Are you in the mood for a personalised romantic scene? Would you like to see your OC (or yourself) lost in the moment with the canon character of your choice? Would you like your OC to have a moment of friendship with a favourite character?
Then commission me!
I am offering three options for those who might like a wee bit of writing for their OTP (tiers are already set on my Kofi page):
200-300 word drabbles - £5
500-1000 word scenes - £20
1000-2000 word scenes - £40
Anything NSFW or more than one OC will incur an additional £10-£15 charge.
Choose any character from the Baldur's Gate, Dragon Age, or Mass Effect video game franchises, and I will craft a scene that is steamy or sweet (your choice) between either your chosen OC, or in the second person, so you can indulge in a little "us time" with your chosen fave! Other fandoms are negotiable - it all depends how familiar I am with them!
Message me on tumblr with your chosen character, franchise, OC or reader preference (including pronouns and other details you would like included), and an idea of what you would like from the scene, before you send any money - I reserve the right to turn down any commission I do not feel I would be able to deliver to a high standard.
Do you have an idea for a fic that you despair will ever be written? Do you want a sneak peak into a different version of a character you have created all for yourself? Would you like some serious fluff to tide you over on a bad day, or perhaps the first glimmer of inspiration for a story you know you will write someday? I’m your girl!
I am officially opening writing commissions.
I have three tiers to offer, and am offering to write Alternate Universes, Fairy Tales, or Canon Universe (with or without personal headcanons).
Fandoms - Dragon Age, MCU, Star Wars, Charmed (original), Mass Effect trilogy, Wayhaven Chronicles. Other fandoms are up for negotiation, dependent on my familiarity with the canon characters involved.
I specialise in fluff, platonic or romantic; I will happily write your OC. I love toying with fairytales and AUs. I do reserve the right to turn down a commission. I will write smut, but will charge extra, since it is not an area I am currently accustomed to writing.
The Process
Contact me first, via Tumblr messenger or in an ask. I will be in contact to discuss your desired narrative with you. Once we have decided on what you would like, I will confirm the price, and will begin work once it has been recieved.
Please be aware that if you would like your OC involved, I will need a physical description (screenshots or face claims are just as good), as well as an overview of their personality and their relationships with the other characters within the piece. All commissioners have the choice to review and request changes once the piece is complete, and can choose whether I post the piece on AO3, Tumblr, or both.
Prices
1-2 Ko-fis - a blurb of a potential story incorporating chosen characters and one specific narrative element, 100-300 words.
3-4 Ko-fis - a single scene from a chosen scenario, 300- 700 words
5-6 Ko-fis (or more) - a full one-shot short story, 700-2000 words
As stated above, smut will incur a charge of 1-2 Ko-fis above the baseline.
My Ask Box
My AO3
My Ko-fi
A Handy List of AU Ideas by @autumnleavescoffeedreams
Hope to hear from you soon! If you’re not interested in a commission, a signal boost is always welcome!
For the ever patient and lovely @memaidraws, who has waited a long time for this and been an absolute star. Thank you, darling!
Come To Me
The city is quiet today.
Fitting, that it should be. After all, had the people of Baldur’s Gate ever truly elected an Archduke freely and of their own will? Yet here he stood, about to be given that honour and be named Archduke Enver Gortash ... about to take hold of the power just within his grasp and finally set in motion the final act of this narrative.
A day long in the coming, yet none too soon given the varying spanners being thrown into the ironworks of his plan. No ... their plan. Oh, yes, he knew she was out there - his favourite assassin, his partner-in-all. Orin really shouldn’t have let that slip to him. Until that moment, he had expected to have to wrestle control of the Netherbrain for himself alone once he finally skinned the pathetic braggart who had killed his love. But now ...
A slow smile coaxed the corners of his lips into an upward curve, unnervingly soft for anyone who had not known him when he was at his lowest. With Ketheric dead, Orin was already pushing her luck, and now she had informed him she was not his only option. Such a witless little fool she was, so devoted to the gore and bloodlust of her god that she forgot her own mortality. He would enjoy unlocking the keys to her destruction at the hands of the woman she thought she had defeated. And once that was done ... he would have his love returned to him, his partner-in-all. His Archduchess, dripping in blood. Just as he liked her.
The dukes and nobles were watching him, both respectful and wary. They all knew of the unrest in the city, unwittingly stirred up by the Prism-bearers as they entered and began to explore a city that remembered most of them. Perhaps the dukes even knew just who the leader of that wayward band of adventuring heroes was. Perhaps they knew how dangerous it might be to cross her now she was returned to the Gate.
There she was, right on time. She never could resist an invitation from him, even now. And, gods, but she was a sight to behold. Sharp features unsoftened, unashamed of that deadly jaw and piercing brown gaze, dark hair his fingers itched to tug at pulled taut into the braid he had used in so many interesting ways during those early days of their all-too-brief alliance. Her armour was stained with blood, no doubt horrifying those nobles who never used a knife for more than cutting their meat at table, and her eyes ... her eyes burned. He knew that look; that curiosity, that demand, that need to know that he could use to lure her in once again. All that was missing was the familiar arrogance of her lust as she looked on him, and that, he knew, could be kindled anew.
“Ah, Viveka,” he declared, moving to greet her. “It has been too long. Welcome home.”
He could have laughed at the outraged surprise in her eyes; clearly, she had not considered that she might be known by the people she was meeting in the city. Orin truly had scrambled her mind, but not so much that she had not come home to him, not so much that she was not still the deadliest sword dancer he had ever known, the bloodiest death-dealer he had ever had the privilege to witness. Reports from across the Coast had shown him all too well how little her talents and skills had abandoned her.
