#i wanted to draw something warm its been so cold here

[crabbbage]

24smp scott mostly inspired by this fic. i loved the description of mermaid scott.... with h2o water dynamics which is my favorite kind of cheesy mermaid stuff

[venmondiese]

THE WARM OF BOTH BODIES

masterlist ✧works in procress ✧ AO3

✧Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Sister!Reader x Aegon II Targaryen

✧Rating: +18 mdni explicit

✧word count: 3.1k

✧gif credit: aegon ✧ aemond

-ˋˏsummary: Dragons are greedy, and both of your brothers have perverted desires that you take no issue on entertaining. ✧Warnings: : MDNI 18+, mummy kink, lactation kink, breastfeeding, threesome (f/m/m), aegond, targcest, polyamory, oral (f and m receiving), masturbation (f and m receiving), aegon is the most submissive to exist, switch!aemond. ✧ this is a part from @targaryen-dynasty 's 3k celebration ! check all the other works too, and as always a pleasure to participate with my silly things and congrats to her ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ ✧ note: i added my own spice. it didn't say anything about aegond but i am... weak... #i tried

By no means had you known what being alone was like.

After Aemond, you were the fifth child of king Viserys to survive childhood. Daeron was your youngest by two years, and like your sister, you were dotted and cared for by your mother and father… unlike your brothers. 

Your mother had a weird way to demonstrate affection to them, you always thought. With Aegon was non-existent, and Aemond had this burden to be the reliable sibling amongst them all. 

When Aegon had to marry Helaena; you married Aemond. It was how the tradition dictates, and it was under your father’s wish, much to your mother’s dislike.

And just like Helaena, you recently had a daughter with Aemond, Rhaelle, who was the apple of his father’s eye. Yet, the only difference between your duty and Helaena’s is that she wasn’t the one who had to take care of Aegon. Instead, you took care of Aegon’s whims, alongside your husband’s.  

Aegon was greedy, whiny and clingy. He searched you whenever he wanted, following you around like a puppy for your attention. Whereas Aemond was quiet, reserved and embarrassed, but not less greedy. He often wanted comfort, praise for his action and the reassurance that he was doing no wrong in his desires. 

Both of them accepted the other, in a quiet agreement. You were a petulant person, and if you wanted, they knew this, all of it, would be over. So they shut up their differences for the sake of it.

Aegon was curled by your right side, lying on the bed of your chambers. Post coital bliss at its finest, as he was slightly sleepy, and even a bit grumpy when bothered. It had been some cold days, but the fire made it more bearable, and it gave some sense of cosiness to both. He was just resting, a bit sleepy, his head on your stomach as you read some silly book about Valyrian fashion, as his legs were pressed against your shoulder, as you slowly caressed his leg, soothing him like that.

You hear his soft yawn, as the laziness of the evening consumes you both as you are cuddled against the other for the warm. As Aegon draws slowly patterns upon the lower part of your chest, you feel the door of the chambers opening knowing it was your husband 

You lower your book, caressing Aegon’s heel and calf, as you look at Aemond, walking closer to the bed as he makes a slight face at seeing Aegon here, as if he wanted you all for himself. He takes his boots quickly, moving to take off his leather jerkin.

“Hi” You say, softly, and he hums. You can see it in the slight frown on his face. 

Aegon stirs a hit, not greeting Aemond as he sits on the bed, closer to you. Like a lazy cat, he yawns, and you feel his muscles stretching a bit. 

“Did you tuck Rhaelle?” Aemond asks, his shoulders tensed up as he takes off his eye patch and loses up his hair. He was tired, you could see.

“Yes, she is sleeping in the nursery…” You say softly, looking at him. “What is it?” You ask, seeing how Aemond wants something, yet he doesn’t know how to say it, looking at you a bit unsure. 

“Mummy” He whines softly, frowning as his tone was a bit sheepishly, sitting closer to you, by your left side. 

You press your lips together, looking at him as he seems so vulnerable, and tired, for whatever reason he probably will tell you later. Aegon nuzzles your stomach, his interest piqued on Aemond’s word, because if it involves Aemond, it will involve him as well. 

The unspoken words between you and Aemond are no obstacle to knowing what he wants. You know your brothers, surely, but Aemond was different. Aemond was your husband, and you knew him like the palm of your hand. 

Aemond nods shyly, as if agreeing with the thought on your mind, and he scoots closer once you sit better on the bed, leaning back properly on the pillows. Your nightgown is easy to untie at the front, more so when you are lactating and need an easy way to open the dress. Rhaelle would fuss and wail her little lungs out, so your clothes were always easy to undo. 

Now, if Rhaelle’s father and uncle enjoy the same, is another thing. 

You undo the laces in the front of your dress, and you know how Aegon reincorporates to sit, suddenly all woken up and interested in this. The dress is pure cotton, and it is comfortable to wear. You pull the fabric out of the way, and with their gazes following your each movement, you know it is a matter of time for them to hungrily latch onto you.

Aegon curls up to your right side, whereas Aemond does the same on your left. He always preferred your left, since the blind spot faces Aegon, so he doesn’t have to bear seeing him too. Aegon is much more shameless, clinging to you and moving his hips softly against your right side.

You feel both men getting closer, and their breaths hit your nipples as they nuzzle your blossom, in hopes of sucking hungrily.

 “Aegon…” you say softly as he was growing impatient, moving a bit as he pressed his face closer to your breast, restless and eager.

Aemond is never restless; he stayed still as he loved, caring. He always pressed faint kisses, around your tits, before suckling calmly. His left arm always found its way to wrap your waist, keeping you close to him as he delighted himself with soothing milk.

Instead, Aegon immediately latched onto your breast, suckling and trying to get all the milk he could, eagerly as he always seemed relentless, always craving more and more. He’d watch you with bright, purple eyes as he craved for your attention.

You comb their hair with your fingers, kiss the top of their heads and rub their back. They were your older brothers, but behaved like hungry little kittens that needed their milk.

Always was a bit strange, as they weren’t always amicable. It took a long time, for Aemond, at least, to join in. It was mainly due to the fact that Aegon rarely left you alone, even if you were Aemond’s wife. Little by little, they learned how to warm up to each other, and sometimes to your request, they’ll kiss.

