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twstjam · 10 months

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"I've got writer's block," I admit, and am immediately overtaken by the urge to write something. Anyways this is brought to you by that one tiktok audio ("I should go back before ____ realises I'm not in bed!") and "Malleus sleeps in a nightgown/sleeping gown" brainrot. Idk i just love it okay. this features: married!Malleyuu and implied besties Sebek and Yuu (don't tell me he wouldn't be their right-hand man after they marry Malleus. They were besties in college!!!)

Crown Prince Malleus stirs slowly from his peaceful slumber. In his arms, his spouse is still as they remain within the realm of dreams.

Malleus sighs contentedly as he holds your small, soft body closer and burrows his face into your hair.

"Good morning, my love…" he trails off uncertainly as his nose buries into something soft. Too soft. Malleus finally opens his eyes and realises with a start that he was not, in fact, holding his beloved in his arms, but a mere pillow. Lifting himself up on his elbows, he ascertains that your side of the bed is in fact woefully empty.

Malleus sits up in alarm. He very vividly remembers falling asleep with you the previous night, so why has he woken up all alone?

"Child of man? Darling?" he calls out to the empty room. The door to the bathroom is closed and he can hear no sound from it and neither can he hear anything from the closet. His sleeping gown brushes his ankles as he slides out of bed to go search for you anyway. He calls your name with each poke of his head past the doorways and receives no answer.

Malleus grows increasingly frantic as he quickly walks towards the bedroom's double doors and throws them open.

He yells your name out into the hall and is only responded by echoes of his own voice. He hears the castle's caretakers startle and yelp in surprise. He must've been louder than he had intended to be.

Malleus's bare feet patter on the cold stone floors as he hurries towards the equally urgent steps of one of his attendants.

"My liege!" the maid exclaims in surprise when he almost runs her over in his haste. Still though, she doesn't miss a beat and bows. "Good morning, sire. Is something the matter with their highness?"

"I do not know," Malleus's voice is level but slightly sharper than his usual tone. He's putting all his effort into not letting his panic surface but his lips have also downturned into a severe pout. "That is the issue. You see, I woke up with them missing from my side. Where are they?"

The question is spoken more like a demand. Expectant. He unconsciously scowls fiercely at the maid before him, who begins to tremble. She lowers her head reverently.

"Forgive me, my lord. I am not aware of their whereabouts."

Malleus's glare deepens and he walks past her. She quickly hurries after him, squeaking about his lack of footwear and proper attire.

"Where are our guards? Silver. Sebek!" He doesn't wait for the maid to respond before shouting for them. The guards of the castle stiffen and stand at attention at their posts when he nears them. Several of the other castle staff pause and bow. Malleus searches among them for Silver, Sebek or, better yet, his missing spouse, but upon finding no sign he sniffs and places his hands on his hips. "Where is my partner? How can any of you have allowed this?! Where are your commanders? Retrieve them this instant!"

Thunder rumbles faintly in the distance. The soldiers bow their heads and chorus their affirmations, but one of the guards bravely displays their confusion on their face.

"I apologise for questioning you, my lord, but do you request us to retrieve your spouse or—?"

"Find them. Find them at once!" Malleus cuts them off sharply. The soldier shrinks back but they continue to look up at him with a furrowed brow. Malleus reigns in his anger with a deep breath before saying, calmer this time, "Send someone to retrieve Commanders Zigvolt and Vanrouge. Tell them that I have summoned them. The rest of you, search for my spouse. Now!"

"Yes, Lord Malleus!" the guards chorus, but right as they're about to scatter to fulfil the orders of their prince, a gentle voice, starkly different in comparison to the prince's roars and the castle's dark walls, draws their attention.

"There will be no need for that."

Commander Silver Vanrouge marches down the hall swiftly and elegantly, the long tail of his uniform's coat billowing behind him. The only thing that disrupts his intimidating image is the way his silvery hair sticks up on one side.

Silver stops in front of him and Malleus notices a little bat peer up at him from where it clings to the human's shoulder.

"Silver." Malleus's nerves ease slightly in the presence of one of his closest confidants. "What do you mean?"

"When I woke up this morning, the bats reported to me of your partner's departure from the castle after midnight." As he relays this information to his prince, Silver casually reaches up and allows the bat to climb onto his hand and hang off his fingers.

"Departure?" Malleus repeats with wide eyes.

Silver nods. Before Malleus can begin to question him further, Silver elaborates, "Worry not. They were not alone."

"Weren't they now?" The brief relief that swells in Malleus's chest is quickly washed away by irritation. "And who was this that also did not think to inform me of my spouse's sudden disappearance in the night?!"

Silver pauses at that. Even with Malleus's furious glare trained on him, he doesn't falter and seems reluctant for a completely unrelated reason.

"…I assume that neither of them wished to wake you."

At the quiet words, Malleus is so suddenly reminded of a time many years ago when Silver barely reached his waist and his features were much rounder and softer than the adult human guard before him.

"…He won't get in trouble if I tell you, right?"

Still though, despite the twinge of nostalgia, Malleus narrows his eyes at Silver. His sheepish expression says it all.

Malleus's pout deepens. He huffs an irritated breath and murmurs your name and Sebek's, followed by, "Those two…!"

Green flame bursts past his lips and his gown billows as he throws up his fists and stomps his foot into the stone floor with a crack not unlike a child throwing a tantrum.

"Where have they gone?!"

------

You're rudely awakened by someone shaking your shoulders. Sebek shouts your name and mumbles a comparison to Silver as you finally come to.

"This is no time for napping!" he snaps. "It is almost daylight. We must return to the castle at once!"

A little giggle comes from your left and you see Lilia smiling down at you. His shoulder-length hair spills over his shoulders as he tilts his head.

"Sebek's right," Lilia says in a deep and raspy voice, one that still takes you by surprise how different it is from how he sounded back at Night Raven. "A dragon gets quite restless when they are apart from their mate for too long. And you said that you snuck out?" He shakes his head disapprovingly.

"Hey, you've got no room to talk, old man," you snip back at him. He dramatically puts a hand to his chest as if he'd been wounded. "It wouldn't be a surprise if I told Tsunotarou what I'm up to."

You pick up your bag and Sebek helps you to your feet. You look into your bag before slinging it on. The jars inside and their contents consisting of many, many, many fireflies had remained undisturbed.

"Goodbye dears, it was wonderful to see you!" Lilia chirps as he waves you off. Both you and Sebek grin and wave back.

"It has been a pleasure as always, Master Lilia!"

"Yeah, thanks for helping us out!" As you wave at him, you glance up at the sky and realise with a start that Sebek really wasn't kidding about it almost being morning. "Okay, I really should get back before Tsunotarou realises I'm not in bed—"

You're abruptly cut off by a sharp roll of thunder and a flash of green lightning. Sebek shrieks and instinctively lowers his head while Lilia gives you an aggravating "I told you so" smile.

#twisted wonderland #malleus draconia #malleyuu #lilia vanrouge #twst yuu #twst silver #silver vanrouge #sebek zigvolt #malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia x yuu #malleus draconia x mc #matcha writes a bit

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 3 months

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Hi! I would like to request a oneshot with gender neutral reader x Ghost. If you don't mind non-sexual intimacy. I don't know if this is too OOC. They get to a new stepp on their relationship, but soon after reader disappears and he can't find them. A little angst-y?

Lateness of the Hour (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader)

Summary: Simon wakes up a few hours after sex - the first time you had sex. But he doesn't find you beside him and fears for the worst settles in.

Content warnings: Simon's got hella self-doubt and trauma around sex, references to sex so minors DNI.

Masterlist

Ever the light sleeper, Simon started awake at an unknown hour and reached out for you to confirm the reason for his breech of slumber. An empty spot, starting to cool, guided his gaze over to the bathroom door. Bless you, you kept the light off so that you wouldn’t wake him. Simon contented himself to wait for you to come out, to wave your hands about like a zombie until you found your way back through the dark to his side.

He slipped out the covers and strode over the bathroom when a minute had passed. His consciousness was scolding him all the way because, in his drained state, he’d neglected to listen for what you were doing in the bathroom. Which was nothing, because you weren’t here.

A hunt through the flat began, Simon clearing each room with the probability of him retrieving the gun from its safe increasing in likelihood with each step. His dressing gown slowed his movements just a fraction. His lungs kept the same tempo but each inhale became more and more laboured.

The kitchen was barren, no sleepy partner hunting for a late night drink. Your shoes were all still by the door. Pyjamas had gone so you were clothed.

How, in all his battlefield wisdom and superior senses, he missed you the first time around, he didn’t know. But the split second he spied the bundle upon the couch, the lump buried beneath the throw pillows and blankets, he was upon his knees before them and parting the plushness until he found your sweet face.

As if you knew, you opened your eyes. You two stared at each other for a few rounds of breathing. Simon glanced down to see you’d put your pyjamas back on.

His silent question hung in the air like perfume: why are you out here?

“You were kicking in your sleep.”

You’ve put them off; they don't want you, flashed behind Simon’s eyes.

He blinked hard, his eyelids squeezing the thought out of his head like juice from a lemon. Sure, it’d taken over a year to get to this stage in your relationship but you weren’t that repulsed by him, were you?

“Sorry,” He offered you. Yet you shook your head, cheek rubbing against the pillow before you pushed to sit up and reply.

“Not your fault.”

You’d said the same thing to him the first time you’d tried taking a step towards intimacy last May. He’d frozen up then and he froze up now.

“I didn’t wanna wake you to tell you,” You added.

Another silent question plagued Simon’s mind, hiding in his throat, as irritating as a cough.

Leaning up, swaying as you did so as you weren’t yet free from the hooks of sleep, you kissed his cheek that was ploughed by acne scars and knife slashes.

“You want me to come back?” You mumbled.

Hand brushing over where your shoulder was hidden beneath the blankets, Simon stared directly in your eye, “Want you to get some rest.”

So you repeated, “Do you want me to come back to bed with you, Simon?”

God, he wished he had his mask to hide whatever expression was on his face that made it so easy for you to read him.

You were being respectful, giving him space if he wanted it. But Simon didn’t want that. No, he wanted you crushed against him until your bodies became one, his clay skin moulded into yours and spun and squashed and smoothed to vanish the creases that had defined you as two. Even if it meant bruising you like a peach as he lashed out during his sleep, he would wake up to cradle your pulpy remains and soak up all the goodness you’d give, because he would never get enough now that he’d finally had a taste of you.

He felt like a parasite.

“Yeah,” he admitted, at last.

Already, you were up out of your burrow and carrying the burden of the task back to your room. Simon followed, still guilt-ridden over disturbing you during your time of rest.

Perhaps he didn't deserve the feeling of the bedclothes sealing his body close beside yours in your bed. Then you patted the empty space between you - an invitation that he heartily, greedily, remorsefully accepted.

Like a weighted blanket, he wrapped himself around you, tucking his head beneath your chin. His cropped hair bristled and his cool body, now free from its dressing gown, suckered itself to your skin. As you cradled your giant teddy, you soaked up his concerns over your sleep schedule with a resolute stare at the ceiling. Your hands warmed away the very notion that you were ever repulsed by him, his body, his history. And the way Simon clung to you and you to him, it made the vow to never leave this bed – to never leave each other – again.

______________________________________

AN: Thanks for this request! Sorry it got so long to get to, I've been settling into a new job. Let me know if you want another request, check out which characters/things I write for in the pinned post!

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost fanfic #simon riley fanfic #cod fanfic #cod x reader #mw2 x reader #mw2 fanfic #my writing #wc: <1k #r: gn

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wintaerbaer · 3 months

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so eden sank to grief (knj)

summary: He just wants to make you happy. It seems to be the one thing he can no longer give.

pairing: Namjoon x Reader

rating: sfw (but maybe tears?)

genre: established relationship au, breakup au

word count: 1.2k

warnings: HEAVY ANGST, implied infertility problems, this is just the straight-up collapse of a marriage (i'm sorry)

a/n: found this buried on my old college laptop. i wrote this for a class a decade ago and figured i'd give it the fic treatment because why not (though i'm a little wary because i think it showcases how my writing has since declined lmaooo)

MASTERLIST

Namjoon’s never been a religious man, but when he sees you walking down the aisle towards him, he’s suddenly certain that there must be a heaven. With your eyes lit up like fireflies and your smile stretched wide across your face, you’re looking at him like he’s everything.

You look happy.

And it’s all he’s ever wanted to give you.

From where he stands he can see you tugging on your father’s arm, taking too-fast steps in that so-white dress, and he tries to project the thought that he’s not going anywhere—you don’t need to rush. Your father leans over to say something into your ear, and it must be along that same string of thought because you slow down ever so slightly, a frown momentarily dipping into the bow shape of your mouth before twisting back up into a grin even brighter than the one that came before it.

