#no I’m not posting from within a ritual bath | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ashasmonsters · 3 years

Text

The Middle Prince

Male reader x Male Tiefling (Amon)

Citrus rating: Lemon

Content: Detailed wet dreams, alcohol

Words: 8k

Note: Some MLM goodness for Pride Month! This took me longer than I intended, but only because I wrote it way too long and had to break it up into parts! Expect more in this series.

The dreams started assailing you a little over a month ago. During the first week, you couldn't remember anything. You would awake in your bedchamber covered in sweat and panting as if you had just finished a sparring session. These nights, a name danced on the tip of your tongue, escaping just as you attempted to sound it out and make it real. Confused and alone you would promptly go back to sleep after flipping over your pillow. As time passed, the dreams grew both in intensity and clarity. Though still more mysterious than normal dreams, little details here and there coalesced in your waking memory: a soft touch followed by a rough one, the smell of lavender, your fingernails gliding over shallow ridges, the color of aquamarine gemstones. These dreams visited you every night without fail.

The determinations made by the court oneiromancers were limited in scope. After spending the night in the care of one such dream diviner, they found these dreams to be coming from somewhere else. The dreams were not your own, at least not fully. Beyond this, they had no more revelations. Anything more was conjecture; one stated that if magick was involved, it was either massively strong, thus able to conceal its origin, or so fleeting and ephemeral that even the oneiromancers couldn't trace it.

Your father's concern waxed but mostly waned. Perhaps if you were the eldest crown prince instead of the middle one, the answer would have been willed into existence by his command. He simply asked that the oneiromancers track your condition and report any findings to him, but no more than once each week. Though dismayed that little was being done to solve this mystery, you were used to being far from priority. Even years ago when an attempt on your life left one of your legs still and unresponsive, a leg brace allowing you to stand at public appearances was issued and the problem was declared solved. You vividly remembered the look on the assassin's face when he realized he had accidentally struck third in the line of succession rather than first. His reaction was not dissimilar from your father's when you mentioned your dreams: a mildly amused but primarily disappointed visage. The spot where the dagger had pierced your spine no longer ached but your discontent was as raw and fresh as the day the realization struck.

With the oneiromancers essentially told to only report something unquestionably threatening to your life or the family's honor, you shared very little with them. Several times you had dismissed them with little more than a hand wave. None of them ever protested. To their knowledge, no new developments within these dreams came to light. It was just another little curiosity that came with the court.

To their knowledge, anyway. In truth, there had been a quite substantial development that you withheld from them.

The night air was cool and crisp. From your bedchamber's veranda, you let the gentle sound of the garden's fountains below soothe your nerves. This had become your regular nighttime ritual; your last chance to feel relaxed and cool before waking up overheated and frantic. You enjoyed the last of it before sliding under the sheets and waiting for the dream to visit you.

This was the clearest dream to date. The scattered sensations and feelings from prior episodes came into focus: the touches came from smooth, tender hands, the smell of lavender from purple cups of herbal tea. Your fingers played over short, filed horns. That bold aquamarine color like a burning emerald belonged to a pair of eyes, their pupils narrow and catlike. The overall plot of the dream remained unknown to you. What came next, however, was new. Very new.

A pair of hands caressed your body as whatever clothing you had dissolved into the air. Your mind reeled from the realization of what was happening, yet you were relaxed all the same. Though surprised, you didn't wish for it to stop. Even as the tender hands had you at their mercy, one playfully pinching a nipple as the other reached lower in between your legs, you welcomed their touch without knowing why. You just did. It felt right. The hand between your legs started confidently stroking your shaft; making you moan. Their touch was expertly coordinated as if they knew everything about you. Not long after, the building pressure within you was too much to bear, then...

"AMON!" You cried out, the name that had eluded you all those nights finally woven from syllables into a complete utterance. You were no longer dreaming, your own hands reflexively covering your mouth in a futile attempt to take back the exclamation. In the dead of night like this, you most certainly alerted someone.

"My Prince, are you alright?" Your chief courtier, Petra, had burst through your bedchamber door. Guards with polearms at the ready had her back.

"I'm alright," you caught your breath, "it's the dream again. No cause for alarm." As usual, you bore a sheen of sweat and your heart was thundering in your ears.

"You've never called out like that before," Petra noted, not yet dropping her guard.

"I called out?" You lied, wincing as you felt something viscid and slimy on your groin under your dressing gown. Deep embarrassment came to the forefront of your mind, your face helpless to hide it. "Bring me my washbasin, please," you quickly uttered.

"At once, my Prince." Petra left the room as the guards resumed their posts. You peeled back your dressing gown to inspect the damage by moonlight. It was worse than you thought. Undoubtedly this gown would have to be thrown out. You groaned, disappointed in your own body for betraying you like this.

"Your washbasin, Prince." Petra returned and you hurriedly covered yourself up again. The moonlight was too dim, or perhaps she pretended not to see, but she was soon at your bedside without pause, brandishing a sponge and towel.

"I can do this myself," you said, taking the implements from her. She looked at you with intent to interrogate.

"Prince, if there have been changes with your dreams, you must inform the oneiromancers."

"No need," you said, eager to fully clean yourself. "You are dismissed, Petra."

Petra held her tongue. Her eyes told you she only did so because she was eager to return to bed. When she departed your bedchamber and closed the door, you finally discarded the soiled gown and did your best to cleanse yourself of your nocturnal emission. You donned a new gown and welcomed an ordinary slumber.

When morning came, so did Petra and a bevy of assistant courtiers. From the accoutrements they wielded you identified them as the "fashion corps," your nickname for the hairdressers, wardrobers, clothiers, and makeup artists whose arrival portended a formal event you were required to attend. As the squad of aesthetes communicated amongst each other, Petra drew you a bath. While the tub filled, she came to your side and took your shoulder on hers to help you hobble into the bathing chamber.

"What's the occasion, Petra?" You unfolded a privacy screen, dividing your bathing chamber in half. As you stripped and entered the balmy water, you heard Petra pull up a chair on the other side of the screen.

"The biannual alliance gala, Prince."

"The alliance gala?" You asked. Your appearance had not been required at one for quite some time. "Why me?"

"Your father has requested that the entire court attend. From what I've heard, there is quite the number of fiefdoms and baronies joining the kingdom at this one."

"Grand." You sighed and resigned yourself into the water until it met your chin. You imagined the great hall of the palace, teeming with strangers from far-off lands all speaking in such meaningless platitudes that they needed alcohol in hand to tolerate it.

"If it makes you feel any better, Prince, most of the night depends on your elder brother and your father. You have the freedom to do whatever you like once your father's opening speech is concluded," Petra said with a mild tone.

It didn't make you feel better. Your father built a kingdom that, apparently, smaller domains were scrambling to join. Your elder brother was the crown prince with hordes of suitors seeking his heart. Even your elder sister, with no direct claim to the crown, was quite sought after. Then there was you, with permission to get as drunk as you like at the gala. You seriously considered exercising that privilege.

Your ruminations were interrupted by the clatter of hammered metal and leather straps from beyond the screen.

"I've got your brace ready, Prince. Let me know when you're dry," Petra said. You reluctantly finished scrubbing and soaping yourself before heaving your body onto the lip of the bath and toweling off. Sat there, damp with dripping hair and a towel round your waist, you permitted Petra to attach the brace to you. She respectfully averted her eyes as she affixed the contraption to your immobilized leg. With it attached, you traded comfort for the ability to limp and stand unassisted.

Next came the gauntlet of clothing, hair styling, and makeup that the fashion corps employed. Even for today, which was merely a rehearsal for the true event tomorrow, they gave no mercy. They encircled you and passed you around as they worked like a knight being suited by his squires. The process was grueling. Your hair was tugged and the breeches squeezed your brace into your leg. With the freedom to choose your own clothes removed from you, there was no choice but to deal with the feeling of metal biting at your skin.

Bound in the tight, ceremonial clothing, Petra took your arm for the long walk to the great hall. It was full of palace staff and buzzing like a beehive. The ceiling, high as a cathedral's, let in beams of sunlight through its many massive windows. Tables were being arranged with the intent to give each attending guest a view of the stage: the stage where your father and elder brother would be giving their opening speeches tomorrow. The two of them were behind a podium, your brother reading a piece of parchment over your father's shoulder. Behind them towards the back of the stage was a row of ornate seats; not quite thrones but just as uncomfortable. Your elder sister met your gaze as she sat on one. She beckoned you over.

"That will be your seat for the rehearsal, Prince," Petra said.

"Rehearsal for sitting?" You quipped, walking towards your seat anyway. Resistance was futile no matter how silly this all was.

"I'll undo your hair and get you into more comfortable clothes as soon as I can, Prince," Petra said apologetically. "Bear with it. I must attend to the other staff now."

With that, Petra disappeared into the crowd of scrambling staff arranging the great hall into order. You limped to your seat, your brace clicking all the while.

"You look excellent, little brother," your sister said. She was attempting to alleviate your sour mood, but she still hadn't figured out how. Neither had you.

"I look like an idiot. And my leg is killing me," you snapped.

Your sister merely sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her hair, in a high bun, bumped the bejeweled headrest and made her curse.

"You used to love these events when you were smaller. You had perfected waving to the crowd before you learned to talk," she said.

"That was a long time ago. Things were different; I was naive, none of us had official duties, the assassination attempt hadn't happened, I wasn't bedeviled by these dreams... mother was alive." You cast your gaze downward, examining your buckled leather shoes. You heard her sigh.

"Not all change has to be bad. And to be fair, you still don't have any official duties to worry about." She placed a hand on your shoulder.

"That's a polite way of saying I'm useless." You looked up at your father and elder brother. They were discussing something about their speeches, annotating and marking the parchment before them. A small audience of pages stood in front of the stage, listening to them run through portions of their speeches. They hadn't yet paid you any heed.

"It's a blunt way of saying you're free," your sister said firmly. "Every week I'm fielding suitors from all over the world, and not one of them has proven to be anything but repulsive. I'm terrified that one day strategy and diplomacy will land me with someone like them."

Your eyes widened at her open disdain for the matters of the court.

"I'm sorry," you said, reconstructing your vision of who your sister truly was. "I had no idea you felt that way... I thought—"

"You thought I was traipsing about with handsome men from far-off lands every day?" She smirked.

"...yes." You blushed.

"Hah! I wish!" Your sister flinched at her own exclamation, then relaxed when she realized the monarch and the crown prince hadn't noticed. "But you don't have to wish for that. You're free to traipse with whomever you please."

You blushed harder. Turning away from your sister, you saw your brother and father finishing up their speech revisions. On cue, Petra emerged from the throng of staff to conclude this "rehearsal."

"Looks like Petra's coming to get you," your sister noted. "I know you'll be free to retire to your bedchambers as soon as the speeches are over, but I want you to try and enjoy yourself tomorrow night. It's what I would do if I could." She gave you one final smile before getting up from her seat.

"I will," you said, finally cracking a tiny smile in return. Petra had your arm soon after.

"Your presence is no longer required, Prince." Petra helped you up. "Shall I take you back to your chambers?"

"Yes, please," you said, giving your sister a thankful glance. She returned a similar expression as Petra whisked you away.

When you had finally returned to your chambers and changed into less constrictive clothing, you asked Petra to stay awhile to converse. Your sister's advice had forced you to re-evaluate your approach to the gala. Your priorities had shifted just as much as your notions of her personality had.

"You mentioned there were many newcomers to the kingdom? Quite a few tables were being set up in the great hall," you quizzed Petra.

"Yes, from what I've gathered, it's expected to be the largest event we've hosted all year. We're expecting guests from as far as Ankara and Nubia," she answered matter-of-factly. Perhaps she was a little proud, too.

"Are there any specific guests I should know about?" You asked with the grace of a war elephant. Courtship had crossed your mind for the first time mere minutes ago. "Anyone of high repute?"

Petra picked up on your clumsy intent immediately. She knew you too well.

"Prince, it would be quicker to list the attendees not worth approaching than those with stellar accolades. If it were me..." she drew in air through her teeth as if expecting to be reprimanded, "I would consider tomorrow's gala an excellent time to court someone."

"I'll try to take that advice to heart, Petra," you said.

"I'm pleased, Prince. Your matters are your own, but if I may speak unequivocally..."

"Speak your mind." You gave her permission. She hesitated, then sighed.

"You strike me as lonely, Prince. Ever since the Queen passed, your social life has suffered." Petra paused again, considering her words carefully. "You deserve love of that measure once more, whether from a partner or a good friend."

"Thank you," you sighed as if she had given you permission to use your heart. "I appreciate the advice, Petra."

"Of course, Prince." She glanced out the window towards the setting sun. "I recommend you retire early tonight to be invigorated tomorrow, lest the dreams strike again."

You nodded.

"They will." You avoided her eyes as you remembered what happened last time. "Have a washbasin ready. For the, erm, sweat."

"Of course, Prince," Petra said, her face remaining unmoved. You didn't bother trying to discern whether she was oblivious to last night's gown-soiling or if she merely extended you the courtesy of pretending. "I'll leave you be. Get some rest."

You watched her exit your chambers without another word, finally exhaling the breath you held. The idea of having to clean yourself up again was hardly appealing. Standing on the veranda and enjoying the cool night air was only prolonging the inevitable.

The aforementioned inevitable reared its troublesome head as soon as you surrendered to sleep. Your consciousness materialized somewhere, a location unidentifiable but still more detailed than you had ever encountered before. You glimpsed kaleidoscopic carpets, hammered brass, and vines growing freely about the place.

"Welcome back." A man's voice like sweet honey floated through the warm air.

"I missed you." The words left your mouth without you knowing them. You were merely an observer to your own actions. "Amon."

"My sweet prince." Lips on your knuckles. The smell of lavender tea. "Tea?"

"No thanks. We must keep this quick," you uttered again, breathless and surrendering to a desire that was both yours and unknown to you.

"Tut, tut. What's gotten into you, my prince? I've never seen you so impatient," the voice teased. Your head spun.

"I need my energy," you gasped, something warm and wet lapping at your member. "For tomorrow." The ministrations paused.

"Of course. Tomorrow will be very special indeed." The tongue on your shaft resumed, making you squirm. You reached out into the nothingness, your fingers grasping at frayed carpet tassels. Your other hand reached in between your legs and found a head of hair. You grasped a smooth horn that curved neatly behind an ear. It bobbed up and down at a tantalizing pace.

"Amon, I... I shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't what?" Another pause in the pleasure. You caught your breath. Those eyes again, burning into yours with the hue of warm ocean waters. "Say no to me, my prince. I implore you to try."

Caught in the stare you were helpless. You quivered with need, your manhood twitching and drooling. Only a high whine left your lips.

"Thought so."

You shot up in bed, crying out and spasming. Once more you had spilled yourself into your gown, your entire body slick with sweat. As a small victory, your cries remained nondescript rather than referential to this "Amon." In the dream, you had felt a sweet warmth in your breast each time you spoke to him and even warmer when he responded. In your waking memory, this name was empty. There was no connection and no feeling of belonging. If you hadn't heard your own voice leave your mouth in the dream, you would have had no way of knowing those experiences were your own. Your dreaming memory and conscious recollection were severed, at odds with one another. What did he mean when he said tomorrow would be special? Did he know about the gala? You didn't know how much you knew.

"The washbasin, Prince," Petra uttered as she carried it into your chambers. She stowed it at your bedside. "Shall I leave you like before?"

"Yes, please... but would it trouble you to return afterward?"

"Not at all, Prince. I'll return at your word." She slipped out of the room. You took the opportunity to cleanse yourself of the evidence before permitting Petra to return.

