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ultraimaginez · 3 years

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My Love Is Not A Joke - [Mammon x Reader]

Fandom: Obey Me! Ship: Mammon x gn! reader Word Count: 1.9k Rating: T A/N: just thinkin about the amount of effort it would take to convince mammon you actually like him and you’re not just being an ass to him like everyone else made me feel a lot of thiiiings and then this was born lol.

Mammon lives in a liminal space between fear and a love so fierce it threatens to consume him. It’s a hell of his own making-- too cowardly to tell you how he really feels and too devoted to let you go.

And so you are forced to exist in this hellish space with him. Each time you try to get close he pushes you away, afraid he’ll be the butt of just another joke. Each time you try to give him space he pulls you back in, terrified you might leave him. It’s an exhausting game of tug of war between his ego and his heart and, frankly, you’re sick of being the god damn rope.

Eventually you reach your breaking point.

You are lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and replaying another days worth of back and forths between you and a certain white haired demon boy. This has become as much a part of your night time routine as putting on pajamas or brushing your teeth. Every flush of his cheeks-- be it in anger or embarrassment or affection-- every dumb argument, or sweet sentiment, or stupid joke. They all play like a never ending feedback loop in your mind. But tonight a thought strikes you as you roll over to finally try and get some sleep-- as long as Mammon is engaged in this endless war against himself you’ll be stuck in it right along side him. He’s never going to give himself peace. He’ll fight until there’s nothing left of himself. So if the two of you are going to get out of this mess it comes down to you.

It’s a scary thought, the idea you might have to be vulnerable and make the first actual move. Scary enough that you try and let it go. Maybe you can just sleep on it and think about it more in the morning.

But now you can’t think of anything else. The thought begins to ruminate in your brain and there’s no way you can sleep at this point. You stay awake all night wondering if there’s any other solution. Any other way out of this mess. It turns out you also exist in the liminal space between fear and love. The idea of telling Mammon how you feel is paralyzing. And so you go to school the next day not having slept at all.

This pattern continues for nearly a week. Each night you stare at your ceiling going round and round in circles. And maybe Mammon can take this awful tug of war but you certainly can’t. You don’t have millennia to stay away pondering this shit. You’re a mortal and you’re being driven in-fucking-sane. So finally, on the seventh night of nearly no god damn sleep, you fling off your covers and irritably begin stomping down the hall.

You ignore Beel who is hip deep inside the refrigerator cleaning it out of whatever the hell is left inside. You passively wave to Levi when he sticks his head out of his room to ask you to play games and mumble some lame excuse. You’re on a mission to resolve this once and for all and nothing will stop you.

You make a beeline to your destination and once you reach Mammon’s door you begin to pound on it aggressively.

A familiar voice rings out from inside. “Jeez, cool it, Lucifer. I told you, I’m working on it. I’ll have all these late assignments done by tomorrow just gimme some time.”

“It’s me.”

There’s a pause and you can’t practically hear the gears turning in Mammon’s head as he registers who is speaking.

“Oh well why the hell didn’t ya just say so? Come in.”

You open the door to his room and find Mammon sprawled out in one of the arm chairs in the center of his room. His feet are propped up on the table and his leather jacket is flung over the couch opposite of him, leaving him in his normal jeans and black shirt. You can tell he’s been running his fingers through his white hair in frustration as it’s mused and messier than normal and his brows are knit in concentration as he looks down at his notebooks.

“Stupid Lucifer. Makin’ me do all this damn work in one night. It’s not fair.” He says, tossing the books onto the table as you shut the door behind you and approach him.

You have a rebuttal about how it’s not exactly ‘unfair’ since all of that work had been assigned weeks ago, but it dies on your lips when he looks up at you. You can feel you heart jump into your throat as your eyes meet, the normal façade of the student mode dropped here where he is comfortable and alone. People often attribute fastidiousness with appearance with Asmo, but Mammon is usually just as put together. Seeing him so relaxed is special, it’s something you know he reserves for only people close to him.

Your not sure how long you stand there at the edge of his chair looking down at him but it must be longer than normal because the sound of Mammon clearing his throat pulls your attention. “Eh? Do I have something on my face? You’re staring and it’s weirding me out.” His cheeks are pink and he looks absolutely anywhere but your face. “Anyway, what the hell are you doing here in the middle of the night? Couldn’t wait to see me until tomorrow, huh?”