When you finally—finally—reach the alter, your father places your hand in his, and your fingers curl around each other, so warm as you turn to him with your tongue poking out from behind your teeth.

“Hey,” he whispers.

You laugh in response.

The officiant begins to talk, but all he hears is static because all he can think about is the svelte line of your body in that dress and your soft curls all pinned back and how it feels to have his hand pressed against the bare curve of your hip, tangled in white sheets, and he’s probably staring at you like a slack-jawed, lovesick fool, but he can’t really bring himself to care about any flack he might receive later.

He loves you.

You’re happy.

That’s all that matters.

The ceremony passes in a blur of sound and color, and then at last he’s kissing his wife—wedding band wrapped around his finger and the church bells ringing in his ears.

He wakes at 2:13am, the pang in his gut becoming too much to ignore even in sleep. The weight of the day hangs around his neck like a noose, choking him until he’s gasping for air. He rolls over, finds your face on the pillow next to his. Even in sleep, your features are twisted, crumpled.

You look broken.

It makes him ache in a way that he just can’t handle at the moment, and so he swings his legs over the side of the bed and presses his feet into the carpet that’s turned pearly white from the moonlight dancing over it. It’s too good of a color—too innocent, too pure—and he curls his toes as if he could scrape it away, make it feel the pain that he feels, make it reflect the inner turmoil of his soul.

He stands and makes his way into the hall, fighting every bone, every muscle, every pore that begs him to stop—demands instead that he lay down and die. And it is too much—it really is—as he stumbles into the small bedroom and throws himself down in the middle of it.

It hurts even more in here and for some distorted reason that makes it better. Here, he can feel every welt, bruise, and contusion of his heart and somehow—somehow—giving in to the pain makes it hurt less.

And so he sits alone in the nursery, save for the pale walls and the wooden rocking horse that he had bought one summery afternoon during a useless fit of optimism. For reasons he can’t even begin to understand, he finds himself crying over that damn horse—over how it no longer has a purpose, how it’s essentially been condemned to sitting alone in this empty bedroom day after day. He winds up curled at its side, choking on great, heaving sobs that wrack his entire body.

It’s the same place where you find him in the morning.

He’s watching film from your wedding when you come down the stairs looking absolutely striking in your sleek black dress with the matching high heels.

“What are you doing?” you ask. And still, after all these months, your voice sounds dead.

Flat.

He gestures at the television screen where the two of you are swaying on the dance floor during your reception. “Remember this?”

Your eyes flick up as you regard the image with what can only be described as complete and utter indifference—the sides of your mouth don’t twitch like they used to when you’d try to hold back a smile, nor do your eyes brighten in any way.

Simply nothing.

You don’t say a word about the homemade movie, just turn your back to him and say, “Can you zip me up?”

He gently places his hand at your waist for support, but you flinch so he pulls it back, grasps fabric instead as he glides the zipper up to the nape of your neck.

And then you’re walking away, your figure retreating into the kitchen for your purse before heading out the door, and he’s left wondering why this all went so terribly wrong—what he or you could have possibly done to deserve having the final, beautiful wisps of your past life disappear like smoke, slipping through his fingers as the two of you were sucked into a raging cataclysm of grief.

He just wants to make you happy.

It seems to be the one thing he can no longer give.

He arrives home in a swirl of shivers and coughs, the downpour outside doing nothing to help his health nor his psyche. He kicks off his boots, flips on a light, and is greeted by what seems to be an empty house.

That’s not right.

You always get home before him.

He takes a few hesitant steps forward, the feeling of wrong wrong wrong wrapping its long fingers around his gut and squeezing and suddenly, he’s speeding around the house calling your name.

You’re not in the living room, napping on the couch with a book propped on your chest; you’re not in the kitchen, cooking dinner with the radio on; you’re not in your bedroom or the bathroom or the nursery-turned-office or the laundry room or the den.

You’re just gone.

He’s always had a feeling that this day would come, but it does nothing to suppress the flood of agony that swells up, rushes in, and drowns him as he staggers back into your bedroom. Now that he’s looking, he can see how things are different—shifted, twisted, tilted.

Your perfumes and jewelry have vanished from the dresser, the painting that you bought a few months back is no longer on the wall, and the pair of slippers that usually sit next to the bed are missing. He moves to the closet, throws it open to confirm what he already knows to be true.

Your side is empty.

He falls to his knees, the last of his composure crumbling away as he gives himself over to the earth-shattering reality that lies before him—trembling beneath the glint of gold that is your wedding ring lying solitary on the bed.

a/n: apologies for any emotional damage. please feel free to rant at me in the replies or my inbox, and my lawyers will see to it as soon as possible. <3

#bts x reader #bts x you #bts imagines #bts angst #bts fic #bts fanfic #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #namjoon angst #namjoon fic #namjoon fanfic #namjoon imagines

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devil-doms · 1 year

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When MC dies

AN: whoops, i kinda went back and forth between them finding out in the moment and how they act in the long run. my bad

Lucifer:

He buries himself in work, even taking part in Diavolos papers. He acts like he’s fine, humans are supposed to die. This was normal. He wants to convince himself that he was fine. He stares at the paperwork, waiting for words to appear onto his paper, but nothing was happening. Why wasn't anything showing up? A tear rolled down his cheek, he couldn’t convince himself any longer. His pride was broken. He tries to get himself together before mentally preparing himself to tell his brothers.

Mammon:

He pretends it didn’t happen. You are still very much alive and well. He will still call your number to listen to your voicemail message. That’s how he knows you’re okay, your voice is there. How could you talk if you were dead? He sits there as he processes what he’s doing, he breaks out in loud sobs. He couldn't be there for his human, he couldn't see them, and now its too late. No amount of grimm could make him feel better, there was no price tag on you. As his first, you could never be replaced.

Levi:

He tries to comfort himself. He orders your favorite snacks, watches the animes you watched together, he curls up with his body pillow and thinks of it as you. He hugs it and talks to it as if you’re still there and listening to him. He hasn’t left him room is weeks, his brothers don’t bother to force him to leave because they want to do the same thing. He wants to go to you to talk about it, he knew he could always go to you. Every time he thinks that, he reaches for his phone to message you, then he remembers that he is on his own this time.

Satan:

Rage. He completely loses his composure and destroys everything around him. He throws his books around, knocks everything off his desk, punches the wall, his anger was clouding his vision. He goes to rip one of his pillows from his bed when he catches a glimpse of a cat plushie you had gotten for him. He could feel you looking at him through the plush. His eyes swell with tears and he drops to the floor.

Asmo:

His heart drops. The one person he loved more than himself…was dead…? He pulls a Levi and hides himself in his room. He completely lets himself go, he doesn’t do makeup, wash his face, do his hair. His nail polish was chipped and his skin was breaking out. He stares at your photos together and zooms in on your face. He begins crying seeing your beautiful, smiling face.

Beel:

“No, not again…” He thinks to himself. He knows humans can’t live forever but he thought maybe you could. That you were different. He goes to the kitchen and does the only thing he knows what to do, eat. It doesn’t help, it’s not working. He just feels empty. He goes to your room to feel surrounded by you when he sees Belphie in your bed. He comforts his younger brother once again, he knew this feeling all too well.

Belphie:

He wears one of your hoodies and curls up into your bed. He pulls your blankets up over his head, surrounding himself with your scent. He sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps, waiting for the day you wake him up. Waiting for you to tell him he’s running late. Waiting for you to yell at him for missing your date. Waiting for you to comfort him. He knows deep down it’ll never happen again, and he’ll be forever waiting.

#:)#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons #💜

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ashleigghh · 4 months

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Day 28- lazy day. Jegulus, 538 words.

Regulus rolls over in his bed, groaning at the bright light and burying his face into his pillow. Hie head was pounding, every little noise echoing in his head and beating on his brain. His mouth was unbearably dry and there was an odd stale taste coating his teeth and tongue.

He feels awful, never wants to drink again and is going to kick his brother in the face for encouraging him last night. He presses his hands over his ears, trying to drown out some of the noise and then jumps when a hand rests gently on his shoulder,

“Hey Reg,” James whispers, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing Regulus’ shoulder slightly to get him to turn back over, “I got you some water,”

Regulus lifts his head up, squinting as he peers at James who was just as drunk if not more so last night but now appears to be fine, “That’s not fair, you drank more than me,” Regulus mumbles, pulling himself up with a long drawn out groan as his muscles pull and ache.

“Can you please shut the blinds,” Regulus takes the large glass of water and closes his eyes again, bringing the cup to his lips and chugging the water, barely even washing away the staleness. He can hear James moving and the slow lowering of his blinds which seems to be unnecessarily loud and opens his eyes again slowly, placing the now empty cup on the bedside table and thanking James quietly.

“Do you want some painkillers?” James asks, keeping his voice soft as he comes back over, placing a kiss on the top of Regulus' head and grinning at him like he finds this whole situation hilarious.

“Please,” Regulus pleads, massaging his temples as he tries not to be sick. James grabs the glass and leaves the room, returning moments later with something to aid Regulus. He swallows them with a grimace, and then flops down into James’ lap, closing his eyes as James scratches his scalp and runs his hand through his hair.

“I’m never drinking again,” Regulus mumbles, his body limp and curled up as small as possible in James’ lap, James laughs and twirls the ends of Regulus’ hair, looking and smelling so unbelievably perfect that Regulus feels like he doesn’t deserve him.

“You had fun though, yeah?” James’ voice is loving and Regulus wishes he wasn’t feeling so awful right now. He hums lowly in response and thinks back to the events of the night before.

“I don’t want to see Sirius right now, I might throw up on him just from the memory of how much he got me to drink,” Regulus closes his eyes and tries to dissolve into James’ body, wanting them to be closer than physically possible.

“That’s okay, we’ll just have a lazy day today,” James is so kind that it makes Regulus feel guilty, and sick like this is something that he doesn’t deserve, something he isn’t worthy of, something he needs to apologise for receiving. “We can watch films and eat junk and rot away in here all day, it’ll be perfect.”

Regulus fights back tears, propping himself up on his elbows to kiss James deeply.

#marauders era #christmas #christmas writing challenge #regulus black #james potter #james x regulus #jegulus #james is a simp #regulus is a simp #love them sm

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applcrumbl · 2 years

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Liar Liar (Pants on Fire)

Pairings: Eddie Munson X F! Reader Warnings: SMUT, Minors DNI, 18+, porn without plot tbh, P in V penetration, oral (f!recieving), fingering, use of pet names Author’s Note: I’m really horny today, literally might go find a tinder date just for a shag. In the meantime, have this! Also, I tried to write this to be as inclusive as possible but please let me know how I can be better!

Summary: Don't lie to Eddie, baby. Or do, It might just work out in your favour

Neither of you remembered how it started this time, but neither of you particularly cared much either. The humidity of Eddie’s trailer encouraging you as you pulled your clothes off, and tumbled into bed.

The knot in Eddie's stomach tightened as his balls slapped rhythmically against your cunt. Skilled hands reached blindly around your stomach to toy at your clit as he ploughed you like a steam train without any brakes. His thighs were red raw from the collision of skin between him and your ass cheeks. But he didn’t mind, he was close, and hearing your sweet moans like nectar was pushing him over the edge.

Your face, though buried in a pillow, twisted in delight as you felt your end nearing. Eddie’s hand swapped place from your clit to instead pinch softly at your nipples. Pulling your body up and against his chest, he angled you to face the mirror opposite his bed. The perfect empty spot between his beloved guitar, and metal band posters. He peered over your shoulder and into the reflection of the mirror.

“God damn’ he moaned, nose pressed to your neck as he looked forward through his eyelashes. “You smell so good”

Eddie’s spare hand slid back down to your swollen bundle of nerves, circling just in the way you liked. Your arms up, pulling at the hair on top of his head. “Don’t stop, Eddie”

The build-up continued, the hastened but sloppy sounds of your skin hitting Eddie’s; the steady rubbing of your clit as he tweaked your nipple; his grunted moans in your ear, right where you wanted them. Needed them.

It was coming, nearing. You were close, so close. Close to the point that you’d reached your limit. Almost ready to explode over the edge, throwing yourself back onto Eddie’s thrusts. It was coming. It was near. Nearer, here, HERE, Oh My God!-

Gone.

Eddie pulled out quickly, knocking you over to shoot his load onto your back. His hips stuttered and jolted, coming down for his high quickly. Lips between his teeth as he came onto your ass. His eyes not once leaving yours in the mirror.