“Petra, would it be possible to acquire a guest list for the gala?” You asked.

“Possible, yes. However, it will be quite long without any qualifiers. As I mentioned previously, this is one of the largest events of the year.”

You considered simply asking her if the name Amon was among the attendees, but Petra would likely alert the oneiromancers and in turn, your father. You doubted anything would happen at all if she did, but this was a matter you wanted to confront on your own. Like all other decisions made for you at your father’s behest, your own interests would unquestionably be cast aside if he decided to involve himself.

“I’d like to know the first names of all the male guests scheduled to attend,” you said. Petra raised an eyebrow.

“That doesn’t narrow it down much, Prince,” Petra answered. The sweet, honeyed voice from your dream remained in your mind. It was the voice of a young man, one likely of your age.

“Only the male guests around my age, then,” you specified. Petra raised her other eyebrow, making her expression one of surprise rather than skepticism.

“Ah. That kind of list. I see...” Your cheeks burned; though you didn’t know where this inquiry would take you, you also felt the conclusion Petra came to was not wholly inaccurate. “Shall I make, erm, other arrangements as well?”

“Arrangements?” you asked. It was Petra’s turn to blush.

“The standard things... extra pillows, oils, skins—”

“Yes, of course, Petra,” you cut her off, not wishing for her to extend the list of amenities any further. Searching for a suitor was a favorable charade. If nothing else, if this search for the mysterious Amon proved fruitless, then you would at least have the means, motive, and opportunity to bed somebody... if you had the audacity. The look on Petra's face said she didn't think so.

"I’ll have the list and the... goods brought in before sun-up,” Petra said. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, Petra, that will suffice.”

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Morning arrived and so did Petra's promises; the chief courtier herself was nowhere to be found, but a neatly transcribed list of names and a box tied with a bow sat atop a chaise lounge when you awoke. You already knew what waited inside the box, so you went for the list. Though only containing the names of guests that fit your qualifiers, the parchment was both long and double-sided. Your eyes began to tire just as they fell across what you were looking for:

Amon II - Eparch of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia

You were puzzled. Makuria and Elodia were names you hadn't heard since you were tutored. Even your father's kingdom with its diplomats venturing far and wide rarely mentioned them. You only knew they were small kingdoms far away from this one. There was not one but two oceans between here and there, they spoke a language no tutor in the palace taught, and both titles of "Nobatian" and "Eparch" were unknown to you.

Then the fashion corps arrived. You dropped the parchment and pondered the new information as they manhandled you into the appearance they had crafted for you yesterday. Perhaps due to more practiced hands or being lost in your thoughts, the process seemed to go much faster than previously. You almost didn't believe it when they told you they were finished, but the shifted sun and your appearance in the mirror confirmed that the gala would soon begin. Your hair was fashioned into an unnatural shape, your face was dusted with powder, and your clothes were so form-fitting that you appeared sewn into them. The bulge of the leg brace through your breeches peeked out at the ankle; the leggings were so tight that your overcoat preserved more of your modesty than they did.

With Petra absent and likely scrambling to put last-minute touches on the gala, you walked to the great hall with the assistance of the fashion corps, who likewise made hasty repairs to your appearance as your gait jostled things out of place. When you arrived, the great hall was even busier than at the rehearsal. It seemed there was a member of palace staff for each seat at every table, all of them fastidiously arranging cutlery, plates, decorative vases, placemats, and myriad other things you didn't know the names for.

“Little brother!” You turned your head and spotted your elder sister within a parade of her own fashion corps regiment. She waved at you from one of the great hall’s entrances.

“Sister,” you responded with a nod, your own cavalcade parting to allow her approach.

“Have you given tonight any consideration?” She asked.

“Yes, actually...”

“You’re not going to retreat to your chambers?”

“...not immediately,” you said, noncommittal.

“I’m glad.” She smiled gently. “I’ll likely be busy most of the night, though if you’d like me to send anyone your way, let me know. Who’s on your list?”

“My list?” you sputtered. “Petra told you?”

“Petra? Goodness, no,” she chuckled. “I just figured you’d have one. It’s standard practice for these sorts of things; I’ve a list as well. So... who’s on yours?”

You lowered your head and examined your shoes.

“Well... it’s quite long.”

“How scandalous!” she gasped exaggeratedly.

“I’m just casting a wide net is all! I don’t intend to bed every single male my age!” Your cheeks burned again. You considered dropping the charade if it meant this level of humiliation.

“I expected my mild little brother to have a rebellious phase eventually, but this...” she said, ignoring your cries.

"Sister, please," you pleaded. The tone of your voice convinced her to return to normal. She extended a hand to ruffle your hair but stopped herself when your fashion corps hairstylist glared at her.

"Apologies, little brother. I had to jest a little," she smiled at you, this time without intent to tease. "They're going to start letting in the guests soon. We should take our seats."

You nodded and followed her to the stage. The fashion corps fell away from you and went to help elsewhere. You sat in your uncomfortable pseudo-throne and waited, eventually joined by your other siblings save for your eldest brother. They greeted you as they took position at your side, but there was very little to talk about. This was the first time you had seen them in a while.

Then came the guests: the table-setters had cleared out some minutes before the floodgates burst and more staff escorted groups of people to their tables. The cathedral-like great hall was full in mere moments. Sorted by table, there was a sea of people in colorful finery all conversing amongst themselves and giving you and your siblings the occasional glance. You tried to pick out Amon from the crowd but quickly realized half-remembered fragments from your dreams wouldn't be enough to pick him from a sea of hundreds. Even finding his name on the list took a considerable amount of time.

Then the hall fell silent, or something close to it. A lively conversation between hundreds of people dropped to hushed whispers. Your father and brother had entered the hall and begun their walk to the podium, silencing the crowd with nothing but their appearance. When your father reached the podium, he extended both arms palms up and the previously subdued crowd erupted into cheers. If not for the applause, he would have heard you groan. Your sister said nothing, only giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

When the speeches started you practically willed your ears shut. Perhaps you would have built a tolerance to them if you had appeared at more of these events, but you couldn't bear to listen to your father and elder brother boast of their achievements to a sea of complacent, nodding heads. It was like a reminder that within the kingdom your father built, you served your purpose by distracting that assassin some years ago and now outlived your usefulness. At this gala, you were decoration only a few ranks higher than a potted plant.

You thanked any and all higher powers when the speeches were over. Father and his crown prince had left the stage to begin their targeted commingling with VIPs, prompting you and your siblings to stand from your seats. They all dispersed before you could look to them to follow their lead. When you stumbled off the stage and distanced yourself from it by leaning against the wall as you walked, hardly any attention came your way. Thankfully, the attention you did receive was from Petra.

"Prince, are you alright? You look troubled," she said, sidling up to you.

"What do I do, Petra?" you asked, intimidated by the sheer size of the room and the attendees within it. Each table was like its own little kingdom with strangers you didn't know and faux-pas to stumble over.

"See how each table has an empty chair or two?" She pointed to the tables nearest you, one full of scaly Sāmm-abraṣ emissaries and another with human diplomats bearing the flag of Bavaria. You nodded. "All the guests are expected to stay seated while dinner is served. They won't get up to dance and drink until the meal is concluded. Right now, only people from the host kingdom— like you, me, your siblings, and other members of the court— will be walking around."

"So I just sit at whichever table and introduce myself?"

"If you even need to. The fact you're walking will show them you're hosting. They'll pay you proper respect without you saying anything at all."

"Hm," you mused. That sounded like a lot of work, especially since you weren't aiming to meander. Finding Amon would be immeasurably more difficult once the crowd was disorganized and inebriated, though, so now was your best chance.

"I've a copy of your list, Prince. Shall I help you navigate it?" Petra asked, holding up parchment.

"Yes, let's," you said. The lengthy document threatened to touch the floor. "Let's begin alphabetically."

"Alphabetically, Prince?"

"By first name."

"Of course, Prince. That means we should visit Aariyeh, Sardar of Anatolia, followed by Abdul II, Knez of Smederevo—"

"Any Eparchs on that list?" You winced at your own forwardness. The charade was wearing dangerously thin.

"...Eparchs?"

"I'm in an Eparch mood at the moment," you explained weakly. Petra looked at you as if checking for signs of illness.

"I see. There's one: Amon II of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia."

"He sounds splendid. Take me to him."

Petra, either from exasperation, deference, or both, folded up the list and took your arm without another word. She led you through the clusters of gala attendees. You could feel every one of their eyes watching you as you caught their attention. Just as the scrutiny was starting to become too much, your eyes found a target of their own. A warm shiver ran through your spine, a sensation the French would call déjà rêvé: a dream made real.

His verdigris eyes locked onto yours. They peered at you from behind short, white curls of shiny hair. His skin reminded you of the bluebells in the gardens, and his pert, curled horns were a shade darker. He flashed something between a grin and a smirk at you, revealing pearlescent teeth with canines that could be mistaken for fangs.

Amon was breathtaking and he knew it.

If your arm wasn't in Petra's grasp already, you never would have made it to the chair. She struggled a bit as she plopped you into it, your leg brace protesting with clicks and creaks. The other tieflings at the table, all varying shades of azure, stopped what they were doing to acknowledge your arrival. You gave them a weak nod while you regained your composure.

"Greetings, delegation from Lower Makuria and Elodia. I'd like to introduce you to our Middle Prince," Petra said from over your shoulder, upon which she planted a firm hand. She squeezed hard.

"I'm pleased to meet you all," you managed to get out. Your audience of tieflings nodded and muttered.

"As am I, Middle Prince." Amon set his cutlery down and rested his chin on interlaced fingers. His voice was high and carried a boyish, scheming air; you envisioned him stealing lumps of sugar from a pantry. "I didn't think my kingdom warranted such a visit. What brings you to my little exclave of Nobatia?"

"A whim."

"How quaint," he said, still smirking. His gaze shifted as he eyed his all-tiefling entourage. The intent was to communicate something, though you didn't know what.

"I am the middle prince, after all. I've few obligations. None, actually," you said.

"Hm," Amon said, looking decidedly amused. "We may have more in common than we thought." His retinue nodded along with his observation.

"Surely you are a busy man? You are Eparch of not one, but two territories."

"Do you know what the title 'Eparch' entails, Middle Prince?" Amon said, more as a targeted quip than an actual question.

"I... am not familiar, I admit," you ceded.

"An Eparch is a figurehead. Makuria and Alodia have long been ruled by invaders and rebels, respectively. I'm kept in a symbolic position to preserve what's left of Nobatian culture," Amon sighed. "In fact, I was sent here in place of the true rulers since they thought it so unlikely that you would have anything important to say to us. Anything other than absorbing us into your hegemony, of course."

You averted your gaze. He clearly was not happy with his status, and while his discontent wasn't targeted at you, it hovered about him like a cloud. He picked at the remainder of his meal while the cloud dissipated and you plucked a topic from the clearing air.

"How was your journey here? You've come a long way," you said.

"It was pleasant enough. Your trains and... horseless carriages are quite impressive," Amon said, pausing. "What's your name for them again?"

"Automobiles," you answered.

"Yes, automobiles." He rolled the word in his mouth as if tasting wine. "Though you have such a fine river and only use it for cargo. A felucca would have made my journey quite enjoyable."

"A felucca?"

"Ah, it's my turn to inform you." Amon smiled. "A felucca is a sailboat we use on the Nile. It's built for comfort, with carpets instead of hardwood decks. Some even come with a kitchen, and it's unheard of to sail without finishing a pot of tea."

"It sounds lovely," you said. "Lavender tea, I hope."

Amon raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, my favorite," he looked amused. "How did you know?"

"A whim," you answered. "The same one that brought me over to your table."

"I see." His eyes locked with yours for a lengthy pause. His retinue shifted in their seats at the uncomfortable silence. He was thinking hard about something, but the subject of his thoughts remained unknown to you. If he truly shared the dreams with you, surely you must have gotten the point across by now?

"It was lovely chatting with you, Middle Prince." He broke the silence and straightened his posture. "But I would hate to keep you when you have other guests to see."

"I really don't—"

"Nonsense, my prince," he interrupted, "go on and mingle. Perhaps, if we're lucky, our paths will cross when the festivities begin in earnest."

You couldn't believe your eyes. Did he wink at you?

"Of course..." you said, slowly realizing he was scheming. "Enjoy the gala." He locked eyes with you again.

"Oh, we will."

You had resumed hovering with Petra on the edges of the great hall. More staff had filed in to take away dirty dishes and the remains of the guests' meals. The dance floor had been opened, the musicians were in position, and staff bearing silver trays readied drinks for the merry and hors d'oeuvres for the peckish.

"How was your visit with the Eparch?" Petra asked.

"Enlightening," you answered cryptically. The need for secrecy hadn't passed, but now you were unsure of what charade to uphold. You only knew Amon was in on it as well.

"I trust that means it went well?"

"Yes, I think so." You scanned the crowd of attendees, which had now gotten up from their seats and begun to mix and intermingle. Amon disappeared like an ace into a shuffled deck. Petra flashed you an impatient expression.

"Prince, do you want me to help you get with him or not?" She said with folded arms.

"Petra!" You gasped. "You're rather forward."

"It's quite literally my job to make sure you end up with him if you wish it, Prince," she assumed a stern tone as if you refused your vegetables. "Give me a yes or no."

You stewed under her gaze. It seemed the pressure and time-sensitive nature of the gala had started to affect her as well, though for different reasons to you.

"Yes." You muttered. She didn't ask for confirmation, instead slipping away into the crowd with nothing more than a nod. Was this part of the charade, still? You had no idea what Amon even wanted, or frankly, what you wanted from tonight.

The musicians started and the small groups that had formed on the edge of the dance floor produced couplets of dancers. They were eager to begin the waltz, a somewhat contentious dance that had only recently come into popularity. You hadn't been practiced in it, instead learning of court dances like the cotillion. As you watched it take place, the dancers seemed awfully close. They were practically pressed against one another!

While you tried to discern the intricacies of this new style of dance before you, that familiar azure face peeked at you from the crowd. Amon smiled and raised his drink in your direction. It was a small gesture but you were helpless to do anything other than join him. Before you knew it, you were at his side in the sea of people and some sort of libation had been thrust into your hand.

"You know, I'm starting to grow partial to this stuff," Amon said, sipping on a duplicate of the drink you held.

"I was under the impression your faith disallowed the consumption of alcohol," you said, watching him finish the glass.

"An easy mistake to make." He handed off the glass to a roving staff member. "Modern Makurians and Alodians don't drink. Nobatians like me do. It's one of the holdovers of my dead culture."

You looked at the glass in hand; it was a clear, cold drink with a slice of lime. As you expected, the taste was bitter and unwelcoming.

"You like gin?" You asked, one taste enough to identify it.

"As I said, it's starting to grow on me," Amon chuckled. "It's not good enough to stop me from missing home, but it'll get me through the night."

"Speaking of home..." you started, looking around. You were unable to spot any other blue-skinned tieflings in the crowd. "where has your retinue gone?"

"I told them to enjoy themselves. As my courtiers, that means they're likely hovering by the exit, waiting to escort me out of here when I leave."

"They seem like a serious bunch."

"They're overprotective," Amon hissed. "As I said, my culture is long dead. They see it as dying. They think they can save it by putting me in a glass case for future generations to study."

"You've given up on Nobatia?"

"Pah! Of course I have!" He deftly procured another drink from a passing waiter. "Nothing will bring the old country back. Nobatia is a minuscule region; I can say with certainty I'm the youngest one left. When I'm old and infirm, Makuria and Alodia will reject the idea of a royal family entirely and I'll finally be allowed to be forgotten."