The suckling sounds are loud, almost obscene, as you feel both swallow each drop from your leaking milk. Aemond had probably been tasting it since the end of your pregnancy, yet it didn’t tire him at all. And Aegon? He was always hungry, and he suckled and his tongue lapped your breast, milking more and more. 

You can feel how they swallow the milk, both eager. Aemond has a hand around your waist, as Aegon has his hand around your breast and squeezes it slightly as if to have more.

“Mummy” Aegon murmurs, pulling back as he looks at you, and he has wide purple eyes “are we being good?”

The reassurance is a must, you realise with time. “Yes, baby. You both are my good boys” you murmur, caressing the top of their head “Both of you, my best boys…”

They delight themselves in the praise; you hear Aemond’s faint moans, as you feel his body at ease. You caress the back of his head, feeling the loose hairs on your fingers. 

It always made you feel the arousal settle in the lower part of your belly, and feeling so turned on you had to press your thighs together a bit. Aemond loved when your breast grew larger, and full of milk. Aegon was not behind that feeling, as he was the one to propose the idea to ‘help you with the heaviness of them’.

Aegon gulps on the milk like a glutton, and his eyes are closed in the delight of nursing. You feel his cock hardening little by little by your side. Aemond instead, looks at you. His eye is deep and intense, watching your face as his mouth is still working on your nipple, his tongue pressing against the nub getting more milk. His hand on your waist loosens up slightly, slowly moving down all the way to your stomach, and little by little, makes its way to your centre. 

Aegon is oblivious to that, as he suckles and slurps loudly, with not a care for the world, nipping and licking all of the sweet milk that your breast can produce. He whines a bit, scooping closer and closer as he tries to get more and more. 

“Doing such a good job for mummy, darlings…” You say to both, as you feel Aemond’s hand almost innocently brushing against your womanhood. “So good…” You murmur dreamily, sighing as Aegon nuzzles his face closer to your right breast, his nose brushing the skin as his mouth slightly presses a bit harder, eager for more.

They could feel you moving under their touch, almost possessive as they fed from you, keeping you right there at their mercy. The sound of your praise stirred something in both of them, yearning more of your affections, more of mummy’s affections. 

Aemond is the first one to pull away from your breast, beginning to shift as his body moves higher, his mouth kissing all the way up to kiss you in the lips. You hum, feeling the taste of your own milk on his lips. 

“Mummy” Aegon protests, not wanting to be left out as always, as he pulls away from your breast, an obscene sound from it as he moves his head to nuzzle your cheek, kissing lazily to keep on worshipping your body. 

Aware of how his hand was still between your legs, Aemond pressed it harder against your core, rubbing more firmly. As if wanting to draw more sounds from you, Aegon moves his hand to grope softly, carefully your breast, not wanting to leave a part from you unattended. 

“You are such good boys for me, always wanting to please me, hm?” You say, panting a bit from how good your husband's hands on your pussy feels.

“Yes mummy” Aemond murmurs, and Aegon nods in agreement. 

It’s as if Aemond knows your thoughts, because he turns to watch Aegon, moving slightly his other hand to place it on the back of his neck, pulling Aegon closer to share a slow, yet passionate kiss between both of them.

They could feel the milky taste in the other’s mouth, and you could see how their tongues crashed against each other, making it as sloppy as possible as they made out for quite some time, as Aemond’s fingers tried to pry into your clit and pussy. 

You know that at the beginning it was more to put on a show for you, for your delight that they agreed to do as well. If they enjoyed it, you could never know. But now it’s different, watching how they hungrily seek each other’s mouth, and if one tries to pull away, the other is quick to lean, following their mouth to keep on kissing. 

It’s hot, to say the least, and it makes wonders for your arousal to see both of them kiss like this. You think, for a moment, if you could maybe propose the idea for them to follow this lust for each other further. Maybe for another occasion. 

As Aemond’s lips move to kiss Aegon’s neck, you see how your baby seems so aroused, you could always see it clearly with Aegon, how his cheeks turned pinker and he had that blissful expression. You feel Aemond’s hand moving away from your core, and before you could ask anything, they both pulled away from each other. 

Aemond probably murmured something in Aegon's ear, because they shared a look before the eldest slowly turned to you. 

 “Mummy, can we please you…? We wanna taste your pussy… please…” he asked, and you see how Aemond looks at you, awaiting your answer, as his hand caresses your thigh softly.

You caress Aegon’s thigh softly, as they both almost look at you with puppy eyes. 

“Yes, my darlings. Please mummy with your mouths” 

It does not take them long to accommodate between your legs, Aemond presses one hand to your left leg, keeping it still. Aegon does not bother to do the same for your left thigh, as he has other priorities. 

You feel Aegon’s mouth first, his tongue tracing along her slit. Aemond moves his hand to the back of Aegon’s head, pushing his mouth further into your cunt, as the eldest savours your wetness. And at the sound of your moans, he doubles his efforts.

Then it’s Aegon who pulls your husband’s face down to join his mouth, both of them licking and sucking your wet cunt. You can see both of them, their cheeks pressed together as they pleasure you with their mouths at the same time, licking and slurping in unison.

“Fuck, f-fuck, gods…” you moan, your hips moving closer, grinding against his tongues, grabbing Aegon’s hair, short and easy to grab (unlike Aemond’s)

Aegon seems delighted at that, and you feel his tongue darting out to suck your clit eagerly, and you feel your jaw moving at the motion, and he whimpers with need. Aemond is, as always, focused as he slurps and sucks on her entrance, obscene sounds fill the room as his expert mouth works on you. 

They both clearly relish both the taste and the privilege of having their faces buried between your thighs, moving to please you, and their tongues crashing together as they do so. 

“Mummy, you taste so good” you don’t even recognise the sound, the sound muffled by the little space between his mouth and your folds. 

“Fuck, so good…” the other agrees, and your legs tremble, as your hips try to get more and more of their wicked tongues.