Eddie was always quick to clean you up after a round, desperate to pull you into a cuddle and have a quick nap. It was something you loved about him. He wanted you to stay. Yet, you couldn't help but wish, that just once. Just this once. He would flip you over and have his way with you, for a round two.

Wiping your back with a random rag from his floor, Eddie slid the pair of you under his covers. In his hands: a clean t-shirt ready for you to wear. You pulled it over your head and turned to face the wall. Hands clasped between your thighs, you rocked slightly. Craving any sort of friction, something to relieve you from the agony of this ruined orgasm.

“Holy shit, baby” Eddie exclaimed, laying on his back and pulling fresh underwear on. Cock still sprouted in a semi, he palmed himself gently, “that was great.”

You just nod quietly in agreement. It was great, it was perfect, just until it wasn't.

Something was wrong, Eddie clocked, turning a head of messy curls to meet you. Turned away from him and grinding gently. “Y/N” he called, watching you with round eyes. “You okay?”

To give him his dues, Eddie was also fairly observant, and seldom oblivious when it came to your feelings. It may take him a while to recognise, but he could always tell when something was up.

“Did you cum?” he asked, bluntly. Your hips stopped their rocking movement.

There were two ways you could answer. You could be honest, tell him that you were almost there. Or you could lie. Spare his feelings, sort yourself later.

You chose the latter: “Yeah baby, I did”

“Liar.”

Quick to call your bluff, Eddie was. Eyeing your back as he turned his body to face you. Hands snaking down your sides and to your thighs, where your own hands were pressed to your warm folds.

“I’ll ask you one more time” he states, nipping at your shoulder with his teeth. “Did you cum?”

Big brown eyes caught yours as the pair of you rolled over. Eddie sat upright as he placed you facing him on his lap, legs on either side of his pale thighs. You shook your head no, in reference to his earlier question.

No words were exchanged as Eddie kissed you passionately. Laying you back on the bed with your legs wide open. The sight of your glistening pussy lips and peaked nipples through his ‘Judas Priest’ T-shirt, almost too much for him to bare.

“Please do something Eddie” you begged, fighting against his grip to close your knees. Desperate for the pressure betwixt your legs to be alleviated.

He spent no time positioning himself front down and between your legs, tongue lapping at your folds ferociously. A skilled tongue licking a long stripe from your perineum to your clit. Almost achingly slow, you beg for a bit more haste. Eddie is eager to comply.

Taking his right hand, he wraps an arm around your thigh, spreading you as far as he could. The other hand presses a finger to your hole, teasing gently before sliding the whole way in. Eddie spits on your sex, knowing it drove you wild. He knew exactly what to do to get you to that desired place, and boy was he going to do it tenfold.

He added a second finger before curling them upwards as he thrust his hand into you. Fingers in your pussy up to his knuckle, he pounds you methodically. He watches as your juices covered his rings, How much he wanted to lick them clean. Mouth coming down to join his hands over the tingling bundle of nerves. Eddie licks and sucks you as you writhe beneath him. Forcing him to use his free hand to keep you still, and pinned to the bed.

“Mhmm” He groaned, his own hips rutting into the mattress as you squeal in delight.

His eyes peered up at your screwed face. Over the curve of your belly, and through the valley of your breasts, where they've separated. The perfect view of you coming undone for him. You writhed from the stimulation. His curls stuck to the sides of your thighs, wet with his sweat and your wetness, as he ate you like a starved man. Fingers still pumping in and out.

And the feeling was back, but this time here to stay. Legs shaking as if you were being exorcised, and with the rolled eyes to match. “Fuck, Eddie” you almost scream, grinding into his fingers and mouth. “I’m close”

“Let it go baby girl,” he pleads through swipes of his tongue, “Cum on my lips, On my fingers”

And so you did, muscles contracting, legs numbing, as Eddie tipped you over the edge and into a pile of golden ecstasy. Yet better than any drug you’d tried, or any time you’ve cum before.

Eddie kisses you, lips warm with your slick as you taste yourself on his tongue, “did you cum then?” he asks, sly smile and a cheeky glint in his eye. He knew the truth, he just wanted to hear you say it.

“Did you?” you tease, motioning down to the new wet patch of his white briefs. Specifically placed at the head of his cherry red cock. Kissing him once more.

#writing #eddie munson #smut

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ferrocyan · 2 months

Note

division - for the single word drabble prompt!

thanks for the prompt! i gotta admit to just, uh, kinda running w this vibe bc it sort of fits my obsession with the edw caster role quest, haha. this is really unpolished but i hope you enjoy!

he hears someone walk near, each of their footsteps carrying a throb of pain in his head.

"how are you, my friend? are you feeling better?" aymeric asks.

his eyes closed, brows knit in concentration, he chants for equilibrium. deep breaths, inhale, exhale.

nothing. there is a hole in his head, though not physical, and its gaping maw tears at the rest of his mind.

"c'astarhte," aymeric calls. tart opens an eye.

"so you know," he huffs.

"yes. i know that you don't want me to notice. but i must say, hiding your face only makes your identity more obvious."

aymeric's smile is irritating. tart buries his head under his pillow, which earns him a sigh.

"for once, please just let me know how you feel," begs the lord speaker.

tart considers. this is not something equilibrium can fix; neither can chirurgeons. the ache howls, echoing the blasphemy that caused it. he props himself up on his elbow. glaring at aymeric, he grits his teeth and lets out the words.

"ishgard has ways of denying certain people's existnce. mean really, completely erase them, unlike the shite that bishop was spewing about himself. my family no longer exists. how dare he accuse me of not understanding how it feels to be rejected? and how dare you take my prey?"

aymeric listens. he makes people understand, even without telling them, that he has heard and understood their words. he excels at his job in this way.

but this isn't work. "even after cutting down bishop vartinoix, for a moment i felt the presence of danger behind me," his jaws set, aymeric purses his lips before continuing, "the presence of another blasphemy. and even now, your aether is unstable, partly burned off. that means that you would have joined your prey had i not intervened. am i wrong?"

tart conceals his surprise with a scowl, but the flapping of his ears gives it away. so the lord commander bites back now. "settle this outside. now," he gets up and off the bed, then walks out of the infirmary.

aymeric follows, uncertain. "have i crossed a line?" he asks. tart ignores him. the two enter the proving grounds, empty for the day.

"have been dealing with this for a while. aetheric instability." tart puts on his coat and hood, then unsheathes his rapier. "practicing red magic helps in finding balance. but need a target dummy, of course, which is you," points at aymeric, who chuckles in return.

tart holds his focus in his right hand, blade in the left. his tail flicks uneasily. "go easy on me, won't you?"

"what? oh my, i never thought i would hear that from the warrior of light!" aymeric laughs as he readies his own sword.

"i'm ill, you blackguard."

"then maybe you should rest properly."

"hasn't helped. this might, so stand still and let me cast magic at you."

aymeric nods. tart kicks off the fight by stepping back and keeping his distance. throws quick spells and darts away.

it's clear he isn't serious either as none of the attacks amount to much to aymeric. he approaches and returns the offense.

tart blocks his sword with his own. the strikes are heavy, and his defensive tendencies fail him. he starts to parry, then evade, stepping aside to chant a spell and strike back. he laughs, pleased with himself.

aymeric picks up his pace. his azure blade flashes as he strikes close to tart, again and again, but none reaches. tart grins wider.

focus attached to the rapier's hilt, its magic flows through the thin sword. tart stops evading and rushes toward aymeric. spells now strengthening his blow, he pushes back against the lord commander. finally, a feint and a low strike manage to disarm him.

aymeric drops his sword obligingly. "well done, my friend! you really are magnificent."

tart rolls his eyes even though he can't stop grinning. "say that when you aren't taking it easy against me."

"please, any such notion was dispelled by your swordmanship. i took our battle seriously, i assure you," aymeric chuckles. the two of them sheathe their swords and exit together.

he really does feel lighter, tart thinks to himself. his head has quieted down. he considers thanking aymeric for his help, but refrains since it would make him happy.

on their return to the temple knights' strategy room, tart glances toward his companion. "not scared i'll turn into a blasphemy too?"

"no. are you?" aymeric asks in return. tart looks away. "i refuse to accept that--if you'll pardon me for saying so." that earns him a bark of laughter.

"right. get out of my sight, then," tart swats at him with his tail. "find me at the forgotten knight if anything comes up."

aymeric nods. "certainly. but please do try to take it easy for the rest of the day."

tart pays him no mind and waves goodbye.

#my writing #tart the wol #hough im rusty as hell. this is so late too but whatever #squishes tart btwn my hands. i like when he is a disagreeable little bastard. sorry aymeric for being the main target of his bastardness

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magniloquent-raven · 2 years

Text

i wrote 1400 words of trans billy jerking off i hope yall enjoy him being horny and gross lmfao

Billy’s never been very good at resisting temptation, especially when it comes to his big stupid crush on Steve.

He refuses to call it that, but that’s what it is. If it wasn’t he wouldn’t fucking be here, in Steve’s room, creeping on all his shit while Steve makes a beer run.

Not reading his diary or anything like that—mostly because he couldn’t find one—he’s just. Looking.

He fiddles with the knickknacks strewn around on the simple pine dresser. Sneaks a peek in the top drawer. It’s full of row upon row of tighty-whities, not a secret to be found amongst them. He shuts it again with a sigh and moves on. To the dusty stack of magazines on the desk. There’s uncapped pens tucked next to it. The magazines are all boring. The ones with pretty girls on the covers are at the top of the pile, and the ones at the bottom are all finance mags with words crossed out and doodled over.

He drops them haphazardly, and wanders over to the bed, perching on the edge of it.

And sitting there on the bedside table, tucked behind the clunky lamp, is a half-empty tub of Vaseline that Billy spends several minutes staring at while his brain shorts out.

Okay. So. He knew he was probably gonna find something like that, he was kind of looking for something like that. And yet he still wasn’t prepared for real, tangible evidence that Steve Harrington lays on this very bed and touches himself. With those long fingers, slicked up and grasping desperately, lips bitten red and parted as he gasps, moans, not bothering to keep quiet when he’s all alone in the house…

Billy is both too buzzed and not buzzed enough to be doing this.

He runs his hand over the wrinkled pillowcase beside him. It’s some fancy high thread count shit, gotta be, it feels fine and delicate under his palm, soft as a summer breeze. Bet it smells just as sweet too. Like honey and clover and Steve.

It takes him all of three seconds to throw dignity out the window—that ship pretty much sailed when he made a beeline for Steve’s room the second the front door closed behind him anyways—and lean down to bury his face in the scent. It’s everything he’s filed away under spank bank material over the years and more. All the whiffs of Steve’s shampoo he got in the locker room, the faintly lingering scent of hairspray and expensive leather, the overwhelmingly alluring musk clinging to him after basketball practice, when the collar of his shirt was askew and stuck to his damp chest, soaked with trickles of sweat that Billy wanted to chase with his tongue.

His pillow smells like every wet dream Billy’s had since he moved to Hawkins. And all his stupid guilty fantasies about waking up next to Steve, all sunshine dappled and sleepy-eyed, gentle and domestic. Soft.

Billy shifts a little. His briefs are damp, sticky, clinging to him in uncomfortable places, and he can’t help grinding his hips in a slow circle as heat builds low in his gut.

He’s been pent up all goddamn afternoon. Watching Steve’s long fingers as he rolled a joint, his pretty lips pursed and pink and looking so, so soft. Having to act like he wasn’t losing his fucking mind staring at the bit of chest hair peeking out of the unbuttoned collar of Steve’s stupid meticulously ironed polo shirt. And all the while, Steve had no fucking idea, sat there tapping Billy’s thigh with his socked foot, throwing a leg over his lap when Billy tried to bat him away, grinning oh-so-innocently with his dumb gorgeous face all lit up with mirth.

Being that close to him always drives Billy fucking insane, and they spent hours like that, in each others’ space, brushing fingers when they passed the joint, Steve rubbing Billy’s hip with his heel occasionally, absently, like petting a cat you’re only half paying attention to.

Fucking maddening.

Frustrating.

God—

Billy turns, mussing the comforter as he moves his leg to part his knees and plant his ass right in the middle of the bed. He grips the pillow, toying with its seam, staring down at it, imagining Steve laying beneath him, his hair splayed against his pillowcase, eyes dark, his sides soft between Billy’s thighs.

He’d slide back just a little and feel the hard bulge straining against Steve’s jeans. Rub up against him ‘til Steve begged him for more, ‘til they’re both soaking through their briefs and desperate for it.

Billy presses into the mattress til his cock throbs and his breath hitches.