Well.. It’s now or never. You’ve plucked up enough courage to make it this far so you might as well commit.

“Mammon, I like you. A lot. And I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable but I just... do. So. Yeah... Do with that what you will.”

If you weren’t borderline unhinged from the complete lack of sleep and frayed nerves and being so vulnerable, you would find the way his eyes quadrupled in size fucking hilarious.

“Wha? What do you mean? Is this some sort of dumb prank.” You can see him looking past you at the door. He’s searching for his brothers, searching for a camera, searching for the evidence that this is all some elaborate joke at his expense. You can already hear the derisive laughter he’s waiting for playing in his head. ‘Stupid, Mammon.’ ‘How could you think they would ever like you?’ ‘Got you good, huh?’ ‘Actually thought that they might like you? You’re even dumber than we thought-’

You cut off whatever string of insults he’s playing in his own hand by gently touching his face, cupping his cheek with your hand.

“It’s not a joke, Mammon. I like you. And I understand if you don’t feel the same way but... I need you to know that.”

It’s clear that the moment you touch his skin his internalized war rises into a crescendo. It breaks you open to see his eyes soften with a vulnerability you’ve never seen before, blue gold shimmering with an emotion you can’t quite place but sends your heart hammering harder than it ever has before... and then immediately they harden again. “Do you have a fever or something?! Jeez, leave it to a human to get sick right when I’m supposed to be doing something else. I don’t always have time to be-”

He begins to rise from the chair and it’s clear he wants to run, wants to hide, wants to lick his wounds before they can even form. You can tell he’s already written this off as another joke at his expense. If you let him get away from you right now you’ll lose that look you found in his eyes just moments ago for good.

You push down on his shoulders, seating him in the chair again, and then wordlessly climb on top of him, pinning him beneath your weight. Surely he could pick you up and yeet you across the entire god damn room if he wanted to, but the action seems to break the string of negative self talk long enough for you to actually speak to him.

“Mammon.” You grab his face between your hands and force him to look at you. His expression is wild-- scared and hopeful and completely unguarded. “I. Like. You. And it’s not some joke. If you don’t feel the same way just tell me. But if you do-”

You don’t get to finish the rest of the sentence.

Mammon kisses you like you are oxygen and he’s on the verge of drowning. One hand shoots up to the back of your neck, pulling you close, tangling his long tanned fingers in your hair. The other comes to rest on your thigh. It’s all you can do to twine your own fingers through his soft white hair and pull him closer as he rocks into your body. You feel tears begin to well in the corner of your eyes as a surge of emotion races through you. You’ve never felt so much for one person in all your life. It’s enough to make you feel like you’re being crushed under the weight of it all.

At some point you physically can’t keep kissing him because you’re afraid you might actually suffocate. You pull back to take in a breath but he continues to hold you close, keeping his hands in your hair, lips still only inches from your own. You look at him, his eyes are more gold than blue now and you feel like you might catch fire if you look at him too long. You let out a breathy “Oh...”

Apparently he’s decided you’ve had enough time to breath and he’s on you again, pulling you close and making desperate little noises every time you part lips even briefly. You wonder if maybe you can die from catching on fire internally because every part of you feels like it’s engulfed in flames.

Eventually you manage to part again, long enough to put a hand on his chest and keep him from chasing your lips. You’re breathing heavily, trying to suck in air but finding it hard to do so when Mammon is looking at you like he’s just waiting for the chance to devour you again.

“So..” your voice comes out an octave higher than normal and your face turns scarlet, clearing your throat so you can try to speak somewhat normal. “Uh.. I take it... we’re on the same page then? Y’know... about... stuff...?” You’re not exactly eloquent but Mammon just kissed you to the point of ceasing brain function so, really, who can blame you?

There’s a beat of silence, and then Mammon speaks, voice deeper, quieter, and more serious than you’ve ever heard it before. “Don’t leave, okay?”

You’re not really sure what he’s referring to. Leave this chair? Leave the Devildom? Leave him? But he’s raw and real and so fucking perfect staring up at you perfectly kissed like that and the answer comes to you without thinking.