Aegon is the one whining, you know that. As you pull his hair, you see his needy eyes looking at you. You press your heel on his back, as if pushing him closer to your cunt. He moans, closing his eyes as he goes back to feasting on your pussy.

Aemond moved to your clit now, and you can see how the sapphire glints on the dim lights. You imagine that both of their cocks are rock hard, throbbing impatiently. 

Maybe it’s Aegon or Aemond (maybe both) the one who drools, while the muffled moans still come and go. You, on your side, are a mess, as you try to keep both of them close to you, feeling Aemond’s hand caressing your breast. Your pussy can’t take longer, and your hips grind against both of their faces, as you roll your eyes back and lean your head back in the pillows, as you feel your orgasm so close.

 “Fuck, babies, so good for mummy, fuck…” you mean it, moaning loudly as you feel them whimper.

“Wanna make you cum so hard, mummy…” Aegon’s raspy voice is a bit clearer, as you clench on his hair.

“Hmmmm” Aemond hums, not separating one bit from your cunt.

As you start cumming, both of them press their mouth against your pussy, wanting to taste your cum as they try to be the one to get more. You are cumming hard, and their greedy tongues only fuel your orgasm even more. 

Feeling your pussy quivering and pulsing around their tongues it's probably one of their favourite things, along with the rest of you. The feeling of your creamy juices made them greedy, and they share it all

Their faces are shiny with your arousal, and even when you retreat, they lick their lips as if wanting more. You can’t exactly see in the faces of your brother’s what they are thinking, but you feel tired to think about anything but the great orgasm you just had. 

You are not exactly sure who started the kiss, but it's messy and sloppy, as you see their tongues sharing the last tastes of your cum, as their hands clenched to the other to keep him close, and keep on the passionate kiss.

It’s Aemond who groans, Aegon pressing his body to his, almost humping his cock to any part of your husband’s skin, who holds him close, one hand on his jaw and the other moving down to the eldest hips.

You move a bit, sitting better on the bed, yet your back still leans on the pillows, body relaxed as you accommodate to watch them devour each other as one does sit to watch men fighting in a tourney. But both of them were involved in different practices, which was a show for you to see and most importantly- enjoy. 

You can see their tongues pressing together, their heads moving to not break the sloppy kiss, messy and passionate. They surely are doing this out of passion and lust, rather than rational thought, but you are not complaining.

Aegon’s hand comes to caress the firm abdomen of Aemond, like you enjoy doing. Your husband is a creature of many sides, and he can be as submissive as he can be dominant. He moves the hand on Aegon’s hip to grip his short hair, and keeps him in place to keep on kissing him. 

“Aem… mummy” Aegon’s little whines come in a low tone, and a bit slurred, as Aemond does not give his mouth a break. 

It takes you a while to notice that Aegon is using his hand to stroke Aemond’s cock, using the side of his thigh to hump and grind his own cock. He was needy, but he was too much of a needy baby to fight for dominance. Aegon relished on being submissive, either with you, or Aemond. 

Aemond breaks their kiss, his head falling back to pant, groaning slightly as Aegon uses his hand on his cock. You know Aegon is the most lustful creature since he discovered pleasure, and he was always good with his hands. 

“Mummy…” Aegon whines, wanting you to help him with his cock, and you move on your knees closer to where they were having this exchange of pleasure, because both of them wanted to cum very badly. 

Your hands on Aegon’s cock make him go weak, whimpering as he leans closer to Aemond, moving his lips down on his body, his abdomen and the tip of his cock.

“Good boys, hm? You both are such good boys for mummy, pleasuring yourselves…” You say, that sweet tone of yours makes Aemond’s arousal explode. 

“Fuck-” Aemond mutters, groaning and whimpering as he cums one of his hands moving to grip your shoulder, and as your hands stroke the eldest’s cock, your hand over stimulating movements on his cockhead, as if trying to replicate his tongue movements on Aemond’s tip. 

Aegon is greedy, and he whimpers, still pleasuring Aemond, his hips bucking on your hand, as his own orgasm hits hard. Aemond is the one holding him, as your baby’s orgasm hits him hard, trying not to fall on the bed, panting loudly and whimpering. 

He makes a little sound when you kiss him, wanting to taste Aemond’s cum on his tongue. It was delightful, and you feel his body melting on your touch. You feel how your other brother moves to caress the back of your head, nuzzling your shoulder and kissing it tenderly.

You could get used to this new dynamic, surely.

[moonstruckme]

remus x touch starved! reader ❤

i want him to hug me so badly 😭

<3

Me toooooooo! Unsure if this was a request but thanks for sending and potentially for requesting haha <3

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 707 words

Remus’ foot is touching yours. It’s incidental, thoughtless. You’re sitting on opposite sides of the couch, facing each other as you both read your books, only you’re not reading anymore because all of your attention has been stolen by the way your boyfriend’s foot is lightly pressing yours into the back cushion. The slightness of the contact, the smallness of it, it isn’t nearly enough, and yet you don’t think you could take any more. 

The other side of the couch seems a thousand miles away. 

“You alright?” Remus asks. You look up to find him studying you over the top of his book. 

“Mhm. Why?” 

“You just seem like you might be cold.” You look at him bemusedly, and he nods to the blanket around your shoulders. “You’ve wrapped yourself up fairly tightly there.” 

You look down. You’re holding the blanket closed with a near vice-like grip, cocooning yourself in warm snugness. 

“Oh.” You ease your grasp on it. “Sorry, I didn’t even notice.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Remus replies easily, sitting forward and clasping a hand around your ankle. “Should I go turn the heater up?” 

Every nerve in your being has directed its attention to your ankle, your boyfriend’s fingers braceleting it loosely, casually. One finger moving slowly up and down as though to placate you. Your chest aches terribly. 

Some of it must show on your face, because Remus frowns. “What is it?” 

“What?” 

“You look upset.” He leans forward, his touch coasting up to your knee. His frown deepens. “Sweetheart, what's wrong?” 

“Nothing.” You close your eyes, feeling silly. Shake your head. “Sorry, nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“It’s really stupid.” 

Remus shushes you admonishingly. “I doubt that. Will you tell me?” 