He slides a hand under his shirt, up his own stomach, his chest, huffs a sigh when he hits smooth fabric pulled tight across. Rubbing the hard nub of his nipple through three layers of nylon and spandex is an exercise in frustration and a fucking tease. There’s a dull burn, a familiar building coil of heat, but it’s not enough.

If he was smart he’d stay mostly clothed in case Steve gets back earlier than expected, but he’s not exactly thinking with his brain right now. He strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, tossing it behind him without looking to see where it lands, already halfway to stripping his makeshift binder off when he hears the soft thud of it hitting the floor.

The last half is a lot of undignified wiggling to get the final sweaty layer off, but it’s worth it for the sweet bolt of pleasure that lances through him when he digs his nails into the soft skin around his nipple, and he bites his lip to stifle a groan.

He wonders if Steve would be rough with him. Hurt him if he asked.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to ask.

Maybe he’d sit up, his hands on Billy’s hips, pulling him closer, pressing his plush lips to Billy’s neck, his collarbone, his grip bruising but his kisses gentle, making his way down to the soft swell of Billy’s chest. And then he’d sink his teeth in. Biting, only where Billy’s always covered. Where he can’t show anybody for fear of discovery. Somewhere he can leave his own secrets safely.

Billy scrapes his blunt nails over his skin, eyes falling shut as he tries to imagine, tries to convince himself Steve’s really here, would want to touch him like this.

He ruts against the mattress, it’s an awkward angle, hurts his knees to press so far down, but his breathing stutters every time he gets it just right.

With Steve’s scent all around him it’s almost, almost…

He grasps clumsily for the pillow, and shoves it between his legs.

Would Steve go just as easily if Billy straddled him, framed his flushed face with muscular thighs and bore down on his waiting mouth, riding him ‘til he’s slick from nose to chin, messy and red-lipped and more than happy to stay between Billy’s trembling legs.

Too many layers of fabric rub against each other as Billy moves, and he disentangles himself from his shorts, tossing them on the floor too.

The backs of his knees are sweating, and his chest heaves with labored breaths. Hot, liquid pleasure buzzes in his veins, something possessive flaring in his chest when his bare skin brushes Steve’s pillowcase, blue cotton whispering against the softness of the inside of his thighs. He can smell his own sex, soaking through his briefs, his scent blending with Steve’s and making his head spin.

He rolls the hard nub of his nipple between his fingers, pinching tight, moaning low in his throat.

With one final, shuddering thrust, he comes, lips parted but breathless, wordless, eyes squeezed shut as it hits him in waves.

He blinks.

The duvet is askew, as much as he smooths his hands over the corners of it he’s not sure he can put it back the way it was. He definitely can’t put the pillow back the way it was. He pulls it gingerly from it’s rumpled place between his knees, and eyes the wet patch he left right down the middle.

It should make him nervous. Fearful of discovery.

It doesn’t.

