I wrote cutscenes as they would appear in-game were Barris a potential love interest. For all the Barris fans out there. More coming with every reblog.
First Flirt:
Positioned before the stables are a gaggle of children, each of them ranging in age from nearly 13 to a tender 4. The Inquisitor is drawn to the kids all saluting a fist to their tiny chests in honor of the man standing with back straight, head high before them.
“What do we do if we spot a dragon in the sky?” Barris asks.
“Wing the bell,” a voice pipes out from inside a too large templar helmet.
“And then…” the man leading them continues.
“We run to the stone kitchens to take up our place, Ser!” a taller boy calls, his eyes never drifting from Barris’.
Curiosity fully piqued, the Inquisitor steps into the range of the templar. “Ser Barris?” she asks softly, a hint of a smile on her lips.
“Ah, Inquisitor,” he full on blushes.
“What’s going on here?”
“We were…that is to say, I was attempting to teach the children preventative measures should Corypheus attempt to attack Skyhold.”
The Inquisitor pulls even closer to Ser Barris, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Is that wise? Aren’t you afraid of giving them nightmares?”
“Personally, ma’am, er…Ser.” Barris wrings his hands over the hilt at his side, his eyes closed tight in contemplation. “I know what it feels to be too young and helpless in the face of an oncoming horde of darkspawn. The fear of not knowing what to do, not having a plan to take control of the situation induces far more nightmares than knowing evil exists.”
“I had no idea,” the Inquisitor gasps, a hand resting upon the emblem on his chest as if to soothe away the pain of the Blight.
“Preparing the children, the ones who survived Haven, forming a plan for them should the worst arise, I thought it to be…” He pauses in his personal thoughts, his striking green eyes darting to the woman before him. “That is, if it’s all right with you, Inquisitor?”
She couldn’t stop the smile rising up her cheeks, the Inquisitor bobbing her head. “Yes, it’s…a good idea.”
“Ser Bawwis,” the child trapped inside of the templar helmet mewls. With a chuckle, Ser Barris drops to a knee and helps to excise the head caught inside, revealing a girl with braids scattering to her shoulders. Giggling, the girl places a quick kiss to the man’s cheek, bringing an even brighter flush to his glowing skin.
With a hand curled over her chest right above her heart, the Inquisitor muses, “So adorable.”
Barris rises to his feet, the helmet safely tucked into the crook of his arm. “They are rather cute,” he says while watching the kids fall back into line.
“Yes, the children are as well,” the Inquisitor smiles slyly.
“Ah,” Ser Barris gasps, his sight dropping to the ground while the flush grows beyond capacity. The Inquisitor fears she might have overstepped her bounds, when those green eyes rise from under his brow to stare directly into hers.
Sliding back, her cheeks starting to burn, the Inquisitor says, “I shall leave you to it then, Ser Barris.”
Dragon Age Daemon AU, featuring the Origins and Awakening companions. Inspired by this amazing post by @piedpica (who tumblr won’t let me @ for some reason? but go check out their daemon headcanons, they’re amazing). Not included are Leliana, because I can’t top the idea from the above post, Anders, because he’ll be addressed in the DA2 instalment, and the dwarves, because I’ve adopted the idea from other Daemon AU makers that dwarves wouldn’t have daemons.)
~
Alistair
You wouldn’t think to look at Cara that she was the daemon of a King’s son. And that’s just how Alistair likes it.
He’s never asked anyone what Maric’s daemon was, and honestly, he doesn’t care. No doubt it was something very heroic and glorious, an eagle or a stag, fit to stand alongside his father in portraits, fit to be sung of in tales. But Alistair grew up sleeping in a kennel, and Cara was always going to settle as a dog.
She doesn’t stay as a dog all the time, of course, no child’s daemon can ever stay still. After he’s sent to the Chantry, after he hurls his mother’s amulet at the wall, they both go out of their way to cause as much trouble as possible. When the sisters gather them to pray, Cara pads in quietly as a cat or a little terrier. Then, halfway through the Canticle of Exaltations, she transforms into a great snorting druffalo or an ugly-faced wyvern or even a ridiculous nuggalope, and the drone of voices transforms into yelps of shock and shouts of anger. Alistair doubles up laughing, and keeps grinning even during the chores he’s given as punishment. ‘Worth it,’ Cara whispers, and he has to agree.
