Otaku and Nerd (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

Clive Rosfield x female reader, fluff Once again, thank you to the commissioner for this piece, and also for allowing me to share with you all x

“There,” Jill smiles, pinning the flower garland upon your crown. She’d crafted it from flowers from the backyard that very morning, wanting it to be fresh and vibrant in colour as possible.

You stare at your reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing yourself in such finery. Jill has braided sections of your hair across your crown, incorporating the garland seamlessly. The gown is a fine white fabric, embroidered with dainty flowers across the waistline, sleeves and hem, and you dread to think of how many nights Hortense has worked over it by candlelight.

You had meant for it to be an extremely low-key affair – you, Clive, Joshua, Jill, Torgal, of course, and Tomes to officiate in Clive’s chambers one evening, but Gav, the excellent scout that he is, had clocked something was afoot and soon enough the entire Hideaway was abuzz with the news that you and Clive planned to wed, and all wanted to be involved.

It had started with Maeve asking what your favourite cake was – you can’t get married without a cake, she’d stressed, and the two of you had agreed, only because you knew it would be a welcome treat to the residents of the Hideaway. Then Hortense had appeared at the door, reams of fabric in hand, wanting your measurements and what you thought of this or that fabric, if you were a fan of long or short sleeves. You’d insisted that she shouldn’t waste the Hideaway’s supplies of something so frivolous as a wedding gown, something you’d only wear once, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

A procession soon followed – Charon had some simple rings in stock that Blackthorne was going to adjust to fit, the bard had asked if there was any particular tunes you were fond of, Byron then arriving after Gav had sent word, his boat filled up with the finest wine from his stores, as well as sundries towards what had soon turned into a wedding feast.

--

There’s a knock at the door and Jill hurries over to answer, opening it only a little to check who it was, before pulling them apart fully to permit them entry.

“Perfect timing, Joshua. I do believe we are ready.”

The Phoenix strides in, Jill quickly sliding the door shut behind him. He is dressed in his usual blacks but with what appears to be a new red cowl. Hortense had let no-one in the so-called wedding party escape without some sort of new garb for the day.

Joshua stares at you and you hoist up your skirt delicately as you get to your feet, feeling a little embarrassed from the attention.

“Is it too much?”

He shakes his head. “You are going to take Clive’s breath away.”

“Told you,” Jill grins, passing you the simple bouquet the botanists of the Backyard had put together, containing yours and Clive’s favourite flowers, wrapped with a white ribbon. “I best go take my place.”

“Thank you, Jill.” You stop her, pulling her into a hug. “For everything.”

“Oh, stop it,” she protests, her voice a little tight, but she leans into your embrace all the same for a moment. As she pulls away, she fixes your garland once more with a kind smile and it is then you see tears brimming her eyes. “I am so happy for you – both of you. I shall let the bard know you’re ready for your entrance.”

You find yourself swallowing down your own tears as Jill leaves the chambers, a hum of conversation floating through the doors as they open and close.

Joshua offers you his arm. “Are you ready, my lady?”

You loop your arm through his and take a deep breath. “More than ever.”

--

Clive stands at the top of the stairs to the shelves, the doors wide open, besides Tomes. Everyone is stood in the Ale Hall below, leaving a makeshift aisle between the two sides for his future wife to walk down.

He’d never considered marriage, truthfully. After years enslaved, it never seemed even a possibility until he had met you – sweet, beautiful, wonderful you, who he fell deeper in love with each and every day.

He knew life with him was hard, having to be parted often as his duty took him across Valisthea, his work to fulfil Cid’s legacy, never quite knowing when he could give you his undivided attention back at the Hideaway… But this, his vow to be your husband was something he could give you, and he did so gladly.

He is donned in a new white shirt at Hortense’s insistence, though still in his leathers, and Torgal sits by his heels, panting and as fluffy as he was a pup - the children had given him a thorough wash the day before and this morning tied a bright red bow around his neck, insisting he had to look his best for the festivities.

“Are you nervous, Clive?” Tomes asks, softly.

Clive takes a steadying breath, knowing he could never lie. “A little, but only because of the audience.”

“Understandable. You’ll forget all about them once you see your bride, I am sure of it.”

He’d seen Joshua enter the chambers a few moments ago and then Jill hurrying out, looking beautiful in her new teal and white dress, now whispering in the bard’s ear before taking her place at the bottom of the staircase.

The bard strums a chord in a flourish, getting the crowd to settle, before he begins to pick the strings in a simple but beautiful melody, and the doors to the chambers open once more, the entire Hideaway turning their head to catch a glimpse.

Clive forgets to breathe for a moment.

Tomes is right – as soon as you emerge, always beautiful to his eyes but today especially so, a vision so wonderful he doesn’t see anyone else. You’re blushing as you meet his gaze and hold it, trying to ignore the fact of so many eyes upon you, and Clive can’t help but wish Joshua would walk a little faster.