"That's quite a bleak outlook, Eparch," you gently chided. "Perhaps in war, things would be on a fixed course, but matters of diplomacy are more malleable."

"Perhaps," Amon said, sipping his gin. "But that's enough about me. I'd like to know more about you."

His eyes looked into yours as if he would magick the information he wanted straight out of you. No incantations were uttered, though, and you took a pragmatic sip of gin to fill the pause.

"What would you like to know?" You said.

"I'd like to know about this 'whimsy' you have," Amon probed. "To be frank, my prince, I expected to be out the door by now. Instead, I'm here, conversing with you. It doesn't make sense."

You finished your gin. This was as good a time as any to explain yourself.

"What do you know of oneiromancy?" The question left your lips and slapped Amon across the face. He chuckled.

"The school of magick so vague and unmeasurable it's not even officially recognized?"

"It seems you know the same as most," you said. "Oneiromancy is real. At least, real enough to give me the same dream night after night."

"I see..." Amon was mulling something over.

"In each one of these dreams, though my waking memory is hazy, I remember one thing they all had in common." You took a deep breath. "You."

"We should discuss this in private," Amon interjected, gently brushing your hand against his. You had been so caught up with telling Amon that you forgot you were in the middle of a crowded gala. Concern crept into the corners of his face. "Do you have a place we can go?"

You nodded and grasped his hand in earnest. The spot you took him to was one of the many balconies that overlooked the palace gardens. The sun had set fully at this point, and waltz music lazily floated out of the great hall. A few revelers who had over-indulged caught the fresh air in the hedges below. You and Amon rested on the cool marble balustrade, momentarily admiring the mingling of crickets, music, distant conversation, and the night air.

"I've been having the dreams as well. All of them involving you in some... capacity. I wasn't sure it was you at first. The dreams were so vague..." Amon kept his gaze fixed on the gardens below.

"Were the dreams... um, did you wake up... well..." you stammered. He looked at you knowingly.

"Yes, a few times," Amon answered. He didn't seem nearly as embarrassed as you. "You suspect oneiromancy is at play?"

"The court oneiromancers determined the dreams are being intentionally created. They're not a coincidence."

"Court oneiromancers?" Amon nearly spat out his drink. "My, you do have everything in this kingdom."

"Yes, we have court oneiromancers, but your surprise is beside the point." You had finally found the mysterious Amon, and you didn't want to waste any time on tangents. "Surely you're just as curious as I? Do you know anything about these dreams?" Amon drained the remainder of his gin in response.

"When I was a child..." He paused and shook his head. "When I was a child, my mother told me folk tales. The standard stuff: damsels in distress, slaying horrific beasts, that sort of thing. But she also told me tales of lovers who met in dreams. She said that was how she and father met."

"Something tells me you don't believe in that."

"When I grew too old for fairy tales, I saw it as her way of helping me keep hope that the one would be out there. With Nobatia falling and no suitors left..." he trailed off, setting his empty glass on the balustrade.

"So what if she's right?"

"That's a rather large 'if,' my prince. She was the only one that believed in that stuff... Aside from an uncle who would tell more dreamers-to-lovers tales, but only after drinking too much boukha, and always with a sarcastic tongue. They're just that: tales."

You felt Amon's cloud of discontent precipitate once more. His words were scathing, but not towards you; they spoke to a painful past and familiarity with disappointment. He saw something hopeful, happy, and promising, then cast it down in order to never feel the pain of losing it. You rarely had such clear insights about people, but with Amon it was different. It was as if you had known him for a long time and learned the language spoken by his brow, posture, and eyes. You knew what you had to do.

"Amon," you sighed, placing a hand on his, "even fairy tales originate from some truth, even if only a little. Don't be afraid to entertain the notion that your mother might be right."

You tried to look him in the eyes, but he cast his gaze down to the gardens below. His quick tongue failed him and silence ensued. His hand had reluctantly surrendered itself to your grasp, resting warm and limp.

"Look at me," You commanded with a firmer tone than expected. Reluctantly, he swiveled towards you and his aquamarine eyes found their way to yours. "Think about what you truly want. Don't be afraid to take it."

He swallowed. After a pause of a few heartbeats, his free hand grasped the back of your head, entwined his fingers in your hair, and pressed your lips to his. Your hand that held his grasped even tighter. The two of you were entwined in your own scandalous waltz. You could feel his hunger just as clearly as you felt his discontent when he parted your lips with his tongue. You reciprocated, catching fleeting impressions of his sharp teeth. He tasted like gin and figs. Short, passionate gasps and moans escaped the two of you and joined the chorus of crickets. You pulled away only to catch your breath.

"Amon," you gasped, his name sweet on your tongue. He looked at you with a bewildered expression and flushed navy cheeks. Neither of you could believe what just happened, yet surprise gave way to familiarity. Kissing Amon made your heart race but your shoulders relax. Being breathless and panting in his embrace was as recognizable to you as Petra's morning wake-up calls, or the smell of the gardens, or the feeling of your bedchamber floor on your bare feet. Déjà rêvé.

"I..." Amon sighed, "I shouldn't. I've had too much gin. I've been foolish." He released you from his arms and took several steps backward. Your jaw hung agape as he jogged inside and disappeared from view. Too shocked to try to catch him, you remained outside and alone on the balcony with only the sound of crickets and distant strings to keep you company. Just as silently and perceptively as a cat, Petra crept from the doorway a short while later.

"I saw Amon run away and came to check on you." She looked at your expression and reciprocated with a downtrodden look of her own. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know. Probably not." You sighed and buried your face in your elbows until all you could see was the balustrade. You sensed Petra take a few steps towards you.

"What happened?" She asked delicately.

"We kissed, passionately. Then he said he was foolish and ran away," you mumbled into your self-embracing arms. Petra rested a hand on your shoulder.

"Some people just can't handle the fast pace and the pressure at galas like this. I'm sure it wasn't personal."

"I know..." you sighed. To Petra, your attempts at flirting simply failed to land. She didn't see the dreams. She didn't see the look in his eyes. She didn't hear the fear of hope in his voice. There were not enough hours in the night to explain to her the true extent of your sorrows.

"There's always tomorrow, Prince."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tonight is only for the Gala," Petra explained, her tender tone turning slightly optimistic, "anyone attending will be staying at least until tomorrow night for the treaty signing."

"So Amon is still here, then?" you asked, finally pulling your forehead from its resting place on your folded arms.

"He was likely running to the guest wing of the palace, where all the other dignitaries will be. If you truly wish to meet with him again, breakfast tomorrow morning would be an excellent opportunity."

You considered things for a moment. If Amon were to stay one more night, then that was one more dream to share. Tonight, you and Amon would spring awake in bed at the same time after another shared dream, but he would be only a few corridors away.

"Petra, get me an oneiromancer." You commanded.

"An oneiromancer? At this time of night? They're probably attending the gala with the rest of the court."

"Petra, this is important," you said. "I haven't exactly been forthcoming about everything in these recent days, and I'm sorry for that... but I need an oneiromancer before I sleep tonight. If you can do this for me, I promise to explain everything soon."

Petra looked at you silently, deciding whether or not to press you for details now rather than later contingent on your promise. She chose the former, nodding and silently fast-walking inside.

Alone once more on the balcony, you leaned on the balustrade and studied the stars. The moon's halo of illuminated night sky was the same color as Amon's lips. With any luck, you'd be seeing them again soon in tonight's dream.

#exophilia #monster x reader #monster x human #romance #male reader #tiefling #male tiefling x male reader #monster love #mlm #monster romance #monster fic #mlm romance

260 notes · View notes

babbushka · 3 years

Text

Kylo Ren x Reader - Historical AUs Masterlist

Because I’ve written so much content for Kylo, tumblr officially won’t let me add any more links in the initial character masterlist post. As a response, I have copied all the current Kylo Ren historical AU (Medieval!Kylo, Titanic!Kylo, Ancient Emperor!Kylo, Bond Villain!Kylo, Archeologist!Kylo) writings and pasted them here.

This subdivision serves as a directory for within the larger Kylo Ren Masterlist. I’m very sorry for the additional step to get here, but we gotta do what we gotta do to make sure all the links work! All the links are under the cut.

Medieval Knight!Kylo Ren

Chapter Fic: All My Stars - A Medieval!Kylo Ren AU*** [Complete]

Oneshots:

A Throne by Any Other Name***

Good, Good, Good, Better***

Fire & Ice***

Bedding***

Everything

Bath

Angst:

Medieval!Kylo Ren completing a dark ritual for power

NSFW:

Medieval!Kylo Ren surprising you in a corridor

Medieval!Kylo Ren catching you skinny dipping in the river on a surprise return from battle

Medieval!Kylo surprising you in the castle gardens

Medieval!Kylo Ren fucking you to celebrate a victorious battle

Medieval!Kylo Ren fucking you soft and sweet

Medieval!Kylo Ren eating you out by the fireplace after a Solstice feast

Medieval!Kylo eating you out

Medieval!Kylo smut by the bonfire

Giving Medieval!Kylo a handjob

Medieval!Kylo Ren fucking you after a victory at battle HCs

Medieval!Kylo Ren being badass in battle and fucking you hard after

Medieval!Kylo jerking off to the sight of you

Medieval!Kylo worshipping your body before battle

Medieval!Kylo AU - Giving Kylo a blowjob for the first time

Fluff/General:

Medieval!Kylo AU - General AU outline

How the kingdom of Alderaan celebrates Medieval!Kylo Ren’s birthday HCs

Medieval!Kylo Ren protecting you from something in the woods

Medieval!Kylo Ren celebrating Valentine’s Day HCs

Medieval!Kylo Ren being so in love with you

Medieval!Kylo Ren dealing with happiness and anger HCs

Medieval!Kylo Ren being so in love with you pt2 HCs

Medieval!Kylo trying to win your affection

Medieval!Kylo very thoughtfully picking flowers for you

Medieval!Kylo AU - First kiss

Medieval!Kylo AU - Kylo hating the wintertime

Medieval!Kylo: Calming you during a thunderstorm

Medieval!Kylo AU - A woman attempting to become Kylo’s mistress

Medieval Kylo watching the leaves change color

Medieval!Kylo Ren having a snow day with you to celebrate the Solstice

Ancient Emperor!Kylo Ren & Concubine/Goddess Reader (Our Hill of Stars AU)

Oneshots:

Midnight Pearls***

Open Heaven’s Gates***

Love on Me***

NSFW:

Ancient Emperor!Kylo worshipping your body for the Summer Festival

Ancient Emperor Kylo fucking you during a senate meeting HCs

Ancient Emperor Kylo lavishing you with attention HCs

Emperor Kylo - Kylo’s lactation kink

AncientEmperor!Kylo: Worshipping you like the goddess you are

AncientEmperor!Kylo: Eating you out and fucking you in front of everyone at dinner

AncientEmperor!Kylo: Being rough and possessive with you

Watching gladitorial games with Emperor Kylo

Fluff/General:

Our Hill of Stars AU -- Ancient Emperor Kylo Ren x Concubine/Goddess Reader worldbuilding headcanons

Ancient Emperor!Kylo Ren cooling down on a hot summer’s day HCs

AncientEmperor!Kylo: Stargazing together

Emperor Kylo and his children HCs

Emperor Kylo’s children’s personalities HCs

Emperor Kylo’s children adoring you/seeing you as a mother HCs

Emperor Kylo being possessive over you HCs

Emperor Kylo washing you in the bath house HCs

The story of how you and Emperor Kylo adopted a pet tiger (Our Hill of Stars AU)

Ancient Emperor Kylo doting on you while you’re pregnant HCs

Ancient Emperor Kylo being jealous HCs

Bond Villain!Kylo Ren x 007!Reader (Summer Wine AU)

Oneshots

First Glimpse, Last Looks***

My Agent***

Invitation Only***

NSFW:

Bond Villain!Kylo post-sex intimacy*

Rough sex & dirty talk with BondVillain!Kylo

Teasing BondVillain!Kylo until he snaps

Bond Villain!Kylo taking a bullet for you and confessing feelings

Bond Villain!Kylo eating you out

Bond Villain!Kylo Ren eatin’ you out in your secret apartment in Moscow

Bond Villain!Kylo Ren taking photographs of you while you have sex

Bond Villain!Kylo Ren phone sex

Bond Villain!Kylo’s kinks HCs

Fluff/General:

Summer Wine AU -- 007!Reader x BondVillain!Kylo Ren worldbuilding headcanons

007!Reader Surprising BondVillain!Kylo on his birthday HCs

BondVillain!Kylo: Being swept away for a day on a yacht together

BondVillain!Kylo: Kylo whisking you away to his island lair so you can rest up and kiss

BondVillain!Kylo: Kylo sneaking into your hotel with room service

Visiting BondVillain!Kylo to steal a few secret moments together

The struggle between wanting to be with Kylo and wanting to do your job HCs

Bond Villain!Kylo Ren spending quiet time with you in Moscow

Bond Villain!Kylo Ren finding you at a romantic ski lodge

Bond Villain!Kylo’s favorite place to escape with you HCs

Bond Villain!Kylo getting you into all sorts of trouble HCs

Bond Villain!Kylo being emotional and thinking about your future together HCs

Bond Villain!Kylo being sexy and smoking cigarettes

Helping Bond Villain!Kylo with his crooked bowtie

Titanic AU!Kylo Ren (sometimes referred to as BB!Kylo or Edwardian!Kylo)

Chapter Fic: Beautiful Beloved*** - A Titanic AU [Complete]

Oneshots:

Papa’s Day

NSFW:

Edwardian!Kylo Ren steamy makeout session in his office before bed

Picnic with BB!Kylo/handfeeding HCs

BB!Kylo fucking you on every surface in every room of his estate HCs

Fluff/General:

Titanic!Kylo AU - General HCs

Titanic!Kylo AU blurb

Picnic with BB!Kylo Ren

BB!Kylo: Giving you extravagant gifts

BB!Kylo showing off his affection for you

BB!Kylo throwing fundraising events with you

BB!Kylo Ren being so in love with you at a party

Edwardian Duke Lord Ren doting on Lady Ren during her pregnancy HCs

Edwardian Duke Lord Ren’s estate he builds for Lady Ren HCs

Edwardian Duke Lord Ren’s estate budget estimates HCs

Edwardian Duchess Lady Ren’s daily schedule* HCs

Edwardian Duchess Lord Ren giving Lady Ren expensive Hanukkah gifts HCs

Lord & Lady Ren spending an afternoon with their children

Edwardian!Kylo Ren’s favorite family traditions HCs

Edwardian!Kylo Ren’s priceless family heirlooms HCs

Misc. Discussions about the AU:

Lord Ren’s primary sources of income

Lord Ren being scandalously open with PDA

Lord Ren loving how Lady Ren’s body changes during pregnancy

Lord & Lady Ren having all male heirs

Lord & Lady Ren’s sons ages

Lord & Lady Ren’s titles

Lord & Lady Ren’s sons and their titles

The children’s titles pt 2

Lord & Lady Ren’s sons’ education

Lord & Lady Ren’s being helicopter parents lol

Lady Ren being the Princess of the house and being doted on by her husband and sons

Lord & Lady Ren giving expensive party favors

Lord Ren having a deal with the cops to ignore complaints lol

Lord Ren being present for his sons the way his father never was for him

Lady Ren being spoiled and rich lol

Lady Ren wearing royal jewelry given to her by Queen Padme of Naboo

Queen Padme & Prince Anakin loving their great-grandchildren

Lord Ren being rich and wanting to spoil his family lol

Lord Ren’s eldest son’s first birthday

Lord & Lady Ren being emotional over their eldest son’s birthday

Lady Ren only wearing the finest bespoke clothing

Lord Ren taking Anthony out for drives in the fancy new automobiles when he’s old enough

Lord & Lady Ren being big into fox and game hunting

Lord Ren watching Lady Ren get ready for a state dinner*

The fancy parties Lord & Lady Ren throw

The children attending fancy parties

Cool features at the estate

Lord Ren being a stuffy old man lol

How they deal with the Great Depression

Anthony volunteering for WW2 to beat the shit out of n*zis pt 1

Anthony beating the shit out of n*zis in WW2 pt 2

Archaeologist!Kylo Ren

Oneshots:

Alright***

Fluff/General:

General Archaeologist!Kylo AU HCs

Archaeologist!Kylo: Stargazing together

Archeologist!Kylo AU blurb

Vampire Solo Triplets AU

Oneshots:

Into The Shadows I Follow ; Vampire!Kylo Ren x Reader

These Wounds Which Need Not Heal ; A Solo Triplets Vampire AU x reader

Imagines:

Vampire!Kylo Ren AU blurb

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren/you #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren smut #kylo ren fluff #historical aus #kylo ren aus #adam driver fanfic #adcu #kylo ren historical au masterlist

234 notes · View notes

dreamiguess · 3 years

Text

Day 3: Wedding

Day 3 of @fundyfiles FWT week

apologies for length and formatting. Wrote this one in my phone's notes app, day 2 is locked in my computer and will hopefully posted soon.