As they spoke, as he explained the plan she and he had concocted together, the plan that could still become reality, his gaze flickered to her hands, to the long fingers he could almost feel on his skin once again. His mind’s eye drifted over her, removing layers of leather and metal and cloth, remembering the glorious sight of her arrayed before him, lost in lust and perhaps learning something more even as he showed her what it was to truly be worshipped as the goddess he intended to make her. He heard in his mind’s ear her cries of shuddering ecstasy, the surprise, the delight, the crowing need for more. He recalled the heat of her mouth on his, the sharpness of her teeth on his skin, the aching vulnerability he had shown her and finally coaxed her to show to him. The softness hidden beneath the bloody armour of Bhaal’s Chosen that had been her downfall.
Anger surged in him as he recalled again how Orin had boasted and bragged of the death-dealing she had given to her sister; of the torment and torture that had only been possible because he had drawn from Viveka a feeling she had not known she was capable of. If she had not been so distracted with considering ways to kill him for making her feel that, she would not have been such an easy mark for Orin’s selfish ambitions. He would not allow that to happen again. This time, Viveka would deal with Orin first.
And just like the dark-haired siren he remembered, words were not enough for her to be convinced of his sincerity in offering this alliance. Her eyes, almost golden-touched in the afternoon sunlight, travelled over him, examining every facet of his face and form, reading him as intuitively as she always had. Some part of her recalled, it had to. Why else would she be giving him the time of day? And if there was a chance, however small, to regain what had been lost, then he had nothing to hide.
Let her see the loving lust in his eyes, the wetness of his lips, the clench of his hands. Let her note the way he leaned toward her just enough, the way he almost snarled as her male companion reached to get her attention. The possessive desire that flared hot in his gaze as her eyes locked with his ... and let her feel it as an echo of that same yearning need ignited the suppressed sparks within her.
Let her swallow down that sudden desire to touch and be touched, to feel pain and pleasure combined in the arms of the one man whom she could ever truly trust with her heart, her mind, and her body. Let her burn as he stepped back, bowing to her with seeming indifferent politeness, extending a further invitation to enjoy the party.
Had she not been removed from him, she would have been at his side at this party. Let her imagine that as he mingled among the great and the good of Baldur’s Gate, careful never to fully lose sight of her. He made a point to catch her eye often enough that she could not take her watchful eyes from him, noting how her interest surged each time he paid a little too much attention to other dark-haired beauties in the room. He had not thought he would be able to kindle her longing so easily, but surely this was what he wanted? Her thoughts to revolve around him until she was mad with longing; Until she would do anything for him, as he would for her.
Oh, how difficult it was to ignore her, to mingle and charm and be the warm, strong leader these dukes and nobles thought they had elected to his position. To be the centre of attention when all he truly wished was to slip away with her, to the library, to his study, to a closet, and show her once more how good they were together. It seemed an age that he had to make nice with these people, all the while feeling the Netherbrain pushing against his grip, feeling her eyes on him.
But it was necessary. Even he knew these things could not be rushed. She had to wallow in the feelings he had roused, discover for herself the true treachery of her sister, bathe herself in blood and Bhaal’s favour. She had to walk the streets of the city they had planned to take, reminded of him with every turn she took, every Steel Watch she saw, every toast raised in his honour. She had to learn that the burning within her could only be quenched by one decision alone. Only then would she be ready.
Only then would he send her a missive with three short words, certain that she would not be able to refuse.
For @50sjello, who has been incredibly patient - this has been sitting in my finished folder for almost a month, due to various of my own issues, but finally, here it is! Thank you so much, lovely!
Still Yours
The mood in the camp was ... awkward this morning, to say the least. It isn’t every night you wake up flooded with physical ecstasy, only to discover it isn’t actually yours, and you’re feeling it secondhand from the nominal leader of your group as they couple with a mindflayer in their shared dreamscape. Sylvana was fairly sure none of the party was ever going to look at them the same way again.
“Well, that was quite the wet dream we all shared last night, wasn’t it?” Astarion declared in a surprisingly innocent display of avuncular good humour. “I do hope it doesn’t become a regular thing. I prefer my intimacies ... intimate.”
The look that flickered in the direction of a certain purple tent spoke volumes of both judgement and unexpected concern, underscored by the faintest hint of a smirking smile as Karlach took up the theme.
“Gods, I never want to look at another octopus ever again,” she said, shuddering as her flames intensified for a moment. “That was ... no. Nope, I am not thinking about it.”
“It was a very stimulating evening,” Shadowheart interjected, straightening from her morning stretch. “Who would have thought the Emperor would have such creativity when it came to such an unconventional coupling?”
Face flaming red, Sylvana focused on fastening their bedroll, trying to ignore the spirited debate now being undertaken by three members of their party, all of whom were dying in equally creative ways in the secret, hidden pathways of their mind. A prickle of fur brushed their calf, drawing their attention to the sharp eyes of a tressym standing entirely too close for comfort. Nothing can judge you for decisions made in the heat of the moment quite like a feline with a bone to pick.
“Good night, was it?” Tara asked, and Sylvana only just suppressed the flinch at the ice in the tressym’s tone.
The young rogue steeled themselves, setting down the bedroll to turn and face the closest thing to a mother Gale of Waterdeep had handy. Tara’s yellow eyes were hard in the morning stillness, more than a little resentment stirring within the magical feline for the harm done to her young Mr Dekarios in the night. Sylvana swallowed, taking a moment to clear their thoughts and their throat before addressing the acid remark.
“I know I have made a terrible mistake,” they informed Tara. “I know it’s worse because everyone is aware of it. But the shockwaves of that mistake are between myself and Gale, and while I appreciate that you love him and want only to protect him, he is a grown man and we should be able to discuss this like adults, without others inserting themselves into our dynamic.”
The tressym considered them for an excruciating moment, that sharpness in that gaze almost enough to draw blood. Then she ruffled her feathers, her tail rippling from straight to just slightly curved.
“Then I suggest you begin this adult discussion of yours,” she said primly. “Mr Dekarios is a great man, but when it comes to matters of the heart, he is a teenaged nightmare with all the social skills of an erotically charged goblin. Good luck to you.”