It feels an age before you reach the bottom of the stairs, when Clive can finally descend them. You pass your bouquet to Jill, and Joshua then passes your hand to Clive. It takes all that’s in him not to kiss you right that at that very moment, but he knows he must wait. Tears prick at his eyes and at that moment you don’t need to hear anything from him – the love and adoration on his face tells you more than words ever could.

You can barely take in what Tomes is saying as you stare into your love’s eyes, somehow managing to recite the affirmations at the right times, to slip the ring onto Clive’s finger as he does to yours and then, finally, Tomes wraps the ribbon around your clasped hands, binding you as together one at last.

“It is my great honour to present to you the new Lord and Lady Rosfield.” The historian proclaims, cheers and applause echoing around the Ale Hall in response – including a loud sob that is so unmistakenly Gav.

Clive cups your cheek then, tilting your head up as you place a hand upon his chest, meeting his lips with yours in a short, sweet but chaste kiss.

“I love you,” you whisper, before kissing him once again.

“I love you more - my light, my love, my life.”

“You can do far better than that, my boy!” Byron’s voice booms from below, interrupting your moment of tranquility.

Clive looks a little bashful from his uncle’s comment, though moves his head down to murmur a request in your ear.

“Shall we give them a show, my darling?”

“I think we should, my husband.” You grin in return. Clive wastes no time then, moving his hand to the back of your head, another to the small of your back and dips you in a smooth notion, tongue only swiping your lip for a moment before he presses you into a passionate, almost bruising kiss that makes your heart pound, and all to another raucous cheer from below.

---

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Commissions/Ko-Fi

title: and a place to rest my head

chapters: 21/? (work in progress)

words so far: 30k

summary: 

When Geralt stops at an inn to get out of the rain, he doesn’t expect to leave with a young, mistreated omega whore in tow. But fate is a funny thing, isn’t it

Or, Jaskier is an omega forced to prostitute himself at an inn. Geralt is an alpha who rescues him.

let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. stonelions drew some cuddles. the teenagers warm themselves up.

Shepard finally got a pair of gloves that winter, but only because he got paid extra to shovel the snow in front of Apollo’s. Kaidan didn’t have to reach over and take at least one of Shepard’s hands to rescue it from the cold, sneaking it into his coat pocket, covering it with his own.

He didn’t have a hat. He didn’t borrow a scarf. His socks were the thick kind that came in twelve-packs at the drugstore but they were old enough to have holes in them. His best pair of boots wasn’t waterproof.

‘And don’t get me started on that jacket,’ Mom said, watching him disappear into the night before letting the curtain fall back into place. ‘I don’t think that thing’s even warm enough for fall.’

It wasn’t. Kaidan had worn it once in the rain and his t-shirt was sompletely soaked through after. It was one of Anderson’s, a hand-me-down, weathered at the elbows, with the pockets patched up on the inside, paper-thin lining made delicate with age. Liara called it retro. And it was, but it was also cold in there; Kaidan lay it out to dry over the back of his desk chair and peeled off his wet t-shirt and turned around to find Shepard watching him, so…

Honestly, Kaidan even liked the jacket. What it stood for, more than the actual fabric itself. What it reminded him of when he wasn’t squinting at Shepard sideways through eyelashes heavy with snow.

If you liked somebody, you had to accept their choice of winter wear. But Shepard didn’t make things easier on himself and when snow came down, even guys who rode motorcycles got cold.

Kaidan had tried offering his scarf, but that didn’t work. Shepard shrugged off the idea of a hat. Shepard’s gloves made Kaidan’s chest feel like an eggnog latte—until he realized that might be the only inch Shepard would ever give. Stained, an old pair that looked like they might’ve belonged to Anderson too, just the right size on Shepard’s big hands.

It was a problem. A tough one. The kind that followed you out of an exam and into the real world, kicking you in the chest in the middle of the night when you worked out the solution. That x was a derivative. Or that there was only one way to warm Shepard up.

‘I’m… Shepard, I’m pretty cold,’ Kaidan said, stamping his feet on the corner by the bus-stop, Thai basil still burning the back of his throat from dinner. It’d be another fifteen minutes before their bus showed up.

Fifteen minutes, and Shepard’s nose was already pink, breath disappearing on the air as it froze.

Shepard opened up the edges of his jacket to let Kaidan in without saying a thing. At least he was wearing a hoodie underneath, even if it was a thin one. Kaidan rubbed his gloved hands over Shepard’s chest and stomach until they were both warm. Friction could do that because science was awesome.

A Beautiful Soul

Shepard is constantly in awe. A nobody kid from the streets of New York. He didn’t deserve the life he’d been given.

He didn’t deserve the man sleeping beside him.

Kaidan… 

…an incredible person, inside and out. Caring, compassionate. A bastion of integrity in a compromising world.

A giving lover with gorgeous eyes and a heart-stopping smile.

The calm island in Shepard’s raging sea. A fountain of peace that Shepard wants to immerse himself in.

