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ghostwise · 1 month ago

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“As a promise” kiss for Hamal and Zevran? 🥺 pls?

“Antiva is like any other Andrastian nation,” Zevran said as they were packing to leave; packing lightly, for the life they were embarking on together would be full of hardship and danger. “We will not be permitted to carry weapons.”

“Obviously that never stopped you,” Hamal said, brow raised.

“Certainly not! You see, for the Crows, the authorities are more than willing to look the other way. A curious custom, though I understand there are precedents. Ironic, isn’t it, that we are setting off to do away with it?”

As he spoke, Zevran buckled a scabbard into place. He tightened the leather straps, making sure the hilt was easily accessible as well as hidden. Once secured, he grinned up at Hamal, and took a moment to admire the sight. “Comfortable?”

“Not at all,” Hamal scoffed.

Zevran kissed him. “You do not pass for a Crow.”

With that he turned away, fetching a blue waistcoat from the armoire. The style was a tad dated, but it was long enough, and a nice color on him. It would do. Hamal held his arms out, somewhat befuddled, as Zevran dressed him. When he was done, the Warden touched his fingertips to his vallaslin.

“No visible weapons,” he murmured. “I will need to leave my sword behind.”

“I am afraid so,” Zevran said gently.

“And my bow and arrows?”

“You need not leave them behind. You could pass for a hunter,” Zevran said. “It is not far from the truth, anyway. But we may be questioned, at times, so be ready.”

“The human cities are the same whatever country you are in,” Hamal replied. “I understand.”

A lull of silence met them. Zevran looked him up and down, his gaze lingering on the fading bruise on his right cheekbone, the stitches over his forehead, and the ribbons woven through his braids. The Blight’s memory was enormous, and it loomed over them, even now, weeks out from battle. But it was over; it could no longer hurt them, he had to remind himself. And yet here they were, preparing for another fight. Was it wise?

“You do not need to do this with me, amor,” he reminded him, his voice a whisper.

Hamal smiled, and stepped close to him. He grabbed his hands and kissed his battle-scraped knuckles and palms, until Zevran was holding his face and laughing.

“What was it you said to me?” Hamal asked him. “The gates of the Dark City itself?”

“For the chance to be at your side,” Zevran answered.

“Emma lath. Promise?”

And Zevran remembered it well: The way the air had smelled of smoke when he’d spoken those words, and the sound of war horns amidst the burning sun.

With all the fervor of that blood-soaked promise, Zevran kissed him.

“I promise.”

#dragon age #dao #zevran arainai #zevran x warden #mahariel #oc: hamal mahariel #rinnywrites #thank you for requesting for them ;-; <3

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chaoticbardlady99 · 4 months ago

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*cracks knuckles* alrighty- my shit job has come to an end and I now have two weeks of free time. However, my writer’s block is insane.

Please put some fic requests in my inbox if you have any! I need a warm up! Astarion is preferred, but I’m also a huge dragon age person and am willing to write for just about any one of those characters.

Smut, canon, etc- is all encouraged and if you want an OC thing, drop a description of their character and such and I would be happy to write a character x oc too :)

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a-gay-bloodmage · 16 days ago

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"Against the Kitchen Floor" and Omri de Riva

At the urging of @queenofangrymoths, I have decided to post my song analysis of Will Wood's "Against the Kitchen Floor" as listened to through the lens of Omri de Riva, my dwarven Crow Rook.

His relationship with Neve, Scheherazade de Riva (QoAM's Rook), his mother, Lucanis, Viago, and himself, all come together to form a perfectly wonderful mush of self-loathing.

Hope you enjoy!

Trigger warnings for: discussions of suicidal ideation, past sexual assault as a minor, minor self-harm, child abuse, and general murder and violence.

Omri de Riva “Against the Kitchen Floor” Analysis

I don’t owe you my heart And I don’t owe you my body But you should know that I’m sorry For being careless with you

Omri tries, very hard, to see himself as a person. But it doesn’t really work. Usually, he sees himself as a thing to be given up for Contracts. The concept of I don’t owe you my heart / body is something that he tries to tell himself, but the sentiment usually rings pretty hollow. Leaving the Crows and being a part of the Veilguard is a massive culture shift for him. Being on “equal” grounds with people is strange. Neve, especially, isn’t his master. He doesn’t owe her his heart and body. Despite this, he still feels responsibility for potentially damaging her. It isn’t his place to be in a relationship with her, as he thinks it will only end in disaster. Despite that, he still went for it. He, as I said in “Fledgling,” kind of operates generally on the idea of a Crow takes what he can get.