Even as Sylvana raised their brows at this rather brutal description of the man they loved, the two of them heard a choked objection abruptly cut off from within the tent. Ah. Well, that made sense of Tara’s comment on his emotional maturity in this matter. Apparently hiding in his tent and listening to everyone else was Gale’s idea of dealing with this. Sylvana could not entirely blame him. He must have decided he was being set aside yet again by the beloved of his heart, something he had still not truly come to terms with when it came to Mystra.
With Tara flicking her tail and heading toward the campfire to ply her wiles on Wyll for breakfast, Sylvana straightened their shoulders and ducked through the thick purple fabric. Their eyes found Gale near instantly, stumbling back from the curtain they had just stepped through as though he had not expected them to make their entrance so soon after speaking with Tara. His eyes were red, betraying tears he would no doubt be horrified to know were so easily discerned in his weary face; his gaze pinned to Sylvana’s face with wide-eyed trepidation.
Yet before Sylvana could so much as open their mouth, he held up a hand to still any words that might be said.
“If this is to be the end of us, then land the blade sharply, I beg you,” he said, each word ringing with a certainty that could only have come from practice since he had woken. “No excuses, no softening of the blow. Tell me, once and for all, if this truly is the end of the love I have come to trust so wholly since we met.”
Sylvana narrowed their eyes slightly at these last words, not particularly liking the attempt at emotional manipulation but understanding that, as Tara said, he was emotionally an angsty teenager still.
“It’s the last thing I want, Gale,” they said, voice trembling just a little now they were faced with the consequences of their curious interlude the night before. “But if we are to continue, we need to talk about what happened last night.”
“You chose to betray my trust with a mindflayer,” he snapped. “In a way that broadcast my humiliation to the entire camp, to these people who have become our - my - friends. People who know my history have seen me cast aside a second time, for what? For sport?” His gaze hardened as he stared at her, brows furrowing in pain. “Tell me it meant nothing.”
“I can’t do that.”
The answer was honest. And in all honesty, they could not blame him for the faint cry of misery that left his lips, the way his knees seemed to buckle and toss him down upon the makeshift bed he had not yet packed away. Sylvana forced themselves to step closer, to crouch, to kneel at his side, not daring to offer a touch in consolation. They only had words, but it was a language that this man certainly understood.
“Let me tell you why,” they said, each word soft but firm in the pain-filled silence of the tent. “And when I am done, if you still wish nothing more to do with me, then I will accept that. I have wronged you, but not with malicious intent.”
Knees drawn to his chest, hands clasped and twisting anxiously together, Gale drew in a staggered breath, seeming to force away fresh tears as he nodded. Whatever else happened now, he needed to know. Taking the invitation, Sylvana twisted themselves to sit beside him on the padded bedroll, staring at the star-filled constellation of Mystra they had never once asked him to remove from his sleeping place.
“I don’t know everything about you,” they began, careful to keep their tone light, conversational. No blame or implication of guilt; nothing to provoke an emotional reaction from him. “I don’t know every fleeting thought that pulses through your mind; every impulse you restrain, every judgement you make on those we pass by or interact with. I only see what you choose to show me, and I love every part of that man, even the parts you are perhaps ashamed of.”
They felt him shudder beside them, felt the unspoken acknowledgement that no mortal truly knew another in the way they were describing. Felt the realisation of where this was going even before they continued to explain.
“The Emperor knows everything about me,” they told him. “All of it. Not just what I choose to show, but everything I intentionally hide. Every unkind thought, every urge toward pain and destruction, everything that I know would sour the affection of the people I love toward me ... it knows all of it. Can you truly blame me for doing as I did, at a moment when I felt seen in a way no one has ever seen me before? For just those few moments, I could finally understand why you remain so devoted, so loyal, so tender toward Mystra. She knows you, the way he knows me. And yes, perhaps I wanted to even the score in that regard. Perhaps I knew it would hurt you, the way it hurts me each time you say her name with such fondness. The way it hurts to have to see her celestial face each time I come to you in privacy. But am I so unforgivable?”
There was a long silence, still wracked with pain but now peppered with understanding, the words he loved and needed so much guiding him down the path to truly understanding the why of what had gone before.
“It felt ... clinical, to me,” he said finally, his tone calm, almost detached. “I could feel your curiosity, your physical pleasure. Where was your heart, Sylvana?”
“In your hands. Always.”
They felt him suck in a breath, a sudden change in the turmoil radiating from him softening to their words as this commitment was made. A moment later, his fingers found theirs, hesitant but warm, daring to cross the divide between them.
“Had it been me in your place,” he said, each word tremulous but firm, “I do not think I could have gone through with it. Not that the temptation would not have been great, but ... I have been set aside by those I adore too often to willingly do it to another. To you.”
For the first time since waking, Sylvana felt the shard of pain they had been holding at bay slice deep. They knew this, of course they did. Some things could not be retracted or forgotten. But perhaps they could be forgiven?
Gale’s fingers tightened about theirs, drawing their palm to rest over his heart.
“My heart is yours,” he said, whispering painfully into the stillness. “Still yours. Always yours.”
Sylvana tilted their head toward him, finally finding his eyes on them with the by now familiar adoration back where it had always been. An adoration that was now just a touch guarded, but still there.
“Can we come back from this?” they asked, eyes burning with the urge for tears they did not feel they had earned the right to shed. “Can you forgive me my weakness?”
His brow pressed to theirs, and they shuddered together, each one fighting back those tears, knowing that such a display here and now would do neither of them any good. Hands gripped hands, breath mingled in staggering gusts, both wizard and rogue breathing together to eradicate the harsh reality of their painful morning.
“If you can forgive me for mine,” Gale said finally, lifting his eyes to theirs. “I have held onto the memory of her affection when I should have given you all of my focus. I swear this to you, my beloved heart, I will let her go. And when the time comes that the Emperor has no further need of us, I will stand by your side as you let him go.”