On AO3:

They don't get married in a church or a banquet hall, or even the chambers of a town clerk. They have no rings or ring bearers, no officiant nor witness. No friends to lead toasts, no father to say <em> I'm proud</em>

They get married in woods untouched by pain and it's enough, enough to have whispered promises kept secret by the wind.

Fundy wakes at the creaking of the west window. His pulse beats steady, from an easing of fear rather than gain. He doesn't open his eyes to see what his heart already knows. They can create an image from sound alone, the ring of iron an axe learned against the wall and a thud of a shield next to it. Arrows, too, but much softer, and the rustle of clothing removed and hitting the floor. There's a worrying lack of a bow. It can't have taken more than two minutes but it feels like eons, the beats between each approaching footstep a century. The ache is overpowered by the steady beat of safe, safe, safe.

Neither pretend he's asleep when Dream climbs into bed next to him. His skin is cold to the tough, and his hair is wet when he burries his head into Fundy's chest. No amount of time or care bathing in the river could erase the scent of blood from his clothes, though, wafting from the corner to his unnaturally sensitive nose. It was a kind gesture, though, even if it only saved his sheets and not his mind.

Tucked under Fundy's chin and curled into his warmth, his love begins to shake. It was a bad one, then. They all were, he supposed, just some worse than others. The clock had already started ticking before the next. It could wait, wait for him to run his hands over chilled skin and purr into blonde hair until they both could sleep or till the sun rose, however long it took.

Dream wakes up quickly. He has to, has perfected the art of keeping his eyes closed and breathing slow until the coast was clear, or at least until he could claim the element of surprise. This morning is kind. Gentle fingers trace across his back and somewhere in the distance, the hens and sheep begin to start their busy days. With his nose pressed to Fundy's collarbone, it's like home has flooded his senses and settled into his bones.

He leans back enough to look at Fundy for the first time in weeks, beyond the silhouettes of last night's moon. The sunrise through the east window lights his red hair aflame. A grin stretches across his face, sleepy and unhurried. Like they have all the time in the world.

"I'll pick m' stuff up," he slurs, voice still raspy from sleep. He nuzzles back into the pillow. "Too tired last night."

"That's not what matters," Fundy replies, bumping their foreheads. "You could take your weapons into bed and I wouldn't care, as long as you came back in the first place."

Dream smiles at that and cracks an eye open. The pillow makes his vision fuzzy, but it's enough eye contact to get his message across.

"You'd mind."

"Okay, maybe. But still not the point." Fundy leverages the hand at his back to pull him closer, tucking his chin over dream's head in an image of the night before. Silence settles over them. It's a conversation they've had before, more or less. A tennis match of "you don't have to wait for me" and "I wouldn't know how not to," of "I'm sorry" and "for what?". Of Dream not deserving this love and Fundy giving it willingly. It always ends the same so they don't bother to have it out loud, and Dream have never been strong enough a man to do the right thing and leave.

"Breakfast?" He offers into Fundy's throat. It's been a while since he's gotten to cook for his partner. It's been a while since he's cooked for himself for that matter, besides smoking meats along the trail.

"Marry me?" Fundy responds. Dream laughs at that and finally rolls over, planting his feet on the ground and pulling his torso over his legs.

"No, I mean it." Dream freezes. Turns back towards Fundy to find him sitting on his heels and eyes wild. He waits but Dream can't find any words, and until he apparently can't wait any longer. The bed shifts when he scampers off the edge and circles around to kneel between dream's legs.

"Marry me." Fundy cradles his hands, runs the pads of his fingers over every scar and callous. He holds them like their something precious, not something worn and stained red. His eyes broadcast every emotion hiding within, and they hurt to look at. Dream looks at their hands instead and takes a shaky breath.

"I can't promise to be something permanent."

"You don't have to." Fundy wipes below his eye. He hadn't realized he was crying.

"You just have to promise to be mine."

They get married in the tradition of the Old Gods. It's only right for Dream to, and it's not like Fundy has any love for Prime anymore. They spend the week scavenging and waiting for the full moon. With only suspicions to rise and no coin to spend, they make the best of it they can. He picks daisies and black eyed susans and forget me nots, the flowers that grow wild in lieu of florists, and Dream dyes bow string in green and brown. They don't own enough white between them to look anything near proper, but Fundy puts on his only dress shirt and weaves a crown of clover flowers.

Dream shakes his head when he sees it, but ducks his head for Fundy to adorn him and kisses his cheek in a silent thank you. It's important, whether Dream makes a fuss or not, and it's the only white for a man who's been forced into forest colors for years.

They sneak to a clearing when the day arrives, hand in hand and giggling like children. Even though the trees provide ample privacy they don't dare to light a full circle of candles or leave a mark that could be traced. Four are enough to light them, and their flowers will fade soon enough.

Fundy's fingers feel clumsy wrapping the cord around his wrist, but his embarrassment turns to laughter as they figure out how to pull ends through loops for each other with their nondominant hands, a task clearly meant for a third party.

They have no high priestess to lead their ceremony, so Dream whispers the words instead. His voice is steady until the end, finally cracking as he finishes their vow.

"For as long as our love may last, so may it be."

"For as long as our love may last," he repeats, "so may it be." It's a bittersweet promise. Even now when his heart could not be more full, there's a reminder of their inevitable end. The modern script would have fit them better perhaps: till death do us part.

With a gentle tug their hands are free and their ropes are left in a neat knot. Dream pushes it into his hand and seals his first with his long fingers. And then he leans in, for a ritual Fundy knows the words to as well, kisses him desperately until they can't breathe.

Soon they'll blow out the candles and sweep their flowers out of place. Soon the horns will announce the next hunt, and dream's ichor will stain the forest floor instead of cheap wax. Soon.

#fundywastaken week #fwt #fundywastaken #ill @ the mods ehen i can fix the post #my writing #it is one am #wooo edited #apparetnly its actually 1.2 k #which is more than i thought #by edited i mean i fixed the spacing and italics and nothing else.#me

29 notes · View notes

saturngrqy · 3 years

Text

Friday Night Lights// GD

A/n; Hiii guys so my phone got taken and this is the first post I’ve done on a computer.. I can’t tell if I like it or not. Anyways this is gonna be cheesy af and I alr wrote something like it on my wattpad but something about football!gray is just :’) Also I have no idea how football works so fair warning

Wc: How do ya’ll find this shit anyways imma guess around 1k

Warnings: Just cheesy basic shit, fluff;’)

“I’ll see you tonight, right?” Grayson questioned for the millionth time.

“Yess,” I huffed. I grabbed my stuff off my desk as the bell rang, signaling the end of the day. Grayson stood towering over my desk before one of his friends called his name. He looked in their direction and nodded, before turning back to me.

“I gotta go, but you have my jersey correct?” He asked.

“For the hundredth time, I have everything, and I’ll be there on time I promise,” I replied.

He smirked down at me before turning around. Right before he left out the door he turned back to me and gave me a soft wave, making a blush rise to my cheeks. I put my laptop back in my backpack and rose out of my chair, slinging the heavy bag over my shoulder. I waved at my teacher and told her to have a good day (a/n YALL BETTER APPRECIATE UR TEACHERS) She responded with a soft smile and a “you too,” before I finally left the class.

I headed to the parking lot, entering my car. I turned my car on and drove out the parking lot, heading home.

I finished doing my hair in the mirror, a simple ponytail with some strands pulled out in the front. I went back to my room, grabbing Grayson’s jersey off my dresser. I slipped it on, noticing how it went down past my knees, even with a sweatshirt on underneath. I pulled the hoodie out from under the jersey, also pulling my hair out underneath as well.

I glanced at myself in the mirror before taking my phone out to send a snapchat to Grayson.

I posed in front of the mirror, doing a really awkward smile and a peace sign with the caption “I’m wearing itt”.

He responded within a minute, a timer picture of him in the locker room with Ethan with a poorly drawn heart over the picture. I smiled to myself at the heart, something about the way it was so sloppy made my heart warm. I just sent back a picture of me doing duck lips before putting my phone back in my pocket.

I put on some cherry scented lip balm and a champagne toast scented perfume from bath and body works. I fixed my hair in the mirror before heading back downstairs. I got out of my car, pulling out of the driveway to head to the school/

I arrived, texting my friend Alexis that I was there. I had some friends, but I wasn’t wildly popular or liked. Grayson however, was extremely popular and was known and loved by almost all the kids, not just for his looks but also his charming personality. He was especially popular with the girls, as you can probably assume. Many girls did not like me simply because I’m dating him. People were shocked when Grayson asked me out, and in all honesty, so was I, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.

I met Alexis at the gate to the field, and we found a spot in the student section right at the front so we could get the best view. We asked Alexis’ boyfriend, Josh, who was coincidentally a good friend of Grayson’s, to save our spots while we went and got concessions.

We walked to the concessions with our arms clung together, giggling jokes into each other’s ear before landing a spot in the line for the concessions.

I looked at my phone, noticing a text from Grayson.

“I say we switch it up tonight and go to Monty’s,” It read.

Grayson and I always had this post-game ritual where we would go out and get dinner. Typically, Grayson and I would tag along with his team and their girlfriends and eat at a local diner. We ate there so much they had a spot reserved for us every Friday during football season, and they knew all of our names and our orders. However this time, Grayson suggested Monty’s.

I texted back, “Why? I mean I don’t mind Monty’s but normally we go to the diner”.

He responded quickly. “Idk, just wanna spend alone time with my girl, plus Monty’s has a new veg milkshake we have to try”.

I giggled before replying. “Sounds good to me”.

I put my phone back in my pocket. I looked back up to see Alexis smirking at me. “What?” I asked, confused.

“He is so whipped.” She replies, snorting

I roll my eyes. “He is not, he just knows how to treat a woman.”

I hear her laugh, coughing a small “simp” under her breath. I rolled my eyes again.

We grab our drinks and snacks, me getting a bag of Doritos and a cherry coke while Alexis got a Dr. Pepper. We walked back to the stands, sitting back in our spots.

“And Grayson Dolan scores his third touchdown of the night folks!” The announcer tells, excitedly. I scream and yell Grayson’s name, catching his eyes as he turns to me and points, blowing a kiss. I pretend to catch it, putting my hand on my heart. He shakes his head and laughs before returning back to his team.

There was only about 10 minutes left of the game, and we were beating the other team 20- 7. (a/n don’t kill me idk how this shit works) The other team had almost no chance of coming back after Grayson’s last touchdown. I jumped up and down, shivering, rubbing my hands up and down my arm to make myself warmer. I turned to Alexis and shook her shoulders.

“This is so excitinggg,” I said giddily. She laughed and agreed. I turned back to watch the last couple of minutes.

The buzzer was called, and the game was officially over, with Grayson’s team crushing the other. I almost jumped out of the bleachers, running to the side of the field. Grayson’s team cheered before he ran over to me, hugging me over the fence.

“You did so good baby,” I whispered in his neck.

“Thank you,” He responded kissing my cheek. I turned to him, planting a passionate kiss on his pink lips.

“Meet me at my car so we can go get dinner,” I told him, holding his cheek in my palm. I gently tapped his cheek twice before he ran off with a nod back to his team.

I waited inside my car with the heat blasted for Grayson. Suddenly the door opened, revealing a very sweaty Grayson in his team sweatshirt and sweatpants. He gave me a kiss on the cheek before going to put his stuff in my trunk. He came back in with a wide gorgeous smile on his face.

“You scared me,”

“I’m sorry my love. Are we ready to go?”

I pulled out of the parking lot with a smirk, driving off towards the vegan restaurant. We sat in the car listening to Man on the Moon III, Kid Cudi’s newest album that Grayson and I were obsessed with. Tequila Shots played in the background as Grayson’s hand found my thigh.

I looked down at it before glancing up at him, noticing he was already staring at me. I blushed before looking back to the road.

“You know, this was probably your best game yet,” I broke the silence.

“I know right? That’s the best I’ve played all season. E said that with that performance, I’ll have college coaches looking to recruit me left and right,” He responded excitedly, making my heart flutter at his passion.

‘I’m sure they will be, babe. You make me so proud,” I gushed.

He squeezed my thigh as a response. We pulled onto the side of the street in front of Monty’s. I unbuckled my seatbelt, about to open the door before I noticed Grayson sat still, staring at me.

“What?” I questioned.

“Nothing, I just love you,” He said out of the blue, making my stomach do flips.

“I love you too,” I giggled. “Now lets go get some fucking milkshakes!”

#grayson dolan #grayson dolan smut #grayson dolan fanfic #grayson and ethan #dolan twins #dolan twins fanfic #ethan dolan #ethan dolan blurb #ethan dolan smut #dolan twins smut #grayson dolan fic #grayson dolan blurb #grayson dolan concept #dolan twins fluff #grayson dolan fluff #grayson x reader #grayson x you #grayson dolan imagine #my writing

121 notes · View notes

smallblip · 3 years

Note

say levihan has a routine of activities after an expedition (example being like, bandage each other up, sit and talk up on the wall, eat together, etc.)—what do you think they do?

Ah! I wrote a drabble based on the three things that are staple for levihan post-expedition (bandaging, bath, and cuddles)! (There’s a drabble in my drafts on them talking on the wall but that’s during an expedition! I still haven’t figured out what to do with it yet!) I hope this is aight:

Bathwater/baby

Hanji sinks lower in the tub. Morphine supplies are low at the moment and they figured someone would need it more than they do. Besides, they made the walk from the infirmary to their room, so it’s clear they’re not in any real danger.

“Ah Levi! You have a cut too?” They point at his cheek, there’s genuine concern in their eyes and Levi thinks they’re insane.

He touches his hand to his cheek and looks unimpressed, “don’t be ridiculous four eyes. It’s just a scrape. If your cut had been any deeper I would have seen your guts.” He scolds, although he knows it’s not Hanji’s fault. They had found themselves tangled in the swords of a very inexperienced soldier, and this had been the outcome- more stitches than Levi had bothered to count, and a bath he had insisted on so it doesn’t get infected. Also for the sake of general hygiene.

He scrubs them down with a rag, hands working gentler than usual. Hanji doesn’t hide how good it feels, they hum in approval.

“How long has it been since you cleaned?” Levi says. He’s sure it’s not usually this hard to get dirt off skin.