Lord knows I owe you more Than I’m pretty sure I ever could give anybody But I can’t pin down what normal people want from foreign objects Bottom shelf erotic products like me

Neve, along with Varric and Harding, essentially freed him from slavery, and they don’t even know it. He has no idea how to make it up to them, if that’s even possible. Especially without admitting to his status within the Crows as a slave, a fact that he does find shameful. He has no idea how to express this gratitude to “normal people” like Neve. Neve being a Shadow Dragon, a liberator of slaves from Tevinter, only further complicates things. The concept of being a bottom shelf erotic product is both a dig at his own self-worth and his height. He is an object to be used for the pleasure and satisfaction of others, and he’s literally so low, physically, that most people don’t even see him amongst the dirt of the floor.

So, I could hold your hand, but keep you at arm’s length Or hang me from a branch too high to climb and shake Less rare than scarce, less diamond than rough Unlikely to be more than just the coal you fail to crush, and

He does really want a relationship with Neve, but he can’t allow himself to really pull her tight to him in any way other than physically. And, even then, it’s only when they’re alone. He sees their relationship as mutually physical, but romantically one-sided. He fully assumes that she’ll end up with Lucanis. And why wouldn’t she? He’s more attractive than Omri is, higher-ranking, and human.

The idea of hang me from a branch too high to climb and shake is a reference to suicide for him, since he’s absolutely passively suicidal. While he won’t go out of his way to kill himself, he won’t consciously try too hard to stop his death from happening. Just put him somewhere to rot and nobody will ever come and get him. He’s felt this way for as long as he can remember.

The idea of being less rare than scarce is interesting, because he is rare. He’s not only a dwarf, a race with a very low population, but he’s a dwarven Crow. Those aren’t common. However, he’s also a casteless dwarf and a slave. He’s not a diamond, he’s just the dirt around it, and no amount of molding or pressure will ever turn him into something beautiful. His entire life, people have attempted to crush him, and yet he’s still alive but not any prettier. He doesn’t know why.

I swear, I’m really trying Get it together, [Omri], know and do better It just don’t come natural to me to think that you’d want me for mе I swear, I’m really trying Oh, I’m sorry, I promise, I’m doing my best I just haven’t learned how to be human as you are yet

Especially after meeting Sherry—when he was twenty-four and she was twelve—he really does want to be a good person. The problem is that he doesn’t think he’s capable of it. He was too broken by his path to becoming an assassin. He bought into the Crow propaganda, into Viago’s grooming, until Sherry shook him out of it by the virtue of just being an innocent little girl. He thinks that being non-human is a stain against him. He’ll never fit into society, which he sees as a significant hurdle to not only being accepted as good, but accepting himself as good.

I still don’t know who you are I only know that I’m still lonely That morbid sort where even company can’t cure me And the more you reassure, the less I trust

Omri feels like he can never truly know another person. Not entirely. Especially not Neve. She’s too… above him. She’s too reserved, too smart. And it’s isolating. He assumes that Neve is able to connect far better with someone like Lucanis, someone who shares something closer to her social status. Omri has this deep-seeded sense of loneliness that will never go away. He’s never had a friend, he was only treated truly kindly once before meeting Sherry. And the more people reassure him that they like him, the less he trusts it. After all, Viago told Omri that he cared for him, that Omri was his First. And that was all just a lie to keep him wrapped around Viago’s finger.

But still you gave me your heart I only gave you my body Honestly thought nobody’d want it, let alone notice it’s gone And so I left it home, but now, now, now, now

Omri, as Neve starts potentially falling for him, feels deeply guilty. He doesn’t think she deserves to be in a relationship with an empty husk of a man, someone who isn’t capable of, in his mind, actually loving someone back. He can give her his body, sure, but that’s always been the case for the last twenty years of his life. He’s never seen himself as desirable, so thinking that Neve desires him, genuinely, and isn’t just using him as an outlet frightens him.

