#morrigan x tabris

[drathe]

Love is like a sin, my love

For the ones that feel it the most

Morrigan x Warden - The Devil

[katsitsiyo]

I think it’s a goddamn shame that I cannot romance Morrigan as a female city Elf in Dragon Age: Origins. 2009 BioWare were cowards and didn’t think that maybe I would want to get my hot witch wife pregnant with our Old God tainted baby. 😤😤

That doesn’t stop me from making a whole HC around them, or from commissioning art of them. 🥹🥹

Here’s Morrigan and my Warrior City Elf Grey Warden/Hero of Ferelden Yenatiyóhste. They’re in love. 🥰🥰 Lovely art commissioned from the splendid @tramweye (tysm! 🥰)

[crawfish-kneecaps]

Been missing the wife

[resolart]

happy pride i am once again promoting the bi morrigan agenda 😭🙏🏼💕

[lottiesnotebook]

Happy Thedas Weekend! How about some Tabris/Morrigan Mermaid AU? Have fun!

Oh you do not know what you activated in me when you asked for this AU XD Full disclosure, the oldest fics on my AO3 account (and my first fics written as an adult) are both Fucked Up Mermaid AUs, and I think this a worthy successor for my new hyperfocus, though it is based on some bloodier mermaid folklore that I think is from Japan, where eating a mermaid's flesh can grant immortality...

Morrigan/Luna Tabris, mermaid AU, cannibalism (mentioned), injury, healing, dark fairytale themes

@mickeysalamander | @thedasweekend

lure you like a landslide

In theory, Morrigan knows much of the merfolk of the deep. She knows, from her mother’s books, their powers to entrance and to summon storms, how some of them bear gifts of prophecy or prosperity, where others can curse those who displease them for a thousand generations or more. She knows of their shapeshifting, their strange, protean forms, drawn from some strange deep-water power that humans forgot long ago. She knows much and more of their anatomy — her mother’s book categorises every inch of their flesh and blood and bone into neat alchemical notes: the strength of their bones, the charm-magic tangled in their hair, the immortality bestowed by their ever-beating hearts.

None of those diagrams, neatly divested of flesh then fat then muscle, resemble the mermaid who lies unconscious but breathing in the beach’s deepest rockpool.

Her blood blooms red-black in the clear water, blotting out anemones and smaller fish that flitter up towards her shyly, tentatively tasting the blood in the water to see if it denotes food above them. Her hair is a cloud of silver, flowing around her in swirling rivulets where it does not cling to the curves of her breasts, and her tail — her tail is the most marvellous thing of all, glittering brighter than silver in the sunlight, where it is not scored with dark, bloody scrapes.

It would be easy, perhaps merciful, even, to cut a deep, careful line into the pale curve of her throat while she lies here, powerless to prevent her, to carve her into the semblance of the more-familiar images of the alchemy books, to carry pieces of her home to Flemeth and bask in the rare light of her approval. But Morrigan has never been called merciful, and today, at least, pleasing her mother is the least of her concerns. She has been called ‘foolish girl’ one too many times to wish to bring her such rare bounty as this.

Besides, she has hesitated too long — the mermaid stirs in the water, and her eyes flutter open, dark as the night sky, and focus on Morrigan, first with wonderment, and then with terror. She dives then, an ungainly movement, revealing the ragged ruin of one of her tailflukes. She will not survive long in open water with such an injury, though perhap she does not know it, yet.

Now, though, she sinks to the bottom of the pool, beyond the reach of Morrigan’s arms, and stirs up a cloud of silt to conceal her until she is only flashes of silver hair and scarlet blood in the darkness below, and Morrigan- Morrigan wants.

She does not speak to her, that first day. She does not even attempt to approach her again. She leaves a basket of raw fish on the lowest ledge, and watches from a distance as a pewter-coloured head slips seal-slick from the depths, and pale, webbed fingers reach for her offering and tear into it with sharp and eager teeth. For all that she looks so very lovely, and so very close to human, she eats like any starving animal — all fury and desperation and blood and claws.