“It’s just…” You push out a breath, not quite able to look at him. “It is, it’s silly. I feel like I miss you, but you’re right here.” 

Remus gives you a contemplative look, his lips downturnt. You almost want to laugh just so he’ll take you less seriously. You feel far too exposed. 

“That doesn’t sound silly,” he says after a moment. “I think…I know what you mean, sometimes. Maybe there’s something we’re missing.” 

“Like what?” you ask helplessly. 

He considers you. “Could we have a hug?”  

Now you do laugh. “Yeah,” you say, though you don’t move. “Of course, whenever you want.” 

“Whenever you want, too,” Remus reminds you. He takes the initiative, setting his book down and moving across the couch toward you. 

His arms come around you almost tentatively, one hand moving across your back while the other settles itself between your shoulder blades. You give a little shiver at the contact, and he strengthens his hold, your own fingers bunching in the material of his jumper. That ache in your chest begins to feel like a sort of fracturing. 

“I might cry,” you warn him wobbily. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Remus’ surprised chuckle jostles the first couple of tears out of you. “Oh, sweetheart.” He palms the back of your head. “I’ll try not to, but are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yeah.” You clutch him tightly. “This helps.” 

“Okay,” he says softly. 

Remus lets you cry it out. He holds you, shuffles closer on the couch, presses his lips to the top of your head. When you’re done and you pull away to press a salty kiss to the corner of his lips, he picks up your fallen blanket and draws it around the both of you. 

Your legs are all tangled together, bent knees and coarse hairs and the jut of an ankle bone into your hip. Remus looks into your eyes with a steady fondness. 

“Do you feel any better?” he asks. 

���Yeah,” you answer honestly. “Sorry, thank you.” 

“Why are you always sorry?” There’s a bit of teasing in his voice now, softened by the brush of his lips against your nose. “You can always ask for hugs, you know. You should.” 

“Okay.” 

“I want you to.” 

“Okay.” Your face feels warm, but you feel a thousand times lighter. “I will.” 

“Good.” He gives you a little smile. “Can we do another now?” 

“Remus,” you smile back at him, “I’m really fine.” 

“I believe you. This one’s for me.”

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

We got each other (and that's a lot)

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 18

Prompt: Hurt/Comfort

Rated: M

CW: Violent imagery; aftermath of injury

Tags: Steve got vecna'd (he's okay, though); Angst; Trauma; Fluff

Notes: Continued from day 3. They'll be fine, they just need to kiss some and get a lot of therapy, probably.

Wanna see these soft, broken boys sleeping? Check out the heartwrenching art by @house-of-the-moving-image

Eddie drifts.

Inky blackness surrounds him like cotton, every sound, every thought muffled. His neck and fingers and arms still hurt, but it's the dull kind that comes with exhaustion, the tingle of adrenaline finally rushing from his body. Some distant part of him is still stirring, demanding that they stay alert … but the darkness is warm and soft and alluring as it pulls him under. 

Something cold touches his hand. 

Eddie flinches awake, heart kickstarting in his chest, fear zapping into his limbs like an electric current.

He fell asleep, he realizes, and the terror of it claws its way up his throat like a slimy, rotten tangle of vines. He fell asleep and when he opens his eyes it'll be to find Steve floating under the ceiling again, to find Steve's mangled corpse on the bed, eyes sucked from their sockets, face twisted in an eternal, grotesque scream, it's too late and he fell asleep, he fucking fell asleep while- 

Steve is awake. 

Steve is awake and he's looking at him and he's alive and his hand is lying on top of Eddie’s. It's cold and there's a needle in it from the IV cord and he's ghastly pale against the sheets, but he's smiling softly and he's alive, he's alive and Eddie wants to scream, to cry, to kiss him and never stop, to hold him and never let go-

"Hey," Steve whispers. 

"Hey," Eddie croaks. "You look like shit, man."

"Aw," says Steve, and the corners of his mouth twitch and Eddie thought he'd never see his smile again and shitshitshit don't cry, Munson, don't cry. "Thought I was pulling it off real well." 

He jerks his head in the general direction of the cast on his right leg, the one on his left arm. Eddie thinks he'll hear the sound of the bones breaking in his nightmares for the rest of his life.

"Typical," is what he says. "Half dead and still worried about your looks." 

Steve hums a not-quite-laugh. His fingers caress the back of Eddie’s hand. 

"Is he …?" 

"Dead," Eddie blurts. "For real this time. It's over." 

"The kids?" Steve's fingers twitch.

"Fine," Eddie says, watches how Steve's entire form sags with relief. "Buckley and Wheeler, too. And everyone else. It's over." 

"I- good." Steve screws his eyes shut, gulps. Draws a shuddering breath. "That's good." 

Eddie watches how his shoulders start shaking. Following a sudden impulse, he flips his hand and tangles his hand with Steve's, careful not to upset the needle. Steve blinks down at their entwined fingers. 

Eddie forces himself to smile and rambles on before either of them can question the gesture. 

"El was so fucking metal, you should've seen her. Like, the way she obliterated that douchebag? Remind me to never get on that girl's bad side! Seriously, man, I don't think any of us would be here if she hadn't-" 

"Well, I don't think I would be here …" says Steve. "... if it hadn't been for you." 

Eddie’s words barrel to a stop. Steve’s fingers tighten against his, trace the callouses on his hands. Steve’s smile is small and soft, but his eyes are serious, trained stubbornly on the ugly pattern of his hospital gown. 

"I thought you hated Bon Jovi." 

Eddie huffs. "Fuck, yeah, I do. Forcing me to besmirch my Sweetheart's strings with that mainstream shit? You owe me big time, man. Better start thinking of ways to pay me back."

"Yeah?" Steve raises their tangled hands lightly. "How's this for a start?" 

And then, before Eddie can even wonder what he's about to do, he ducks his head and presses a kiss to his knuckles. His lips are soft and warm. 

Eddie blinks. Waits for the world to stop spinning. 

"For … a start?" he repeats dumbly. 

Steve's eyebrow quirks. 

"Dude, I'd like to do so much more, but I'm glad I managed to lift your hand, to be honest. We should also first talk about stuff, I guess." 