He strokes a finger through the mess he left, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He’s still seated, catching his breath, sweaty and flushed in the afterglow, when he hears the front door open.

~~~tag list ppl @growup-thatbeautiful @spreckle

#stranger things #billy hargrove #trans billy hargrove #harringrove #pre-harringrove #a raven's writing desk #i drew this exact scenario and then wanted to write about it #i haven't finished the drawing lol

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osamusbigtits · 1 year

Text

the smell of old cigarette smoke greets suna when he opens the door. it's gross, yet suna still breathes it in. he didn't think he would miss it. the apartment is a bit of a mess: clothes thrown around, a couple of used tissues on the coffee table, a few empty soda bottles. suna looks to the kitchen to find it a mess as well. osamu's doing worse than atsumu said.

suna taps his phone screen to check the time. a little past midnight. osamu has to be fast asleep by now. suna debates for a moment before deciding to tidy up.

collecting the empty bottles and tissues to throw them away. he puts clothes in the laundry bin. does the dishes sitting in the sink and puts everything back in its place. the kitchen isn't to osamu's usual standard, but it's better than what it was. maybe it allow osamu to breathe a little easier.

soft footsteps trail their way to their bedroom. suna feels relieved when he opens the door and the bedroom isn't a mess. a lump snores on the left side of the bed and suna smiles fondly.

suna pulls off his jeans and socks and climbs into bed next to osamu. he wraps his arms around osamu, resting his forehead against osamu's back. osamu doesn't stir. he must have been exhausted.

exhaustion creeps at suna. he wants to stay away a little longer. to savor the warmth of osamu in his arms, to be able to smell the linger scent of food and osamu's favorite brand of cigarettes, mixed with his earthy body wash.

but traveling all night, right after finishing practice, left suna more tired than he thought. and swiftly, he drifted to sleep.

and then osamu's alarm went off. it felt like suna had blinked and now he was awake again.

osamu reached out and shut the alarm of and rested back in bed. he leaned against suna's chest and suna held him tighter.

suna was just about to drift off when osamu exclaims his name. suna blinked awake, again, confused for a moment.

osamu kisses him- when did he turn to face him? suna kisses back for a moment before pushing osamu away. "holy shit, dude, brush your teeth," suna says and buries his face into the nearest pillow.

osamu, undeterred, kisses suna's neck and shoulder. "when did you get home? i didn't know you were coming, I would've waited for you. oh, you have to be hungry-"

suna grabs osamu's face. "babe. get ready for work. I'll visit you later. I'm fucking exhausted."

osamu licks suna's hand and suna pulls it away. with a final kiss to suna's shoulder, osamu gets up.

suna falls back asleep to the sound of osamu brushing his teeth.

deciding against bothering osamu at work, suna calls him instead during osamu's lunch break. osamu fusses over him, asking if he's eaten, if he was safe during his travels, all that.

right after that call ends, suna calls atsumu.

"he is way worse than you said," suna accuses. "you should've told me!"

"I knew you wouldn't have been able to wait until the end of the season. I had it under control," atsumu replies. "has he talked to you?"

suna looks around the apartment. everything is wrong. osamu doesn't like messy things- neither of the twins do, actually. everything has a place, according to them. and nothing is in its place at the moment.

"no. I didn't get home until after midnight." suna uses his thumb to twist the ring around his pointer finger. he frowns.

"please talk to him. he wouldn't talk to me. just kept saying he's fine." atsumu sighs. weak. like he's been fighting this battle longer than suna knows. "maybe he'll talk to you."

"i'll try," suna replies.

osamu's a stubborn man. he likes to bottle up any negative emotions. and he always appears fine. a smile and a laugh and no one knows the difference. little things show, however. like the apartment being a mess. the kitchen untidy. like refusing to talk to his twin brother, the one he always talks to about everything.

suna finds himself cleaning the living room. it isn't bad. but suna doesn't like it. things are dusty, the carpet looks like it hasn't been vacuumed in weeks, the blankets on the couch reek of feet and sweat. living room blankets in the laundry first. then he'll do the bedding. and finally, osamu's clothes. which have been piling up- suna's positive osamu's re-wearing his work shirt, who knows how long that's been going on.

he uses cleaning to distract his wandering mind. clearing dust off of their knickknacks to avoid thinking the worse. he scrubs the house down with precision he's never cared about before. his mind still races. wondering how bad it could be to not tell atsumu. osamu had never once told suna he was doing bad.

suna's chest clenches.

he cleans the bathroom and bedroom. the faint scent of lemons, disinfectant, and just a touch of bleach overtake the apartment. he debates cleaning the kitchen, but that's osamu's area.

curious, suna walks into the kitchen and checks the junk drawer. box of cigarettes and lighter gone. osamu's doing bad.

suna walks into the bedroom and puts his own things away. he takes a deep breath. he needs to keep it together.

soft music played from the tv, suna's spotify hooked up to it. the lights were on in the apartment, but it was still dark. shadows crept in the corners.

it was lonely, suna realized. empty. an apartment made for two with only one living in it. suna realized how much of him, suna, make up the place. it was like a constant reminder that suna wasn't here.

suna felt sick.

the front door clicked and then opened, a creek sounding before it softly hit the wall. suna slowly looked over as osamu untied his shoes and took them off, shutting the door behind him.

"welcome home," suna says, softly.

osamu gives a smile and then looks around.

"you cleaned," osamu says. then his eyes catch the kitchen and his smile falters for a moment before returning. suna didn't miss it though.

"samu," suna says. nerves claw at his chest. maybe he shouldn't bring it up. maybe osamu will just get better.

osamu looks at him. osamu is right in front of suna, but he isn't with suna. his eyes are distant, distracted.

suna holds his hand out for osamu to grab and then pulls him onto the couch. osamu settles, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. suna keeps his hand in osamu's.

"can we talk?" suna asks. he sounds scared. why can't he just feign confidence for once? not like it would matter, osamu would see right through him. or would he right now?

osamu nods, still confused. suna gently squeezes his hand. he should've thought this out more.

"atsumu called me about a week ago," suna starts. he fights with himself to keep his eyes on osamu's, even when osamu looks away. "he's been concerned about you and asked me if I knew what was going on with you." suna bites his lip, giving osamu a chance to explain.

the explanation never comes so suna continues. "all he said was that you were off. I was hoping you'd tell me something was wrong during one of our calls." suna rubs his thumb against osamu's hand, a reassurance.

"i'm fine," osamu says softly. the way he winces, he knows it wasn't convincing.

suna sighs and moves closer to osamu. his free hand cups osamu's jaw. "I'm not mad, osamu. whatever is going on, I'm here for you. even if you don't want to talk about it now. but I can't have you lying to me about being fine."

osamu moves and wraps his arms around suna, burying his face into suna's shoulder. suna hugs him tightly.

"thank you for cleaning," osamu says after a long moment (the length of 2 songs from suna's playlist.)

"of course, baby," suna replies. "it'll be ok." voice soft and gentle. osamu's shoulders shake. "I'm here now."

the sob that breaks through osamu is the answer suna needs.

#this is so long #oopsies #also if there are any typos please just don't skdjkflsj #hq #sunaosa #bex thoughts

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ceph-the-ghost-writer · 1 year

Text

Phagophobia Pt. 18

Summary: The worst person Isaac knows has a point.

Words: 3963

Content Notes: Waking up disoriented, instance of throwing up/nausea, panic, mood swings, mentions of fantasy oppression/racism, Isaac being comforted/touched by one of the last people he'd want that from, swearing

On Isaac’s list of favorite things, drifting between sleep and wakefulness occupied a spot somewhere in the top five. Especially when the bedding and pillows hit the perfect temperature, either a couple of degrees cooler or warmer than his body. Only hangovers had the power to dampen the experience. Had he been drinking? A hollowness that mercifully passed beyond nausea altogether occupied where his stomach usually sat. Cognitive fog dampened his thoughts, but his skull wasn’t in any danger of splitting down the middle. Other than a case of cottonmouth and lead-weighed limbs he was in good condition. Okay, so whatever was wrong wasn’t physical.

Wait. Backtrack. Was something wrong? Having the thought in the first place heavily implied there was. He rolled over, a sense of disquiet spreading throughout his middle.

Unease blurred into confusion when he bumped against something solid and warm.

“Calmo, docinho,” it mumbled. “Estou aqui.” A hand slid up his cheek, fingers slipping into his curls, rubbing soothing circles on his scalp.

With a happy hum, Isaac wriggled closer. He reached out and touched a flat chest beneath smooth fabric. His fingers roved farther afield. Buttons. An arm, firm and lean. A waist curving up into the gentle incline of a hip…

“Ei! Não, comporte-se.” The hand buried in his hair extracted itself without pulling before darting down to grab his own wandering one by the wrist.

The meaning of the words danced along the edges of his understanding, but their tone he got right away. He whimpered, covering his face and curling around the hole the reprimand had punched through his chest.

“Me perdõe, chuchu. Eu adoraria, mas você realmente me odiaria depois.” The hand released his wrist and returned to cup the side of his head, thumb stroking his ear. “Isaac? Consegues me ouvir?”

He relaxed bit by bit. No scolding this time, so he wasn’t in trouble. So he could focus on understanding. Spanish? No, only a third of what had been said made any sense. Close then. Who’d be talking to him like that?

Isaac opened his eyes to find out. Peeping through his fingers, he saw the bloodborn who’d ruined his life smiling down at him.

Renato yelped as Isaac launched himself away on his heels. He shot over the edge of the bed, crashing to the floor—luckily without landing on his head. Untangling himself from the blankets he’d dragged with him, he continued to crab-scuttle away until his back hit a wall. He stared at Renato, panting and wide-eyed, but the bloodborn stayed kneeling on the bed, his hands held up in truce.

“Estás segura.” He shook his head. “It’s all right, Isa—uh. Agent Soto. Do you remember where you are?”

Isaac’s gaze bounded around the room. Not bland, not impersonal. He wasn’t captive anymore. He’d survived. Fled. Come to Denver. Ran again in search of answers.

Kinslayer. Their massive shadow lifting him. The rage in him blazing to the last, like a dying star.

“Urgh,” he said. It matched the lurch in his stomach perfectly. Clapping a palm over his mouth, Isaac scrambled up and made a dash for the nearest doorway.

His instincts hadn’t led him astray. A bathroom. He stumbled to the toilet without attempting to switch on the light and promptly heaved his guts into it. A touch alighted on his shoulder once the initial wave of spasms had passed. Drool still trailing down his chin, he snarled and shrugged it away.

“Nothing.” His voice echoed in the porcelain bowl.

“Agent Soto, you—”

“Their eyes were full of nothing. I looked into it. I went…I became nothing.” His insides twisted and squeezed, but he was already empty. Clutching the lid to stay upright, Isaac spit into the water. “That still wasn’t as terrible as what you did to me.”

No reply. In the quiet, his bile stopped sizzling and cooled off. Grabbing a handful of toilet paper, he wiped his mouth.

“Kinslayer said they’re sorry.”

Isaac turned his fog-addled head toward the doorway. The gloom made it even harder to read Renato’s expression than usual. Except for a slice of cheek and jaw illuminated by the soft glow from the next room, and the glint of his eyes, he was only a slim shadow.

“They asked me to come check on you,” he went on in a matter-of-fact voice. “The lights went out while I was using my bathroom. The next thing I knew, Kinslayer was…” The silhouette shifted weight from one foot to the other, breathing more deeply through the nose. “Their shadow came crawling out of the mirror over the sink. They told me something had gone, well, to use their words, horribly right. They’d let things get out of control, and you needed help. They said a lot more, but honestly, they were raving. I think whatever happened hit them just as hard.”

Scholar. Bookworm. Isaac.

It hadn’t been a trick. On some level, he’d wanted to believe that. To hear it confirmed…a sheet of ice dropped away from Isaac’s heart.

“Well, I’m alive.” He pushed the lever to flush. “You can go now.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. For one, it’s less than twenty minutes until dawn. For another, I need to know what you plan to do from here.”

Lips peeling back into a sneer, Isaac prepared to suggest a few ideas in graphic detail. Renato must’ve seen his expression even in the dark because he plunged on.

“I had Dorian stay behind at my apartment. The enforcers caught on that they disappeared right after you did. A bounty was posted this morning. For information leading to whereabouts currently, but I’m sure that will be upped to capture within a couple of weeks. You, I’m sure, will be presumed dead provided you stay out of sight. Should the enforcers pick you up, though…” Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the doorframe. “Let’s just say I’m concerned about your ability to keep secrets under pressure.”

“Did you force any answers out of me?”

“You had no answers to give then. And I certainly wasn’t as persuasive as I could have been.”

Clenching his teeth, Isaac set his hands on the toilet seat while he got his feet under him. Standing straight, balance failed him and he staggered. Pushing away from the door, Renato strode into the bathroom. Catching himself with one arm against the wall, Isaac thrust out the other in defense. Renato skidded to a stop just short of contact. He made as if to reach out, then dropped his hands to his sides again.

“Agent Soto, I’m trying to give you as much room to decide as possible. But you do need to decide. Captain Watts’ team is scouring the city as we speak. Dorian will be executed, or used as leverage against the rest of their family if captured. You will be interrogated and used in a similar fashion, likely as bait for Kinslayer.”

Isaac’s breathing was far too loud for a task as simple as standing. Despite the tremor in his arm, however, he refused to drop it. “And you’re, what? Offering to guard both of us out of the goodness of your heart?”

“I’m attempting to save your life as compensation for nearly taking it. As for Dorian, I’ve already told them how I stand to benefit from delivering them safely to Olympia. With them introducing me to Desmond Walsh, I might be able to accomplish my larger goal.”

“Getting away with murder?”

Close as he was, Renato’s thin smile was visible in the gloom. “Committing it. I aim to kill my maker, Cassius, and as many of the remaining Unseen Hand members as I can before getting staked myself.”

Isaac’s mouth dropped open, letting all the scorn and sarcasm on his tongue evaporate. Slowly, Renato lifted his hand. Set only two fingertips on top of Isaac’s forearm. Pushed it down with insistent but gentle pressure.

“So, those are my plans,” he said, retracting his hand and using it to brush some of his mussed hair back into place. “What about you, Agent Soto?”

Docinho. A peculiar twinge rolled up from the base of Isaac’s spine and settled in his chest, making him shiver.

“I want to sit down, for starters,” he said, voice shriveled. “Before I throw up again.”

Renato’s brows and smile relaxed a degree. “Of course. Do you—”

“I’ve got it.”

Keeping one hand on the wall, Isaac shuffled out of the bathroom and flopped down onto the bed as soon as he was within range, panting and coated in a light sweat. Renato pulled a beautiful rocking chair from one corner over to the foot of the headboard.

“Ms. Shelton left some water, tea, and snacks for you on the nightstand, if you want them.”

“Where is she?” he asked once he’d regained his wind.

“Getting some sleep. She spent the night running up and down the stairs, concocting various ointments and such to help you. Which is why you smell like an herb garden at the moment, if you were wondering. Not that I’m complaining.”

Docinho. His skull tingled with the memory of kneading fingers. Goosebumps tightened the skin along his arms and chest from a phantom caress. Sucking in a stuttering breath, Isaac rolled onto his side and curled around the white-hot arrow of longing that lodged itself in his belly. What was wrong with him?