A beautiful soul… beckoning Shepard to drink deeply.

this.

for @therealmcgee because TODAY IS HER BIRTHDAY *cough*

The first time Alistair and Laura are intimate in my art student AU. NSFW below the cut. (3,446 words)

Laura’s lips were soft.

Most girls had soft lips, and he’d had the pleasure of kissing more than a few of them, but Laura’s lips were special. Or maybe it was the light sounds of pleasure she made whenever their tongues touched. Or the way her fingers ran through his hair, nails scraping across his scalp in ways that had no right to feel as good as they did. Or the welcome warmth of her body in his arms. All of it, probably, and more.

Alistair broke from her lips long enough to breathe before pressing in again. He held her tight. Even sitting in his lap as she was, he still had to tilt his neck down. Not that he minded. The view of her arching herself upwards, feeling her weight shift as she tried to get closer to him—it was thrilling in ways he wouldn’t have thought possible.

Her teeth scraped against his bottom lip and he couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran along his spine. How long had they been kissing like this? Frantic meetings of lips between heavy breaths and clutching hands. Hours?

Garrett Hawke x Fenris, for @contreparry and @dadrunkwriting

The mansion is too quiet now. It’s a patently ridiculous thought. Most any time Fenris is in the mansion he is alone. The rooms and halls silent but for the occasional scurrying of a stray mouse, or creaks that come with a place as old and untended as this. Garrett stopped by now and again, of course, he did. If he could visit the abomination in the sewers, a couple cobwebs and mostly broken furniture certainly wouldn’t slow him down. He might have spruced the place up a bit, repaired a few things here or there. Varric offered often enough, but Fenris is loathed to fix up any place Danarius once lived or might try to wrest back from him. And fixing things like the broken boards just beyond the edge of the bed now steadily dripping rain into a bucket, well, that would mean something. Suggest a kind of permanence, that perhaps he might stay. Getting comfortable isn’t safe.

Maker, he’d had a way of making him feel comfortable, though. Warm. Safe. That it would be another mage that would one day make him feel safe again… But it hadn’t been. Safe. Not through any fault of Garrett’s. With that in mind, it seems terribly unfair to him. Fenris knows better than to think he’s doing it on purpose, trying to manipulate him somehow with the sorrowful and longing looks. Garrett is genuinely doing his best to hide it, he’s just rubbish at it, or perhaps he is too well trained to pick up on these things.

Giving up on the possibility of sleep and tossing the blanket aside, the warrior climbs out of bed, grabbing his greatsword. Heart beating in his ears, Fenris swings spinning on bare feet, the blade singing as it splits the air before it lands on the nearby wood post with a loud crack It’s almost loud enough to drown out his memories: Hawke walking in on a similar such exercise, leaning against the doorframe to watch.

“I know you’re there, Hawke. You might as well come in.”

“You know, I know you were having a go at his expense when you told Varric you spend your free time around here dancing, but maybe you weren’t so far off. It’s harder to appreciate when we’re in the thick of it, but I noticed. What you can do, the way you move with your sword- it’s more than impressive. It’s- it’s beautiful.”

Pivot, lunge, another swing, another loud crack. Again. Sweat beads up at his forehead and the back of his neck with effort and concentration.

He’d blushed then, heat from an altogether different sort than his recent exertions running through him. He was… valued with Danarius. The Magister would have ceased sending slavers after him long ago, were that not the case. But for the Lyrium in his skin, for his ability to intimidate others… Not like this. Never like this. If anyone has ever thought of or called him beautiful before, he can’t remember it. And somehow, against his better judgment, he believes him, even if he can’t quite understand it.

“-really unfair, you know,” Garret is saying as Fenris tunes back in again. “I was going to show up with a really terrific pick-up line, something incredibly suave. And then,” he huffs, feigning frustration as he gestures towards him with flailing arms.

“Practiced the whole walk here, did you,” Fenris teases, finally slipping back into their familiar sort of teasing banter with one another as he carefully leans his sword against the wall and descends the stairs to greet him.

“The whole ten minutes,” Garrett nods with a grin.

“Well, perhaps next time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Moving away, Fenris lets his sword swing into a nearby portrait on the wall he’s not destroyed yet, rending it in half, before letting his arms drop, sword loose in his hands as he sags. It’s neither as satisfying nor as distracting as he’d hoped. He doesn’t understand any better now than he did then how Hawke might see anything beautiful in it, in him, but this… emptiness- still seeing Hawke without touching him, being so close and so far away, the mansion which has always been more empty and silent than not, his bed which Hawke never actually occupied, are suddenly acutely painful and unspeakably ugly.

Another swing.

Another.

Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you

The truth hurts / secrets kill The good die young / and so did this

Sketch commission for @iamanemotionaltimebomb

4. Kithoi Heat. [Red Streak]

based on @thunderheadfred‘s amazing shakarian fic !