"Oh," Eddie says intelligently. "You mean … like that thing you wanted to tell me?" 

"Yeah, like tha- … that thing." Steve needs to interrupt himself for a huge yawn halfway through. Since one of his arms is in a cast and the other hand is refusing to let go of Eddie’s, it ends up open-mouthed and adorable. "Probably'll have to sleep some more b'fore that, though …"

"Sure thing," Eddie is out of his chair and fussing with the pillow before he realizes what he's doing. Steve's eyes are already drooping as he helps him settle down. "I'll … I'll be outside, tell the others you're-" 

"Eddie?" Steve's grip around his wrist is light as a feather, but he still stops like he's been tethered in place. When he turns, there's fear swimming in those pretty eyes. "Stay? I don't … I'd rather not be alone." 

Eddie is back in his chair before Steve can finish the sentence. 

"Can you…" Steve's eyes are slipping shut again and his words are slurred, so that Eddie must lean closer to catch them. "D’you think you can sing? So I can find my way back, if- … Your voice is like light."

Eddie doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know if there's anything he could possibly say to that. So he says nothing. Just swallows around the lump in his throat and takes Steve's hand and starts singing softly. 

By the time Steve's breath evens out and his fingers go limp, Eddie’s other hand has found its way into his hair. 

Eddie keeps singing for a long while.

For as long as he's here, Steve will always have someone to guide him back.

Part 3

All my holiday drabbles

[novaursa]

I've been LOVING your cregan work and wanted to see if you were doing requests. I was thinking something like the reader (velaryon) was previously married to aemond had a kid with him and something happened to the kid, reader escapes aemond and is with cregan but is still morning the life she previously had and feels bad about it. Maybe she's just given up on everything and cregan just wants to help. I'm so sorry if this makes zero sense 😭

Winter's Solace

Requests are closed!

- Summary: Specters of the past came back today once more to hunt you, but Cregan holds them back.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: The reader is bonded with a dragon Grey Ghost.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

The cold wind howls through the ancient halls of Winterfell, but inside your chambers, the fire crackles softly. The warmth from the hearth does little to pierce the chill that’s wrapped around your heart. The North was supposed to be your sanctuary, the place where you could forget. But the past clings to you like a cloak you cannot shed.

For days now, you’ve sought solitude, slipping from the bed you share with Cregan before the dawn, curling yourself into the furs by the window, watching the sky but not really seeing it. You barely eat. Every mouthful seems to turn to ash on your tongue. The memories—the life you had before, the life taken from you—haunt your every waking moment.

The son you lost, taken by blood and treachery.

Your breath trembles as you draw it in, eyes falling to the grey stones below. You told yourself you would never cry again after that night, but the tears threaten to spill all the same.

A quiet knock at the door stirs you, though you do not answer. You know who it is, and part of you wants to tell him to leave. To let you sit here in silence, to let the grief eat at you until there is nothing left. But he’s stubborn, like the North itself. He enters without waiting for your permission, the familiar sound of his heavy boots crossing the threshold.

"Cregan…" Your voice is barely a whisper, hoarse from lack of use. But you don’t turn to face him.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He knows better than to rush you. Instead, he stands in the doorway for a moment, his presence filling the room with a quiet strength. Then, slowly, he crosses to where you sit, his broad figure casting a shadow over you.

"You haven’t eaten," he says gently, kneeling beside you, his eyes dark with concern. His hand finds yours, rough and warm against your cold skin. He squeezes it, hoping to ground you, to pull you back from the abyss you’re teetering over.

You pull your hand away, though it’s not from any anger toward him. It’s because you’re ashamed. Ashamed of the broken thing you’ve become, ashamed that even now, after all this time, the past still holds you so tightly in its grip. You think of Aemond, of the life you once shared with him—however brief and painful—and the child you lost. You think of the vengeance that Daemon and Rhaenyra sought in your name, a vengeance that tore at what little remained of your soul.

"I can’t…" Your voice breaks, and for a moment, you press your lips together to stop the flood of words that want to spill out. "I can’t pretend anymore, Cregan."

Cregan’s eyes, soft yet strong, search your face. He understands. He’s always understood, more than anyone else ever could. When you fled to the North on the back of Grey Ghost, seeking an end to the torment, it was Cregan who saved you. He didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t demand that you be strong. He simply gave you space, gave you time. But now, the time has come to face the wounds that refuse to heal.

He moves closer, sitting beside you, pulling you gently into his arms. At first, you resist, stiff in his embrace, but the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, begins to melt the ice that’s hardened around your soul.

"I don’t need you to pretend, Y/N," he says, his voice a low rumble in your ear. "Not with me."

You close your eyes, leaning into him, allowing yourself the comfort he offers. His hand strokes your hair, gentle and slow, as though he’s trying to calm a wild animal.

"I left them to die," you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "Aemond… our son. I should have stayed, should have fought harder—"

"You were never meant to stay with him," Cregan interrupts, his tone firmer now, as though he’s reminding you of something you’ve long forgotten. "The life you had with him was built on lies and violence. It wasn’t your fault, Y/N. None of it."

"But it was my mother…" Your voice breaks again, the bitterness of it burning your throat. "It was Rhaenyra. She sent them—Daemon sent them—to kill him. To take my son."

Cregan holds you tighter, his breath warm against your hair. "You’ve carried that guilt too long, my love. What your mother did… that’s on her. Not on you. You didn’t ask for their blood to be spilled."

The tears come then, hot and heavy, spilling down your cheeks as you sob into Cregan’s chest. You hate yourself for it—hate how weak you feel. But he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t pull away or flinch from your pain.

"I loved him once," you confess, voice barely audible. "Aemond… I loved him before all the bitterness and rage. Before the war tore us apart."

"I know," Cregan says softly. "And you loved your son. That’s why you grieve. But you can’t let it destroy you. You can’t let the ghosts of the past steal the life you have now."

You’re silent for a moment, listening to the crackling of the fire and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His words are true, but they don’t erase the pain. Nothing ever will.

"I don’t know how to move forward," you admit.