He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until he received a reply. “It’s Kinslayer’s feeding. Normally, with me, they just…punch a hole in my mental and emotional armor. Enough to suck a bit of energy out. For a night or two afterwards I tire easier, and any little thing can strike a nerve.” The rocking chair creaked softly in the following pause. “I don’t think most humans would have survived what happened to you, unintentional or no.”

An injection of fear spurted through his veins, freezing and washing away everything else. Isaac stuffed a fist against his mouth to block off a whimper. No. He had to get a grip. He could control this. It wasn’t any different than having a bad trip. If he just stayed still, stayed quiet, he would ride it out. He would—

The warmth and weight of a quilt settled over him. Those sad little noises he’d been suppressing took advantage of his surprise and escaped. Wisps of scent drifted up from the fabric as Isaac nuzzled against it, hiding his face. Oily touches of gunmetal and leather underneath cologne.

“Agent Soto,” he heard above him, “I’m aware of your opinion of me—and you have every right to feel that way too—but given the current circumstances…allow me to help you. Please. It’s the least of what I owe.”

Until his heartbeat returned to a normal range and his emotional fever broke, leaving him sweating but clear-headed, Isaac stayed still. Blanket still pulled up to his nose, he rolled over. Renato perched on the edge of the mattress a few feet away. One leg crossed over the other, hands folded on his thigh, but also a stiffness in his back, a wrinkle between his brows as he watched.

“You’re going to kill them? These Unseen Hand people?” Isaac’s voice crackled, full of rust and exhaustion.

The dent between Renato’s brows disappeared. “Or die trying, yes.”

“What about the werewolf?”

“Mayer? Yes, him too, if I have the chance. If.” Letting out a prolonged exhale, he scrubbed his hands over his face. “But to be perfectly honest, Mergus is my primary target. He’s the one who started everything. He keeps the others in line, and focused on protecting their common interests. Killing him will cause the other three to drift apart—even turn on one another with any luck. I can give you all the information you want on Mayer, though. That way, in the likely event that I die fighting Mergus, you’ll have what you need to take him and his family out.”

Isaac frowned behind the quilt. “Family?”

“Wes Mayer doesn’t act alone. He’s part of a long, bloody tradition. Firstborn sons inherit the properties and businesses, becoming the head of the household. Younger sons are made into the wolf. They’re the ones who destroy the family’s enemies and impose its will by force when money isn’t enough.”

His hands worried at the fabric clutched in them, clenching and unclenching. But he had to ask. He had to know. “What did my dad ever do to them? Or my aunt? My cousins?”

“Nothing. The beast is allowed to rampage through the forest at irregular intervals. An effort to keep it somewhat in check, from what I gather. If the occasional hiker, or ranger, or a group of campers goes missing…it’s the price of doing business.”

“Why let me live then?”

A softer crease pulled Renato’s brows upwards. “How many people have joined the Coven after some terrifying event taught them monsters are real? How many did it give purpose to when they had little or nothing left? The loyalty that inspires would be hard to shake. It could be used to justify anything.”

“Like accepting bribes and surveilling people.”

“Like that, yes.”

“Or kidnapping people and threatening to eat them.”

One of Renato’s dimples appeared along with a mirthless smirk. “That too. If you had been one of Hawthorne’s agents, I would’ve told myself my actions were no worse than if our positions had been switched.”

Isaac’s thumbs stroked the blanket in compulsive little circles while he mulled that over. “Then what made you change your mind?”

“About you?”

“About what you do.”

He turned away, smile vanished. “Countless smaller things over the years. Doubts. Inconsistencies. Things that tested my loyalty too close to the breaking point.”

“And, what? You just decided it was time to quit one day?”

“Kinslayer and four of their kind showed up to rescue two researchers who were being tortured for information.”

It could’ve been an elaborate campaign to dupe him. But Isaac couldn’t bring himself to believe he’d be worth such a level of effort.

“They were going to force me to let them into the mansion where Mergus and the others meet,” Renato went on. “But I told them they didn’t have to. I got them through the door and let them do what I should have. They killed the interrogator and carried the humans to safety.”

“Why not go with them?”

“I don’t know whether they would’ve let me if I’d asked. More than that, though, I wasn’t brave enough to. Instead, I told myself that if I stayed I could work to undermine the Unseen Hand from within. And I did, in small ways. But it wasn’t enough. It became clear that the only way to stop Mergus is to kill him and elect a better leader in his place.”

A flash of insight lit up the bigger picture. “Desmond Walsh.”

Without looking over, Renato nodded. “He’s proven capable of managing both bloodborn and humans, without exploiting either.”

“And the others? Who’ll replace them?”

Green-blue eyes flashed to him before slinking back to the wall. “To be honest…I don’t know. Perhaps Larry Hart could take the helm for werecreatures, but I think it’s best for them to choose. Same with practitioners and humans. We’ve all been under the control of despots who don’t give a damn about us for centuries. We deserve to have a say.”

“Wait…Mergus, your maker…he’s a bloodborn, though?”

He turned to face Isaac fully this time. “That doesn’t mean he has our best interests at heart. He’s the one who put the registration system in place. He’s the one who keeps tightening the restrictions on feeding and movement for us.”

Drawn from his blanket shell at last, Isaac struggled to sit up. He waved away Renato’s attempt to help and maneuvered himself to lean back against the headboard. Once he recovered his breath, he said, “Explain to me how rules against eating people is a bad thing.”

Those dimples appeared during tight, angry lip compression too, apparently. “Mergus came up with laws in the name of protecting humans, sure. He’s also the one who instructed me and the rest of his aquilae that simply putting a bullet in a prisoner’s skull is a waste of good blood. Do you honestly think someone like that is out to serve anybody but himself?”

Fabric and thread ripped. Isaac caught sight of Renato’s hand latched onto the edge of the mattress, fingers gouged into its side. “Registration is nothing but a way to bring bloodborn under his heel, monitor them, and manipulate humans into doing the dirty work of hunting down dissenters. Don’t take my word for it either. Look into the regulations and what goes on during Coven supervised feedings. Or ask your friend Breezy why she hasn’t joined the magic department. Better still, think back and ask yourself why you didn’t report any of the werecreatures you met for not following procedure. Was it because you didn’t want the hassle? Or were you uncomfortable with seeing people punished for having a say in what happens in their own lives?”

Candlelight or hunger had nothing to do with the way his eyes glinted. The fierce, hard lines of his face either. With his hair ruffled and shirt wrinkled from sleep, it was the most human Renato had ever looked. Isaac switched his stare to the nightstand as another burning shot of…something…hit his belly, followed by a cold sweat chaser. He groped for the glass of water someone had left. Guzzled it down. Futilely tried to stop his mind from replaying every interaction he’d had with a werecreature during the past ten years.

The mountain lions down in the ruins of Phoenix, his first assignment as a new agent. They’d given him a formal welcome, every member of the community turning out to greet him. He’d been so afraid—of how he might react, how he could screw up, of being so far from home—that he wouldn’t have noticed whether they were just as scared. That had gone double for meeting the werewolves out in Utah territory. But as time ticked along he’d gotten to know more people and they him. Green anxiety and his misgivings had shifted into familiarity and trust, which he’d been confident was mutual only minutes before.

Isaac slammed the empty glass back down. Ripped open the packet of saltines on the nightstand and shoved a couple into his mouth to give his teeth an excuse to gnash. He swallowed the whole mess despite the choking hazard before facing Renato again.

“If I go along with your crazy scheme,” he said, “if…how exactly would you pull it off?”

One by one, Renato’s fingers released the mattress. Straightening into a less intense posture, he brushed his hair back. “Best case scenario? I convince the Unseen Hand that I let you go and tried to set up a meeting just to toy with you. Mayer tricked the aquilae, thus his proxy had to be deceived and made to suffer to even the score. Then I tell them I finished the job and tossed your drained body down a ravine or something.”

“Gotta say, you’re really not selling me on this idea so far.”

“Look, it’ll be much safer if they think you’re no longer an issue. Or would you rather I tell them I’m hunting you along with Dorian, who’s fleeing to Olympia? That way, everyone who you’ve associated with recently can enjoy being interrogated and spied on—maybe even used as bait to lure you out. Except it won’t be a ruse this time.”

Would a just universe allow someone as terrible as Renato to have two good points within minutes of each other? Isaac huffed. “Fine, whatever. So, I play dead. And St-Ange, what? Pretends to run from you?”

“Yes. That will give me an excuse to follow north. Of course, you’ll secretly be along for the ride, and the three of us will meet at certain stops. That way we can plan and make detours, if need be. Because I definitely won’t be the only aquilae deployed to capture Dorian.”

The questions piled up, but he pushed them to the back of his mind for another time. St-Ange had been open about calling themself a traitor. There was no reason he couldn’t ask them why face-to-face.

Another thing worth considering springboarded into the front of his mind, bringing an icy spike through his skull with it.

“How do you think you’re going to feed during this scenario?”

Renato blinked, then his face hardened into a scowl. “Really? Give me some credit, Agent Soto.”

“Once you’ve done something to earn it, I will.”

He might’ve looked less shocked and wounded if Isaac had plunged a stake into his heart. But Renato bounced back quickly, clamping his mouth closed and averting his gaze once more. “I had no intentions of asking either you or Dorian to feed me,” he snapped. “I’m perfectly capable of finding donors—willing ones—in whatever towns or settlements we pass through.”

A skeptical barb loaded itself on the tip of his tongue, but Isaac disarmed it before it flew. Survival. He needed to focus on getting out alive and unharmed. His next breaths came and went to a count of three. He let his head slump back against the headboard.

“You said your priority is to kill your maker.”

“I did.”

“What about getting Dorian and me to safety?”

Renato shrugged. “I said I’d get you both to Olympia, and I will.”

“At what expense?”

His jaw unclenched as the meaning finally sank in. Hands clasped, he stared at the floor, considering. Calculating. When his ethical arithmetic reached a final tally, he met Isaac’s gaze.

“I’ll get you and Dorian to safety even if it kills me. I owe you and I swear to honor that debt.”

Isaac allowed his eyes to close. Good enough. For now. “All right.”

“All right?”

“I’ll go with you. I know people up that way too. Maybe they can help.”

“Maybe…although we’ll want to be wary. They could expose us, knowingly or by accident.”

“Nm. Have good friends. Not vampires. Werepeople.” Had that come out right? They’d been talking about Jonah. Or Elfy?

“I see.” Hint of laughter. What was so funny? Bastard. “Lay down, Agent Soto. Get all the rest you can before sundown.”

“Mm-hm.” It was a good idea, so Isaac curled up on his side, burrowing under the blanket. It was warm. And nice. But not as much as it had been with the other person. The one who said things he could almost not quite understand. Or the one with all the hands? Did he like the hands? What did that even mean, hands? The thought made him roll over and crack open his eyelids.

“Agent Soto?”

That…right, Renato. Sitting on the bed. Had two hands. Bastard. “Wha?”

“Would it help you sleep if I read to you for a bit?”

The words slid off his brain like it was greased, so Isaac went with the reaction that sparked first. “Yup.”

“Any preference?”

“Nah.”

Renato stood only to ease down in the rocking chair. He pulled a tab from his pants pocket. Tapped at it while pushing himself slowly back and forth with one foot. The rhythm drew a yawn from Isaac. He let his eyes droop shut. Pressed his face into fabric and the cologne lingering on it.

“‘In Styria, we, though by no means magnificent people, inhabit a castle, or schloss.” In English, but the voice was still low and soothing. “‘A small income, in that part of the world, goes a great way…’”

He did not dream, of castles, vampires, or otherwise.

#dysthanasia #paranormal fantasy #urban fantasy #vampire fiction #the other chapter that tumblr's update #chucked into the void #don't mind me

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dinsverdika · 2 years

Text

Creampie (kinktober prompt)

Pairing: Commander!Crosshair/Elite Squad Trooper!Reader

Tags (as posted on AO3): smut, creampie, sexual tension, unprotected vaginal sex, (slight) power dynamic (because of the commander/trooper thing), hate fuck, mean!crosshair, pining (very subtle and mainly from reader), mentions of physical violence (reader wants to slap Crosshair's face but it's just a thought), reader is AFAB.

(I tried to condense my tags on here because my AO3 tags were a mess for this one.)

Word count: 1,028

Notes: 8th day of kinktober with Crosshair. I don't know how I feel with this one. I'm not used to writing "mean characters" so I struggled to not turn Crosshair into a mushy, loving partner but I've pulled through.

kinktober prompt by @/the-purity-pen!

Crosshair’s grunts were accompanied by your soft moans as his hips slammed against the back of your thighs. The rhythm of his thrusts had grown erratic. A shiver coursed through your body as his laboured breathing hit the sensitive skin of your neck.

He buried his cock to the hilt one more time with a loud grunt, his cock throbbed as he emptied himself inside you. You were left heaving against him, coming down from your own orgasm.

As soon as Crosshair recovered his breath, he pushed himself off you, withdrawing his cock from inside you in the process. He chuckled as he heard you whine from the sudden loss. He threw a quick look at you, satisfied with how disheveled you looked, and made his way to the fresher.

You let your head drop back on the pillows with a huff. You focused your gaze on the ceiling of your bunk as you tried to find your bearings again. You had to be quick. You squadmates were bound to come back to the barracks you were sharing with them any time soon. This thing you had with Crosshair was fairly new, and still a secret.

Anxiety bubbled up in your chest, coming to the realisation that having sex with your Commander was surely not allowed.

“It’s better this way,” you thought to yourself. “The dynamics within the squad are… rocky enough as it is,” you sighed. “Throwing the fact that I’m fucking our Commander in wouldn’t help in the slightest…” Your eyes widened as a sudden realisation hit you. “Is fucking your Commander even allowed?!”

The tension between you and Crosshair had been palpable from the start. He easily got on your nerves with his snarky remarks and you easily got on his nerves by questioning all of his decisions. You lost count of the number of times you had found yourselves flushed against each other, lips a few centimetres apart, your mouths pulled in a snarl as you argued.

This growing strife between you two was bound to snap.

It did.

You brought one hand over your chest as you reminisced the first time Crosshair had slammed you against the nearest wall and had captured your lips in an angry kiss. The barracks had been empty at the time, your squadmates having left the room, annoyed with your antics. You had kissed him back with as much anger, pushing him on the mattress of your bunk. You chewed on your bottom lip as the memory of riding him, fucking the pent up tension out of your bodies until you were both shaking from the mind-blowing orgasm you had shared together.

You leaned up and threw your legs over the edge of your bed. The coldness of the floor beneath your feet helped dissipate the remaining haze of lust clouding up your head. Your chest expanded as you inhaled deeply, you pushed yourself up as you exhaled, your chest deflating in the process.

The wobbliness in your legs was gone, a tiny smile tugged on the corners of your lips as you took a few steps successfully. Your smile swiftly faded, your lips parting in a silent gasp as you felt Crosshair’s warm cum dripping down your inner thighs. You squeezed your thighs together, the flames of arousal you had tried to tame down reignited in your lower tummy almost immediately.

The door separating the refresher from the barracks whooshed open, your eyes darted to Crosshair who stepped into the room. He had his armour back on with his helmet tucked under his arm. His eyes were trained on your flustered face, his eyebrow rose up, questioning you silently.

“Your cum is leaking out of me,” you whined.