The second day, she’s bolder — when Morrigan approaches the pool with a netful of fish, she’s leant up on the ledge, chin on her elbows, tail stirring currents in the pool like a whirlpool in miniature, drawing the smaller creatures of the depths into her storm.

“Hungry, are you?” Morrigan asks, and she only blinks, those dark, liquid eyes betraying no sign of understanding or deeper thought, but she moves quick enough when Morrigan tosses her the fish, biting into it with vicious, ravenous hunger, staining her lips bright with blood. She drags her catch down to the depths, and does not resurface until it is nothing but bones. In this way they continue, Morrigan’s throws growing shorter and shorter until the mermaid takes the last fish straight from her hand. Her fingers are webbed, with needlesharp claws in the place of nails, and Morrigan wants to grab hold of it and study it — the ivory of her flesh, the pearl of her claws, the pale translusence of the webbing, the shadowed suggestion of scales on the inside of her wrist where, were she human, her veins would show through, but she does not, not yet.

She earns her trust by slow and careful degrees, first with food and then with potions added to the water of her pool, and eventually with sticky poultices smeared onto the ugly gashes in the silvery beauty of her tail. This is the crucial part of gaining her trust — her heart will be useless if she is sickened, infected, and Morrigan does not seek a poisoned immortality. The first time she smooths the sticky poultice over her scales, she knocks her bakc wiht the heavy muscle of her tail and wheels, diving below. Morrigan lies on the rocks for a few long moments, winded by the blow, but sits up when she hears the splash of her return to the surface, sees the silver-and-red span of her tail shyly presented for further healing. She is clever enough to understand the connection between the ointment and the dissipating pain, then — that will make things easier, though she will have to be more careful.

It is easy to forget to be careful around her, though, too easy. She is a lovely creature, when she suns herself on the rocks, and when she smiles, revealing all her sharp, white teeth, Morrigan cannot quite bring herself to look away. A weakness, she knows, but nobody has smiled at her so often before, and she cannot quite divorce herself from the flare of warmth it sparks inside her. It almost balances the inconvenience of feedings and poultices, and being splashed by her patient when she runs late for her ministrations. Sometimes, as the days grow longer, she lingers on the rocks, watches her prize glitter in the sun, or let out strains of nonsense song that hang bright and golden in the air until the sea breeze sweeps them away. Sometimes, the mermaid will tug at her hand, try to lure her into the water, but of course, Morrigan is never quite so foolish as to allow herself to be dragged down. The rockpool is hardly an ocean, but it is quite deep enough to drown in.

A part of her does not want to remember that, though, as she dips scratched, aching feet into the cool water, as the mermaid traces the bones of her feet, her ankles, the ticklish gaps between her toes, with something that, were she fanciful, she might call fascination. Even with her claws, her touch is far more careful than Flemeth’s has ever been, and something in that is almost bruising in its tenderness, painful in a way she does not have words for, even as she cannot pull away. The bruise, the strange, needy discomfort, only grows as the mermaid lays her head against Morrigan’s bare thighs, cheek pillowed on her hand, and allows her to pull a comb through her hair, as she realises there is nobody else in the world for whom she’s felt anything like this, and this truth will not save her.

“I will miss this, I think, when the time comes to take your heart,” she confesses, quietly, as she untangles a particularly thorny not. “I will miss you. ‘Tis almost a pity.”

“It is.” She freezes as, for the first time, the mermaid speaks to her aloud, in the tongue Morrigan so foolishly assumed she did not know. Her claws prick gently above the largest artery of her thigh, a silent threat she never thought the creature capable of. As if, this whole time she’s been studying the creature, she’s been studied in turn.

“When I am strong enough to eat your heart, I will heal, and return to the sea,” the mermaid confesses, and the arousal that creeps through her as her fingers continue to trace the veins and arteries of her inner thigh is not entirely fear. “And then, I think, I will miss you very much, human girl.”