But for all the jokes she plays with her changing, she always seems to come back to dogs. Perhaps she’s simply trying to be as un-King-like as is physically possible, perhaps she’s just being a true Fereldan. It doesn’t matter. There’s a comfort in it that he finds nowhere else, in having her curled against him at night, warm fur against his skin to remind him that he is not quite alone.
He doesn’t even notice that she’s settled for days, the form she takes is so very like her. It takes him some time to realise she’s stopped shifting, that she’s taken on the shape of those Storm Coast retriever dogs. One of those none-too-smart looking ones, with the folded-over, floppy ears and the big brown eyes. ‘I wanted a mabari,’ he mock-moans, and Cara opens her mouth and hangs out her tongue in a dog’s way of laughing. ‘I wanted someone with brains,’ she sniggers, and Alistair pounces on her and wrestles her to the ground and they tussle like puppies, letting out breathless gasps of laughter.
It’s Cara that Alistair looks to for reassurance every time the insults fly his way, every time he hears a voice sneer idiot or sees the curl of a lip betray the thought of worthless. Cara is a creature bred on the wild seas, to drag in nets from icy waters and to retrieve hunters’ kills from tangled undergrowth. She rolls around with her eyes laughing and her legs waving in the air, a jester of a dog, but there’s a soldier underneath the creamy pelt. There’s strength and endurance there, things that no one sees in him until the Templars press a sword into his hand and the weapon somehow feels like a perfect, natural extension of his arm, things that no one respects until Duncan passes him his Joining chalice.
And Cara’s pelt is thick, to hold out the cold of a frosted sea. Over the years, Alistair’s skin has grown just as thick against the whispers of bastard and fool.
Loghain betrays them, and Alistair feels like he’ll be snarling inside forever. Never betray a Fereldan, never betray someone with a dog-daemon, never incur the wrath of a man to whom loyalty comes before all else. The murmurs start, that the crown might fall to him, and he wants the earth to swallow him. His daemon is a dog, and dogs don’t rule nations. They follow and they serve. ‘We’re not leaders,’ he whispers to Cara.
She rests her head on his knee. ‘We could be.’
And Alistair looks at her, and knows she’s right. For all their games, for all their playful tail-wagging and soft fur, her breed are only jokers on the surface. At their core, they are workers, hunters – even guides to the blind. Dogs are made to serve, and surely that’s what a king does, just as much as a Warden? Perhaps there’s more to him than he thinks. He already knows there’s more to him than people say.
Cullen likes kisses as much as he loves sex. Sometimes, even more.
And he likes forehead kisses best.
A kiss on the forehead is an intimate act, a thing he has never allowed himself to do with his previous lovers.
A kiss like that requires a connection deeper than random sex, a commitment longer than some nights of physical release. It’s an act of shared intimacy that he thought wasn’t something he was worthy of.
Then, she has arrived in his life, and everything he knew has changed forever. Love has taken her shape and voice, it has become tangible and close. She cherishes his timid displays of affection, and he tries to please her with all he has, even if sometimes he fears it’s really too little for a woman like her.
Cullen treasures every time the Inquisitor takes off her title and allows him to savour her skin. He makes the kiss last as long as he can: lips lingering on the skin of his beloved, holding her against him, close enough to breathe her scent and tender words.
She smiles when he kisses her forehead before she leaves for the unknown, murmuring a prayer, and when she returns, showing his gratitude and relief.
He presses his lips on her forehead when she is exhausted and maybe a bit sad, curled against his heart.
Cullen takes any occasion he can to show her how much she’s loved, and cherished, and precious.
A kiss on the forehead helps him wherever the words fail.
I wrote cutscenes as they would appear in-game were Barris a potential love interest. For all the Barris fans out there. More coming with every reblog.
All of Skyhold celebrates in the slaying of Corypheus. The Inquisitor glances amongst her most trusted companions all imbibing with glee in the main hall. A single, fiery glint off of steel catches her eye and she turns, her smile breaking wider than the moon.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” she says, sidling next to the man holding a drink instead of a crutch.
“I can,” Barris smiles, his full attention upon her. “I knew you’d be the light to pull us from the darkness.”
Her heart burns to pull him to her for a kiss, but there are various nobility and diplomats watching. She settles for letting her hand brush against the edge of his, both staring across the partying throne room.
It was done. They were safe.
“There is something I wished to tell you,” Barris turns to her, his voice preternaturally serious. “I’ve decided to follow the Commander’s lead and stop taking lyrium.”
