from wall to wall, I half hoped the village statue would come to life and strike back, but no luck. Finally, somehow, we broke out - the houses were behind us, leaving both the smothering labyrinth that had once been our home, and with it, any cover or protection. In open ground, the fear was so much worse. We weren't sure where to head except away from the blackened crops. What happened, happened quickly.“This way!” Father ushered us past him, heaving open a broken gate and supporting the weight of it so we could get through. Our eyes met as I passed: I return to the memory often, attempting to draw as much out from it as I can. He was a man of few words but layered, complex glances, and that was one of them - one I still excavate through to find whichever layer in the silt and clay I need that day. Solidarity, apology, love; hope and hopelessness, pride in all of us, the strained dream that, by and large, he had done right by us. He had been perfect. I wish I could tell him that: all I can do is hope that the look he saw me return said what I wasted my chances to say. We ran on, Branson leading the way, Rosie and I close behind, our parents behind us. An arrow took mother. It barely made a sound - I still don’t know what made me turn around, but I turned in time to see it strike her. The sound fell away from the world along with her; I think my father cried out, but I couldn’t be sure. He was running to her when a second arrow took him. It was how it should be: they had gotten us out, and his last thought was her. They fell so easily - I couldn’t understand that the toppled poppets I was watching were the invincible people that mattered so much to me. I ran, ordering the others to stay back - if there was a chance to save them, it might not be an attempt they should witness. I didn’t know what to do for them if they were alive, but I knew enough to fear that There would be no attempts, however: the Maker spared them my panic. I still don’t know whether I should have walked Branson and Rosalie back to them. But they had to see; to understand. We didn't have time to stay. It was hours before anyone spoke, apart from blurting fearful directions and half formed plans to each other. No one spoke of anything but that until Honnleath was a good half day behind us, our ability to run or even walk at speed finally spent. Soon, we would face the questions of where to sleep, and the even worse question of tomorrow. I couldn't even begin to mourn mother and father. I still haven’t. I will when we have somewhere safe to rest, if we ever find one. If this Blight doesn’t take everything. I can’t think that far ahead. It was Rosalie who spoke first, when we were finally forced to slow, and when she did, she voiced the other loss that was defining us. She often said what we were all thinking. “What about Cullen?” Our parents, we needed time to comprehend, but what was easier to feel, as we navigated the rough slopes of the Hinterlands, was that we were not complete even amongst ourselves. There was a voice that should be warning us about bears, explaining at length how best to counter them - something we would all groan through, but right then, I would have given anything to hear. “He’ll be alright,” I shushed, telling her comforts I wish I believed. “Templars will know how to fight Darkspawn.” “They’re not Grey Wardens,” Branson muttered. Fifteen, he was less easily assuaged by convenient answers, and he knew his Griffons from his brother’s Order. I met his eye, the two of us exchanging a grim look that we masked from Rosalie. “Nobody is, now.” Ostagar. Everyone we knew had sent someone there. Had Branson been much older, he would have been there himself - it was a thought I tried not to dwell on as we climbed.

[pinayelf]

we must know more...how does Violetta and Branson's relationship develop? how much parallel does her love life parallel Amihan's?? ����️👁️ also istg i read somewhere on ur blog that Violetta and Amihan have a younger sibling?

thank for enabling me to infodump abt my amell twins ❤️

Branson fell first! Everyone has their own hcs of how the Rutherford siblings are and I see Branson as an easygoing and chill guy. He adored how outspoken and unabashedly herself Violetta is.

Violetta is the Emotionally Constipated Circle Mage TM lmao, so it took a while for her. She finally found a place she could call home and she felt it could ruin it if she pursued Branson (even tho she was in love w him too). She also didn't have good romantic relationships - especially the ones in the Circle. Anyone she met while she was on the research group were just flings.

Eventually, Branson proved to Violetta he was true, and she felt safe and loved around him. She also realized she did deserve to be loved and it all went from there lol

I think Amihan and Violetta's love lives parallel in the whole...scared to love/doesn't think they deserve love thing. They both eventually found partners who are willing to be patient with them ❤️ It's honestly very similar haha, I think the twins deserve love and I gave them that

OKAY so that is either the unnamed siblings that was in one of the WoT books, basically after the twins Revka and Bayani (what I named their dad), had other kids who all ended up mages too. In my canon, Bayani regretted letting Revka get their daughters taken away, so he runs away with the other kids and their whereabouts are unknown.

The OTHER is like prime family drama lmao. Revka has an affair with Quentin after Amihan and Violetta get taken away. This guy from DA2:

She gets pregnant, and breaks it off with Quentin. She goes "away" claiming it's for family business, until she gives birth to a baby girl, Monica, who she leaves with Chantry sisters.

Monica is...unhinged lmao. She has her own worldstate, which is absolutely insane, but I haven't figured out what happens to her in my Canon worldstate yet.

The Amells have to be my fave noble house in DA just because even without my stories, they're so messy and it's fun to create OCs within them lmao.

[vietsoul]

Derek Thomas & Mike Branson Hardline, 1997 - Jocks Studios, dir. John Rutherford