“Never. I’m never leaving. I’m here for as long as you want me.”

Suddenly both of his arms are around your waist, drawing you close. Your face is pushed into his neck and his into yours. You breathe in the smell of his aftershave and shampoo and you’ve never felt more at home. Your hearts are pressed up against one another and you know you’ve never felt more right than in this moment.

The last thing you hear him whisper as you drift off to sleep for the first time in nearly a week is a whispered. “Always... I’m always going to want you, silly human.”

#obey me #obey me! shall we date?#obey me mammon #obey me mammon x reader #obey me mammon x mc #mammon x reader #mammon x oc #obey me imagine #obey me imagines #obey me fic #fic #0-2k

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edelwoodsouls · 4 years

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all roads lead - ch. 4

When his mother dies, Stiles runs away, straight into danger - only to be saved by Peter Hale. Seven years later, after burying their alpha, Stiles and Malia return home.

Word Count: 2,380 | Also on Ao3 | Other Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 5,

Chapter 4: WATER

Stiles has always been a creature who thrives on certainty. On logic. Control. Knowing the variables, knowing the future. Knowing what truly lies in people's hearts, their motivations, their secrets. Knowledge is power is control. Until the nogitsune. Now chaos hums in his bones, in the thrum of his heartbeats. He knows the two aren't so different now. Control is just an illusion, a sliver of rock above a sea of chaos that will drag you back under no matter how hard you cling, and isn't afraid to let the rocks claw you to shreds on the way down. The only true control is instigating the chaos. Still, not knowing where the future will lead is something that sits heavily in his chest, the beginnings of panic that Stiles is oh so used to, but still makes his fingers shake after years. His father went out to make a phone call, still shaken, eyes still glistening. Make yourself at home, kids, he'd said, eyeing Malia with renewed curiosity now the dam has burst. So naturally, Stiles headed for the showers. Four days on coaches across the country coats him in a greasy film, and he desperately needs the rhythm of the water against his skin, the liminal space that seems to exist only in showers, giving him a moment to breathe. He turns the heat as high as it will go, watches his troubles eddy and fall from him into the drain. Being here feels like curling up by the fire, beside Malia, watching as Peter plays the piano tucked in the corner of their apartment with the exagerrated motions of someone overly skilled for the piece he's playing. It's a false comfort, he knows, one he should think twice before allowing to smother him. But he's so tired. The weeks have leeched all the fight from his bones, and this place, Beacon Hills, his father, have reminded him of the days when childhood was something still permitted to him. Stiles has never had a shower so good in his life.

Whilst Malia takes her turn, Stiles stares at himself in the fogged-up mirror. His hair has grown out (when was the last time he cut it?); his bones jut out at awkward angles from his too-pale, shadowed skin (how often has he been eating?). He looks like a man possessed. Has he looked this bad since he actually was? Malia pokes her head around the shower curtain, and he's surprised to see a delighted smile on her face, eyes glinting in that mischevious way that never quite leaves her. "This shower is fucking brilliant," she declares. "I never want to leave." Me neither, a small, too-loud part of him whispers back. Instead he just grins back at her and flicks water from his hair at her. She squeals, vanishing behind the curtain. A moment later, the shower head is turned directly at him, spraying him once more with startlingly hot water. John finds them ten minutes later, deep into the most intense water fight of Stiles' life. The towel tucked around Stiles' waist is soaked, the walls slick, the shower half-heartedly continuing to spray from the bottom of the tub. The two of them are crumpled beside it, chests aching so hard from laughing that the room spins. His father, standing in the doorway with a bemused expression as he takes in the chaos, just sends them into another bout of giggles. "Hey, dad," Stiles says, still gasping, pulling himself up over the lip of the tub and bringing Malia with him. John blinks, something unnameable flitting across his features, gone in an instant beneath a sheriff's poker face. Or maybe a father's one. "I thought you might want a change of clothes," he says, holding up a stack of clothing in between his hands. His eyes look anywhere but the two of them. "Then we should have a talk. I only have clothes for a teenage boy, though..." His eyes drift to Malia's face. She stares at him with the unnerving edge of a coyote's challenge, then extends a hand out for the proffered clothes. Stiles tries, and fails, to imagine Malia in a skirt - the thought is nothing but funny.