“Is that safe?” she gasps. While Cullen yet stood his ground, at the moment his hands pawing through the few small cakes to find a strawberry one, she knew it’d been hard on him. There seem to be days when even he isn’t certain if he can last through the challenge.
Barris’ blinding green eyes hunt through hers, pinning down her worry, “It is a risk, one that could cost me given the Order remains that rest upon my shoulders. Perhaps it is selfish of me to say, but I do not want to lose a single memory of you. The Commander is proof that I can still do good even with my powers…”
“Ser Barris,” she interrupts him, tears glistening as she smiles wider, “I order you to do what you feel is best.”
He too grins, “As you say, Inquisitor.” For a beat the two lock eyes, his tongue darting to his lips, “But I have kept your attentions for too long. Please, you should mingle with the rest of the heroes.”
Accepting her duty, she wanders out to speak with the next in a long line of congratulations. But for a moment she glances back to her knight in shining armor.
After a long night of laughing, drinking, feasting, and talking, the Inquisitor begins to retire towards her quarters. As she reaches the door, she’s stopped by a familiar face.
“I hoped you’d like some company for the evening,” Barris begins, his body pressing closer, the intoxicating heat enveloping her.
She takes her hand off the door handle and places it upon Barris’ forearm. “There’s nothing I’d love more,” she darts her eyes up and down his body. At the bottom she pauses, “How’s your leg?”
“Worried about injuring me?” Barris finds her fears hidden in the question. Before she can voice the answer, his sturdy and safe hands swoop around her ass. A single yelp erupts from the Inquisitor as the Knight-Commander lifts her into the air, securing her body in his arms. She winds her legs around his waist, her chest crushed to the armor as they fall into the kiss of survival.
A kiss worth fighting for.
Barris’ lips slip away and he whispers, “I think it’ll do fine for the evening.” Giddy, the pair of them open the door and vanish into the long stairwell to the Inquisitor’s quarters. Not once does he put her down.
As the sun rises over a new dawn in thedas, Barris brushes his hand against her cheek. With no eyes watching, no orders, nothing but hope before her she happily curls her face into it.
“All that and you’re still standing,” she muses. Even with her eyes closed in joy she can feel his protecting gaze watching her.
“I could say the same of you, my love,” Barris whispers back.
With a languid turn, the Inquisitor walks out to her balcony. Rosy streaks of the sun turn the snow a glistening pink. As she places her hands over the banister, she says, “Everything’s going to change.”
Warm hands slide over her stomach, tugging her away from the long fall and back into his embrace. Barris’ chin caresses her shoulder, his lips whispering, “And I shall be by your side for all of it.”
One more to go. Probably tomorrow since my other story starts on May 1st. Didn’t I say I was taking a writing break?
Cullen X Annabel Trevelyan fan fic – Modern Thedas AU
Mechanic Cullen is staying late to finish a job when his lover presents an interesting proposal. NSFW – Smut and fluff. (Also on AO3)
—————————–
“Almost done, just give
me one second,” Cullen holds his hand out to the potential customer straining
for attention in his peripheral vision. Technically the garage is closed but
he’s staying late to finish this and won’t turn away possible cash in
Kirkwall’s current climate.
“And what if I don’t
want to wait one more second for you?”
The light familiar voice
of his girlfriend bounces back off the walls and he pauses, his lips cracking
into a smirk, before continuing with his task.
“It’s your car I’m
fixing,” he reminds her, wiping his oil ingrained hand on his battered blue overalls. They’re undone, wrapped around his waist, with his sleeves rolled up
to the elbows meaning his arms are now lined with tracks of oil. He’d thought
he was done and was preparing to call her with the good news, but this car seemed
to have no end of surprises, much like its owner. “Do you want me to finish
calibrating your engine or not?”
“Hmmm, now what kind of
question is that to ask a lady?”
He hears her sultry
little chuckle and his interest perks. Once upon a time he would’ve turned crimson
at such a comment but now it simply sends a tingle of arousal through him. Rising
from his hunched position under the bonnet he turns, resting as casually as
possible against the car. “And you couldn’t wait for me to get home?”
Annabel smiles at him,
her bright eyes dance as they light up, the way they always did for him. “Maybe
it’s just the sight of you, like this,” she closes the gap between them, one
hand travelling up his arm, running along the oil spots, as she drops her voice
to purr. “All rough and dirty,” she lands a quick biting kiss against his mouth
but pulls away before he can grab hold.