The relief was palpable - audible, even, as they heard Astarion suddenly declare that the fun he had been expecting wasn’t even going to start now. Sylvana let out a rueful laugh, joined by a wry chuckle from Gale as they wrapped themselves in each other’s arms, squeezing close to chase away the last of the uncertainty the morning had wrought.
“As long as you are mine, I could face anything at your side,” Gale murmured, at last pressing a tender kiss to his lips.
“I’m yours,” was their answer, heartfelt and unshakeable. “I’m still yours.”
A piece for @megasaurusssss, who has also been an absolute delight with the patience of a literal saint. It was fun to dip my toes back into Dragon Age, and Chris was such a joy to write. Thank you so much!
No More
“I would have preferred to remain with the rest of the men.”
Chris couldn’t help the sting that snapped through him at the sound of Cullen’s quiet complaint. Surely it wasn’t so bad to be left alone with him, was it? All right, so they were not exactly on an even keel in terms of their relationship after everything that had happened, but even so ... would the commander rather have ordered someone else to keep watch over the declared most precious asset the Inquisition had than stay another minute in proximity?
“I ...” He paused, taking a moment to scan the sentence before he said it aloud, seeking out anything that might further upset his companion. “I can try to go faster, we ... we could catch up sooner if we don’t stop so much.”
Cullen cast him a sharp glance, taking in the heavy splint that guarded a badly broken leg and the fresh scar decorating his face.
“You can barely walk, let alone quickly, Christopher,” he said, his tone gruff but, for a split second, his eyes were kind. “We will make our own way. Unless you believe me incapable of protecting you on a two day journey to the main camp?”
And there was the sharpness again, that prickly coat that wrapped so tightly around the commander’s heart and mind in defense against anything and anyone that might even suggest a sense of closeness he was not prepared to risk. It brought back the sting of his initial words, confusing the softness of affection with the sandpaper roughness of defensive fear. There was more than just that hostility there, he was certain of it. In fact, he knew now that hostility was not even directed personally toward him - it was born of an old fear, past trauma, and wielded like a weapon against anyone who so much as brushed up against any similarity to those that had inflicted that trauma in years gone by.
But behind the hostility, Chris had seen softness. It was there in the care Cullen showed for his soldiers’ wellbeing. It was there in the scrupulous attention to detail that had fortified and armed Skyhold within a few weeks of their arrival. It was there in the meticulous concentration on every task or problem, narrowing with laser focus until the commander found the solution that would cost the least lives on either side. It was even there with his worried oversight of the mages - overbearing, yes, but it was born more of fear of who might be harmed than of what could happen.
“Why are you so far away?”
The question seemed to come from nowhere, rising from Chris’ chest, blurted from between frozen lips, ears barely believing what they had just heard that familiar voice say. Cullen’s head jerked up, his whiskey-warm eyes snapping to meet Chris’ gaze, wet with icy shock at the question. They both knew it had nothing to do with his physical distance.
“You know why.”
The words were cold, but the heat was there, barely hidden beneath the surface. But was it heat from anger, or something else? Was he denying his fear, or denying his desire? Chris didn’t know. Cullen could be hard to read at the best of times, and this clearly was not the best of his times.
“No. No, I really don’t.” Chris held up a hand, preventing his companion from interrupting with snatched, thoughtless words. “You say I’m different. You ... you treat me, treat me as though I am sometimes your friend and sometimes your lover, and sometimes I-I’m ... sometimes it feels like I’m not even me to you. Sometimes I think you look at me, and you’re looking at someone I’ve never even met.”
Guilt, fear, a moment of frenzied fear ... all these flickered across those warm, cold eyes as Cullen let him speak. However much the commander may have wanted to shut his ears against these words, he had never done Chris the disservice of not hearing him. Not listening sometimes, certainly, but he always heard.
“I don’t know what you are looking for, Christopher,” he answered, stiff and brittle in the face of emotions rising that were unaccustomed and terrifying. “You are ... dear to me. I care for you, as far as I can. But I am more broken than you know.”
“So am I!” Frustration painted the outburst as Chris flared in the face of that outright denial. “So is everyone! You are not the only broken person in this world, Cullen! But you-you are ...” He swallowed against the choking lump in his throat, wondering why his words kept trying to dry up before they could be released. “You are the only one I know who refuses to believe he can even begin to mend.”
The ice seemed to thicken over Cullen’s eyes, the leather of his gloves creaking as he flexed and clenched his fingers.
“You do not know what you are speaking of,” he said, and in his tone, his posture, in every facet of his being was a warning. The beast within was riled, and who knew what it might do if he lost control for even a moment? “The things I have done, that I have allowed to be done ... that I have experienced ... don’t spout your nonsense to one who has lived through more than you should ever be in a position to even see.”
“You are not special,” Chris snapped back at him, more hurt than angry, more roused than riled by the heat lurking beneath the ice in Cullen’s eyes. “Well, you’re special to me, but not because of what you’ve suffered. It’s not a competition to see who’s had it worse.”
A low snarl erupted from the commander, and in a flurry of movement, suddenly Chris found himself flat on his back, one of Cullen’s hands gently cradling the back of his head, the other gripping his hip with possessive demand. Nose to nose, he could taste the commander’s breath on the air between them, his focus narrowing to the scarred lips hovering so very close to his own.
“I would not say such things if I were you,” the former Templar warned, his breath hot against Chris’ lips.
“Stop me, then.”
Where that challenge had come from, Chris could not have said, but barely a moment later, he did not care. Cullen’s mouth crashed into his own in a punishing, devouring kiss that was more teeth than lips, more passion than care, and more wonderful than the rushed desperation they had shared at Adamant. Chris gave as good as he got, nipping, licking, tasting, hands grasping and groping, tugging at hair, clothing, hating the breastplate that kept him from feeling the full heat and hardness of the commander flush against his form. Even the sharp lurch of pain from his splinted leg wasn’t even to make him pull away, even as he hissed in pain, filling that kiss with his own breath. But the sound of pain was enough to rouse Cullen from his passion, concern clouding that ardor in his eyes as he began to pull back.
