Anonymous asked you: Jeanne/Cullen Sweet snuggles
The floor is cold and unyielding under her arse, not made even the slightest bit easier by the folds of her robe acting as a cushion. She shivers, goosebumps prickling all the way up her spine and down her arms; it’s pure misery, all dark and uninviting, surrounded by stone as they are.
Her templar apparently feels the shiver, as she can feel his hand tighten on her arm and tug her closer against his side. His armour, polished to a sheen and branded with that damnable flaming sword, sits somewhere off to the side and glints in what little light there is to be had. It’s rare for him to strip down even his plating; the metal of his chainmail bites gently into her skin, but she can still feel the warmth of him underneath it, which is more than she can say on most occasions.
“Stay,” he’d said, “stay,” with a voice so pleading and so achingly desperate that she loves and hates him for it. True, she often ached for him to linger after each little tryst, but there was no time and even more of a risk than they were taking already—so they never did. ‘Til now. And uncomfortable as it is, she enjoys nestling against him, feeling the steady flow of his breath against her forehead and his fingers twining in the errant curls of her thick braid.
“We’ll get caught,” she whispers, fingers clenched in her skirts. “They’ll send us both to Aeonar for sure, you know that. You told me.”
“If,” he replies quietly, in a voice borne of such confidence she’d have doubted it came from him at all if he wasn’t right next to her. His fingers twitch, grasping her too tightly, but she says nothing of it. “If.”
There’s a tremble in his muscles too, she realizes, and reaches to cup her palm over his thigh. Too many layers sit between them for him to feel it too much, but he lays his other hand over hers and squeezes it, cold and clammy just as her own.
impressioniste asked you: Cullen as a baby templar recruit :x
The hall rings with the sound of metal clanging and scraping as swords kiss, shields are tested, and the other young boys—men, he firmly tells himself, they are each and every one of them men, including him—shout out their battle cries, fancying themselves the next Marics or Calenhads.
“I’m doing the best that I can,” Cullen gasps, leaning heavily on his bastard sword and blinking sweat from his eyes. The start of scruff on his chin itches terribly, his leathers are chafing, and by now the only thing keeping him going is the thought of a warm meal and a warm bed, even if the cots are hard as rocks.
The knight templar watching over him shakes his head and sets the dummy back up again—a crude thing, made of straw and wood, marred with the strikes of many pommels and blades before his own. It’s painted to be some effigy of an abomination, but the colours have long since faded, and its false snarl is somehow even worse than it probably was to start with.
“We’re training you for Kinloch, boy,” the man rasps, squaring a harsh eye on the young recruit. “It’s cushy, true enough, but you’ll still be surrounded by mages, each one holding their own kind of danger. Strange things can happen in such a place—and you’ll be grateful that you learned what you did in Denerim. If you stop slacking. Now, again.”
Cullen wants to argue with him—it sounds to him like he’s not getting the entire story—but he knows they’ll just call him a naïve boy again and clip him across the ear for his sass. So he stands back up straight, licks the salt from his lips, and posts his legs out to make ready for the next strike.
I was going to colour this first but I am ridiculously impatient and will do so later
Super late birthday present for Shimmy! Who, when asked what she might like, answered a Mass Effect-y Cullen. I aim to please.
I’m thinking he’d most likely be a soldier—maaaaybe an infiltrator. Definitely Alliance.
Happy Belated Birthday! I hope you like him.
Anonymous asked you: Jeanne as a magical girl. >8D Cullen or somebody else as her Tuxedo Mask and Cauchon as her magical animal sidekick.
Fighting evil by moonlight
Winning love by daylight
Never running from a real fight
She is the one named Sailor Moon!
…shit I forgot Cauchon (imagine he’s off tottering somewhere with a moon glued to his big ol’ doggy forehead)
It’s been quite a bit since I drew Cullen—but there were a lot of requests for these two when I reblogged that meme, so I guess I’ll be getting practise :U
Anonymous asked: Jeanne and Cullen
Sorry for taking forever, impromptu MP session! Hmm…trying to think of anything with Jeanne I didn’t pack into her survey from forever ago…
- Simplicity has never been her strong suit, whether in conversation or—well, anything. Talking in circles is the best way she finds where she’s trying to go or prove points.
- In her travels, she has always made it a point to get a memento; there is sentimentality in the material, for her. That’s meant things like jewelry, scarves, perfume—little things she can carry and keep close. They are never lost.
- Good luck getting Jeanne to admit anything that isn’t fairly shallow or noncommittal. Acquaintances and associates are easier to deal with and bid farewell to; the closer relationships? Rare, but pretty damn heartfelt. (Not that she will ever say as much even when asked.)
- He’s pretty well marked up from the Kinloch rebellion; scars and burns all over, aside from the usual combat leftovers. As a result, he’s—wary if or when he has to strip down in front of people, let alone get intimate.
- Bit of a sweet tooth. Get him a pastry and you’re liable to get at least one of his not-quite-smiles, and probably some genuine appreciation.
- Not especially an animal person. Mabari like him, but he’s kind of ‘ehh’ in return…and I think he might be allergic to cats. Not deathly so, but enough to inconvenience him in their presence.
CullenxCullen Glimpses of her
It begins as a passing thing; some dream still haunting him from Kinloch that he blames on the guilt and trauma, especially considering what means the demons had used to try and sway him under their power. But months go by, and it’s not just at night anymore; he swears he can see her robes flit by around a street corner, hear her laugh from the open window of a noble’s estate.
Eventually he accepts it and lets himself think of her—and it doesn’t help him in the least, he must admit grudgingly while wiping at his hands and thighs on the lonelier nights—but it manages to put him in a bittersweet calm.