[translucentdragons]

My (current canon) Dragon Age OCs as parents:

Adansser Tabris: Adansser encourages exploration, learning by doing and knowing damn well to refer to Morrigan in anything magic-related. He learns Morrigan's routine until he can predict it, he learns Kieran's routine the same. He tells stories, plays and imagines with Kieran as he grows up. He never thought he'd have a child, so he's grateful. The only time he goes against protocol is when he introduces Kieran to his own father Cyrion, and his cousin Shianni. Luckily, Morrigan wasn't too upset.

Eris Hawke: Eris is scared. She's lived a life on the run and continues to do so. Moreover, the life life she's been leading has been death around every corner - more specifically death of family. If a child would come to be, it would be by accident and she'd have to be encouraged into keeping it. However, when the child is born she would treat them with the utmost care. Worrying that any undue poke or similar would ruin the precious life she's accidentally created. I am not entirely sure that Eris and Fenris would end up with a child, though.

Eth Lavellan: Eth has been supposed to carry on the Lavellan lineage, he is one of the clan's elite hunters. Due to this, he'd likely approach raising a child like he was - training. Since the child is likely adopted too, he would get right into it. Archery-training, hunting, trapping, survival... until Dorian would show him other ways. Show him the type of parents they both deserved growing up and Eth would try his best to be that parent instead.

Dirthera Mercar: Dirthera would be so. Damn. Excited. She'd begin nesting at the first signs of viable pregnancy, she'd get her hands on any existing research. She'd read to her bump, try her hand at piano and anything else. Then, the little bundle would arrive... and all that would likely fall apart. She'd get anxious and stressed while actively trying not to be, she'd second-guess every parenting decision she makes, made and will make. She'd cry at every little milestone and most definitely attempt to let her child live freely (maybe too freely). Luckily, Lucanis can weigh in, help a lot and more than likely calm Dirthera's harried mind when needed.

[bumblewarden]

When Tabris's son with Morrigan studies shapeshifting magic and learns how to shift into a cat form

[a-gay-bloodmage]

Day 10: Adaia Would be Proud

(Leliana x Faelyn Tabris)

After being freed from his capture by Tevinter slavers, Cyrion Tabris allows his daughter to herd all of her new friends into their tiny apartment. He never expected to see his daughter alive again, let alone see her love again.

Written for the @loveofdragonage event!

[dragonagecinema]

Happy Valentine's Day! 💞

Mine is Alistair 🥰 It was my first fully fledged romance in a video game and it stands strong up to this day ❤️

During my first Dragon Age Origins playthrough, my intention was to romance Zevran, but instead my city elf Warden fell madly in love with Alistair🤴🏼 She helped him become king, but because I picked an unfortunate dialogue option, he broke up with her 💔

She didn't agree to Morrigan's ritual, still hoping they would get back together. At the end, when it became clear that both of them wouldn't survive, she made the ultimate sacrifice and killed the Archdemon 🗡🐲

I remedied the situation in my subsequent playthrough which is now my canon, where she remained Alistair's mistress and they are both alive and well. However, looking back, I now believe the way things turned out the first time makes a more epic story 😆

Dragon Age 2 Poll:

Dragon Age Inquisition Poll:

Dragon Age The Veilguard Poll:

[bodysnatch3r]

chrysalis [gen; mature]

CHARACTERS: Saira Tabris; Kieran; Alistair Theirin (Mentioned); Morrigan (Mentioned); Sten (Mentioned)

RELATIONSHIPS: F!Tabris & Kieran; Alistair/F!Tabris (Mentioned); Morrigan/F!Tabris (Mentioned); Morrigan & Kieran (Mentioned); F!Tabris & Sten (Mentioned)

RATINGS & WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence; mention of suicidal ideation. Veilguard spoilers about the Blight if you squint.

As she travels West in the company of Sten, Saira Tabris is contacted by a strange boy, reaching out to her in strange dreams. His eyes remind her much too much of what she's lost–and the death that was taken from her. On the brink of great change, they talk.