“Your leg -”
“Forget it.”
Chris’ grip tightened in the soft fur of Cullen’s mantle, dragging him back into that needful kiss, unable to say what he needed to say, only daring to hope that this closed off, imperfect, wonderful man could somehow understand those unspoken words if he was shown in a different way. The commander groaned, and somehow that kiss softened, wordless surrender to a feeling he did not truly wish to fight any longer but did not know what to do with. Hands gentled, the snarling faded, and soon the small clearing was filled with the sounds of passion kindled at last away from the gossiping eyes of the Inquisition.
It was awkward, what with the broken leg and the half-plate armour, but even that awkwardness was a release of some of that tension, unexpected laughter burbling between the two men as they fumbled to be rid of the cold metal, to adjust until Chris was no longer in danger of undoing the good work done in splinting his leg just for the sake of their shared desire. And even in the midst of that simmering heat, they retained enough sense not to disrobe fully ... Cullen was not a man to lose his senses so wholly as to be both naked and distracted while on the road.
Finally there he was, hisplate and gambeson discarded, the mantle rumpled beneath them, his rust-stained undershirt hanging open to reveal the paler skin of his chest ... not quite as ripped as barracks gossip declared him to be, but no less a feast for the eyes for the suggestion of softness. Indeed, Chris was almost glad to see that softness; he knew Cullen as a man who drove himself hard, to the point of self-denial and even, perhaps, self-harm at times. But perhaps he wasn’t quite as hard on himself these days he once had been. He was certainly self-conscious, rose painting his cheeks as he panted, casting his eyes away from Chris’ earnestly admiring gaze in shy uncertainty.
“Christopher, I ...” He blew out a harsh breath, his hands trembling where they lay against Chris’ arms. “This is farther than I ... than I have ever ...”
Chris reached up, gently smoothing his fingers over those deliciously scarred lips to still the emerging burble of cautious fear.
“Do you want to?” he whispered, curling his palm to the other man’s cheek, drawing Cullen’s whiskey-bright eyes back to his own. He needed to see the consent, as well as hear it. They both did. “I, I know I do, but ... but you have to want it too.”
“Maker’s breath ...” The curse was barely a ghost of a breath between them, a slow, longing shudder rippling through Cullen’s tense frame as he propped himself over Chris in the soft, mossy grass. “I do, I ... I do not know what, or how, or -”
His words faded, strangled in a rushing groan of fever-filled lust as Chris’ hand slipped between them to cup the straining leather of his lover’s britches. The whiskey-warmth flared to burning ardor, head dipping down to demand the kiss that was so willingly given even as Cullen now found himself rolled to his back. Chris smirked against his lips, finally in a position where he knew what he was doing more than the commander could bluff himself through it.
“Just relax, if you can,” he murmured, trailing kisses over the blunt line of Cullen’s jaw, dragging his teeth briefly against the scratch of stubble as he let his clever fingers figure out the lacing at the commander’s waist and gain entry to the hidden jewels within.
His reward was a swallowed cry of pure, startled lust, an almost violent bucking of Cullen’s hips, and the sight of the always cool and mostly collected Commander Rutherford writhing on the rumpled folds of his own mantle, fingers digging deep into the mossy ground beneath them as his teeth bit down just shy of drawing blood in an attempt to hold back the sounds of his visceral pleasure.
“Easy,” Chris murmured, unable to hold back his laugh at Cullen’s unintelligible response.
The commander sounded somehow both eager and embarrassed, and oh, so ready for him to continue, finding his words only after several moments of slow, tender touches that seemed designed to reduce every bone in his body to quivering jelly.
“I ... what about ... what about you ...”
Chris couldn’t help his satisfied grin, lips curving against the stiff line of Cullen’s throat, tasting the dampening salt-sweat of the man’s skin as he trembled in the grip of his passion. His busy hand abandoned Cullen’s cock for just long enough to wet his palm before returning, the new lack of friction somehow setting his commander to greedier trembling under his practised fingers.
“Don’t worry about me,” he murmured, letting out a gasp of his own as Cullen’s fingers gripped his hair, dragging his mouth back for a fresh onslaught of hungry kisses.
He’d take care of himself later, if he had to. Right now, the commander needed this release so much more than he did and, if he were truly honest with himself, leaving Cullen in his debt might give the man more motivation to see this through to the end, rather than try to pretend there was nothing left between them once this night was done. He needed Cullen to surrender to this, to accept it and even embrace it, if he could. They both deserved more than the harsh recriminations this war was forcing between them thanks to magic and its misusers.
So Chris dedicated himself to Cullen for these too-short moments. He stroked and teased, palmed and played, urged, toyed, guided ... he gave as much as he could, learned as much as Cullen would let him, until the commander burst through his fears and worries and uncertainties to lie panting and spent in his arms, eyes whirling with as much tenderness as shock that this kind of intimacy was possible for him.
How long they lay together, he couldn’t have said, revelling in the soft silence between them, in the play of Cullen’s sweaty fingers through his hair and the sound of the man’s heartbeat slowing beneath his ear. This moment of freedom for them would not kast too much longer; too soon, the commander would return to full strength and regain his composure along with his pants and armour. But for now, in this moment, it was enough to listen to his breathing and know he had given into the heat between them. To hope that it would be the first time, and not the last.
“I should not have allowed that,” Cullen said, his voice a mere murmur beneath the soft night breeze. “To leave us both so vulnerable ... it was a foolish whim.”
Chris raised his head, looking down at the dishevelled man in his arms in hurt disbelief.
“Foolish?” he repeated, almost daring Cullen to clarify himself.
The commander’s scarred lip pulled taut for the briefest of smiles, amusement flickering in his warm eyes. He drew his knuckles against Chris’ cheek, a kiss of skin to skin, before moving to set himself to rights. Chris sat up, watching him clean himself, lace his shirt, pull the gambeson back over his head, his own brow furrowed in a deep frown, uncertain quite what to say in the face of those words.