I keep a locket with a picture on the back of my head Oh, monkey-wrench my side view mirrors, ghost my friends I’ve lived more lives than enough, I haven’t died quite as much But I’m not a real person, just the shit you can’t make up, and

Omri is constantly watching over his shoulder. He’s paranoid that the Crows will come back to get him. He has to cut off all contact with people to keep them safe. Sherry is, potentially, only alive because he’s not around her any more, after all. He does think he’s lived more lives than enough, yet hasn’t died enough. He’s lived through being homeless as an infant, basically homeless in Kirkwall, being a groomed slave, being a slave that was aware of that grooming, being, essentially, a mourning father after the loss of Sherry, and then being Rook. He, somehow, has lived through all of this. He doesn’t think he should have. Again, he barely sees himself as a person, and the idea that he’s just the shit you can’t make up makes sense for someone constantly being berated for his “unbelievably stupid decisions” by Viago.

I swear, I’m really trying I’m just as exposed if I take off my clothes When we make the closest thing to love that I’m capable of And I don’t know why you would care But I’m really trying Oh, I’m sorry, I promise, I’m doing my best I just haven’t learned how to be human as you are yet

He truly doesn’t think he’s capable of making love due to his awful sexual history. He doesn’t know what consensual sex looks or feels like. Making love is something that should be reserved for the people who are capable of having people fall in love with them and then returning that love. He doesn’t think that’s him. Again, he thinks being non-human is a stain against him.

Did I really have any of that gravity? Maybe you’re quicksand Because I really couldn’t tell How deep my footprints went The vertex of my redemption arc The searching on that virgin heart I’m catatonic in your arms Crying, “How did I cause so much harm?”

He thinks that, by “leading Neve on,” he’s irreparably damaged her. By sleeping with her and playing into this romance, he’s tread all over her heart when he didn’t ever mean to leave a footprint. The idea of him having a virgin heart is mostly sarcastic, as he thinks that his old infatuation with Viago as a teenager has forever stained him, making him incapable of having that redemption arc. The use of catatonic, specifically, makes sense for Omri. He doesn’t cry. Instead, he just feels dead and hollow and full of regret for hurting the people he never meant to hurt. He really is a Crow. All he knows is how to harm people.

I’m down, pounding my head against the kitchen floor Apologizing for my life and ever entering yours Don’t say “I’m sorry, but this can’t go on” I know you’ve got scars of your own But hide my knives before you go I’ll either live or die alone

The idea of pounding my head against the kitchen floor checks for him. He’s far more inclined to enact physical violence on himself when he’s upset, as that’s simply what he’s used to. He was not only hit by his masters in the Crows, but by his mother when he was young. Apologizing for my life makes perfect sense, as he’s always been trained from birth to see himself as a curse upon others. His gender literally caused his former noble of a mother to be thrown out of Orzammar. Neve’s romance involves her not wanting to commit because she’s afraid of intimacy, and Omri almost resents that she is the one to voice it when, in his mind, she’s a million times more capable of being in love than he is. He knows there’s something that’s causing her to hold back, but he doesn’t know what. He knows for a fact, however, that he’ll try to keep her as long as he can, even if that means hiding [his] knives, aka, the reality of what it means for him to be a Crow.

I swear, I will die trying I’m still in the process, but I’m making progress I promise, I honestly wanna prove improvement’s possible I swear, I’m so fucking sorry I’m not a good person, I’m barely a person at all But someday I’ll be perfect, and I’ll make up for it all

Omri is very, very willing to throw his life away for the sake of those he cares about. It’s not a large number of people, but it’s deeply significant to him. He wants, so badly, to be a good person, but he doesn’t think it’s possible. I’m not a good person, I’m barely a person at all is what would go through his head every time Sherry tried to insist that he’s good. He never believed it. It’s sunk in so deeply that, even if every member of the Veilguard thinks that he’s good, it’s not enough. Maybe, one day, but… not yet. But maybe, once he’s good, it will make up for the fact that he’s a filthy murderer.

And write a fucking song about it ‘Cause it has to be all about [Omri’s] fucking drama Goddamn it! Sorry Fuck, I’m sorry

Omri, after thinking about all of this, just… hates himself for it. He’s survived by making himself the center of attention in order to distract from what he’s really doing. Playing the part of an opera-loving clown to hide his intellect and planning. And yet, despite this tactic literally keeping him alive, whenever it comes to bringing attention to himself for a non-murderous reason, he feels completely undeserving of that spotlight and attention. Especially if it brings sympathy along with it. He doesn’t deserve to be regarded as a person, and his problems are not worthy of being taken seriously. He feels selfish.