The boy came to her, as sudden and uncomfortable, as crystal-clear and painful, as any other stab wound. But he had no knife; carried no blood. Yet, he shimmered—Maker, how he shimmered. In the crooked land of her whispering dreams, the boy was never still: from foot to talon, arm to wing, resting in the corner of her eye on a cat's padded paws or sitting with his child's feet dangling too close to the fire. He found her no matter where she slept, curled up against the comfort of Sten's warmth.

The Fade welcomed him, even if the Taint's music sang unbidden under the myceliar fabric of her mind. The boy's presence filled the holes the Darkspawn blood had carved in her over that long decade since she'd Joined.

READ ON AO3

[v-arbellanaris]

no one tagged me btw i just did this myself but. oc kiss from this picrew for my da ocs. im obsessed... more info under the tag

evadne/leliana | evadne/morrigan | faris/tamlen

kal/alistair | kal/zevran | kal/loghain

aedan/morrigan | aedan/leliana | aedan/anora

anders/miranda | rowan/fenris

lysander/anders | amalia/isabela | joan/sebastian

muna/merrill | muna/anders

isra/cullen | isra/mahanon

solas/marya | iskandar/cassandra

iskandar/solas | iskandar/jurian ( @dellamortethelesser's amell oc )

hala/lucanis | roisin/emmrich

roisin/neve | roisin/davrin

[drathe]

Just some morrigan wip because I like how she’s turning out

[loony-lupus]

I was careless with my tags, so I will post this old stuff again.

[countbars-mainblog]

used this picrew for my first characters and their romances

Krishnuu Tabris x Zevran Arainai 

Amant Hawke x Anders

Ashaad Adaar x Iron Bull

and my 2nd inquisitor and his warden-predecessor :D

Duran Aeducan x Morrigan

Pylor Cadash x Dorian Pavus

[starlightchocolatecookie]

Morrigan and Layenne banter! Hope it makes you smile :)

[lottiesnotebook]

happy thedasweekend! how about luna/morrigan in a regency au?

This is a very fun prompt and also the moment where I reveal I have read wayyyy too many Regency romances, because the first thing that came up when I thought about these two in a Regency setting was: "Everyone thinks of the Napoleonic Wars when they think of the Regency, right?"

So I hope you enjoy a little bit of a Regency(ish) AU inspired by the folksong Sweet Polly Oliver, because apparently that's how we're doing AUs today...

Morrigan/Luna Tabris, Regency AU (Napoleonic), crossdressing, pregnancy, historical sexism (mentioned), abortion (mentioned)

@jazzmckay | @thedasweekend

a monstrous regiment of women

Women were, of course, strictly forbidden in the respectable army camps of King Cailan’s Army, and of all the women who were not allowed to be in the camp, Flemeth was their undisputed queen. Not even the general would think to evict her from the quarters she commandeered in every town where they followed the gun — she was too useful, as a healer, as an unofficial quartermaster, as the shadow-general to the secondary army of camp followers, civilians, and servants that followed in the army’s wake wherever it trudged across the miserable, contested territory of the Frostbacks. And where Flemeth travelled, her daughter inevitably followed, enduring with poor grace the poking, pinching fingers of soldiers who did not realise how close they strayed to losing them, helping the camp’s various bits of muslin with the inevitable result of poor mathematics and over-attentive clients, and generally attending to various problems around camp before they drew the attention of the officers, who were usually only good for making a mess of things.

Now, for example, she approached the latrines with a pomander held to her nose, and a heart fair bubbling over with irritation. There were plenty of soldiers in the army who were not born with the parts utterly unnecessary, except from the king’s perspective, for firing a gun, but usually they had a little more sense and discretion than Corporal Tabris was apparently capable of.

She banged on the door to the shack, and, when she received only a nauseated groan in response, repeated her knock with greater urgency. It would do neither of them any good if anyone of importance overheard what she had to discuss.

“Tabris,” she said, addressing the crack where the rough hinges held the door in place, “either come out and speak to me, or let me in. I somehow doubt you would enjoy holding this conversation through a door.”