“Figured we were going on expedition and you were going to do it for me...”

His eyes widen in shock. And Hanji laughs, immediately regretting it when a sharp pain punches at their stomach. They mutter a string of ouch-es.

“Next time I’ll just kill you... Save myself the trouble, since you can’t keep yourself clean.” Levi murmurs.

“Wouldn’t that be throwing the baby out with the bathwater?” Hanji says, in a way that’s meant to be smart, but they are breathing through the pain and it comes out less snarky than intended.

“But you aren’t a baby...”

“You scrubbing my back says otherwise!” Hanji grins.

“Tch. Wash the soap off your face before it gets in your eyes, idiot.” Levi replies, handing them the rag while he drains the bath water.

Helping Hanji out of the tub is a challenge, and Levi is soaked in the process. But he doesn’t complain as he holds out a hand to support them as they dry off.

He helps Hanji with a shirt where they are struggling and they make it clear they are not bothering with pants.

“Leave your shirt open I’ll bandage your wound.”

“Thank you Levi...” Hanji says when he finishes taping the gauze to their skin. He always has been good at dressing wounds. And Hanji is always left feeling guilty that they can’t quite do the same for him.

“You do the same for me.” Levi says. Hanji’s hand is circling his wrist now and he knows just what it means, so he slides under their covers. He will stay the night.

“Not as well I’m afraid...” they chuckle. Hanji has their head against Levi’s chest and finally the ringing of blades against flesh and bones fades. Levi threads his fingers through Hanji’s hair, “it’s good enough.”

“Erwin’s taking me off the next expedition...” Hanji sighs.

“Good. At least you won’t get yourself fucking killed.”

Hanji taps their finger on Levi’s nose. “You’re gonna have to look out for yourself then...” Hanji says. They have never doubted Levi’s capabilities, but that doesn’t do anything to ease their worry.

It’s quiet for a while before Levi speaks again.,“I was worried about you.” He says. It’s a ritual almost. Someone is bound to say it. These days it slips past their lips in turns.

“Such a baby...” Hanji teases. But they are looking in his eyes now, vision adjusted to the darkness. Hanji sees the worry etched in the greys of his irises. For a moment it terrifies them to think they are living for someone other than themselves. But it’s a terror that lends itself to better use in the battlefield.

“I’m safe now Levi...” Hanji says. They press a kiss beside the cut on Levi’s cheek. Where Hanji lacks in the area of dressing wounds, they make up for with kisses. Hanji catches a glimpse of Levi’s smile and the feeling of safety settles deep within their bones.

The last of the bathwater drains past the choke somewhere in the pipes.

#anon #inbox #levihan #levihan fanfic #Drabble #mine #thanks anon!!! I really enjoyed writing this!!!#Levi x hange

57 notes · View notes

savagesbonergarage · 3 years

Text

Nightsister OC pics and backstory ❤️

So I kinda got my Nightsister oc worked out today!

Meet Eilantha!

No makeup and with makeup since I like both. :) I know her outfit is Rey’s, but it turned out to be the one I liked best after going through all of them. This was so much fun to do! I’m on mobile rn so I don’t have a link, but search ‘rinmaru star wars avatar creator’ and it should be the first result.

The nightbrother is also an oc called Sever. He’s more bulky in my head and his tattoos are different and more brown than black, but whatevs. Also he looks more like a teenager here, which is NOT the vibe, lads. Mans is in his late 20's-early 30's. 👍

I know I’m sorta biased and all since she’s mine, but I’m in love with her? I’m not a huge fan of the Nightsisters and their misandry and general terrible-ness, but this girl is the exception. 💕 Learn more about her under the cut if you’d like. :)

She was born in 46BBY, making her around 27 in the final year of the clone wars. From the time she was a youngling it was clear that she had a natural affinity for magicks and spellcasting, which allowed her to participate in more advanced rituals and rites from an early age. This inevitably caused some contention among the sisters in her age group that felt this privilege was wasted on her, and therefore she had few friends during her time within the coven. She didn’t really mind, as she preferred to spend her days on her own anyway, learning as much as she could about whatever she fancied (usually spells that piqued her interest whose texts she discreetly snuck from within the cavern).

When she wasn’t studying, she loved music - writing, playing, and singing. It wasn’t anything like the typical malicious sounds of tribal chanting and drums you’d hear from within the grotto; not that she didn’t appreciate that also as she practiced it well, but her heart leaned toward a softer, more soothing genre of arias and melodies, bordering on lullabies based on her wanderlust, and, though she’d never admit it, her loneliness.

As she reached adulthood, she underwent the trials for her dark baptism as all Sisters did, which consisted of returning from a challenging hunt to add a token from her kill to the Water Of Life, and receiving her ichor tattoos that signified her coming-of-age before being ritualistically bathed in the ominous liquid which sanctioned her as an active member of the Nightsisters.

After this, I have two different routes (or however many, depending on who I’m shipping her with at the moment 😅 bc I ship her with everyone, no lie) that I like to take with her story. The first is expanded upon in the fic by @fallenrepublick here (still my favorite thing!) where she starts sneaking away into the nightbrother village and befriends Savage and Feral before they go through Asajj’s selection trails. This is the nicer, less-traumatic arc.

This next one gets really, really dark. I'm not going to post it all here bc honestly this post doesn't need all that angst, so I'll save that for later. Essentially, I like to think that Eilantha did at one time have a nightbrother of her own (Sever) that she actually loved, rather than treated as a slave. As you can imagine it doesn't end well, but we're not gonna get into that. We'll talk about how they meet. :)

Instead of sneaking away to the village, Eilantha is pressured into conducting her own selection trails by Mother Talzin. She doesn’t inherently have any reason to object, after all, she was taught that this is was simply the way of things. Part of her even looked forward to obtaining a manservant, whose loyalty would belong to her and her alone.

Perhaps he’d be a useful asset when it came to sneaking spelltomes to and from the vaults, and maybe he’d even be the only one staying by her side while she practiced her songs. What if he’d even appreciate them? Not that he’d have much of a choice, but the thought was comforting nonetheless.

From the moment she stepped foot in the village, all she could focus on was the feeling of the uneasy and fearful gazes of the men who undoubtedly knew more of what was to come than she did. She chose her roster at random, unsure of what she should have really been looking for or what she actually wanted from a servant. Even before the fighting, she knew deep down that she didn’t want to inflict any unnecessary harm on them…but why? From what she’d overheard at home, the violence was half the fun.

It wasn’t.

She evaded and blocked every blow with ease, yet avoided retaliating and taking the offensive in any manner that would prove fatal, causing the battle to go on far longer than anticipated to the point where Brother Viscus insisted that she take the next opening for the kill. With reluctance, the blade of her weapon collided with the ribs of the next brother to reveal himself a target. She watched in horror as the light faded from his hateful, reflective eyes, and she was nearly sick. She didn’t want to do it, but it had been done, and it couldn’t be undone. His body thudded against the ground and she screamed.

“Enough!”

The battlefield went silent, and as she came to her senses she attempted to save face.

“I’ll have none of them!”

Before Brother Viscus could interject with any alternative propositions, she was gone. She ran, fleeing as far away across the rocky terrain as she could. She didn’t cry; at least not until she was certain she was alone. She felt so pathetic - Nightbrothers were meant to be disposable, yet she couldn’t handle killing one. Her shame shifted into heartbreak, and she crouched low and wept for the death of the brother she’d just caused, as well as for all those who came before him. All the needless, thankless, mindless deaths of these men whose lives may not have mattered to the Sisters, but they mattered to someone.

As night fell, she trudged along the jagged landscape and thought of what explaination she’d give to Mother Talzin upon returning home. She had run in the opposite direction of where her speeder was stationed at the base of the village, so she had plenty of time to consider on the long journey back. She casually hummed a tune to herself in some meager attempt to self-soothe, which served to distract the shadow that had been trailing her for some time. The sound of a twig snapping in the rocks behind her alerted her to the presence and she confronted him.

"Are you lost?" she asked in a derogatory tone after he revealed himself.

"I'm not."

Of course not, this was his home, after all. She couldn't say the same for herself, however, she pressed him further.

"Then why are you following me? I never asked for an escort."

The amber-skinned nightbrother looked as though he were choosing his words carefully, though if his aim was self-preservation he'd done a terrible job of it.

"I saw you crying."

Eilantha was hit with a pang of embarrassment, though she feigned otherwise as her eyes met the ground.

"Well, you can forget what you saw. Now leave me alone."

She turned away, but the brother remained there in quiet contemplation before he spoke again.

"I've never seen a Sister cry. I've never seen a Sister feel."

Something about those words struck her directly in her heart. The confirmation that she was inherently considered to be a heartless monster in the view of these villagers hurt a little more than anticipated, though she had no right to refute it. No amount of apologies would ever remedy the divide that separated the Nightsisters from the Nightbrothers, regardless of how she felt. She clenched her fist as she turned to face him again.

“I said, leave me alone. Don’t make me-”

She actually choked on her words, unable to say the rest.

Don’t make me put you in your place.

Despite her partial warning, the nightbrother stepped closer. He grabbed the edge of his already tattered tunic and tore a piece of it off, inspecting it for cleanliness before holding it out to her. Eilantha froze, uncertain of what to make of this interaction.

“You aren’t done,” he explained.

She hadn’t realized that her hot tears continued pouring down her cheeks during her retort. She accepted the cloth with some reluctance, her dainty fingers lightly brushing against his as she took it and dabbed it against her wet face. He promptly turned and started walking away, as instructed. This strange...kindness, or rather, strange act of servitude via obligation perturbed the young witch, whose thoughts were now fixated solely on the zabrak male.

“Wait, Brother,” she implored.

He paused, resuming his attention to her after hearing the endearing use of “brother” from a Sister’s lips for the first time. She continued, an unusual softness in her tone.

“What is your name?”

“It’s Sever,” he revealed, “May I ask yours, Sister?”

She repeated his name in her mind, determined never to lose it.

“Eilantha.”

He did the same, only out loud. Gods, it was an enticing sound.

"Will you be returning?"

This was a question she wasn't prepared to receive, and one that she herself didn't fully know the answer to. Her reply was engineered from a concerned sigh.

"I'm not sure. It might be problematic returning to the coven empty-handed. I may come back, I may not. I don't know what the future holds."

Sever pursed his lips slightly.

"If you do find yourself here again, will you..."

He coughed into his fist and centered himself before continuing.

"Will you consider me?"

Her eyes shot up to meet his hopeful gaze, a golden yellow in the night. She had a hunch as to what he was alluding to, but a little clarification was needed.

"Consider you...?"

He swallowed, his countenance displaying concern that perhaps he was stepping too far out-of-bounds this time, but he wanted to know all the same.

"As your mate."

Eilantha clutched the piece of fabric in her hand. This man was offering himself to her. The images of all the nightbrothers staring her down when she first arrived with fear in their faces raced through her mind, revealing the dread the men felt when they were met with her kind, and yet this one was volunteering. She wasn't sure if she should be flattered or angry, as any other Sister likely would be at a savage that dared to seek special permissions. Of course, she wasn't like that.

Imagining him as her mate, however, was certainly...something. She thought of how she would discover just how much of him was tattooed and he would learn the same of her. She could claim him right then and there if she wanted, and he would be obliged to obey. It would solve her worries about returning home if she decided on a servant after all, although, her soul was unsteady. Though she was entitled to any male she desired, she couldn't allow herself to do it. Even though this man was offering, it would weigh on her conscience knowing that even a part of him would only be with her out of fear and obligation, rather than his own free will. This nightbrother wasn't free. None of them were.

"I'll consider it," she replied genuinely.

This news seemed to please him to some extent, a tiny smirk curling at the corner of his lip.

"I'll look forward to the possibility of serving you, Sister Eilantha."

She watched as he turned a final time and disappeared further into the darkness, leaving her alone with her busied mind.

The course was set for the Nightsister temple once she finally got to her speeder, servant-less. She looked over her shoulder to see multiple pairs of glowing golden eyes quizzically prying at her in the darkness, and she smiled before taking off.

It was a long journey home, and the entire trip her mind was occupied with thoughts of the intriguing zabrak male who saw her for what she truly was. She pulled out the tattered cloth from her pocket and pressed it against her chest as the wind rushed all around her before bringing it to her lips and kissing it.

It became her greatest treasure.

That is, until she finally had the real deal in her arms months later when the separation became too much to bear, and they arranged to meet in secret during their first rendezvous of many.

Sever, my treasure.

#Nightsister #nightbrother #star wars ocs #Eilantha x Sever #savage opress #feral opress #dathomir #maul #darth maul #mother talzin #tcw #brother viscus #oc x canon

60 notes · View notes

bianca-dezinna · 3 years

Text

Memory of a Thunder Storm

A gentle rain began to fall on the foothills of Hillsbrad, creating a peaceful, swampy haze in the air. The droplets soaking into the ground of the Anteburas Estate, washing away any sign of the Drust ritual that just befell the quiet grounds. The sickly sweet smell of rot no longer permeated the air, as the rainfall carried with it the heavy scent of Summer. Not so cozy in her bed, Bianca sat, staring out of her window; unable to relax after the events that just transpired.

Octaevia’s cries rang through the air, as she writhed and contorted within the Drust ritual circle. Xiomara, the young and abrasive witch, stood above her trying to cleanse the Worgen of the pain. The image flashed in Bianca’s mind, over and over, every few minutes.

Bianca would snap back to reality, as Octaevia stirred in her sleep, only to nuzzle her head into Bianca’s thigh. The gangster’s body would relax, as she looked down at her partner’s peaceful form. A few fingers running through the sleeping woman’s hair created a gentle hum from her throat.

“How could anyone do this to you…” Bianca would say, a heavy sigh played from her lips. “Marking you as property, putting your body through this. I’m going to make it right, darling. I-...” Her voice would trail off, distracted by yet another memory rushing to the forefront of her thoughts.

“Two o’clock in the morning…” Cycaria’s words would echo in Bianca’s head, “Two o’clock in the morning opens your window. You have approximately 45 seconds before the patrol switches… Two o’clock… Two o’clock….” The words continued to echo. A heavy rainfall cloaking the assassin even further from the potential eyes of her targets. Long blonde hair and pitch black leather armor soaked and clung to her form, as Bianca stood outside her former owner’s compound, a nauseous anxiety coursed through her veins.

“Madame” Bianca’s voice hissed into her communicator, “I am preparing to enter the compound.”

“Good, good. The rest of the Howl is behind you.” She’d reply, a ghost of a past that Bianca remembers all too clearly. “This is our opportunity to save these girls and bring them into our fold. They will be scared, but we will manage.”

“Yes, Madame. I know all too well what these girls are experiencing.” She’d say, running black paint over both eyes, leaving behind two thick black X’s.

Lightning cracked over the sky, illuminating the compound for a moment, before it was bathed in the pseudo-comforting darkness of the early morning. Bianca moved on the location, alone, slipping in through the abandoned guard post, making her way to her objective. Deftly she would make her way inside her former owner’s home, standing over the bed, staring down at the bastard before her. A crack of lighting, paired with a booming thunder, struck over the compound, casting a blinding light into the bedroom. The man would awaken, eyes barely focusing in the darkness. A luminescent paint on Bianca’s face ignited from the flash of light, leaving only a glowing skull in the darkness with those two X’s crossing out where her eyes should be.

“What is-”

Memories of a gunshot would reverberate in her mind as a clap of thunder broke her thought. Her eyes still glued to the sleeping woman in front of her, memorizing the shape of her lover’s face.