"Thanks, Mr Stilinski," she grins at him, wolfish, and bounces out into the hall, letting her hand brush Stiles' for a brief second as she passes.

Then it's just him, and his father. Alone. Silence stretches, and eventually John backs out into the hall and turns away so Stiles can get dressed.

"She's certainly... a character," his father's voice rises eventually. He's looking off distantly down the hall in the direction Malia left.

Stiles snorts. "That's certainly one way to describe Malia," he shrugs.

"And is she...?"

"What?"

"Is she your girlfriend?"

Stiles almost slips over on the floor again. "No," he says vehemently, then stops. How can he explain to his father the utterly entwined connection the two of them have? Siblings doesn't run nearly deep enough (and he thinks most people would frown on naked water fights with siblings at this age). Friends, family - all of it falls short. Society would like to describe them as significant others, simply because normal society deems romantic attraction the highest form of love. But that's something neither of them have ever considered, never would. What they give each other is infinitely stronger, infinitely more empowering. "She's the closest person I have," he says eventually. "We've been through a lot together."

An understatement if ever he heard one.

The clothes he tugs on are soft and warm, far too large for him. Scott's clothes, he realises. Half of him wants to snuggle in closer to them, smell the familiar scent of his old best friend. The other half riles at the smell of another alpha, at the thought of taking his clothes, invading his home.

"So you and Melissa," he says, voice oh so light and casual. His father flinches, turns around instinctively- and stops. Stiles has pulled on most of the clothes, but the tshirt is still half over his head, his chest still clear to see.

Considering how painful it was when he got it, he forgets about the tattoo over his heart far too often. Simple black lines, the symbol of his pack emblazoned forever in his skin, the only scar his body would let him keep. To a layman he supposes it looks like a sharp, angular S, but Peter's love of tradition and meaning, combined with Stiles' own magical training, mean he has learned to read runes like English.

"Eihwaz," Peter had declared when he'd selected the rune as his symbol. "The yew tree. Stability. Endurance. Irreversibility. Perseverance."

And wasn't that the thing that held their little family together? Despite all the odds, they had survived. They had found each other. They had weathered irreversible change and chosen to plant roots, to seek stability, knowing better than most how easily it slipped between their fingers.

In the end, it had done very little to save Peter's life. But here Stiles was, here Malia was, still persevering.

Stiles shoves the tshirt down over the tattoo, and his father's eyes blink away.

"Me and Melissa," he says slowly, as if the ground might crumble with a single word.

"Dad," Stiles says shortly, cutting across. "It's okay, really. You don't need to make any excuses. It's been a while. I'd be surprised if you'd survived this long alone."

And doesn't that just kill the mood.

"Stiles..." his father's tone immediately sets him on edge. "Why are you here? After all this time, why now? Did you want to come home? Did you... did you have a choice?"

Were you kidnapped or did you leave?

Why is he here? To reconnect with his father? To inform Derek and Laura Hale of their uncle's passing? Is he just searching for a reason to keep moving, a direction, a goal, or else he'll shut down and never move again?

"I wanted to come home," he says, and right now it's the truth. "As for choice, it's not that simple, and-" he breathes slowly to ground himself, to calm the swirl of thoughts in his head. "I'm not really ready to talk about it. But, I was hoping... I was hoping we could stay. Find our ground again. For the longest time I've felt like I'm falling, and finally here..."

It feels like home, he doesn't say, but oh how he wants it to be true.

"You're welcome to stay, Stiles," his father says, so quickly a small light flickers to being in Stiles' chest. "You and Malia both. We have a couple spare rooms. But to all the world, you're missing."

Ah. Crap.

"I need to take you to the station, do a full report. You're a minor, so there's a whole bunch of hoops to jump through. As the sheriff I have a certain amount of pull, but there are gonna be questions."

"Not just for me," Stiles cringes. "Malia is from Beacon Hills, too..."

His father nods in consideration, like he's just the corner of a puzzle he's been wrestling with for a while. Stiles really doesn't like that expression. "So she is Malia Tate. I thought she was, though it's been a few years."

The world stops. Stiles isn't here, but somewhere far away. The buzz of electricity in his ears. Blood leaking between his fingers. "You can't send her back there."

John looks up, surprised by the vehemence in his voice.