A narrow sliver of Corporal Tabris appeared at the crack in the door. “I’m fine,” they said, roughly, and would have slammed the door, but for the foot that Morrigan shoved into the gap.

“Clearly not,” she said, brusquely. “This is the third morning in a row you have failed miserably to keep your breakfast down, and if I have noticed, your sergeant cannot be far behind. Unless you’d rather have this conversation with the surgeon-”

“Fine.” Tabris slouched out of the shack, arms wrapped tight and unsubtle around their problematic midsection. To their credit, their disguise was otherwise fairly convincing — hair close-cropped, a figure that lent itself well to breeches and hose, and, of course, socks tucked into the correct place to deceive any oglers interested in the parts they lacked. The face was too pretty, of course: high cheekbones and wide blue eyes, paired with a lively, mobile mouth, that might have been described as kissable by someone less aware of how they’d spent the past ten minutes.

Tabris was, in their turn, returning the assessing glance. “You’re the witch’s daughter, aren’t you?”

“I prefer Morrigan,” she retorted, “but these are small matters. As is yours, at least for now. Take my arm.”

“What?”

“Take my arm, and lean in close. Smile, if you can, nobody wants to listen to love-talk.”

“Love-talk-?”

“Oh, do not be foolish!” she snapped, as quiet as she could manage. “You know well what love-talk must sound like, I’d hope, to be in your particular… situation.”

Tabris’ lips pressed into a thin line, then, but they forced a bright, false smile, and took her proffered arm with false good grace.

“How did you guess?” they muttered, under their breath.

“It’s not hard to spot, if you grew up in army camps, and have more wit than the average officer, which is hardly difficult.”

“And you’re here to blackmail me?”

Morrigan snorted. “For a corporal’s pay? Your standards should be higher. No, for once I am providing assistance free of upfront costs.”

Tabris blinked at her, those wide blue eyes bewildered. “Why?” they said, suspicious and curt, as always. It was a solid act — the less they spoke, the less the higher notes of their voice would draw attention, but unfortunately, it was far too late to deceive Morrigan. “What’s in it for you?”

It was a sensible question. Morrigan and her mother were known for many skills and services they provided, but seldom were their offers free of charge.

“My place in the regiment,” she said, and, when Tabris’ brow furrowed, elaborated: “Do you think, if your- condition were discovered, you would be the only one who would be at risk? There are plenty of others in your position, though they tend to be less careless with their lovers, and they pay us well for- similar services, and discretion. We lose them to a purge of- soldiers with certain needs, we lose a fair chunk of our income. Not to mention the risk of the general choosing to enforce the Regent’s nonsense rules about camp followers-”

“Fine, fine! I understand!” Their voice wass low and feverish and a little lovely, this close to Morrigan’s ear. With her hand on their arm, she could feel their racing pulse, the fear in their veins, and there was a small, vicious thrill to that, even if betraying their secret would hardly benefit either of them. “Can you please be discrete, at least until we get to- wherever we’re going?”

“The Pearl,” she said, brightly. “You should pay the girls there visits more often — it helps with the illusion, or so I’m told. The stress, too, if any of them are to your taste-”

“I can’t- that’s not-”

“Respectable?” Morrigan arched a brow. “We passed ‘respectable’ at the moment you set skirts aside for a soldier’s uniform, and raced straight to ‘scandal’ when you let some fumbling boy-”

“Alright!” they snapped, pulling her through the door to the cramped, grubby parlour. “What do you actually want?”

“To discuss your options,” she said, with brutal frankness, “for ridding yourself of the little problem that in about nine months will be the end of your army career, if you’re not caught sooner. Now, do you have a name you would prefer me to use, or will ‘Tabris’ suffice for both of us?”

They gnawed their lip for a long few moments, and then, finally, muttered: “Luna. You can call me Luna.”

It was a pretty name, for a pretty girl, even in soldier’s dirt and breeches. Morrigan had worked miracles with less.