"One step at a time," Cregan says, pulling back slightly so he can look into your eyes. His gaze is steady, filled with a determination that gives you something to hold onto. "I can’t take the pain away, Y/N. But I’ll be here, every step, until you find your way."

You look into his face, seeing the man who saved you when you thought there was nothing left to save. The man who offers you not just comfort, but a future, if only you can let yourself reach for it.

"I don’t deserve you," you whisper, guilt still gnawing at the edges of your heart.

"Deserve me?" He smiles, a soft, crooked smile that warms you in a way the fire never could. "I think it’s the other way around. You’re a Targaryen, a Velaryon, bonded with a dragon. And yet, here you are in the North, sharing your life with me. If anyone is undeserving, it’s me."

You shake your head, tears still glistening in your eyes. "No… you saved me."

"And I’ll keep saving you," Cregan says, his thumb brushing away the tear on your cheek. "For as long as you need me to."

For the first time in days, something like hope flickers in your chest. It’s faint, fragile, but it’s there. You lean into him again, closing your eyes, letting his warmth and strength anchor you. The grief will always be there, lurking in the shadows. But with Cregan by your side, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can face it.

Tomorrow, you’ll eat. Tomorrow, you’ll take another step forward. But for now, in this moment, you allow yourself to simply be held. And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.

[eunsuri]

The Lighthouse

Pairing: Solas x Lavellan

Summary: Lavellan explores The Lighthouse and reunites with her heart.

Word Count: 6,608

Warnings: ANGST. Lots of emotions. Lots of love. VEILGUARD SPOILERS.

A/N: Hi everyone! Happy 2 weeks until Veilguard! This has taken me way longer to write than I'd hoped, but I MADE IT! This was inspired by a beautiful piece of art by @pani-artz, I couldn't resist! I've kept Lavellan's description vague for those who would like to keep their own Lavellan in mind while reading! Also posted on AO3!

“We’re here.”

A cold breeze swept through the crossroads, cooling Lavellan’s skin as she stepped up the stairs, Harding, and Leliana flanking her from behind. The three stood before the Eluvian, the shimmering surface glowing faintly. The ancient mirror reflected the crumbled pieces of the ruins floating within the crossroads, flickering with ancient magic and ready to draw them into another world.

Anticipation stirred in Lavellan’s stomach, her senses heightened and glaring at her warped reflection. The faint glow of the mirror’s surface cast a strange light across the stone floor through the overgrown foliage around its frame, and the chill in the air seemed to seep into her bones. 

Harding and Leliana exchanged glances behind her, but she hardly noticed, her heart thudding rapidly in her chest like a wild creature trying to escape its cage. Harding had seen this Lighthouse before, She knew what lay behind the Eluvian, all the memories hidden in Solas’ base of operations.

Lavellan knew Solas wouldn’t be waiting for her on the other side. Instead, what awaited was everything he had left behind—his memories, his isolation, the echoes of a life spent in the shadows. The thought of stepping into his world, of facing the remnants of his past and the pieces he had chosen to keep hidden, sent a wave of dread through her. She wasn’t sure she was ready for what she might see—for how deeply his loneliness would be etched into every corner of this place

He had stopped appearing in her dreams, no matter how hard she searched the endless distance where he once stood, always watching over her from afar. Even when she reached out, he’d slip away like a shadow, yet his presence had brought her comfort. Night after night, she would speak to him—tell him how much she missed him, how she longed to change his heart. The wolf never answered, but the sorrow in his eyes cut deeper each time, and her desperation to find him only grew over the years.

Now, her dreams were empty, filled with nothing but the ache of waiting for a love that never came. Sleepless nights blurred together as she wondered if he had forgotten her, or if something terrible had happened to him. When Harding had brought news that Solas was alive but trapped in the Fade, it brought a measure of relief, yet doubt still gnawed at her. Would she find any sign that he remembered her in this place, or had she been lost to him as well?

Harding broke the silence, her voice gentle but laced with tension. “It’s… a lot to take in, but I thought you might want to see it.” She paused, then added, “Whenever you’re ready.”

Lavellan’s breath caught in her throat, a fresh wave of anxiety washing over her. Ready? She didn’t think she ever could be. How could anyone prepare to see the deepest, most private parts of someone they loved, but had lost so long ago? 

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She needed to do this, no matter how much it hurt. She needed to understand him in a way she hadn’t before, to see his world, his pain, and his purpose. Where he had been all this time, if he remembered her. Even if he wasn’t there to explain it himself.

Lavellan took a shaky, deep breath and stepped toward the mirror, the surface rippling as she neared. With a final glance back at Harding and Leliana, she stepped through and the two followed.

Emerging on the other side, her breath caught in her chest. The three stepped into a realm bathed in a warm, golden glow, as if suspended in the sky. Floating islands hovered in the distance, each dotted with autumn-hued trees as if kissed by sunlight, gently swaying in an unseen breeze. Ancient elven ruins, crumbled yet graceful, drifted among them, suspended in the air like forgotten dreams.

Before them stood a weathered statue of Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf, positioned in the heart of the courtyard. It was a figure of a protector—his posture calm, watching over the space with an almost serene presence. Cracks ran through the stone, softened by patches of moss that had claimed him over time, as though nature itself had embraced him. The statue seemed ancient, yet resilient, a symbol of an age long past, guarding the Lighthouse like a silent sentinel.

Beyond the statue, the Lighthouse rose, stretching impossibly high into the sky, its top crowned by a bright magical light encased in a spinning golden roof. The beacon pulsed with an ethereal glow, guiding not only the lost but also wandering spirits seeking refuge. The golden accents that decorated the Lighthouse shimmered in the sunlight, long streams of green fabric dancing in the wind.

Lavellan marvelled at the beauty and serenity of the place as she continued towards the entrance of the Lighthouse, carefully stepping down the broken staircase. The large door opened as the three approached, allowing them to enter the towering building.

Her breath caught in her throat as she glanced at the faded murals stretching along the pathway, their muted colours leading into the centre of the Lighthouse. Each one told a story—Solas’ time in Arlathan, his stories of rebellion, and the ancient history of the elves, including the tale of the Evanuris' downfall.The images on the walls, the stories painted into the stone, all reflected the weight of millennia. 