"I mean it, dad. Don't even tell her dad she's alive. He gave up any right to her when he sent her to Eichen House."

"Stiles..."

"Do you know what they did to her in there? Do you want to know what nightmare you've sent 'problematic' cases into? When we found her, she was-" His voice breaks. He doesn't want to remember the blood of that night, the wild look in Malia's eyes, so driven by animal terror she hadn't even recognised him or Peter.

None of them talk about that year, when Malia left to find herself and came back more lost than ever before. That night, more than anything, has kept him away from the west coast entirely. He's managed this long to keep Beacon Hills and Eichen House separate in his mind, distanced by time and trauma, but how far is it really? An hour's drive? The thought of Malia locked up there again makes something inside him cold with fury.

He won't let it happen, no matter what he has to do.

John doesn't say anything for a moment, clearly mulling over the information - too much - Stiles has just let slip. "I'll do what I can," he nods eventually. Stiles lets go of a breath he hadn't realised was burning his lungs. "I can pull some strings. I can respect your boundaries - up to a point. Eventually you're gonna have to talk to me about all this. Where you've been. How you and an asylum escapee are so close. Or you can talk to a therapist, at least."

The idea of a therapist attempting to untangle the utter clusterfuck of his brain makes Stiles smile.

"And you have to go to school."

He says this like it's a punishment, but Stiles suddenly, unexpectedly relishes the idea. He'd graduated early last year in New York, bored of school and pretending to be dumb just to stay at a regular pace. But the thought of being given something to fill the yawning chasm of time he's found himself with is a good one.

Malia won't like it, but she doesn't like anything involving written words and human social cues, all of which fester inside the halls of a school.

This is their chance, he realises. To live like normal teenagers. To meet people their own age, make friends who aren't pack. To play lacrosse and go iceskating, worry about inane things like homework, and clothing, and - just maybe - college applications.

"Of course," Stiles nods along. "Thank you, dad."

His father gives him an awkward, one armed hug, quickly lets go again. "How about I show you guys your rooms, that way you can get settled while I get started on dinner."

"You, cooking?" Stiles gasps in mock horror.

"Hey, kid, I am now a gourmet chef, I'll have you know. No more charred black fry ups or greasy take out. I'm on the straight and narrow."

"I'll see it when I believe it," Stiles grins.

"You will," John says earnestly. "I like to impress when it's my turn to cook - I'm doing shepherds pie today. Scott and Isaac'll be back from lacrosse practice in a couple hours, and Melissa finishes at six. Dinner at seven?"

Scott'll be back from lacrosse. In the excitement of finally seeing a road ahead of him, he's forgotten the small problem of the supernatural. Does his father know? Does Melissa? How long can he and Malia mask their scents living under the same roof as an alpha?

How the hell did asthmatic, wouldn't-harm-a-fly Scott McCall become an alpha anyway? The idea of Scott with blood on his hands like Stiles makes the world feel entirely wrong.

And who the hell is Isaac?

He manages a smile that's probably more a grimace, though his father doesn't seem to notice the difference. "Dinner at seven sounds great. But, uh, Malia and I only need one room."

"Are you sure?" John looks unsure. "I have two-"

"We sleep together." Stiles' tone leaves no room for discussion, a little too much of that alpha agression showing through. He relaxes immediately, hoping to glaze over the moment. "We both have pretty horrific nightmares. So unless you want screaming at 3AM, probably better for us to just stay together."

He can see his father is hardly convinced. John Stilinski is the sheriff of a town where tragedy is commonplace. He's seen trauma in all its shapes and sizes. He understands it all too well, how it makes an enemy of everything other. Malia and Stiles' closeness isn't simply a bond of friends or pack. They've been through things too awful to imagine together.

It's them against the world. Even against John Stilinski, if needs be.

But his father nods, once, firmly, and that's that.

#teen wolf #fanfiction #stiles stilinski #malia tate #sheriff stilinski #own work #morgan writes

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caeruleusaether · 5 years

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So. I’m not sure where to begin exactly. I’ve started typing this post so many times I’ve lost count. I’ll start with an ending and go from there.

My grandfather died at the end of September. The same day that I found out my grandfather died, my sister told me that she’s pregnant. It was a poignant moment for me. It was the Universe in balance. It was almost like proof of what I believed in and how, while unfeeling, there was a Way of Things. It was a bittersweet day.