Cullen paused under the weight of that gaze, raising a brow in curiosity at the expression on the other man’s face.
“Christopher.” He reached out, rubbing a gloved thumb between Chris’ brows to smooth out that frown. “I’m not so much a fool as to say never again. But to take such a risk with your life and mine?.”
He bent, daring to brush a hesitant kiss to Chris’ upturned mouth before drawing back swiftly to buckle his armour.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, and I will not be much good at it,” he said, shrugging to settle the plate more comfortably before reaching for his mantle. “I daresay I will cause more harm with thoughtless words in the weeks and months to come. But ...” His expression gentled, that tenderness reemerging for Chris’ eyes only. “I believe I am done running from it. No more cowardice. No more running.”
The relief was a palpable flare in Chris’ chest. Cullen never said anything he would not hold to, never promised anything he felt incapable of delivering. If he was saying this, then ... there would be no more running. No more cowardice. No more lashing out with the intention of causing pain. And Chris could try to be more understanding of his reactions, if it meant that no more became a daily occurrence. If it meant that no more might become forever.
He’d thought he had forever once, and lost it far before he could ever have been ready to be without it. So perhaps this was enough, for now. For Cullen, he could live with no more.
For the charming @queenofthyme, who requested something flirty and epistolary for a pre-relationship Fem!Shepard x Kelly Chambers, and gave me the opportunity to play in the Mass Effect sandbox for a little bit. Thank you, lovely!
Worth Fighting For
TO: ShepardCommander
FROM: ChambersYeoman
SUBJECT: Preferences
Commander,
Forgive the informality of the request, but I neglected to ask during our conversation what pronouns you prefer to use, and how you would prefer to be addressed. Your comfort in command is a high priority during these first days of our mission. How would you like to be referred to among the crew?
Kelly Chambers
TO: ChambersYeoman
FROM: ShepardCommander
SUBJECT: Re:Preferences
Kelly,
Call me nuts, but I prefer my subordinates to be the comfortable ones around me. Commander’s good, doesn’t need to be any more fancy. Shepard once you’ve earned it. She/they, doesn’t much bother me either way.
Shepard
P.S. See? Doesn’t take much to earn it. And, by the way, you’re much more fun to look at than a janky V.I.
TO: ShepardCommander
FROM: ChambersYeoman
SUBJECT: Checking in
Commander,
Your visits to the lower decks have gone down very well. Most of the crew seems very reassured that you don’t consider us to be your enemy, despite your experiences with Cerberus. I would like to discuss those past experiences with you, if it would be at all possible. Your past trauma may be something we can soothe through information sharing exercises
Kelly Chambers
P.S. I hear you kicked ass at Skyllian poker last night. Shame the stakes were so tame.
TO: ChambersYeoman
FROM: ShepardCommander
SUBJECT: Re: Checking in
Tame? Would you have preferred to see him running for the dorms in nothing but his skivvies? It’s very doable, just say the word.
I have it on good authority that dinner tonight is going to be not only edible but enjoyable. Come join me in the mess, you can finally get that in with Joker and the doctor you’ve been hinting at. Maybe even a conversation with Garrus if he’s done with his calibrations for the day.
Shepard
TO: ShepardCommander
FROM: ChambersYeoman
SUBJECT: Re: Checking in
That wasn’t an answer to the main question. I am here to facilitate your needs, not only when it comes to the administration of your work, but also to assist with your recovery following the traumas you have already experienced.
Don’t make me schedule an appointment in the diary.
Kelly Chambers
TO: ChambersYeoman
FROM: ShepardCommander
SUBJECT: Re: Checking in
Don’t threaten me with a good time. Because that will not be a good time. I can handle it, Kelly. I’d much rather enjoy the view from my terminal than avoid it because you’re openly psycho-analyzing me. Call me crazy, I prefer the stealth approach when it comes to me. Just don’t pop up unexpectedly in my shower.
Shepard
TO: ChambersYeoman
FROM: ShepardCommander
SUBJECT: Aliens vs. humans
Kelly,
You mentioned you don’t see race or gender, just character. Does that only apply to aliens, or can I stop pretending to be a supposedly normal, well-adjusted human being in your presence? I can definitely guarantee I have a whole lot of character.
Shepard
P.S. Grunt has promised not to crowd you in the elevator so long as you promise not to smell so good when you walk past him. That’s his compromise, so I’m going to find you a perfume that turns krogan stomachs. No offense.
TO: ShepardCommander
FROM: ChambersYeoman
SUBJECT: Re: Aliens vs. humans
Commander, that subject line is very misleading. But thank you for speaking with Grunt, it is very much appreciated. I believe the line of perfumes made by Goddess Essentials are particularly repugnant to krogan, though I would not like to cause him any actual harm. Perhaps I should just take the service ladders instead.
Kelly
TO: ChambersYeoman
FROM: ShepardCommander
SUBJECT: Re: Aliens vs. humans
Have to give Miranda something to get excited about before disappointing her with the actual subject matter. And yes, I know you’re reading my mail, Miranda. I will find a way to stump you.
As for you, Yeoman Kelly Chambers, was that a note of disapproval I detect in this highly unemotional, non-contextual manner of communication? Perhaps you should reprimand me in person if you don’t want to hurt my feelings.
Shepard
TO: KellyGrrl
FROM: JShepReborn
SUBJECT: Privacy at last
Well, hello there, KellyGrrl. At last I have tracked down your private comm. (I tracked it down, you did not give it to me. That’s the story and we’re sticking to it, no matter what Mr Illusive might say.)
That said, are you sure you’re doing okay? You seemed very rattled by what happened with the Collector ship trap. Not complaining about the hug - in fact, feel free to hug rather than salute - but you know you’re allowed to have an emotional response to a stressful situation too, right? Hugs go both ways. I have muscular arms that give safe harbour-type hugs, so I’m told. They’re open for you anytime.
Shepard
P.S. Miranda, if anything said in these private communications end up in your reports to The Illusive Man, you will learn exactly why a large number of people in this galaxy are personally afraid of me.