“I’ve had an idea of how
to make this even more fun,” she cocks her hand on her hip. If it was designed
to draw his attention to her curves it worked as his gaze drifts down, over her
tight tank top, to her skinny fit jeans, and chunky boots.
Intrigued he folds is
arms. “I’m listening.”
“Maybe wash your hands
first?” Her eyes drop to them, they’re calloused with light grazes, the base of
his nails stained black by the oil which cracks along the patterns of his palm.
“Now why would I need to
do that?” He raises one eyebrow at her. Two could play games.
“Do you want to find out
about my idea or not? Because I have work in a few hours,” Annabel stiffens
slightly and stands her ground. With a heavy sigh, he stubbornly nods his head
before retreating into the poky office to quickly scrub his hands in a rather
dingy sink. He hears the loud screech and tell tale crank as she pulls the shutters down and
he smirks to himself. Now why did they need that much privacy?
“Does this meet with my lady’s
requirements?” He asks presenting his freshly washed hands, still edged in oil,
before resting them on her hips.
“Much better,” she
reaches up on tip toes to kiss him and run her thumb across his cheek, smearing
a patch of black like an ancient tribal marking.
I’m going to take advantage of my AU for this one. Evelyn isn’t the quizzy there, just a celebrated researcher, but I’ll sacrifice the bonus points to take advantage of grocery stores.
Since he was in a rush and distracted, Cullen didn’t realize the automatic doors hadn’t fully opened until he rammed into one side with his shoulder. The glass rattled and shook, and his hands shot up in preparation to catch the damn thing should it fall. Luckily it proved unnecessary as within a few seconds it stilled, and after a moment more the doors whisked shut.
Letting out a puff of air, Cullen raked a hand through his untamed curls and continued with his mission.
He suppressed the urge just to grab the first container he saw and be on his way because Cullen knew if he did, he’d bring home something moldy or rotten. Evelyn was eight months pregnant with his child. Plagued by heartburn, sciatica, sleepless nights and bouts of insatiable hunger. The least he could do was take the time to hunt for the perfect basket of strawberries.
Just as he decided upon a container, his phone vibrated.
Chuckling to himself, Cullen collected a handbasket only to realize he left his prized berries behind. The split-second he picked up the container the produce misters clicked on. Since there were no other sounds in the store other than fluorescent lights humming overhead, he jumped.
And dropped the berries.
The container burst apart, sending strawberries flying every which way. With a frustrated whine, Cullen picked them up. None of them seemed damaged, and after receiving an extra thorough wash at home, they’d be perfectly edible. Once satisfied he collected them all, he hurried on to his next objective.
While searching for spicy mustard, he absentmindedly rubbed the tender spot on his shoulder. It was sure to bruise fantastically, and there would be no hiding it from Evelyn. He made a mental note to get some acetaminophen for her aches and pains as well as his. After considering his choices far longer than a normal person should, Cullen gave up and chose something called ‘hot’ mustard. On his way to the coolers, he sent up a prayer it would be sufficient. Just as he had to hope neapolitan ice cream would be satisfactory.
And he forgot the Tylenol.
Fortunately, Evelyn seemed nothing but pleased with his efforts, and greatly amused by his tale. Smirking, she carefully scooped out another bite of chocolate ice cream. Neapolitan ended up being a blessing in disguise.
“I don’t know why you were acting like I was going to cry if you didn’t come through. You didn’t have to go anywhere. I could’ve made due. We have some raspberries and brownies.” Evelyn vaguely gestured toward the refrigerator with her spoon before popping it into her mouth.
Cullen groaned.
Laughing, she wiped the corner of her mouth off with a paper towel. “How’s your shoulder?”
Knowing how uncomfortable she was, the last thing he wanted to do was complain, but there was no use in lying. Her knowledge of how lyrium, or in his case the lack thereof, affected the body far surpassed his.
“Sore,” he admitted petulantly.
“Aww. Come here, my grouchy bear.”
“I’m not grouchy,” he protested, pulling off his t-shirt as he wandered around the breakfast bar.
“Just tired,” she offered amicably.