The funeral ended up being a celebration of life. I flew out Wednesday, the celebration was on Thursday, went through some of his things Friday, and left Saturday. Alright, fine. There was more to it than that.

Wednesday was a bit of a blur. I spent most of the day flying. I kept thinking about how I was supposed to be meeting up with my friend Serena to hang out with her when she came out to the state to visit. I felt horribly guilty, but she insisted I go. Family is important, she told me.

Thursday was the celebration of life. Listening to all of the things my granddad got up to reminded me of the things I’ve done. My favourite story is of him as a boy. He was trying to reach a bell with a rope attached. A preacher saw him, came over, hoisted him up and granddad rung the bell.

“What now?” the preacher asked.

“We run like hell, preacher-man.”

When he was a little older, he almost created an international incident when he and the son of an ambassador left base because they wanted ice cream. No one could find them for hours. They were found later with ice cream in hand.

As a teen, he stole a car.

When he worked in Navy intelligence, he randomly decided to answer the phone as “Bellybutton.” It caused a bit of confusion because the brass thought it was a code name.

He left the Navy, attended seminary school, and joined the Navy as a chaplain. He retired and became a full time minister.

My grandfather is one of two reasons why I’m still alive.

The entire time my grandmother appeared to be doing well. There was so much to do in the wake of his death that she didn’t have time to think about it. She was “fine” until everyone left the house (I worry about her. I text and call when I can. Especially after finding out how he died).

On Friday, we went through his things. I have a couple of his sweaters and one t-shirt. I snagged his COMDESRON 7 hat, a KBAR knife, and a hatchet. I learned a lot about my family history that day.

His father, Grandpa Jay, was in WWII and the Korean War. In WWII he was part of the 99th Battalion out in Norway. When the war ended, his regiment escorted the King of Norway back into the country. He got a knife, and he described the occasion as “it was like being knighted.” In the Korean War, he and two others were captured. All of three of them tried to escape, but one was captured as he and the other hid in a haystack. If I remember correctly, he got a Purple Heart. I’m told he was never quite the same after the Korean War.

We have pictures and journals of so many of our family members. Nearly all of them were in the military. Granddad was able to trace our line back to a Viking Jarl. I come from a long line of warriors, and it seems fitting that I’m learning to use swords.

Granddad was the third person of my family to die. In May my brother died (we were both in the military, and he was close to being my brother without actually being related to me by blood). My uncle died (he was my dad’s best friend, and he was always my uncle). And then granddad. All in this year. I was/am depressed. So much loss to cope with, and the only thing I could determine was that life is too short for burnt coffee.

I’m going to wear those beautiful dresses I have hiding in the back of my closet. I’m going to try the new makeup looks. I’m going to save up money to buy a 1966 Ford mustang.

I reexamined a lot of things in my life. Writing was at the top of my list. I was talking with Serena about how NaNoWriMo was right around the corner a few weeks ago. I always felt like I added too much fluff and not enough substance when I tried to write a novel, and I always end up purging most of it because it wasn’t important to the story. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I’m not a novelist. My short fiction was superior to my novel length works. In novels, I tend to get lost or lose the point. Short fiction? I was able to wrap everything up neatly, not get lost, and leave an impact.

The realization was freeing. This year I’m participating in NaNo, but writing short stories to be pulled into an anthology series called Another World. The stories are “A Moment of Resonance,” “The Temporal Dimension of Liminality,” and “The Ghosts of Black Holes” so far. I have a couple more in mind, but I don’t know if I’ll finish them before the month is out.

(I also got mad at myself for changing the ending of the first arc/short story for Variations on a Theme of You. The changes effect what happens in the second arc/short story, which means a near total rewrite. I’ll tackle that after NaNo)

I also moved in with a roommate. Things might settle down a little, but don’t hold your breath. We all know how Life is, and how weird and unpredictable it can be.

But that’s me, and all that’s happened from my last post until now. I’m hoping to get back on a regular schedule of posting again. Be on the lookout for more stories and updates

Life is too Short for Burnt Coffee So. I'm not sure where to begin exactly. I've started typing this post so many times I've lost count.