TO: JShepReborn
FROM: KellyGrrl
SUBJECT: Re: Privacy at last
I’m fine, Shepard. I was more worried for you than for myself. After all, you were the one trapped on a Collector ship we have no way of destroying if it came to it, and you would not have been there had our own organization manipulated the situation. The end does not always justify the means, especially where your life is concerned. A highlight of my day is watching you walk away ... that is quite the physique you have cultivated there.
Goodness, that was very flirty, wasn’t it?
Kelly
TO: KellyGrrl
FROM: JShepReborn
SUBJECT: Flirty McFlirtersson called ...
... she’d like you to know your butt flirts with me behind your back. Don’t sweat about doing it consciously, you have my attention, honey.
TO: JShepReborn
FROM: KellyGrrl
SUBJECT: Re: Flirty McFlirtersson called ...
Oh.
Oh, my.
In that case, we definitely need to swing by the Citadel some time soon. I have an order on hold at This One’s that will do wonders for my rear end’s escapades.
TO: KellyGrrl
FROM: JShepReborn
SUBJECT: Re: Flirty McFlirtersson called ...
“Commander, you have a new message at your private terminal.”
Commander Jane Shepard raised a brow at the very formal tone in her yeoman’s voice, glancing to where the other woman stood at her own terminal. Kelly was focused on her work, apparently utterly engrossed in what looked like a logistics report. Around them, the command center of the Normandy buzzed with industry, crew members going about their work with warm efficiency. If they were aware of the flirtation between their commander and the yeoman, they gave no sign of it.
The commander activated her terminal, absent-mindedly opening the first message without really registering who it was from.
And stared.
That was ... Yes, that was a very nice picture of Kelly. Possibly not command center appropriate, though.
Clearing her throat, Shepard quickly closed the message, encoding it and sending it through several rounds of encryption back to her own private comm channel before deleting it from this terminal as thoroughly as possible. Acutely aware of her dry throat, she coughed delicately before stepping away.
“I’ll be in my cabin,” she informed the yeoman, biting down on a laugh at the knowing smirk that flickered on Kelly’s face as she acknowledged the information.
The second part of @euryalex's requestioned crossover with Wyll Ravengard and their Tav, Tara, transplanted into Dragon Age to see what might happen. They have reached Redcliffe, and a reunion awaits ...
The Warden’s Witch, Part 2
“What a cheerful place this is.”
Wyll glanced at his companion, fighting to keep the amused expression from his face, as much for his own sake as for the sake of the villagers around them. Tara was not exactly forgiving when it came to misunderstandings regarding his amusement at her often sardonic pronouncements, something he had gleaned was likely due to the circumstances of her childhood. As it was, he would rather not have her glowering at everyone they met because she thought he was laughing at her, especially not in a village that looked to be on its last legs.
“You can hardly blame them for their lack of friendliness,” he said, careful to walk at her shoulder. They’d had enough of random accusations of apostasy for a lifetime; he’d been passing her off as a Grey Warden just to save the arguments, but even that could invite some violence since the losses at Ostagar.
“I thought you were the one who said a fraught situation brings out the best in people.”
“In my defence, I did also state that poor circumstances also bring out the worst in people,” he said, letting her see his smile as he spoke. This should be safe enough to show amusement with. “As it did when you fell in the lake.”
“I did not fall in the lake,” she snapped at him, cheeks colouring in either embarrassment or annoyance. Possibly both. “That oaf of a Qunari knocked me into the lake before I had a chance to dodge.”
“It did save your life, though.”
“You said you weren’t going to mention that again.”
He could feel her glowering at him, unable to smother his smile now it was out. She was an absolute delight to tease, so unused to company that was not her apparently awful mother and sister that she rose to the bait every time and could not be induced to laugh at herself unless there was some reward in it for her. He did think he was making some progress on that front, however. She was smiling right now, after all.
“I don’t believe I -” he began, cut off by an unexpected but wholly heartening yell from the doors to the Chantry.
“WYLL!”
He spun about at the sound of his name, just able to register the accelerating form of a fully armoured Alistair Theirin heading straight for him, and brace himself, before they collided in a crash of dented breastplates and palpable relief. Hands clasped arms, shoulders, gripping tight, temple to temple without a care for how unmanly such a display of emotion might be. The last time they had seen one another had been just days before the Ferelden army took on the rising Blight in the Korcari Wilds. Not to shed a tear for themselves, and for those who were no longer here to share their joy, would be a disservice to all.
“Where were you? You’re alive! How did you get out of that mess? Did Loghain’s men get you?”
Alistair’s questions fell thick and fast, no breath left between one and the next in which to answer ... and indeed, Wyll did not feel particularly up to answering some of those questions. Though he knew his bargain had been kept, and Alistair had, indeed, survived the horrors of Ostagar, he could not help the shame of knowing that he had abandoned his brothers in the days before they were near wholly wiped out.
“What’s this about Loghain?” he asked, latching onto what he thought might be the safest part of Alistair’s eager curiosity. “We heard that Highever was attacked and the teyrn’s family murdered, but nothing about Teyrn Mac Tir.”
“He abandoned the king and the Wardens on the battlefield, even though we’d lit the beacon to summon him,” Alistair burst out, too enthused at seeing a fellow Warden to moderate his tone at all. “Because of him, the king ... all the Wardens ... Duncan is dead, because of him! But he’s telling everyone that the Grey Wardens were the reason for the massacre!”
“That does explain that little interaction on the road a few days ago,” Tara commented, drawing Wyll’s attention away from his overly-excited brother-in-arms for a moment.
“True,” he agreed, looking back to Alistair to find the young man eyeing Tara warily. “Ah. Alistair, meet Tara. She’s ... the reason I’m still alive.”
“She looks a bit, you know, witchy,” the younger man said, lowering his voice but not enough to avoid her hearing that. “Where did you meet?”