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shivunin · 1 year ago

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In Peace

(Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 1,846 Words | Fluff | AO3 Link | CW: brief references to sex, implied/past suicidal thoughts)

Summary: Zevran and Tabris have developed a nightly routine; it surprises him to realize how much he dislikes the idea of breaking it

When Zevran had first seen Arianwen, they’d been trying to kill each other.

This was not especially odd, he found out later. Statistically speaking, Arianwen was thinking of killing most of the people she met, if she was not already actually attacking them. Zevran was no exception in this; it mattered little that he had been trying to die at the time, and she only obliging his death wish. She had spun through the crowd like dancing death, her face lit with a heady glee. In that moment, Zevran had thought that if he was to die here on some nameless road in Ferelden’s nethers, at least there would be beauty in his death.

Zevran would never have guessed then that she could sleep so sweetly draped across his chest—she had certainly never done so before this night. He certainly would not have guessed that she snored so loudly. It would not have occurred to him to wonder on that first day, Zevran supposed, given that he’d been fighting for his life.

Still—the snoring did come as a surprise. She was usually very quiet when she slept on her side—or perhaps it was simply that her face was closer to his ear now, and thus much louder than he was used to.

His Warden slept with her hair braided, though in a looser plait than she usually wore during the day. Zevran passed a hand over it softly, hoping to wake her enough to make her shift aside. Instead, every muscle in her body that had been soft and liquid went taut at once, entirely alert between one heartbeat and the next.

“Nothing is wrong,” he whispered at once. The alternative was a knife thrown through the wall of his tent, most likely, and he had so recently patched the last hole she’d made.

Arianwen rolled away from him despite his quiet words. When she sat up, her dark silhouette was cut against the lighter blue of his tent, body alert and aware. It was plain that she was listening for some disturbance beyond their tent, so Zevran said nothing more. He propped himself up on his elbows instead, feeling the wash of cooler air against his loose tunic when the blanket fell away from him.

The sky had not lightened outside, but the fire was banked; they were in the deepest part of the night, perhaps an hour or two from the start of her watch. It had become a routine of sorts for her to stay in his tent until then, though she usually returned to her own tent when she was finished. Zevran was not certain if this tradition of hers was some concession to propriety (unlikely) or the delicate sensibilities of some of their traveling fellows (even less likely) or if she simply had no interest in waking up beside him when dawn came.

Knowing her as he did now, he supposed it was most likely some fourth reason that had nothing to do with any of the other things. Perhaps she lovingly polished each of her blades alone in her tent until daybreak. He would not put it past her. But, he realized as she moved to stand, this routine might be more easily broken than expected.

And…perhaps he had grown more attached to it than he might have thought.

“Wait,” he said, his voice abrupt in the quiet of the night. Arianwen paused on her knees.

“What?” she whispered. “I thought you were sleeping.”

Zevran found her hand in the dark on the second try. It was braced on her knee, but she allowed him to pull it away and press it to his mouth instead. Could he tell her not to go? It didn’t seem right, but he could not immediately determine why. She had surprised him by staying when he’d made it clear he had no interest in lovemaking tonight. They had spent plenty of nights together and apart since they’d begun doing whatever it was they were doing. None of the nights together had not featured some sort of…well.

It surprised him now to realize that it had been pleasant to feel her against him as he’d fallen asleep, even if he would have gladly gone without the noise.

“I do seem to recall you sleeping, too,” he told her. “Quite comfortably, in fact.”

He could feel her expression in the silence that followed. It would be the one in which her brows furrowed and she looked at him sidelong, as if trying to weigh whether he was making a joke or not.

“You woke me. Did you not…” she trailed off, taking her hand from his. Zevran peered into the darkness, making no sense of her expression and trying nonetheless.

“I did not mean to,” he told her truthfully.

She moved—he could not see how—and a moment later he felt her breath on his cheek.

“What do you need?” she asked.

Zevran turned his head, nose brushing against the curve of her cheek. Her face was the only part of her not obviously scarred, he had found. Her cheek was very soft against his skin, the fine hairs there tickling softly. When he leaned his cheek against hers, she didn’t waver an inch.

“There is nothing that I need,” he told her, emphasizing the last word, “but I would very much like for us to go back to sleep. Together.”

Slowly, one of her hands came to rest on his knee. Her index finger tapped once, twice. This was a tell: she was thinking very hard. Zevran privately thought that he might be the only one in the world who would know when she was bluffing at cards, should she ever play them. Her face was impossible to read at first glance, but the rest of her body spilled her secrets easily enough. Months on the road had taught him this as they’d taught him everything else he knew about her.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Some decision was being made, some calculus of factors entirely beyond him. She had done this before she’d told him to keep his earring, too. The verdict had not been in his favor then. He wondered if he would fare so poorly now, too.