#family #Gwen&039;s absurd drama filled life #life and death #nanowrimo #photos #writing

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alleiradayne · 7 years

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For DWC - welcome :): The creak of leather, characters of choice

For my first trick piece in the DA Drunk Writing Circle, I’m going to stick with my most commonly written ship, Amallia x Cullen. I am not drunk enough for this. And I promise the title will make sense. Eventually. @dadrunkwriting (doesn’t seem to let me tag it). Also tagging @ma-sulevin.

Soap

Pairing: Amallia x Cullen, Inquisition universeWord Count: 1606Rating: Somewhat NSFW (language, innuendo)

Shadows stretched across the yard like the reaching fingers of an ominous spirit grasping through the Veil. Behind the towering mountains the sun descended, twilight shades of blue and purple and pink slashing the sky with their vibrant hues. It had rained while she was away, the damp aroma of timber and stone filling her nose as Amallia passed through the portcullis and into the courtyard of Skyhold.

Exhausted, she dismounted from her hart, grasping the reins by the beast’s chin and leading her to the stables. Her graceful gate, long and light, followed her without question, eager as she was to be home.

Home.

Odd to think of the abandoned fortress in such a way, but the castle had grown on her, charming and mysterious in its secrets, in its solitude.

Safe and solid.

Maker, it had to be a coincidence. As she neared the stables, voices echoed into the yard, a soft timbre of casual conversation finding her ears. Leading the hart to her stall, she spotted Commander Cullen and Master Dennet two stalls over, admiring a Fereldan mare.

“Strong shoulders, tall and lean,” she heard Cullen comment. “And I know her gate, a long stride for her long legs.”

Master Dennet grunted, agreeing. “She has an impressive frame. Strong as any warhorse I’ve known.”

Opening the gate, Amallia drew the hart into her stall and began removing her tack. As she worked, she chanced a look across the stalls to see what it was the two men were doing, curiosity piqued.

“I have a feeling,” Cullen began as he stroked the mare’s nose. She nuzzled him, huffing his hands for a morsel. “She’ll be perfect,” he finished.

Master Dennet grunted again with a nod. “She’ll be ready for you in the morning,” he stated as he turned on his heel and left the stall, Cullen remaining with the mare.

Scratching her jaw, Cullen cupped her chin and held her to his chest, his silver breastplate and cowl traded for a plain tunic in the oppressive heat. Though the mountains provided cooler weather, the unrelenting summer sun had scorched their perch since their arrival.

With the reins and bridle removed, Amallia hung them on the hook behind her, then turned to find Cullen staring at her. And, as if caught, he averted his gaze, returning to the mare for a final pat between the ears and a kiss on her long nose. “Until tomorrow,” he muttered as he left her stall, latching it behind him.

She expected him to turn in for the evening, or find a pint in the Herald’s Rest, but instead of either, Cullen headed straight for her stall. Outside, he stopped, resting his forearms on the gate.

“Bears?”

How? How had he known? She’d sent no missives, no ravens. And yet, he knew, read her like an open book. Resigned, she groaned as she began to unbuckle her saddle. “So many bears.”

“You’ll get used to it,” he said with a chuckle, but she didn’t laugh.

Bone-weary, her hands slipped on the strap and she cursed, unrepentant. Maker, but the last thing she wanted to do was brush down the hart after treating her tack. It would be the middle of the night before she found her bed and dawn before she knew an hour of sleep.

“I can … would you like me to help?”

She turned to find Cullen a step into the stall, a worried frown creasing his brow and the gate held open as he hesitated. Maker, what was his game? Did he even know? She’d tried flirting with him in Haven, and that had led to what she thought was a kiss that meant so much more. But then …

Then she’d nearly died.

“Can you just undo the strap?” she asked, abandoning the thought.

Without question, Cullen stepped between her and the hart, and with one swift pull, wrenched the buckle free as though it were nothing. But in that moment, that liminal second, Amallia lingered an eternity. His broad shoulders rolled, flexing with his arms, and the creak of straining leather sang a song so sweet, she could have wept.

The strap fell from his hands, free of the buckle and leather relaxed. “Thank you,” she whispered, breathless and dizzy.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice cracking not unlike the leather she grasped.

“I’m exhausted,” she replied. “The ride back was not easy. And bears.”