Murals she had seen variations of before caught her eye, depicting Fen’Harel freeing slaves and removing their Vallaslin, as he had once done for her. Another told the story of the Evanuris’ rise to power and their tyrannical ways, with Fen’Harel’s outstretched arms attempting to show them they were not truly gods.

The Dalish legends she had grown up with had taught her to fear the Dread Wolf, to tread lightly lest the trickster god hear her footsteps. But now, knowing him as she did—not as the villain in their stories, but as the man who had fought to free his people, the man she loved—her heart was torn. The fear remained, lingering like an old scar, but it was now tangled with love, understanding, and sorrow for what he had become.

Lavellan wandered through the Lighthouse, her steps slow as she absorbed the surroundings. Relics of a world long lost lay scattered around, each one steeped in both history and longing. The air felt thick with memories—some sorrowful, others sacred—echoes of a time far beyond reach.

She found herself in a large room that appeared to be underwater, giant framed glass windows as a barrier between the water, with many schools of fish swimming through the depths. A lone green leather sofa was situated in the middle of the room, stuffed bookshelves lined the walls, and an array of candles scattered across the floor creating a cosy warmth that drew her in. 

It was then that a soft flicker of candlelight against brilliant colours drew her gaze to a mural, its glow pulling at her like a distant memory. A set of candles was arranged on either side of the mural, almost as though it were a shrine. As she made her way towards the artwork, her heart sank deep into her stomach, a heavy weight settling in her chest.

The painting depicted a woman—one hand raised high, a radiant burst of green light pouring from her palm, the other clutching a sword close to her chest. Below the hilt, the familiar mark of the Inquisition gleamed. It was her.

The weight of this realisation struck her in an instant, chest tightening with disbelief, an ache settling deep as sorrow wrapped itself around her heart. Her likeness, immortalised in these ancient halls, was a reminder of what she once stood for, of the time they shared and the distance between them now. 

Her fingers traced along the lines of the mural, imagining the strokes Solas had made, his hand dragging the brush across the stone with care. Every detail, every line, told her this was more than a mere addition to his collection of stories. This was crafted with love. He had painted her not just to remember her, but to hold onto her presence, as though each stroke was a vow to never let her fade from his memory.

Tears pooled along her eyelashes. She didn’t know whether to feel honoured, heartbroken, or both. Every detail of the mural seemed to call out to her, each brushstroke a whisper of what had been, what was lost. Slowly, Lavellan’s gaze fell to a small wooden box resting beneath the mural, its presence unassuming, as though it had always been waiting for her.

Hands trembling, she reached for the box, dragging her fingertips along the warmed wood, and gently lifted the lid. Inside, nestled among the old wood, lay Solas' jawbone necklace. The one he had always worn. Lavellan paused, inspecting the familiar necklace before  reaching to lift it from the box. The sensation of the cold bone and thick rope looped around it was almost foreign, yet the weight of its meaning was still heavy.

As the jawbone rested in her palm, memories surged through her mind—fragments of what they once had. She recalled how she’d often tug him closer by the necklace, his lips moving against hers, fervent and desperate, as though her touch were the very air he breathed. She remembered idly tracing the rigid texture of the necklace as she lay against his chest, listening to the gentle rise and fall of his breath as he shared quiet stories of the Fade. Each moment felt as tangible as the cool bone now in her grasp.

She could no longer hold it with the same warmth she once had, but the connection to him, to their shared past, lingered still. The weight of the jawbone in her hand felt like a lifeline to the man she had been hunting for all these years. Desperate to keep that feeling close, she gently lifted the necklace over her head, letting the familiar curve of bone rest against her chest. It settled there, and for a brief moment, she felt as though she had him with her again.

Lavellan clutched the bone in her hand while blinking away the lingering tears which threatened to fall at any moment. As she moved forward, every step felt heavier, unable to shake the palpable sense of solitude that hung in the air. This place, with all its beauty, was not just a refuge for spirits. It was a place of mourning—a sanctuary for Solas’ lost hopes, where his memories whispered through every crack in the stone, and his loneliness lingered like a shadow.

Further in, a large dining table sat in the centre of the room. The long wooden surface stretched out before her, grand and ancient, yet only a single place setting lay at its head—a lone plate, a single cup, and neatly arranged cutlery beside them. An ache squeezed in her chest at the sight. This table, large enough for a gathering, bore only the quiet signs of one man’s solitary meals. Solas had sat here alone, day after day, surrounded by memories and ghosts of his old ambitions. 

She couldn’t bear the thought of him there, sitting quietly, the vast emptiness echoing through the room as he contemplated the burden of his mission. He had been so steadfast, so determined, yet the loneliness had seeped into every corner of his existence. How many nights had he sat here in silence, the weight of his choices pressing down on him, thinking that this was the only choice he had.

The simple setting was a stark reminder of everything he had left behind for his mission—companionship, love, the simple joys of shared moments. The pain choked at Lavellan's throat and the tears she had fought streamed down her skin as she took in the sight. She rested a hand on the back of the chair, picturing him there, staring into the distance across the table, as he grappled with the weight of millennia. He had shut everyone out, even those who would have fought beside him, and in doing so, had consigned himself to this eternal isolation.

Lavellan stood still by the table, the weight of her thoughts pushing down on her shoulders like a storm cloud on the verge of breaking. Her sadness gave way to a simmering anger that twisted deep in her chest. How could he have left her—left them—like this?  If only Solas had confided in her—trusted her with his truths. If only he had let her share the burden that had twisted his path into something unrecognisable. Things could have been different; they could have faced this together. She could have stood by his side, helped him bear the weight of his cause, find a better way, and maybe, just maybe, spared them both the pain of this isolation.

The thoughts of what could have been pierced through her, sharp and unyielding. How different would their lives have been if he hadn’t pushed her away, if he hadn’t shrouded himself in secrecy and left her to chase shadows for years? Heavy and unrelenting regret settled into her bones. They could have shared this—this fight, this journey. She had loved him enough to stay, to fight for him, but he had locked her out, too consumed by his purpose, too afraid to burden her with the truth. 