“A little,” he sighed as her hands, always cool to the touch, wrapped around the bruised tissue. Cullen found it difficult to meet her gaze as she searched for a way to ease the ache in his shoulder, so he took in the shape of her. The thickness of her thighs, the swollen roundness of her stomach, her breasts at least a cup larger… Between the sight of her and the soothing warmth of her healing magic, Cullen felt arousal start to move through him. In a desperate attempt to push it aside, he squeezed his eyes shut, and his hands curled into fists as she pulled the aches from his body.
Once finished, Evelyn smoothed her hands down his chest. “Better?”
He pried his eyes open. “Always.”
“Good,” she said, patting his abdominals a moment. Evelyn turned aside and plucked the can of whip cream from the countertop. “Do you think you’re awake enough for me to have a little dessert?”
Cullen is a wonderful lover because he spends every moment thinking of you.
The scars on your body are not scars, they are marks of survival. He kisses every one. On your skin he makes pathways with his tongue, holding you close. Sometimes he simply enjoys hearing your beating heart. His hands always wander, partly because your skin is velvety smooth and soft, partly because he sees your body as a temple. Sometimes though, it’s because he has to make himself remember that you are there, and you love him. His hands were fashioned to hold a sword and fight. With you they are more. They are instruments. Your body is his music.
Always, always though, he thinks of you. To him, even a brief rut on his desk or quick rendezvous in the in the war room against the wall before Josephine or Leliana get there isn’t a simple and quick tryst. It’s a prayer and a thanks, a time he can be himself, if only for a brief moment before he takes on his role of Commander again. He likes those playful times with you, but his favorite is when he has you all to himself, late in the night. He can spend hours caressing and loving you, exploring the Maker’s architecture. When you do the same for him, he doesn’t stop thanking you or letting you know how lucky he is.
Joining with him, songs play that only you two can hear. He always knows where he is and what he does, but with you, you lead him to wander. You are together. It’s his tiny miracle, because he once saw a life bereft of nothing save duty. You are his miracle.
Yet the biggest miracle of all is when he wakes in the morning and sees you’ve stayed.
The next day’s mission began as predicted: a soggy but uneventful journey to the fortress gates. Harding’s scout reports were spot on, allowing for the fighting to be controlled in their favour. The highlight of the skirmish was watching the Herald keep the undead at bay until the rest could fight their way to shut the portcullis. The wall of water, drawn from the swamp around them, rolled like an angry sea. The walking dead who tried to move through it to attack were swept away, tossed about and torn apart by the force of the moving water.
She only let the spell drop once the echo of the boom of the portcullis hitting the ground had disappeared from the walls. While the party was dispatching the last of the Avaar warriors, Cullen turned to watch her. She had sagged against the stone wall out of the rain, her hand fumbling for the potions pouch on her waist. He could tell that she had depleted her mana extensively, which was not the ideal situation moving forward into the keep. He paused a moment, suppressing a shudder as he watched her swallow, the siren call of the blue liquid strong even at a distance. Once she had stowed the empty flask, he closed the distance to her side.
She smiled as he approached, the blue in her eyes more pronounced with the lyrium flooding her system.
“That was fun. Ready to do it again?” Her grin and tone were almost convincing, but Cullen could see the shadows under her eyes.
“As soon as we regroup. Take a breath now.” He leaned against the wall next to the woman. For the first time, he realized how much taller he was than her as she tilted her head back against the stone to look at him.
“They do like to poke around. Not that I mind: saves me from doing it.” The Herald lapsed into silence with a chuckle. She closed her eyes, her face relaxing but still tilted up towards him. His eyes roamed over her face unrestrained. Red hair framed a pale face, and her brow and pointed nose were littered with freckles that continued across her cheekbones. The scar was a scary one: she had obviously been close to losing the eye. His gaze was drawn down to her lips, where it was easy to imagine traces of lyrium lingered. Cullen could feel his heart begin to pound as his vision narrowed and he slowly leaned forward.
The clatter of feet coming down the ramps above snapped him out of his daze, and he realized how close he had gotten to her. He shifted and moved away just before she opened her eyes, looking up to watch their team clamour down towards them, seemingly not noticing his transgression.
“Ready to press on?” Her smile was back in her voice and she sounded determined.
Cullen could still feel the pull of the lyrium flooding the mage next to him. Her eyes glowed with it. You want it. You are weak, and you need it. As the battle rush faded, a withdrawal headache was building and with it the barely controlled rage that always scared him. He pushed off from the wall almost violently, refusing to meet her eyes again.
Mayerine 