“Quite a few bears?” he asked with a smirk.

“Maker’s breath, so many bears,” she repeated as she lifted the saddle and made for the barn.

He took it from her without a word and she let him, glad to be rid of the weight. Following him into the barn, Amallia managed a soft giggle at the thought of more bears, her sanity slipping. But then an appalled gasp rent the calm air and her yellow blade appeared in her hand, summoned by instinct.

“This saddle,” Cullen admonished, ignoring her weapon, “is appalling. When was the last time it was cleaned?”

Confused, her spirit blade shattered in a bright burst of green and gold sparks. “I oil it after every day’s ride.”

“That’s …” Cullen started, looking from the saddle and back to her. “Nobody ever taught you.”

“Taught me what?” she snapped, impatient and irritable in her exhaustion.

He set the saddle on the stand and then retrieved a bucket and a bar of lard from Blackwall’s work bench, then strode from the barn, leaving her with her thoughts.

No, of course no one had taught her how to clean leather. The Circle had seen to that. It was a skill they had omitted from her education. And the only thing that seemed to keep the saddle lustrous was the oil she’d seen Bull use on the handle of his axe. Void take the Circle, she should have known better.

Cullen returned with the bucket full of water and a cloth hanging from a pocket. The lard floated in the water, rings of bubbles floating to the edge in rings. He set the bucket beside the saddle stand and then motioned for her to stand beside him.

“Leather can be cleaned just like any other fabric, expect you don’t rinse,” he explained as he grasped her hand and put the rag in it. “You buff it out with a dry rag.”

For the first time in a fortnight, Amallia reeled at the sensation of her hand in his. Until that moment, she had forgotten his touch, the calloused palms and deft fingers. And in that same moment, Cullen withdrew, a spasm of shock snatching back his hand.

“I’m … I didn’t mean to …”

She dropped the cloth in the bucket, soaking it through and grasping the lard to lather. With a hopeful smile, she asked, “Show me?”

His shoulders eased, tension draining from him with a sigh of relief. Stepping behind her, his arms encircled hers, shadowing her as he instructed. “You can work the soap into the leather in circles, like this,” he started, his hand enveloping hers.

Under their weight, the leather creaked again, forming to the stand. As they worked across the surface, Amallia followed along, his muscles dictating her movement. And then the citrus aroma of the lard filled her nose, drawing a memory from Haven to the forefront of her mind.

“Is this why you smell like oranges?”

His free hand found her hip, pulling her flush against him. “Citrus soap and steel oil,” he replied. “Yes, although I scent my steel oil with–”

“Elderflower and oak moss.”

Continuous circles lathered the soap into the leather as he hummed his agreement, breath hotter than the summer wind on her neck. “You have an excellent sense of smell, Inq– Amallia.”

She opened her mouth to respond but the crackle of stretching leather filled the void as Cullen leaned into her, stretching her arm down the length of the saddle. Words failed her, the press of his entire body engulfing her senses whole.

“You’re good at this,” he commented.

Amallia stuttered, coherent thought a million miles away. “I’m not doing anything.”

The cloth fell to the bucket as he withdrew her hand from the saddle. “Are you sure?” he asked, lathered hand finding the crook of her neck. Icy cold water soothed her scalding skin, runnels trailing down the front of her tunic. “I would argue you’ve done more than you know.”

She grasped the saddle as he pinned her against it, and Amallia thanked the Maker the darkness had sent most in Skyhold to their quarters, that the barn had been abandoned hours ago. How scandalous a story it would be, the Inquisitor and the Commander of her forces? Tongues would wag for months.

The brush of his lips on her ear sent a violent shock of arousal to her core and a whimper burst from her chest, unbidden and desperate for release. She drank from the well that was his embrace, deprived of it for so long she forgot how sweet he tasted. She turned into him, her lips finding his with incessant need and their urgent moans mingled for another verse in their ballad. His tongue, his hands, Maker, the pure weight of his presence consumed every fiber of her existence, cleansing as the flames of Andraste.

There in the darkness of the stables and hidden by the night’s blessed embrace, they knew each other as they once had so many nights ago. Leather sang its familiar song as she sat upon the supple saddle, a refrain of their love echoed in celebration of their reunion at last.

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