Zevran thought of the weight of her body over his chest, of the way she’d looped leg and arm over him while they’d slept. He thought of the ragged sounds she made in her sleep when the nightmares came, of the way she wrapped herself around him when the foul dreams woke her in the night.

He thought of how the leather and steel scent of her comforted him when his own dark dreams paced close and set shining teeth at his throat. The smell of leather reminds me of home, he’d told her months ago. It reminded Zevran of her now, too, until the three were all twined together as one. He did not want her to go—not yet. He had grown accustomed to sleeping beside her until the moment before she needed to leave.

“Arianwen,” he said, and felt the falter in her tapping. “Mi vida. Come to bed.”

Her sigh rustled his hair.

“I should never have told you I like the way you say my name,” she told him, but he could hear that he’d swayed her already. Only a little more and they could go back to sleep. A few hours more—only a few, but they mattered. He wanted every single moment he could coax out of her. He wasn’t above fighting dirty for them.

“Surely you do have no desire to lace up your boots and stumble through the dark of the whole clearing only to climb into your cold bedroll alone,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her cheek. “My dearest Arianwen. Surely not that.”

The blankets over him shifted when she slid beneath them again. The tip of her braid trailed over his arm. A victory—and it felt like one, for all that it had been a battle of words rather than blades.

“If you are sure I won’t keep you up,” she said doubtfully. “I’ll stay. Until watch.”

Keep him up—was that what she’d been worried about?

Zevran frowned as she settled in beside him again, less than an inch separating their bodies. He lowered himself back onto his bedroll and reached for her hip.

“Come closer,” he told her. “It is cold.”

Tabris came, settling against him stiffly, then relaxing by degrees. Zevran kissed the top of her head and she relaxed further still. After a moment, she tugged the blankets more fully over both of them.

“You wanted me to stay just so you could be warm,” she murmured, though there was no heat to the words. Already, he could feel her slipping into sleep. She fell asleep easily enough, his Warden, though she woke at the slightest provocation. Zevran ignored the surge of affection at the thought, though it grew more difficult to disregard when she slipped an arm around his waist.

“Yes, of course,” he agreed. She made a soft noise, rousing at the words.

“Say’t again,” Arianwen said.

“Say what?” he asked.

Arianwen squeezed him slightly and tucked herself more fully against his shoulder. There was a scar beneath the place where her ear rested, a very thin line just below the joint of his shoulder. She’d stabbed him there all those months ago when they’d first met. One evening, when they’d been dozing in the afterglow, he had casually pointed the silvered line of scar tissue out to her. Tabris had scowled at him and gone all stiff—he still had no idea why—and she’d made a point of not holding him like this for weeks afterward. What a relief it had been when she’d forgotten again.

By day, she was quick and dangerous and sharp. He liked that about her, he’d found. But he liked her like this, too, somnolent and warm against him in the night. This—her head on his shoulder, her arm around his waist—this was his alone.

There had been very, very few things in Zevran’s life that had belonged to him alone. He had gone without sleep, without affection, without comfort for so long that he knew better than to disregard such things when they were offered openly. No—such things were the sort one held onto with both hands, even if it took some extra coaxing in the dead of night.

“You know what,” she told him.

Zevran smiled to himself, allowing his eyes to slip closed again.

“Goodnight, Arianwen,” he said.

“”Night, Zevran,” she echoed, her voice slow. “Until watch.”

“Until watch,” he agreed, and paused. “Arianwen.”

She made a soft sound, neither sigh nor purr nor moan, and melted against him. Zevran lay awake for some time after, his eyes shut tight, his hands as still as he could make them. She did not snore, and he did not wake her.

Tabris’s watch came and went.

They both slept soundly through it.

(For Day 5 of Zevwarden Week: Bodies and Minds. Thanks again to @zevraholics for organizing!)

#zevwarden week 2023 #zevran arainai #arianwen tabris #zevran x warden #zevwarden #zevran x f!warden #zevran x tabris #bodies and minds #fluff #snuggling #implied/past suicidal thoughts #hmm guess the theme for this week is #' when we met i had no idea how much i'd love you and now you are a part of me'#i didn't do it on purpose but there it is!

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