Wyll hesitated, and instantly regretted it as Tara spoke up. He could hear her unamused raised eyebrow as she considered Alistair.
“I swooped down upon him in the Wilds and carried him off,” she said, her tone more of a taunt than a tease. “Isn’t that what witches do?”
“Well ...” Alistair flushed, rubbing a hand awkwardly against his shoulder, a little shame-faced at being called out on his mild bigotry. “I’ve only met one that actually swoops. The other one is just mean all day long.”
“How did you get out of there?” Wyll asked suddenly, his curiosity daring to risk Alistair’s attention coming back to his own escape. “The darkspawn advance has the country to the south entirely blockaded against any kind of travel.”
“We had help.”
As Alistair said this, his brows drew together, betraying that he wasn’t wholly pleased with the help he had got. But ... Wait. Did he say ‘we’? Did someone else survive that bloodbath? He followed his fellow Grey Warden’s gesture back toward the Chantry, and found himself looking at a pair of young women bearing staves. One was oddly familiar, though Wyll was sure he had never seen her before; the other was entirely unfamiliar, but he was also struck by a strange sense of familiarity. Had Gazarath given him something more than just his brother’s life?
“We?” he queried, watching as the two women began to make their way across the barricaded square at Alistair’s wild gesticulation.
“Oh, that’s right, you never met Cecilia.” Alistair offered a vague shrug. “She’s the newest Warden.” His eyes told Wyll the rest of that secret unspoken - that Daveth and Jory had not survived the Joining. Perhaps that had been a blessing in disguise for them. “The other one is ...”
“Morrigan.”
Wyll’s head snapped about faster than was entirely comfortable, finding Tara staring down the Chasind-like woman now coming to a halt not far from them. Her dark eyes were fixed on the strangely yellow gaze of the other woman, both of them seeming to take stock of the other as they ignored their companions.
“Tara. How delightful to find you hale and well. And here Mother was so certain you had died on us.”
“I’m sure her heart was breaking,” was Tara’s less-than-friendly response to the less-than-cordial greeting. “How did you crawl out from under her wings?”
“I was ordered to leave,” the other woman - Morrigan - said, and she did not seem impressed by this herself. “Perhaps if you had not rushed off with the first handsome fellow you found, you might have been ordered out of the Wilds in my place.”
“I am not the only one who found a handsome fellow to rush off with, it seems,” Tara responded, and for a long moment, the two women stared at one another, unspoken words flashing back and forth between them.
Alistair and Wyll exchanged a look, neither one apparently sure quite what to make of this. Cecilia, on the other hand, took the opportunity to offer Wyll her hand.
“It’s good to meet another Warden,” she said, her smile strained. “We have a lot to talk about, but ... this village is under attack at night. Will you stay and help us defend them tonight?”
He blinked, tilting his head thoughtfully. It was tempting; he and Tara had done little but run from fights since leaving the Wilds. It would feel good to stand shoulder to shoulder with a brother and fight once more.
“If my lady agrees, then I would be honoured to do so - “
“Of course I agree,” Tara interrupted, turning away from her silent conversation with Morrigan. “These people will fall over in a stiff breeze. I will not abandon them as others I have known might.”
“We have already begun organising the defence of the village, sister dearest,” Morrigan said, stepping to her shoulder. “Do give your assistance. You were ever talented with storms.”
Whatever had been unsaid between them seemed to have cleared the air somewhat, but there was a tension there Wyll wasn’t sure he wanted to look into. Both women crackled with magical energy; only an idiot would step directly into that path without knowing at least what had caused it. Tara’s lips twitched at the other woman’s comment, and he realised she was trying not to smile. Not as much an enemy as I first thought, then, he mused, mentally kicking himself as he realised who this must be.
“An honour to meet you, Morrigan,” he said, offering her a courtly bow. “Your sister speaks highly of you.”
“Oh, what a pretty liar you have here, Tara,” the woman responded, laughing in apparently glee at his bow. “Do try not to break him.”
Tara offered her sister a sharp glance.
“I’ll wager two bags of lyrium sand you break yours first,” she countered, and again, Morrigan offered up that slightly unsettling laugh of hers.
“I look forward to seeing you win.”
As the two witches stepped away, leaving the three Wardens standing together in the midst of a gaggle of somewhat confused and relieved villagers, Wyll heard Alistair’s muttered comment on the very cusp of hearing.
I know. When aren’t my commissions done with a sense of urgency? And I know we’re all struggling with isolation, so please don’t feel you have to contribute to helping me solve my problems.
Long story short, we have locks that need fixing, front and back, and with the situation the way it is, that expense is much more than it would normally be; on top of that, council tax is due. My family is stressed out beyond the maximum limit, to the point where tempers are flaring so high that I’m starting to not feel safe in my own home.
So here I am, opening up my commissions once more.
3-4 Ko-fis - A complete scene comprising 700 to 1000 words
Contact me on Tumblr messenger or by ask before you go to my Ko-fi!
I do predominantly write for Dragon Age, but I am also capable of writing MCU, Star Wars, Charmed, Mass Effect, Critical Role (Mighty Nein), and Lord of the Rings/The Hobbit. I specialize in fluff, be it platonic or romantic; I love OCs and self-inserts, and will happily work with you to pull together the elements you would like into a coherent, enjoyable piece.
I reserve the right to turn down a commission.
To commission me, simply contact me on Tumblr through ask or messenger. I will be in contact to confirm and discuss your desired narrative with you. Once we’re agreed, skip over to donate on my Ko-fi page. I aim to complete all commissions within a month of agreeing them, but I will keep you informed as to how the list is going, and when I begin on your piece.
Please be aware that if you would like your OC involved, I will need a physical description (screenshots or face claims are just as good), as well as an overview of their personality and their relationships with the other characters within the piece. All commissioners have the choice to review and request minor changes once the piece is complete, and can choose whether I post the piece on AO3, Tumblr, or both.
Please help, if you can. I’m genuinely frightened of what might happen here if this stress presses down without some relief sometime soon.