You clenched your jaw as a smirk appeared on his face, “did you even bring me something to clean myself up with?” you asked, mildly annoyed.

Crosshair chuckled, “why would I?”

Your reply died on your lips as he approached you in quick strides, leaned down and whispered into your ear, “I want you to put your panties back on as well as your body glove and armour.” Shivers crawled over your skin as his warm breath hit the shell of your ear, “I want you to be reminded of who’s actually in charge around here as you parade around with my cum leaking out of you.”

You swallowed as he leaned away from you. A smirk was still plastered on his face which only infuriated you even more. “I hate you,” you snarled.

Crosshair chuckled again, you might have looked pissed but the remaining flustered look on your face was not convincing him.

“Yeah,” he replied, lodging a toothpick between his teeth. “You hate me so much that you let me cum inside your pretty cunt.”

He left the room quickly after that, preventing you from firing back a reply. Your eyes were trained on the door, your hands flexed into fists by your sides as it slid close after him.

His words made you simmer in annoyance. His words also ignited the flames of arousal in your lower tummy. Fantasies of smacking the constant smug, standoffish look off his face or smashing your lips against his in a bitter kiss, shutting him up in the process, had the irritating tendency to cloud your head whenever you would argue.

It dawned on you that the latter was how most of your arguments ended which only fueled your annoyance towards Crosshair. You wanted him badly and he wanted you too. Otherwise “fucking it out” would not be how you would cope with this never-ending tension between you and your Commander.

You sighed and shook your head, trying to clear your mind from these conflicting emotions. You rapidly recovered your body glove and the pieces of your armour scattered around the barracks. You could not help but think of ways to get back at Crosshair as you clipped your armour back in place.

You finally exited the room, a slight smirk decorating your face. If that was how Crosshair wanted to play, then you may as well play along and try to win this sick little war between you two.

#crosshair x reader #crosshair x you #tbb crosshair #the bad batch #smut #afab!reader #tppkinktober2022 #my writing

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licentious-sanguinity · 10 months

Text

He lays back on his own private bed as he places his phone down, the conversation he had last night with Valera ringing in his head a bit. It had been a nice, pleasant visit, where he had cuddled close with her frame and they talked, shared snacks, he drank wine while she drank tea. All in all, it had been a wonderful time. But there were parts of the conversation that had stuck with him, and in ways that were…more prominent and uncomfortable than he was used to.

“From what I’ve seen of your husband, he all but adoressss you. Practically looks at you like you’re the sun in the sky.”

"Well, imagine how you'd feel if you suddenly met someone who was endlessly kind and patient with you, could fulfill your biggest desires, fix your biggest regret, and held you through every hardship."

“I’m okay with us cuddling even though you called the love my husband has for me fake because you were wrong, and just trying to be an asshole and go after me for being happy in a way you weren’t. Which isn't to say my relationship is better than your lack of one, but you were clearly ignorant and just being judgy as an outsider.”

Those words…struck him. Struck him in a way he wasn’t exactly prepared for, and he wasn’t sure how to process them. His mind was a mess. A swirling vortex of confusion and dread, of fear and trepidation, of a realization he wasn’t sure how to come to grips with, or if it was even true. Was he happy? Was he? Has he ever actually had anyone in his life that he could love? Both questions had an emptiness where an answer should be waiting to be seized, a hollow doubt that ate away at him like a creeping rot, and the feeling it created in his chest was sickening. A squeezing to his heart and a twist to his stomach that left him feeling…wrong. Wrong, hollow, and not sure what to do.

After all, if he couldn’t say that he was ever happy, that even after trading his humanity and giving up his ambitions for a life of pure hedonism, it wasn’t enough, then what could possibly fill that void? What could he do? What could he ever possibly do to make himself happy when he didn’t even know what he wanted?

It made him curl onto his side, quickly grabbing a pillow to bury his face inside of it. He didn’t know what to do. A part of him wanted to try burying his head in the sand, get drunk, go out, find a nice body to throw himself against and just get fucked until the next day came. Another part of himself burned and howled with fury. Screaming that happiness could be achieved by taking what he wanted for himself. By taking to the streets in machines and weapons of war like he once did so many years ago and letting the thrill of terror fill his veins again and wash away any discontent.

Another part of him simply just wanted to feel the touch of another in his bed. Just to feel someone hold him. And that made his heart twist.

He buries his face even deeper into his pillow, letting out a quiet shuddering sigh. Tears burned at the edges of his eyes, but never fell.

#i’m all ears…(ic)#autokrates

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dark9896 · 2 years

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That didn't happen [Blurb Cannon]

This redemptive blurb fic was requested by anonymous 😇

Klaus

Klaus woke up in a cold sweat, tears still warm on his face. He looked over at you.....but you weren't there. Klaus panicked, that hadn't been a memory, had it? Throwing the covers off his legs, Klaus was going to scour the house to make sure you were okay.

Klaus saw the kitchen light on and rushed straight there. A bottle sitting next to the microwave, the synthetic blood concoction you drank. Klaus touched the bottle, still warm.

"Klaus? Something wrong?"

Klaus nearly snapped his ankles turning to face your voice. Seeing you stand there, after the nightmare he had, Klaus was shaking, close to renewed tears.

He crossed the kitchen in two strides, enveloping you in a tight hug, tighter than normal, "I love you."

You did your best to return the hug, confused out of your mind why it was happening, "I love you too. You know you can talk to me about stuff, right?"

Klaus just tightened his grip, thankful it had only been a nightmare.

Steven

The absence of your body only made Steven's heart sink, maybe that hadn't been a dream after all. Steven started tearing up, clutching the covers and burying his face in the pillow.

All that and he didn't get to say---

"Steven?" His head popped up at the sound of your voice, "What's wrong? That same nightmare?"

"W-wh-where did you go?"

You were confused, you usually got up in the middle of the night, "I went for a short walk. I was going to stop by that 24 hour cafe, but it seemed too late for you to be up."

Steven felt oceans of relief washing over him, "I....I see. Just....please, come back to bed."

Steven could hardly wait for you to adjust yourself under the covers before pulling you close, trying to kiss every inch of your neck and face.

Leo

Leo sat up, panting. He hadn't had a nightmare that vivid since the incident with Michella. Leo's stomach dropped, that must mean.....it was a memory. Leo felt tears pooling up in his eyes, he had to find that plushie.

Leo spent who knows how long tearing the room apart, but he couldn't find it anywhere. No, he couldn't have lost it, right? Anything but that toy.

"What's the opposite of spring cleaning again?" Leo spun and fell on his butt, "Cause that's what this is."

"[NAME]!"

"Shhhh, the neighbors."

"Right....sorry."

Leo was so relieved to see you, taking comfort in your crimson aura. You were carrying the stuffed animal with you, that's why he couldn't find it.

"So.....we gonna clean this up or--!"

Leo couldn't stop himself from scrambling up and squeezing you in a tight hug. You could feel him shaking again, must've been a terrible nightmare. You patted his back gently.

"Please....." Leo sounded close to tears, "I just need a bear hug."

It was odd that would ask for it, but you obliged and returned Leo's affections.

Zapp

Zapp practically fought his way into a sitting position, that had better have been a god damned dream. Zapp pulled his phone immediately, dialing your number in an instant.

Brrrrrng. Pick up damn it.

Brrrrrrng. What's taking so long?

"Hey, what are you doing up?"

"Where the hell are you?"

"Out, did you want something? I'm kinda close to that burger joint you like."

"Just get back here, got it?"

"What crawled up your a$$? I always go for a walk this time of night."

"Just.....please."

You hadn't heard Zapp ask like that so you rushed home, ambushed at the door by a riled up Zapp. His hands were all over you while kissing up your neck. Was this really what he wanted you home so badly for?

Zed

Zed woke up in a flurry of bubbles, fighting who knows what as he tried to control his breathing. That ....that was too vivid. Had that been a nightmare? He hoped so. But his attempt to find you turned up empty. The room was dark, no sign that you existed.

Zed eased his way towards the bottom of the tank, admiring the stickers, trying to ignore the aching in his chest. He was caught off guard by the door opening and used Crimson Orb Weaver on instinct.

You stood in the doorway, sopping wet and confused, "Zed, what the hell?"

Zed stopped, "[Name]! How? Where did you come from?"

"Uh.....from the break room?" You raised an eyebrow, "Are you okay Zed?"

Zed forced himself to calm down, of course it had only been a dream. You were safe and sound here in the office with him. There was still time....plenty of it.

"I'm fine, just a terrible nightmare [Name]." Zed felt a bit sheepish for letting himself believe the dream so quickly, "Would you please join me in here?"

"Sure, just give me a second to change."

#bbb #kekkai sensen #kkss #blood blockade battlefront #klaus von reinherz #steven starphase #zapp renfro #zed o'brien #leonardo watch #ask

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shivunin · 1 year

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Echo Everywhere I Go

A New Year's (?) gift for my dear friend @star--nymph featuring a lovestruck Cullen and her Inquisitor Eurydice, whom I adore endlessly!

“Oh, dear; never saw you comin’.

Oh, my; look what you have done:

You’re my favorite song,

Always on the tip of my tongue.”

—The Civil Wars, “Tip of My Tongue”

Cullen had gotten used to not waking up alone.

He wasn’t quite sure when that had happened. Waking alone had been a given every day since he’d left Honnleath—for most of his life. Sometime in the past few months, unbeknownst to him, he’d become accustomed to regular company. It was, perhaps, for this reason that he was perturbed to wake alone that morning. Cullen groaned and his hand patted over the sheet to confirm what he already knew: Eurydice was gone.

Maker—barely awake and his head already ached, the sort of gripping headache at the base of his neck that felt like a heavy hand dug into the muscle. With a groan, Cullen rolled over into her nest of blankets and buried his face in her pillow. Eury’d left the bedding in a coil, as she often did, as if the blankets and sheets themselves were loath to let her go.

Peaches and the smell of lightning newly struck; though she was gone, this part of her lingered. Better than the long trips when he waited anxiously for her return. Better than the inevitable morning in her absence when he rolled over and found the smell had faded again.

Cullen took a deep breath, reveling in the warmth that clung to the sheets along with her scent, and gathered his will to rise for the day.

Aching joints, stiff fingers, headache, and the throbbing rush of blood in his ears when he stood; the catalog of ills was automatic by now and he paid it little mind. He stretched quickly, ran his hand over the braided leather wrapped around his wrists, and dressed for the day. In truth, he wasn’t due for any of his morning duties for several hours yet, but there seemed little point in trying to return to bed now. He was awake; he might as well make use of the time he had.

Cullen reached for his sword, propped between the bed and the nightstand. The leather bands were there, too, wrapped crosswise around the hilt of the sword. He couldn’t rest his hand on the hilt without thinking of Eurydice—which was precisely why he’d left them wrapped there. He traced the lines and bumps of the adornments after he’d secured the belt, relishing the faint roughness at the joints of the leather and the smooth, cool glass beads at either end. Only when he’d traced their lines did he climb down the ladder to the office below.

The Inquisitor had left traces here, too—and thank the Maker for that—in the form of the various sachets he’d left tucked into his desk drawer along with her letters from the road. None of them were exceptionally long—his Eury was not given to wordiness—but unlike the formal missives, all the words on these pages were for Cullen alone.

Ena’vun, they all began, and a little piece of her day would follow: a collection of herbs to ease the withdrawal symptoms, perhaps, or a brief description of something she’d seen. He needed the formal reports, of course; it was his job to read the formal reports. But the second letters were the ones he treasured, the ones he read over and over by the candlelight in his office or bedroom when she was far away from him.

They were, every one of the pages, worn to softness at the creases from repeated folding and unfolding. Some of them—the ones filled with herbs—had no words at all, just a packet of leaves for Cullen to research. He saved these, too, even when they were empty. Sentimental, perhaps. Even so, he could not bring himself to throw even the blank letters away. Instead, he settled them under the others, tucking them carefully and neatly away, and looked forward to the next thing she would send him.

Sometimes when he opened this drawer to find writing materials or to fish out one of the herb mixtures, Cullen would become caught by the sight of her handwriting on the page and lose track of his intended task entirely. Ena’vun, she called him, matter-of-fact, as if it were his name. Perhaps, to her, it was. He wondered often if she knew that the name seemed to echo in the hollow spaces of his chest every time she used it, if she knew that the flush it brought to his cheeks was the very least of what the epithet did to him.

But no matter; this morning, he could at least look forward to seeing Eury later. There was always the war council meeting or walks along the ramparts. If all else failed, she would likely find her way to him when it was time to turn in for the night. Cullen pulled the appropriate sachet from the drawer now, hailed a messenger to send for hot water from the kitchens, and began to sift through his correspondence for the day.

His fingers, wrapped around the hilt of his blade, traced often over the shapes of the leather she’d woven with her own hands, over the beads she’d carefully chosen just for him. And—while there was nobody there to see—Cullen allowed himself to smile.

Cullen went into the great hall early, eyes scanning the corners and balconies for a snatch of silver hair, ears strained for the familiar husky voice. He found neither and pushed away the disappointment that wanted to rise in response. The Inquisitor was busy; of course she was. He shouldn’t expect her constant presence just because he desired it. And yet…

Two steaming cups of tea in Josephine’s office, one of them mostly drained. The diplomat was frowning, bent over some piece of correspondence when he pushed into the room.

“A moment, Commander,” Josephine murmured, “Forgive me, but the wording here is delicate.”

“Of course,” Cullen said, and wandered closer to the desk, the notes on what he needed to discuss with her tucked under his arm.

Ah—he’d forgotten breakfast again, hadn’t he? Cullen’s stomach protested this omission, though thankfully it did so quietly. He eyed the little plate of cakes at Josephine’s elbow, trying to decide if it would be rude to ask for one. The ambassador, without looking up, pressed a hand to the edge of the porcelain and pushed it closer to him.

Thank the Maker.

Cullen adjusted the papers under his arm so he wouldn’t drop them and carefully took a pastry from the ornate, gold-rimmed plate. It was sweet and heartier than it had initially looked. He would have to thank her when she was finished with her missive.

For several long minutes, the room was filled only with the soft scratching of a quill on fine parchment, but at last the ambassador leaned back. Their conversation was not lengthy, but it was much faster than a series of messages would have been. Cullen scribbled the ambassador’s thoughts at the end of his own sheet of notes for consideration later and nodded to the pastries on her desk.

“Thank you, Lady Montilyet. And thank you for the, ah—pastry.”

“Mmm,” the ambassador replied, glancing at the little plate, “The Inquisitor said you might be by this morning. She seemed convinced you would need something to eat, so I did not ask the kitchen assistants to remove them yet.”