“I promise you, I am going to kill the Collector. I’m going to kill that Troll and that Sin’dorei and every last person under his employ. He’s going to…” Her voice catching in her throat, forcing her to tilt her head up. A single tear running it’s way down her cheek, dripping into Octaevia’s hair. “No one will ever hurt you like that again. I promise…”

(Mentioned my alt Xiomara and @octaevia-reeves !)

12 notes · View notes

tansypoisoning · 4 years

Text

Tansy’s Spooky Challenge

Because the World is terrifying :D

To celebrate this milestone (1k followers :O) I’m starting a challenge which hopefully will give back to this community in terms of exposure of less known authors (or just authors that aren’t known by my followers) and in creating more stories. I’m so thankful for all the attention I’ve been given, and I hope to give you guys my attention as well.

I love writing challenges because they give authors motivation to write (sometimes even things out of their comfort zone), because they’re a great way for writer’s to promote themselves, and because it’s a great way for the person hosting it to find more stories and authors they could end up being big fans of :D I especially encourage people with less followers, or whose works I haven’t read to participate.

The main objective of this challenge is to write something that has an element of horror in it. It can range from a situation that seemed scary but is okay, to something that is a little eerie, to pure unadulterated terror. As for rules:

You DON’T have to be following me to participate.

You have to enter with a reader insert/OC fic. There doesn’t have to be any smut or shipping, and if there is, the relationship DOESN’T HAVE to be about dark!character or dark!reader.

I’ll read works for any fandom, but the ones I’m most familiar with are Marvel, Overwatch, Snowpiercer, Knives Out, Naruto, Avatar:The Legend of Aang

You can submit drabbles, one-shots, or an entry of a serialized story.

A single prompt CAN be used by more than a single person.

The fanfics can be of any length, but if they’re on the longer side, please try putting a ‘Read More’ in there somewhere to avoid making things difficult for people reading on phones.

Things that are not allowed in terms of content: underage sex, bestiality, graphic child abuse (allusions are ok) I don’t think anyone would submit an entry that I would have reservations reblogging, but if in doubt you can ask me for help. Give warnings for any sensitive topic you bring up.

Tag your fic with “TansySpookyChallenge2020”

Send me an ask or dm telling me you posted it, preferably a dm. Asks can get eaten by the inbox, and tagging doesn’t always work.

Deadline is November 24th. You can DM for extensions

PROMPTS BELOW

Choose one item from each list and work them into a story. I allow and encourage trying to game the system with multiple interpretations of a term, less literal readings, or wordplay.

List 1

Happiness

Jealousy

Nostalgia

Desperation

Fury

Triumph

Sadness

Acceptance

Fervor

Disgust

Awe

Confusion

Hope

Craving

Foreboding

Denial

Loss

Ennui

Adoration

Sympathy

Pain

Betrayal

Commiseration

Anxiety

Rancor

Determination

List 2

Sink or swim

Chokecherry

Crossroads

“Let me see what you have.” “A knife!”

French vanilla

Something forgotten long ago

The shore

The eye of the storm

Bathtub

Corn hell

Down by the river

Baby’s breath

A little fire

An old saloon

Unearthed bones

On the move

Before dawn

Dead men walking

By candlelight

Frankenstein

Prima Donna

A hill about a mile outta town

First dance

Ritual

Underground

A small request

These text prompts can be used however you want: whether you want to have them in your story in their entirety, use bits, write something around them, something inspired by them, or just something you think has a similar feel. Just let me know which you picked.

There is a Corvette parked in front of the building, just by the front door. You approach the vehicle as if compelled by an invisible force and look in through the closed window. There’s none inside, but you see, in the driver's seat, illuminated by the neon lights of the bar, a white cowboy hat with a golden band. This isn’t the first time you see this hat.

The hole is no more than eight feet long and three feet wide. You peer in deeper, but you can’t see the bottom. There’s a soft but grating sound coming from somewhere within, like sharp nails raking against a metal plate. You can’t see the bottom, but you think you can see movement inside.

You abandon the warmth of the laundromat for the biting cold of the outside world. To your right, the road extends for miles and miles into the night, as it does to your left. There’s no place for you to go, but you can’t go back inside.

The light of the neon sign proudly displaying “Rising Sun Motel” shines through your door. You had closed and locked it before taking your shower – you know you had, because you do it in every room you rent. You take a cursory glance of your surroundings. Nothing is out of place or missing. Must be a faulty lock. The night is windy and could have pushed the cheap door open. You go to lock it again, and when you turn around you see that the closet door is slightly ajar.

The land is flat as far as the eye can see and identical houses with identically manicured lawns sprout from it as far as the eye can see. You run up and then down the street (or is it down and then up?) but you can’t seem to find anything else. The people look so friendly when they smile and wave as they pass you by, but you don’t ask them for directions. You look at your phone. You have signal, but all you can get your internet to show you are advertising for washing machines and sites with recipes for awful things preserved in aspic. The date and hour on your home screen keep changing. You’re positive you’ve been in this place for hours, but the sun won’t set.

“B-but… I don’t understand...” “We have checked the security footage three times and found nothing. There are also no signs of forced entries. No fingerprints.” “-My phone! I took pictures, I know I took-!” “We found nothing on your phone, in the SD card, or in the Cloud. There’s nothing.” “That’s impossible!” “We searched as much as we could. I’m sorry, but… are you sure-” “I know what I saw! I know it! Look again!” You aren’t imagining things. It couldn't have been your mind. It couldn't, it couldn’t, it couldn't

What kind of convenience store has taxidermy heads for decoration? You ask yourself as you roam the aisles of the near empty shop. You peek from behind a row of shelves to one side and spot the clerk. He’s old and severe looking, and although his pupils are pointed in your direction, you get the distinct feeling he’s looking right through you. You move your head to the other side of the shelves and spot another one of those fucking deer heads. This one’s large, wet eyes are turned to a fixture in the ceiling, but you would swear it’s watching you.

Rain pelts you as you stand at the dock, waiting. You hope your boat will arrive soon. You look over your shoulder into the mist and see nothing that should give you pause, but your leg still won’t stop shaking. You touch your arm by reflex and wince when you brush your cut. You think your makeshift tourniquet is working, but it looks fragile, like it could get dismantled at any second. In this weather, you’re sure is just a matter of time. You look over your shoulder again. Still nothing, but you fear it won’t last. You hope your boat will arrive soon.

The living room is dark, but you don’t turn on the lights. You are still too close. You move to the kitchen, and there you feel safe enough to reach for the switch. The illuminated room, much larger than it needed to be, is a ghastly land of contrasts. The many counters and their many marble tops are covered in trash. The tile floors, formerly clean enough to eat out of, are now muddied, not a single spot spared. The eyes of the two stoves are covered by pans and pots boiling foul mixtures. Through the window you can see the sprawling lawn and walls of hedges. They will hide you, but for how long? There is something waiting for you in the hallway, something terrible. You have to address it before sunrise, but for now you’ll wait here. The kitchen isn’t half as bad as the rest of the house.

‘The Bystander Effect’ is the term used to describe the phenomenon in which people don’t intervene in emergency situations when in a group, and, the larger the group, the less likely they are to intervene. You know this to be true, even without doing any research, as you hobble your way through the maze of alleyways. Your cries for help had gone unanswered, bouncing off the concrete walls into a multitude of uncaring ears. It’s just how it is in the big city – every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost. So much for safety in numbers. The truth is, in this city, surrounded by all these people, you’re more alone than you’d ever been.

You take the first step with care, mindful of all the ice. The second is a little clumsier. On the third you almost slip. You skip the fourth and fall on the fifth, rolling down the stairs and landing face first in the snow. You scramble to get back to your feet and run to your car. You have to get home. You lock yourself in and don’t bother with the safety belt. You shove the key in the ignition and turn and turn but nothing happens. Did you leave it in the cold too long, or- There’s no time to think about it. You step out of the car and start running, into the freezing night. You have to get home, you have to get home now.

Cleanup time is always a hassle. You wish you didn’t have to do it, but it wouldn’t be fair to leave the mess all to your partner. You two near the open trunk of the car and load the heavy cargo into it. Your companion seems the most affected by the weight, and you offer an apologetic smile. Fair is fair though; it was your turn to carry the feet end.

Skinny dipping had seemed like a good idea when your friend suggested it earlier, under the sweltering sun. Now, standing in front of the pool in your bathing suit, all by your lonesome, you start to regret having agreed to her scheme. Wasn’t she supposed to have arrived forty minutes ago? She said she’d bring people too, because skinny dipping alone isn’t fun. Well, now you are all alone in the cold, and you suspect that is even less fun. Just as you make up your mind to leave, you see a car through the chain link fence. It pulls up just before the gate and the engine turns off. That must be them.

#TansySpookyChallenge2020

82 notes · View notes

realityhelixcreates · 3 years

Text

Lasabrjotr Chapter 80: The Littlest Seidkona

Chapters: 80/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: pg

Relationships: Loki x Reader

Characters: Loki (Marvel),Thor(Marvel)

Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Party Time

Summary: It's the final ceremony of Buridag-the Seidkona initiation-and all eyes are on you.

You woke up in Loki's arms, right where you had collapsed, Ulfrun, the junior healer looking over you.

“There.” she said. “It is as I told you, she was simply overwhelmed. There was a great deal of power moving during the ceremony, and she is still but mortal...”

“Yeah, that's me.” you grumbled. “Reaching above my station again.”

Ulfrun jerked back like she'd been burned. Loki chuckled.

“Yes, I think she will be all right. The Princess in Courtesy is in the habit of getting back up after she falls, never fear.”

Princess in Courtesy. That was what you were now. A princess without a kingdom, or people of your own, but you had the title...and for your purposes, that was all you needed.

“Will you have her come by for a checkup this evening? I'm certain Bjarkhilde will want to look her over.”

“I think I can do that.” You said, and she jerked back again. “I know, it's pretty weird, isn't it? But this'll make things easier in the long run, won't it? Except for the people who like talking trash at me, it's gonna suck for them, but I don't really feel bad for them.”

“I think we will be fine Ulfrun, thank you for your help.” Loki said.

“So. The ritual has brought you an inheritance.” Loki said, after the junior healer had hurried away. He kissed your cheeks and forehead, mumbling in affection. “So you will understand me now when I say that when I am drowning, you are my air, that I wish to wash my hair in your perfume, that when you look at me, an arrow pierces my heart, fixes it within my breast, pins it to my soul. Like a hapless bird, your gaze knocks me from the sky, to fall into your gentle, blossoming hands.”

Warmth flowed all the way to the tips of your ears.

“Stop, you're gonna make me faint again.” you murmured.

“Later then,” he said, amused. “When you are already laying down, perhaps.”

Thor poked his head around the back of the dais.

“The smoke is clearing.” he announced. “Is she all right?”

“Yeah, I'm good.” you said, Loki helping you to your feet. You had completed the ritual, now it was time to be presented to the people.

Out of the thinning smoke, and into the courtyard the three of you appeared, Heimdall keeping his vigil from atop the high dais. No one would dare make a move against you while he watched.

“The ceremony is complete!” Thor announced in his booming voice. “The paths of fate have been cleared for the Princess in Courtesy. May she pass down them in peace, for as long as her life has been interwoven with ours!”

The cheering was loud and enthusiastic, and seemed genuine. Your finger didn't hurt at all anymore, likely due to lying in Loki's arms for those few minutes while Ulfrun looked over you.

You stood and let them cheer as much as they wanted, then followed the princes back out of sight behind the dais when the crowds enthusiasm began to wane. You unwound the bandage from your finger to show a very pleased Loki that the tiny cut had nearly disappeared. It was nice to see how happy that made him, to remember how willing-even eager-he had been from the start to share that healing bond with you. You had never found out if that had cost him in pain or energy, just that it was very clear that he was more than ready to give.

“So you have gained something.” Thor mentioned on their way to drop you off with the other Seidkonas. “That will come in very handy. Save you decades of study.”

“So you didn't know it was going to happen either?” you asked. He shook his golden head.

“I've never actually seen one of these ceremonies performed. The last one I know of was for my mother, and that, of course, was before I was even born.”

“They must have had one for me,” Loki mused. “In secret. Hidden away in shame from prying eyes.”

Thor's warm smile withdrew into contemplation, as all three of you tried to envision it: A tiny, possibly blue infant, held over the bowl and crying, like a human baby getting their first check in with a doctor, a blade held against one minuscule hand or squirming foot...

It was an uncomfortable image, but it made sense to get it done as early as possible, if they were to pass Loki off as their son.

“So this is probably normal. Just another way to pass on the magic of Allspeak. We'll just see how well it works out for me.”

******

The second part of your day was to be taken up by another, much longer and more complex ritual, that had to be done partially in secret. Thor and Loki escorted you, followed by many people, to one of the popup apartment complexes that now housed to majority of Asgard, until more permanent housing could be built. This one housed the thirteen remaining Seidkonas of Asgard, and had been transformed by them into a ritual house. With some small pomp, the princes transferred you into their care, but beyond their doors, it became a strict 'no boys allowed' club.

This was because, as soon as the door closed, you were led into the next room and stripped down, a bundle of incense being wafted around your body. Once naked, you were plunked down into a metal tub filled with a redolent herbal tea, which the others scooped up in bathing bowls and poured over your head, as if making a kind of Seidkona soup.

The entire dwelling was dimly lit with only candles, and the other Seidkonas were mostly silent in their work, speaking only to give you quiet instructions, or chant ceremonial blessings from the Norns.

Newly cleansed, you entered a different room, this time converted into a kind of sauna. In the pitch dark you sat and sweated, swaddled in thick clouds of suffocating steam from more herbal tea, ladled constantly over the hot stones.

Whether from the heat, the herbs, or the incense, you didn't know, but you began to feel odd. The magic within you felt as though it was swelling, throbbing with a heartbeat different than your own. The passage of time became meaningless, but eventually you began to see a light. Soft, blue, and ephemeral, you couldn't focus on it's source, as it dimmed down into nothing every time you tried to concentrate on it. But it pulsed like the heartbeat of your magic.

The Seidkonas who had joined you in the sauna began singing one word, one tone over and over. Your heart and your magic began to attune to it, thumping along in time, like your little Seidkona drum. The word felt natural, it slotted into your mind, filling a tiny, empty hole. The last syllable of the chant you had been practicing for weeks now. The very last piece of the magical puzzle, that you were not yet meant to utter.

You heard the beating of drums outside, muffled by the door, which cracked open and let in a blast of air. You knew it was warm, but it felt cool on your heated skin, disintegrated the clouds of herbal vapor, and sharpened your heat-fuzzed mind to a razor point. You exited the sauna like an infant; brand new and surrounded by sensation. The air was cool, the candles were bright, and the tub of pure water they dumped over you was like shards of ice.

While some of the women dried and helped you dress yourself, others continued the drum beat that had started while you were in the sauna. Seidkona drums were made of wood now, but their drumstick was shaped like a bone, and the little drums were rounded like skulls, and they may have been these things, long, long ago.

You sat among them, and were given a chunk of bread to eat, and a light, sweet fruit juice to drink. The flavor and texture was more clear than ever before, the sensation of relieving hunger and thirst practically palpable. The drumming continued while your hair dried and and you devoured the snack.

It wasn't just the steam or the heat-whatever herbal concoction you had bathed in and breathed in was effecting you. Your senses felt wider, like you were experiencing sensations on a deeper level. Maybe you always felt things this much, but simply hadn't noticed before.

Somehow you knew when to stand up. You and all the other Seidkonas got to your feet at the same time, some kind of unknown but compelling signal alerting you. As one, you all filed to the door.

Your instructor, the eldest of the Seidkonas stepped up beside you, as the others gathered their cloaks and drums.

“You are different than us.” she said. “The magic runs through you just the same, so you should know in advance: at the initiation, something new is always revealed. Some power, some knowledge previously unknown or lost. I know you've read about it with Saga, and you must understand that there is the probability that it will also happen to you. But you must also know that it's possible that it will not happen. Because you are different than us, and though the magic flows through you just the same, the rest of you might not be able to handle such a revelation. Never have the Norns allowed one of us to be harmed by this initiatory experience. They care about those who act in their stead, and will not force you through something you cannot handle. However, if they decide that you can handle it, human or not, they will push you to your very limit. Be ready for either outcome, for once it is started, there is no going back.”

The ancient Seidkona provided you your little rounded drum, and the parade began; a double line of esteemed sorceresses, wrapped in dark blue cloaks. You followed behind, cloakless, beating your drum in time with the others, a call to the masses that the initiate was coming, the ritual was beginning.

You followed your escort into the same courtyard from earlier in the day. In the time you had been squirreled away for cleansing, the whole area had been transformed. The tall dais was gone, another set of seating had taken its place. There were special seats for the most important guests, and new fencing had been erected, leading to clearly defined separation of Asgardian and human spectators. The entire courtyard had been swept clean of all snow and slush, all debris had been removed and sapphire blue decorations depicting your mark in silver had been put up. New torches had been planted and lit, and large braziers had been placed within the circle-one for each Seidkona, and an extra one in the center for you. They were each filled with a bundle to burn, a little tuft of incense herbs poking out of the top.

The drum beat continued as people filled the seats, as Thor and Loki took their special places, mere spectators in your grand show. The Seidkonas fanned out from their lines and each stood in front of a brazier. The drums only stopped once you had reached the brazier in the center. Each sorceress lit their own fire in their own way. Some were able to use magic, others used burning rods, lit from the torches. You had decided some weeks ago not to use a rod, but to use your magic to teleport burning material into your brazier.

And it worked! You were able to teleport fire! Your bundle burned...for all of a few moments, before the flames shrunk and went out.

Damn. You tried it again. Once more, the fire popped into being within your brazier. And once again, dwindled and disappeared. And again, with the same results. Why wasn't it working?

You heard muttering in the crowd, and you could pick out a few conspicuous questions being asked.

“Is that supposed to happen?”

“Is this a bad omen?”

“Does this mean she's not supposed to be doing this?”

“Did she fail?”

Frustrated, you stalked over to a torch, uprooted it, and used it to light your brazier. This time, the damn thing stayed lit. You scoured the gathered people with a glare, as if daring them to say anything more.

To your eternal annoyance, you spotted Todd among the human seating, his eyes narrowed in the expression he always got when you'd done something he hadn't expected or given you permission to do. Thankfully, you were much too far away to hear the veiled insults and negging that always followed that expression, but your memory helpfully provided several old examples, and they echoed around in your head until you forced them to cease. You swore, if he ever brought this up to you, you were going to teleport him into the middle of the river. If he was properly apologetic, you might even pull him out of the mud before he sank in forever.

Maybe.

“Practical.” Loki said in a stage whisper that carried out over the crowd. “Even mages must know how to solve problems without resorting to magic.” The crowd fell silent once again. Positioned right in front of you, the old Seidkona's wrinkled lips twisted into a wry smirk. She then lifted her drumstick into the air, and the dance began. The dance was supposedly simple: three steps and a quarter turn, four times, ending in a full spin, and then starting again, all in a circle around the burning brazier. Simultaneously, the drum beat, and the chant song kept time. You thumped your little drum, chanting along as you'd practiced. It would only get more challenging, you knew, and as soon as the chant had reached its end, it started over, this time faster. Your performance, how long and fast you could go before declaring the secret last word and bringing it all to an end, was supposed to determine how powerful a Seidkona you would be. In reality, your status was already confirmed, and everyone knew that expectations had to be different for a human, but you were still determined to give the best showing that you were physically capable of. And so you sped up. And sped up. And sped up, continuing until the world became a blur, and dizziness threatened to overtake you. Blue light sparkled at the edges of your vision, having escaped your dreams, now following you into trance states, when you were between awake and asleep. And faster. And faster. Though you were breathless, the chant song filled your ears, the drum beat mimicking your racing heart, until finally, lest you fall over into the fire, you stopped, threw your drumstick hand into the air, and shouted the last word at the top of your voice. Something appeared in your hands, forcing you to drop the drum and stick. You flung it high into the air. Both Loki and Thor cried out in surprise.

You felt the mark on your hand spark into life, runes searing up your arm, neck, and face. The power buzzed through you, like a swarm of bees in your blood, and for the first time, you could make out words in the thrum of magic. You finally knew what it wanted from you.

You were meant to break the lock. Learn us Learn us Learn us.

“Show me.” you commanded. And then the universe opened up before you.

#lasabrjotr #loki x reader #loki (marvel)

6 notes · View notes

laudedliar · 3 years

Text

For the OTP Extra-Dramatic Post - as @noire-pandora has requested

#1: Who would make a deal with the devil

Dorian had been told Cullen was seen in the city of Val Chevin. That Scout Harding had almost taken the man’s life out of pity.

”Please, no. Let me speak with him.” Dorian had begged over the sending crystal with the Inquisitor. “I’m in Orlais, I can be to him within the week. Please, I don’t ask you for anything. Please give me a chance. Let me try to save him.”

The Inquisitor, as hard of a man as he was, thankfully took Dorian’s pleas for mercy to heart.

”I won’t have him sullying the Inquisition’s reputation. You have a week to get him off the street.” Inquisitor Cadash said. The line was drawn.

And now Dorian found himself scouring the streets and back alleys, looking for the blonde Templar. Heart pounding, he knew that Harding was following behind him wraithlike, watching, ready to report back to Cadash if he were to fail in finding Cullen.

“You can help me you know.” Dorian called out after yet another alleyway proved unsuccessful.

There was a soft rustling sound and Harding stepped out from behind a stack of crates. She watched him carefully, blue-green eyes hard as they gazed upon him. “I’m not supposed to assist. Inquisitor’s orders.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Dorian shrugged his shoulders. He hadn’t assumed Cadash was the jealous type. But a spurned lover, it appeared, was not an easily won ally.

“He knows a lot more than you think.” Harding warned, but she stepped towards Dorian all the same.

“He’s still sore about my leaving, then?” The Tevinter asked, even as he followed in the scout’s footsteps to the end of the alleyway and back onto the street. She didn’t answer, only glanced over her shoulder at Dorian.

“And other... things.” The dwarven woman was as astute in her observations as ever.

“Ah. Yes, well. He was the one who only wanted a part time... Thing.” Dorian’s hand waved about as if he could fish the word he was looking for from the air.

They walked down another dirty, stinking alleyway, Harding easily jumping over a puddle of what was most likely piss. Possibly vomit. A dirty, haggard man reached out his hand towards Dorian, begging for coins as they passed. He did his best not to let his disgust show on his face.

Harding paused just before another slumped figure. Dorian paused as well, head tilted to the side as he watched the dwarf carefully. She stared right back at him. An uncomfortable moment passed between the two.

“You wanted help? Here. He’s right here.” Harding waved her hand towards the reeking person beside them.

Dorian’s throat constricted as he glanced over at the emaciated corpse-like being. Once sun-blonde hair now matted and filthy. Golden-brown eyes that had been so bright were now dull and empty. Ragged clothing hung to the man’s thin body. No longer the strong Lion of Fereldan. Dorian now looked upon the diseased, withered shell of Cullen’s darkest fears. He knelt down beside him, one hand lifting a silk handkerchief to his nose to block the rancid smell that surrounded the man.

“Cullen?” He asked, voice hushed.

Those dull brown eyes slowly slid to look in the general direction of Dorian’s face.

“Do you have any spare coin?” A raspy voice asked. Nothing like the calming tenor Dorian remembered.

“I’m here to help you. Do you remember who I am?” Dorian shifted slightly where he knelt, glancing around the filthy alley. Some other beggars were watching with a slight interest and suddenly the mage felt acutely aware of his fine clothing and jewelry.

“We shouldn’t linger.” Harding announced unexpectedly. Grey eyes blinked at the dwarf, surprised to still see her there. “I suggest we pick him up and leave. If that’s what you were thinking? Unless you just wanted to see him like this....” There was a hint of scorn in the woman’s tone.

“Of course. You’re right. You don’t mind helping me?” Dorian asked, even as he stood from where he kneeled.

“Just don’t tell Cadash.” She warned, stepping towards Cullen.

The man blinked at them as they closed in on him. “I don’t have anything right now. I told you last time, I’ll pay you when I get the money.”

“We’re here to help you.” Dorian soothed, even as he tried to grab the man’s arm to pull him from where he sat against the wall.

“No! I promise, I’ll pay! I know I’m behind, I’m just waiting on some money to be sent in the mail. He said he would send me more, it’ll be here soon-”

Dorian felt bile rise in his throat. If Cullen was talking about what he thought he was, it was in reference to a letter the man had sent to Dorian years prior. Asking him for a small loan. Dorian had promised to send him money. Had, in actuality, sent him money. But the courier had returned a few weeks later, coin pouch with him. He had been unable to locate the Templar, saying that there hadn’t been a man named Cullen Rutherford at the inn in Denerim.

“Cullen, please. It’s me, Dorian! I’m here, I’m here to help you!” A large, dirty hand slapped against his chest futilely. “Please.” He couldn’t help the whine in his tone.

“Just get him up, we’re drawing attention.” Harding hissed, already tucked under Cullen’s other arm.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder towards a few of the other haggard beggars in the street. Some were getting to their feet, the cold glint of steel in their hands as they watched the two attempt to get Cullen up.

“Would be nice if your magic was actually useful.” Harding grunted.

For someone as emaciated as the Templar was he was surprisingly still heavy. Dorian and Harding panted heavily as they dragged him through the streets and back to the mage’s hotel. The front clerk watched them, an undisguised look of disgust at the smell that followed.

“I need a bath prepared, lots of water and soap. Scissors as well. And food!” Dorian said as they began hauling the man up the stairs to his room. “Now!” He hollered when the clerk just stood staring at them.

The bath was brought up expediently, along with extra jugs of hot water and bars of good soap. Getting Cullen into the bath, however, was a completely different story. The man struggled against Dorian, pushing him away as he tried to get the ragged shirt off the other’s body. Harding had already left, muttering about Dorian ‘being on his own’.

“Let go of me! I will not be subjected to your blood rituals, mage!” Cullen shouted as a plume of white fire burst from him.

It felt like all the air in the room had been sucked away instantly. As if he had been slammed down face first into the ground from a two story fall, wind knocked from his lungs. The entire world coalesced into a pinpoint that centered around the dirty, ragged Templar and Dorian suddenly knew fear. Breathless, heart stopping fear that skittered over his skin and rippled under his scalp.

He had been subjected to the red Templar’s anti-magic spells but he had been ready for them, aware of what was about to happen. He would never have ever expected Cullen to Silence him. And not with such force.

It took a moment for his head to clear, his lungs achingly attempting to pull air in. Dorian stumbled back, hand grasping the edge of the bed as he tried to pull himself back from the abyss he’d been thrown into.

And as he did, grey eyes locked with honey-brown. Brown eyes that seemed, for that instant, clear and aware of what had just happened.

“Dorian?” Cullen asked, looking frail and frightened. His hands clutched at his dirty shirt and he was looking around the room in confusion. “Where am I? Why are you here?”

Dorian stumbled to stand up straight, still gasping for breath. “Cullen! Oh, Maker! You’re here with me, you’re okay now. I’m here.”

“Why?” The blonde was stepping back from him, shame and guilt pinching his face. “Why are you here?” There was the sound of a sob edging the other’s tone.

“Now, now. Don’t fret over it. You’re safe now. I’m going to help you.” He felt like he was trying to calm a spooked animal, soothing the larger man as he stepped forward step by tiny, sliding step.

“I-” Cullen paused as he took in the room around them. “I’m not quite sure I understand.” He looked down at his hands, the nails torn and crusted in filth, his fingers scarred and tattered. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten quite a lot.”

“Let’s get you a bath first, hm?” Dorian motioned for the bath tub. The water had cooled considerably.

Cullen was surprisingly easy to deal with in this state. Though he kept repeating himself, saying again and again he didn’t know where he was and he didn’t understand why Dorian was there. But whenever Dorian moved away to get more soap, or the scissors to trim the man’s now clean hair, Cullen was quick to reach for him and grab his hand. Like a child afraid to be without their parent nearby.

The bath water was so dark with filth by the time they finished Dorian couldn’t see the white porcelain bottom.

“I’m going to get some food, and have the servants come to take away the bath.” He said soothingly to Cullen, the man sitting on the edge of the bed wrapped in a bath robe. “It’ll be alright, I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Tears were gathering in the other’s eyes and he nodded slowly as Dorian opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The door was slowly shutting when a soft whimper came from the blonde.

“Please don’t leave me! It’s so dark all the time, I can’t remember wh-who I- why am I here?”

”You’re rather foolish for a mage. Always following me around. Do you know what I’ve done to mages who bothered me in the past? What is it about me that excites you so much you feel the need to be a rock in my shoe?” Cullen asked, eyes lifting from the paperwork strewn across his desk as Dorian sauntered into his tower.

“I came to see if you would care for a game of chess. There’s no one else here that can even come close to my prowess in battle.”

“Your prowess.” Cullen snorted and returned to his work. “I have utterly defeated you every game. I find it difficult to believe anyone else would be unable to also pummel your pride.”

Dorian clutched his chest above his heart. “You wound me sir! Such venomous words from so sweet a face! When all I ask for is but a moment of your time.” He dramatically slumped against the ladder and pouted at the ex-Templar.

A small smile slowly stretched it’s way over Cullen’s lips and he looked up at Dorian through long lashes. “Alright, alright. Let me finish here and we can play a game or two.”

“Please.” Cullen begged again and it brought Dorian pause, his head leaning against the wood of the doorway.

“I’ll be right back, Cullen. I promise. I promise.” He answered, tears of his own gathering along his lower lashes and spilling warm and salty down his cheeks. The door clicked close and soft wheezing sobs escaped the mage. After a moment he was able to gather himself together, hands roughly wiping at the tear tracks down his cheeks as he headed along the hallway to get the servants.

The next morning Dorian awoke, his arms wrapped around Cullen’s waist, the other’s back pressing warm against Dorian’s chest. He could smell the lyrium on the man. Like a sharp electric scent that tinged the air. It mixed with the smell of clean skin and the underlying scent that was Cullen.

”You smell... different.” Dorian said as they sat at the long dining tables in SkyHold’s main hall eating dinner.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cullen said, his sharp tone telling everyone around he didn’t want to talk about the subject the mage was broaching. But Dorian was ever one to press an issue.

“It smells familiar somehow. Like a lightning storm.” Dorian whiffed the air again, ignoring the warning glance that Cassandra shot his way.

“Leave me be, mage.” Cullen snarled as he stabbed his fork forcefully into a piece of potato.

“It reminds me of...” A mana potion. It reminded him of the smell of a freshly opened mana potion. “You’re taking lyrium again?” He asked, his voice lowering to a horrified hush.

“I said leave me be.” Cullen growled as he pushed away from his barely touched meal and stormed out of the hall. The companions that had sat nearby watched him go in horrified silence.

Everything had gone downhill from then. Cullen had withdrawn from the others, pouring himself into his work instead. He’d ignored Dorian’s overtures for chess games. Had not even blinked when the mage had joined Sera in ‘pranking’ the Commander.

Dorian’s arms tightened around the sleeping man. He had spent so much time and money trying to locate the Templar. He had almost lost hope as the days had turned to months, which turned to years. But when Cadash had contacted him, telling him that the Commander had been found...