He didn’t need to ask how Eurydice had known he would be here this morning; just last night, he’d told her about needing to meet with Josephine. They’d been on their customary evening walk, then, shortly before Eury had convinced him to leave work behind for the night. Cullen had left off his gloves, for his office had seemed cursed hot last night, and Eurydice’s soft hair had fluttered against the back of his hand in the mountain breeze.

When they’d paused to look out over the moonstruck expanse of snow, he’d gained her permission to loop his fingers through her pale, curling hair. Cullen loved every piece of her, but there was a particular reverence to touching that silken expanse. If Eurydice was cool, clear moonlight, true and purely herself down to her bones, her hair was like moonbeams, the first and most ephemeral pieces that he could hold of her. Last night, Cullen had made a gentle loop of the silvery strands over his first two fingers and kissed them with all the reverence of a knight pledging fealty against his liege’s signet.

But—ah, that was all beside the point right now. He was fairly certain Josephine had just said something to him.

“Eur—the Inquisitor was here?” Cullen asked, and glanced at the now-cool cup of tea, “When?”

“Just before you visited, in fact,” Josephine said, following his eyes to the mostly-empty teacup, “The Inquisitor said she needed to check something in her workshop, I believe.”

Just missed her. Flames; if he’d only walked more quickly from his office, he might have caught up to her here. Cullen resisted the urge to pout over it.

“Thank you, Ambassador,” Cullen said, with an abbreviated bow, and turned to go.

He ignored Josephine’s quiet chuckle when he turned right at the stairs to the kitchen instead of going straight.

Eurydice’s workshop wasn’t close to the great hall; she’d said it was in the depths of the castle for a reason. Even so, Cullen had hopes, as he jogged down sets of stairs and ducked between several half-crumbled doorways, that he hadn’t somehow missed her again. The door to the workshop was faintly unnerving, as always, but it was less effort now to raise his hand and knock than it might have been several months ago. His visits here were rare, but whenever he opened that door it seemed that the memory of Eurydice wearing his mantle hung about the room. It was a good memory—he called up the ghost of it half the times he belted the mantle on in the morning regardless—but it made this place somewhat less unsettling to visit.

Cullen knocked on the door and waited for it to swing open.

Nothing.

He knocked again more hesitantly, half-wincing at the intrusion (was she working on something volatile? Was there something she couldn’t step away from, or—Maker—did she not want to see him?) but when he paused to listen he heard nothing at all.

Ah—she must’ve left already. Flames; he shouldn’t have tried to track her down in the first place. She would find him when she was ready and not a moment sooner, and the longer he spent trekking around Skyhold the less time he spent at his work.

Brow deeply furrowed, Cullen turned and began to climb the stairs back to the rest of the keep.

Well—perhaps she’d gone to the stables. Right? Wasn’t it about that time of day? It wasn’t so far out of the way; he could just take that set of stairs up to the battlements just in case and…

Yes, that was what he would do.

Slightly cheered, Cullen swung through the kitchens with a nod to the staff, trying not to look either as flushed or as anticipatory as he felt. His heart sped up as he neared the stables, listening for her rough voice, the faint smile he could hear in it whenever she spoke to the horses. It fell just as quickly when he neared the door and saw Hulk’s stall empty. His own mount, Knight, happily munched on what looked like an apple.

Just missed her again—Cullen growled his frustration, but took a moment to pat Knight’s nose and murmur his apologies for being unable to take him out on a proper ride again. The horse was, of course, very neatly combed and brushed to a shine, not a hair out of place. He would have expected no less if Eury had been in here speaking to the mount, for she was more thorough even than Dennet himself.

“I can’t say I’m not jealous,” he murmured to Knight, removing his glove to run his hand over the mount’s silken hide, “Foolish as that might be. Did she seem like she was having a good day, at least?”

The horse whickered, which—well, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. He leaned his forehead against the horse’s for a moment, which Knight graciously tolerated before nosing at his hands for a treat.

“Hold on, hold on—I’ll find something,” Cullen sighed, turning toward the shops. Ever a watchful eye, Bonny Sims held out a pouch of sugar cubes when he approached, which Cullen exchanged his handful of coppers for.

“Here,” he told Knight, holding out a palmful of sweetness a moment later, “At least one of us ought to have what he wants, hm?”

Knight’s ears twitched and he delicately took each cube from Cullen’s hand until it was damp and empty again. Sighing, Cullen moved to hang the bag out of Knight’s reach. He paused as the pouch string neared the nail.

Eury had given Knight an apple. He knew she might disapprove of too many sweets for either creature, but…well.

Carefully, Cullen stacked four cubes on the small shelf meant for a curry comb beside Hulk’s stall. Eury never rode for too long in the morning; she’d be back soon enough, and then she’d see that he’d left these for her.

He hoped.

“Well,” he said, after he’d dragged out rearranging the tools hung by Knight’s stall for longer than necessary, “I suppose…I shall see you later?”

Knight whickered again and butted his head against Cullen’s shoulder. Braced for just that, Cullen grunted and held his ground.

“You too, you great oaf,” he murmured affectionately, reaching up to scratch the space where mane met skull, “I'll have time tomorrow for a ride. Would you like that?”

Knight nosed at the mantle on Cullen’s shoulders, which he took for agreement.

“Very well,” he said, stepping back at last, “Tomorrow then.”

Cullen smoothed his hair and tugged the glove loose from his belt, then headed for the stairs up to the ramparts. He pulled the glove over his fingers swiftly, but drew the supple leather up over his wrists and forearms more slowly. With each inch, he traced the backs of his knuckles over the bumps and coils of the bracelets wound around his wrist. Each brush of his skin against the tightly-wound leather was another reminder of Eurydice, and a welcome one when he was missing her.

Sighing faintly, Cullen gathered himself and stepped back into the dimly-lit office where any number of reports and missives and schedules waited. Soon enough, they’d see each other again; it was no emergency that he hadn’t spoken with her yet today. He just…needed to be patient. That was all.

He set the stack of reports on the desk and peered down at them sightlessly for a moment, all the notes he’d made blurred into senseless smudges of black.

Since the first moment he’d realized what he’d felt for her was attraction, Cullen had often asked himself why. Why had love found him now, when he hadn’t thought to want such a thing for so long? Why would she even want to spend time with him, flawed as he was? Why, on the rare days when he didn’t see her before she left, did he feel so wrong-footed all day?

It wasn’t in any way that she was a craving, he decided after some consideration, though of course he craved her presence; it was that his time with her was a foundation, and his feet felt unsteady on the ground without it.

Patience; patience. Cullen knew how to be patient. Eury always came to him around noon, steady and unerring as the moons made their way across the sky. Soon enough, she would be here and everything would be right again.

Patience.

His office grew suffocatingly warm over the course of the day, until Cullen finally conceded to shedding the mantle and tossing it over the chair he hardly used in the corner. Several scrolls slid slowly to the ground, disturbed by the weight of the cloth, but he paid them little mind.

“And the scouts turned up nothing in their search?” he asked the messenger, who also looked uncomfortable.

“No, Commander,” she said, and shifted slightly, “I can…ask them to look again?”

“No,” Cullen grumbled, running a finger along the inside of his gorget, “If Scout Harding says there’s nothing, then there’s nothing. Maker. Alright—take this to the lieutenant responsible for the region. Bellows, was it? And tell her she needs to make absolutely certain that the fortifications for the camp can withstand a beast that size. If the scouts can’t track it, I won’t have it attacking in the night while half our soldiers are asleep.”

The messenger nodded, already saluting and backing toward the door.

“Yes, Ser,” she said, and in a flash she was gone again.

It had to be close to noon. Hadn’t it? The war room meeting had been canceled due to some piece of information Leliana needed to chase down and he’d been hip-deep in messengers ever since. That had been the last, thank the Maker. Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment.

He needed to do something about this headache, he acknowledged reluctantly. It was just so cursed hot in here, sweat sticking loose strands of hair to the sides of his face, and he couldn’t seem to think straight. Fingers fumbling, Cullen slid the desk drawer slightly open and reached for one of the sachets of herbs—

“Commander!” a messenger cried, crashing through the door, “Quick!”

Cullen was running for the door before the man even finished his second word.

In the valley below Skyhold, Cullen surveyed the wreckage of a dozen tents.

“And this is where the fire began?” he asked grimly. He sat astride Knight, well aware that a step to the ground would send little plumes of ash to settle in his hair and clothes and cling to the cold sweat on his brow. He’d left in too much of a hurry to retrieve his mantle, and the bite of the colder air here was brutal. Hopefully, this visit would be brief. The damage had, after all, already been done.

“Yes, ser,” the soldier said, looking across the burned segment, “First assumption was mages, but…”

“But?” Cullen asked. The soldier shook her head.

“Had a pair of former templars here and neither of them felt the pull of magic.”

“Hmm,” Cullen said, leaning forward in the saddle and scanning the wreckage, “No, they’re right. The pattern’s all wrong. A mage would have made fire in an arc or a blast, so we would see clean swathes of flame or a radiating circle. This is neither—it must have jumped between the canvas somehow.”

“Most recent information involves a spilled lamp and a box of oil, ser, but we’ll keep you updated.”

“Very good,” Cullen said, peering up at the sky briefly.

After the ride down from Skyhold, the meeting with the lieutenants responsible for this sector of the camp, a visit with those wounded in the fire, and this discussion, the sun was already well into its descent.

“We can have a tent made up for you, Ser,” the soldier said, following his glance, “It would be no trouble.”

“No,” Cullen said at once, “With the loss of these, others will have need of shelter and sleep. No, I will return to Skyhold if this is the last of the business here. I can make it before full dark if I leave now.”

It was a perfectly logical answer. That it wasn’t the real answer—that in truth he balked at going a night more than he had to without Eury close by—was his business and nobody else’s.

“Yes,” the soldier said, pressing a fist to her chest, “We will direct all reports to your office and the Nightingale’s.”

Cullen was away moments later, urging Knight into a trot and leaning forward slightly over the saddlehorn. Underneath the leather of his gloves, the bracelets she’d woven for him with her own hands pressed gently into the skin. They were a symbol of her love, a reminder of her, a touchstone to brush against when he didn’t have the real thing beside him.

But for so long all he’d had was the absence of her. Cullen had thought it was the best he could ever have, but now—after knowing the warmth of Eurydice curled up in bed beside him, after knowing the steadiness and joy of her rare smiles, absence could never be enough again. He would not allow it.

“Go, Knight!” Cullen called as soon as he was out of earshot of the sentries. The horse put his head down and broke into a gallop.

Nine o’clock on the dot.

Without fail, that was the time she came to him in the evenings. Cullen brushed Knight down quickly, heart thudding in his ears, and offered another sugar cube before striding to his office. He knew that being late was not as dire as it felt. He knew there would be other times, that if they missed each other again for their nightly walk she would still be there this evening, most likely, or tomorrow. But it felt dire that he hadn’t seen her even once today.

Dire enough that Cullen didn’t even have the capacity to worry over missing anybody this much. It seemed foolish to question something that simply was. He loved her; he missed her; it bothered him that he hadn’t seen her even once today, that all of their routines had been so carelessly disrupted. This feeling—missing her, the ever-present absence of her at his side—was like a word always on the tip of his tongue, but just out of reach; like something he was supposed to have remembered, but he’d failed to set it down in words before he forgot.

His boots thudded on the stone of the stairs. A trade caravan had blocked the way up the pass and he’d been trapped behind them for some time while their travel woes had been resolved. Night had long since fallen, and his time was running out. Soon he would miss her again, would be trapped in his empty office for hours all alone. Soon—

He swung the door to his office too hard and it slammed into the wall. Cullen winced at the crash and then froze, one hand outstretched, the other on the door jamb, because his office was not empty at all.

At the other door, the Inquisitor waited, head turned to look at him. One bony hand clutched the edge of the wood and the other twined in her silvery hair, the strands locked in place around her fingers.

“Eurydice!” Cullen said in startlement, breathing heavily, “You’re here!”

Her eye gleamed violet behind her long lashes, her hair, and—yes—the dark fur of his mantle, which she’d thrown around her shoulders and belted in place. Really, he ought to have known it would end up wrapped around her when he’d tossed it onto the desk chair and left it there.

“Ena’vun,” she said in her lovely, low voice, “You are being very loud.”

“Yes, I—didn’t want to be late.”

Cullen took as deep a breath as he could manage and quietly, carefully shut the door again. Eury stood in place for a moment, all but perfectly still, until he crossed the room to her side. He itched to touch her, but waited until she’d turned to face him. As always, she took him in from chin to toe, eyes dancing swiftly. Cullen leaned an elbow against the doorframe while she looked, as much for balance as it was for something to do with the hand that itched to hold her.

“I missed you today,” he told her quietly, and lifted a hand toward her hair, “May I?”

She nodded once and leaned toward him slightly. Cullen wished, privately, that he’d removed the glove first so he could feel the softness of it against his fingers, but he hadn’t expected her to be inside his office. It was a reasonable enough substitute to press the curl carefully to his lips, to watch the way her pale eyelashes feathered over her eyes when he did. When he breathed deeply this close to her, the soft smell of it filled his senses. Peaches; she always smelled faintly of peaches. Maker, how he’d missed her today. What a relief it was to see her now.

“I’m sorry I was late,” he told her, letting go carefully and watching the curl he’d kissed twine back when the rest, “We can go now.”

Eurydice began to walk and Cullen followed at her side, some nervous, pacing thing inside his chest settling down at last. His love had needed to do nothing specific to set his world back in its pace; she’d only needed to be here with him. Here and herself: dependable as apogee and perigee, as the soft, cool light through the hole in his ceiling when he woke from a nightmare. There was a rightness in being at her side, even in silence, even if it was only once in a whole, long day.

The wind whistled over the ramparts, cooler than the air within Skyhold’s walls. It chilled the sweat on Cullen’s skin, which was a relief in and of itself. Gradually, his heart slowed and his breathing evened. When they’d passed Herald’s Rest and made the turn toward the tower, the back of her hand brushed against his.

“I missed you, too, Ena'vun,” Eury told him quietly.

Maker, how he loved the husky timbre of her voice.

Alone, with only the two of them anywhere in sight, Cullen allowed himself a smile. In the still of night, under the cool, watchful light of the moon, the two of them walked on.

For the first time in that long, lonely day, everything seemed to Cullen exactly as it should be.

Happy New Year, Kat (or late Merry Christmas lol)! I love Eury so much and I hope I've done her justice. When I think of the two of them, I always think that Cullen must pine for her constantly when she's not around (how could he not?), so that's what I wanted to write. Thank you for your friendship and for trusting me with your baby c: Here's to my favorite Lavellan and a kind year to come!

#eurydice lavellan #cullen rutherford #cullavellan #inquisitor lavellan #da fanfic #i feel like i should say more in the tags!!! but alas i have run out of words #i love eury thiiiiiiiiiis much #& thank you c:#sorry the formatting isn't very neat #cullen x lavellan #cullen x inquisitor

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