He pressed a soft kiss to the back of the man’s head, lacing his fingers between thick, calloused ones. The gentle steady rhythm of the other’s breathing filled the quiet room.

”C’mon. You haven’t left this room in four days!” Dorian complained. “Are you really that upset about the Inquisitor disbanding the Inquisiton?”

“What am I going to do, Dorian?” The man asked, sitting hunched on the edge of his bed.

“I don’t know. You could come with me? I can show you such wonderful things. Have you ever been to a concerto grosso?” Dorian asked, reaching a hand out to touch Cullen’s shoulder. He sat down beside the other, his hand sliding around the man’s back to pull him in for a sidelong hug. “Oh! Or the Gardens on the River in Verchiel?”

“I’ve been to the Gardens.” Cullen said despondently.

“Think of this as... A vacation! Hm?” He gently shook the man’s shoulders trying to cheer him up.

“I have nothing left, Dorian.” The utter hopelessness in the man’s voice crushed his heart.

“No, no. Don’t say that. You have me. I will always, always be there for you. No matter what.” Dorian promised.

“Why?” Cullen asked, eyes glassy.

“Because I care about you.” A single shoulder shrug.

“But why?”

He paused, mulling over the man’s question. “Because... You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. Because you care so deeply. Because you are so adamant about everything you stand for. You never waver in your convictions.”

“I wavered in one.” The other man said softly, staring down at his hands.

Dorian could never forgive Cadash for forcing the blonde to take lyrium again. “You didn’t. It wasn’t you.”

“I can’t stop myself. It’s like I’m stuck in a whirlpool and I can’t swim out. It’s frightening. It wasn’t like this before, Dorian.”

“I’m here. I can help you. Just... reach for my hand, won’t you?” Dorian pleaded.

Golden brown eyes looked up into his own, so much pain and fear held within it crushed him beneath it’s weight.

He was unable to stop himself as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against the blonde’s thin, scarred ones. It surprised him when the man didn’t pull away but instead returned the kiss tentatively. The kiss grew in intensity rapidly. Like a stoked fire, hands began to rove over cloth and grasped at warm skin beneath. Kisses turned from soft tentative exploration to open mouthed, teeth clashing, and needy.

Dorian was swept away by problematic emotions as they came together in a carnal rush. Like his own rising concerto, his body sung with his release as Cullen kissed him again and again. It last an eternity. And ended too soon. Bodies lay entangled in the sticky aftermath of their encounter. The Templar’s heavy, solid weight upon Dorian was welcome, and the mage wrapped his limbs around the other as they shared more soft kisses in their post coital glow.

“You’ll come with me in the morning?” Dorian asked in a hushed whisper against tousled blonde locks.

“I’ll think about it.” Cullen murmured sleepily. Together they slipped into sated sleep, arms encircling and holding close.

The next morning Dorian awoke to a cold, empty bed. A letter of apology on the pillow next to him.

I’m afraid I can’t go with you You are my only friend and I would not burden you unduly

Thank you for everything

Yours Always, C. Rutherford.

Dorian was caught off guard as an elbow slammed back against his ribs, knocking the wind from him. Cullen crawled from the bed, his hands clutching the robe wrapped around him.

“Who are you.” The man growled, eyes once more glossy and far away. “Why am I...” He paused, looking down at the thin robe that barely concealed anything at all. “I...” Dorian rubbed at his chest and groaned as he sat up slowly. “Was I... Was it enough?” The blonde asked, clearly concerned about whatever it was he thought the two had gotten up to the night before.

“It’s me, Cullen. Dorian. And was what enough?” The mage asked, still rubbing at his sore solar plexus as he slid to the edge of the bed, his silken pajamas rustling softly with each movement.

“Was it enough to cover my debt? And maybe... Maybe more?” There was a strange light that came to the man’s eyes and suddenly Dorian knew exactly what it was that Cullen was asking.

“No. No. This wasn’t anything like that. Cullen, surely you remember me. Dorian Pavus.” He swallowed down the sickness that was threatening to rise from his gut. “It’s me, amatus.” He whispered, slowly approaching the confused man.

Cullen was shaking his head as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing. “N-no. Look, I just need a little to last me the week. One vial, I’ll do whatever it is you want. Just one vial.”

A sick tightness gripped his throat and Dorian swallowed thickly once. Twice. “You don’t need any of that. You’ve quit it before. You can do it again. I’m here now, and I’ll help you. We can do this. Together.”

Anger flashed over the haggard man’s features. Brown eyes glanced around the room and the robe was dropped as he picked up his freshly cleaned, but still ragged, clothes from a nearby chair. Dorian watched as the man pulled them on and the blonde stumbled towards the door.

Quickly the mage stepped forward, grabbing Cullen’s forearm and pulling him away roughly from the door. “No. No, you’re staying here with me.” Fear flashed cold down his spine when those brown eyes focused on him, the threat of another burst of the Templar’s wrath imminent.

“I paid you what was owed! You have no right to keep me here!” The blonde cried, trying to wrench his arm from Dorian’s grip. But the mage was better fed, and thusly stronger than the once sturdy warrior.

“It’s for your own good!” Dorian cried. He may have been stronger but it was still a struggle to keep the writhing man from breaking free.

A fist lashed out, slamming against his jaw and lights flashed before Dorian’s eyes as his head jerked to the side with the blow. He grunted in pain, briefly releasing his hold on the other. Just long enough the man was able to escape out the door and rush down the hallway, bare feet pounding muffled against the lush carpeted floor of the inn.

“Forgive me.” Dorian hissed as he cast Terror upon the fleeing man.

Cullen’s body seized up and he froze in his step near the top of the stairs. The mage rushed forward and quickly grabbed the terror frozen man, dragging him back to the room. The deadbolt in the door was locked firmly and Dorian waited patiently while the effects of the spell wore off. He was ready for the rage surely about to be released upon him.

But it never came. Instead, when finally released from the horror of the spell, Cullen crawled to the corner of the room and huddle with his knees against his chest, arms wrapped around them as he rocked back and forth.

It was like that for days. Cullen would beg and plead Dorian for lyrium, promising him he’d pay him. Do whatever he wanted. One time, Cullen had even fallen to knees in front of Dorian, hands quickly trying to pry open the front of his pants. But the Tevinter had pushed him away, horrified at the implications the act made of the blonde’s recent past.

And when the mage refused to give him anything, the Templar would escape the room. Or attempt to.

That was only during the day. The nights quickly devolved into nightmare. When Cullen would actually sleep he would toss and turn, moaning in pain as he burned with fever and left the sheets soaked in sweat. And when he didn’t sleep, he would hunch in the corner of the room, muttering to himself and scratch at his skin as if insects crawled over him.

Dorian found himself crying more than not as the days passed and the symptoms of withdraw grew worse. He hadn’t planned on staying so long in Val Chevin. He had been expected back in Qarinus a day ago. During one of Cullen’s fretful episode’s of sleep he left the room and sent a letter back home to Maevaris, apologizing for his absence and promising a swift return. But he knew it was a lie. Return would be delayed. For an unforeseeable amount of time.

The days turned into weeks. Harding had stopped by once to check on him, letting him know that if he needed help (any kind of help) she was nearby. Dorian knew what the offer entailed.

“I’m not giving up on him.” Dorian had told her, arms over his chest.

“Would he have done the same for you?” She asked. “Lyrium withdraw can get pretty bad. Violent even. Just... don’t make Cadash regret giving you the chance, okay?”

The dwarven woman was loyal to a fault. Dorian appreciated her for it. Not many would have remained just in case.

As time rolled by Dorian felt his own sanity leaving him. He wasn’t sure just how long they’d been locked inside the room. Every day blurred into the next. If it wasn’t for the passing of the sun, Dorian wasn’t even sure he would know day from night.

He watched from his chair as Cullen sat staring at a wall, muttering unintelligibly as he scratched with ragged nails at the wood paneling of the room. Dorian’s own fingernails were chewed down to the quick as he watched the man hunched in the corner destroy the interior of the rented room.

He bit too far down, the coppery tang of blood on his tongue as he tore a chunk of nail off painfully. Grey eyes stared as a small bead of blood gathered on the end of his finger. Possibilities bloomed within the sanguine drop.

He could save Cullen. He just needed help.

The bleeding finger was shoved further into Dorian’s mouth and he bit down hard, teeth tearing at the nail bed, drawing forth more blood as he searched the ether for that desired help.

His call was answered faster than he imagined. His conscious mind pulled from his physical form to the Fade. He knew the Fade, knew the feel, the smell, the taste. He knew he needed to remain calm, even as he found himself walking the familiar, yet hazy, lower courtyard grounds of SkyHold. Most things were in their remembered place. But not all. A blink and he was walking along the battlements towards Cullen’s tower. His feet never faltered, knowing the Demon was toying with him. Trying to unsettle him, make him easier prey.

The heavy wooden door of the tower swung open and Dorian stepped into the familiar office. Mostly familiar. There was an extra bookcase on the far wall, filled with copies of ‘Hard in Hightown’. Some volumes yet to even be published. If ever they were.

She stood there, the Desire demon. Staring at the stacks of paper that littered the top of the desk.

“It’s been a long time, Dorian.” She crooned, low sultry voice echoing through the Fade.

“Not long enough, I’m afraid.” He answered, jaw set in determination.

“What is it you come to me for? You weren’t interested in what I had to offer last time. Or... Maybe I do know.” As she turned her true form shimmered and altered until before him stood a young Cullen Rutherford. Far younger than even Dorian knew him. Fresh faced, eyes bright with an eagerness the blonde man probably hadn’t shown since his early twenties. He wore the Templar armor, shined to perfection, red sash perfectly tied at his hip and holding his once ever-present sword at the ready. “Is this what you’re after?” The Demon asked, now in Cullen’s own familiar tenor.

“A little young for my taste.” Dorian quipped back.

“Hm. Then perhaps...” The youthful figure before him shimmered, the Templar breast plate turning a darker color, the great red plume of fur replacing the large ornate pauldrons, and a more aged face appearing. A wiser face. Familiar scars and creases lining the Demon-blonde’s visage.

“Better. But I didn’t come to play dress up. I came to ask a favor.” Dorian said, turning away from the figure before him to look at the bookcase against the wall.

The Seventh Blight, a History sat beside Horrors of the Third Inqusition. Dorian wondered at the truth of the titles. The Fade sat in between time, living all ages simultaneously. What was, is, and could possibly be.

“What you wish of me is not an easy task.” Demon-Cullen stated, drawing Dorian’s attention back to him. “Templars take lyrium to not only protect from magic, but also demons.”

“Your kind were able to infect the Seekers easily enough, and they had taken lyrium. I just want you to... Help him.”

“You want me to bring this one back. Which is impossible. Why not just stay here and be with me? It’s much easier. And so much more pleasurable. For all involved.” The Demon-Cullen stepped close to Dorian, one of his hands reaching up to stroke along Dorian’s cheek in a loving manner. He moved closer, closing the distance between them and pressed a warm, stubble rough kiss to Dorian’s mouth.

“No. If you won’t do what I want, I’ll find another.” Dorian was quick to the door, his heart pounding in dread at what he was doing. The game he was playing. The way the Demon’s offer was so tantilizing.

Demon-Cullen sighed heavily. “Fine! What are your terms?” He asked.

Dorian paused at the door, hand on the handle ready to flee at any sign of trouble. “I want him cured of the lyrium madness. I want him sane. I want him healthy.”

“I assume he need to remember you?” The Demon asked, looking at his nails as if bored with the transaction already.

“Yes.”

“And love you?” Golden eyes glinted with malice as they looked at him.

“I want him as he was. As he is. Nothing more, nothing less.” Dorian slowly turned, arms crossing over his chest as he faced the Demon once more.

“It will be difficult. You’ll need to cast a ritual so I can enter his space... Even now, with you so close, I can smell the lyrium in him.” The Demon-Cullen glanced at the door of the tower as if he could see past it and into the room where Dorian’s body remained. Where Cullen remained huddled in the corner, lost in his insanity.

“And in return?” Dorian asked. His throat flexed rigid, breath catching as brown eyes met grey.

“I want you. Tit for tat. A life for a life.” The Demon said, Cullen’s lips stretching into a wide, feral grin.

Dorian’s jaw shuddered, teeth clattering behind his tightly sealed lips. “You ask too much.” His voice quavered just slightly.

The Demon paused, mulling over it’s options. It knew Dorian could find a better deal elsewhere. Could find a simpler demon to assist in what he asked, and the stupid demon would probably do it for a lollipop and a hand job.

“Five years hence, then.” The Demon-Cullen bartered, knowing such a deal would not present itself again with such a wonderfully exquisite specimen for a very long time indeed.

“And then what?”

“You become my vessel. Don’t worry, as long as it’s agreed upon you’ll retain your good looks. I never liked the monstrous form some take. And the fun one can get up to with such a fine exterior...” The Demon-Cullen ran his hand down the front of Dorian’s chest in an appreciative manner.

Dorian stepped back from the Demon and brushed at his shirt front as if to push away the lingering feel of the other’s fingers. “Ten years.” He countered.

“Six.”

“Eight.”

The Demon contemplated him carefully. “Ah. The things you humans do for love. Deal.”

The tower flashed bright and disappeared, Dorian gasped for breath as he awoke once more within the room of the inn. He knew the ritual that needed to be done. The knowledge was just there, inside him. Slowly standing from his chair, Dorian crossed the room towards the still muttering, mad Templar.

His hand found it’s way to soft wavy blonde locks and fingers threaded through the fine hairs. Heart thumped against his ribs and he leaned in to press a soft kiss to the man’s temple. As he pulled away, he recited the incantation, once more ripping at the still sore skin of his finger and drawing forth more of his blood. A hot, white light illuminated around the blonde and a rising sound like that of whistling wind over hot desert sand drowned out all else within the room.

He was thrown back into the chair he’d risen from, the wooden furniture smashing into pieces as his body slammed against it. The splintered wood pierced his skin and he cried out as whatever spell he’d cast drew from his life essence to fuel the Demon’s work. Blood swirled in ribbons around the now white hot glowing Templar. He could see Cullen writhing as if he were in pain, back arched, limbs flailing. But it was difficult to look directly at the other man like he were the midday sun and Dorian a cave dweller.

The whistling wind grew, tossing about other pieces of furniture. They slammed hard against the walls, barely missing Dorian where he lay curled up on the floor. The bed shook and rattled across the floor boards, sheets torn from it and whipping about the room as well.

It seemed to never end.

But end it did.

The furniture that had been zipping about fell to clatter on the floor. Sheets lazily drifted down to cover Dorian where he lay. The wind stopped and the only sound within the room was the rasping wheeze of his breath. Eventually he peeked out from under the silken sheets that covered him to glance at the corner where Cullen remained.

Honey-brown eyes, no longer glossy or lost, looked at him from across the room.

“Dorian?” Cullen called, his voice thready and weak.

“Cullen.” He sat up fully, rushing across the room to the other man still huddled where he’d been all day. “Cullen, Maker be praised!” He cried as his arms wrapped their way around the shivering man. Warm kisses fluttered over the blonde’s face.

“I thought... I thought you were in Tevinter. I tried to send you letters but...” Cullen said, his voice shaking. But the larger man didn’t push Dorian away even as the mage continued to press excited kisses to his sunken cheek.

“I’m here now, amatus. I will never leave you again. I promise.” Dorian whispered against stubble rough skin. And he meant it.

Tick Tock. A sultry voice whispered.

#cullrian #dorian pavus #cullen rutherford #demon #lyrium #withdrawal

47 notes · View notes