Her fingers curled into her palms, hands clenched at her sides, frustration clawing its way up her body as she thought of the pain he had caused—his actions had left Varric wounded, with the false gods free to wreak their havoc upon the world. He had condemned himself to isolation, convinced he was sparing her the pain when, in truth, he had only deepened the wound.

Maybe he had been too proud, too wrapped in his conviction that he had to bear this weight alone. He hadn’t let her love him the way she could have. If only. If only things had been different. If only he had trusted her.

Lavellan’s thoughts were then interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing through the corridor. She wiped at her eyes hastily, straightening her posture as Leliana appeared at the doorway.

“They’ve returned,” Leliana spoke softly. “Rook and the others are back.”

Lavellan turned, her heart still heavy from the weight of her reflections. Without a word, she nodded, following Leliana out of the room and towards the group that had gathered in the main hall.

There was more to it now—she’d learned that Rook had formed a connection with Solas. A tether, almost, caused by the disrupted ritual. She had to know if there was a way, some hidden thread she could pull to reach him herself, to bridge the distance between them once more. 

A spark of determination tingled through her skin. If Rook had found a way to connect, perhaps she could too.

Later that same evening, with the sharp sting of her discoveries still fresh in her chest, Lavellan found herself standing in the Fade. 

Rook had spoken of how they had become connected to Solas through the ritual gone wrong, their fates intertwined, and Lavellan had seized upon that fragile link. It was all she needed—a thread, however thin, to follow him.

With Varric’s warning in her ears and Solas’ necklace warm against her skin, she stepped forward, stumbling through the dark and desolate landscape of the Fade. The twisted remnants of broken elven statues loomed around her, their cracked surfaces glinting dully in the ethereal light, like forgotten memories trapped in stone. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt magic, a bitter tang that clung to her tongue, tainted by a ritual gone horribly wrong. 

As she moved, the ground crumbled beneath her feet, each step sending a shiver through her body as she navigated the uneven terrain. She could feel Solas’ presence—distant, yet unmistakable—like a flickering flame in the depths of her mind, pulling her forward despite the air of despair that settled around her like a shroud. Echoes of lost voices whispered through the stillness, their lamentations brushing against her ears, urging her to keep searching in this forsaken place.

She had worked so hard to find him over the past ten years, constantly reaching for him in her dreams only for him to slip away like a fading memory. Her relief at hearing he was alive warred with the anger gnawing at her heart. He had stopped appearing in her dreams, and for so long she had feared the worst—afraid he had been consumed by his mission, or worse, by his pride. Yet here he was, trapped in the Fade, perhaps lost in his own way.

The thought of him being trapped, cut off from everything, pulled at her heart. Just as she had found him again, he was suffering. But that grief mixed with a simmering anger. He had hurt Varric, who had only been trying to stop him from making a terrible mistake.

Her steps quickened, the greyed path through the Fade twisting and bending as though it were alive. She remembered Varric’s words—how he had tried to stop Solas, how Solas, in his struggle tugging at the lyrium dagger, had let it go too far. The thought stung, reopening the old wounds that had never fully healed. He had hurt someone they both cared about. Had it been an accident, or had his obsession with his plan blinded him to everything else?

It was then she saw him. Solas stood at the edge of the platform, his presence powerful and untouchable like a distant star. His eyes caught hers with a knowing look, as though he had been expecting her all along. 

His strong stance wavered ever so slightly, a near imperceptible shift. Somehow, he was even more beautiful than she remembered. He was draped in dark leather armour that hugged his frame, his broad shoulders embellished with gold which decorated his chest as well. His face remained sharp and regal, though it now carried a colder edge. The weight of his millennia-old burden clung to him, as heavy as the Fade around them.

The sight of him sent a rush of warmth through her, but it was quickly swallowed by the bitter pang of nostalgia and regret, memories crashing over her like an ice cold wave. Lavellan’s voice faltered, the carefully rehearsed words slipping from her grasp, lost under the crushing gravity of his presence. For countless nights, she had imagined this moment—each conversation, every plea, practised over and over. But now, as he stood before her, all those thoughts scattered like dust, leaving her speechless.

“Solas.”

Her voice trembled with the only thing she could utter, a raw mix of anger and longing breaking free. Lavellan felt the years between them collapse. The sorrow, the love, the pain, and the anger—it all surged forward, overwhelming her in an instant.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Solas’ expression remained guarded, though the tension in his jaw and the weariness in his eyes betrayed him. His lips parted, as though he might speak, but the words died unspoken on his tongue. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken history.

Lavellan’s heart raced as she struggled to steady her breath, emotions crashing over her: love, anger, and grief all vying for control. She wanted to scream at him for the pain he'd caused—to her friends, to her. She wanted to demand answers, to weep for his loneliness, for how lost he had become. But she also longed to run into his arms, to hold him so tightly he could never leave again, to feel the warmth of his lips, to taste the love they once shared.

Across the distance, Solas silently soaked in the sight before him. Amidst the boundless darkness of his prison, his heart stood before him once more. A dull ache crawled from his chest into his throat as he noticed how time had touched her. Soft lines had etched themselves across her skin—subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone but him. She looked exhausted, as though the years had been heavy, yet her beauty had not faded. Her eyes still held the same fire, the same brightness that had captivated him. 

His gaze fell to her arm, the gleam of metal catching his eye—her prosthetic. The sight of it twisted his heart into a deep, bitter knot of guilt. She had lost her arm because of choices he had made. Though removing it would save her from an untimely end, her connection to the Anchor would have consumed her had the arm remained. However, that knowledge offered little comfort. 

It was because of him. she had been marked in the first place, that she had been forced to bear that burden, to lose part of herself for a cause that had never truly been hers to fight. He carefully swallowed the pain in his throat in an attempt to mask the surge of sorrow that threatened to break through.

For a heartbeat, the distance between them seemed insurmountable and never ending. Yet the connection they had forged so long ago, deep and unshakable, remained—like a tether drawing them together even now. 

Solas shifted subtly, searching the depths of his mind for words that could bridge the chasm of time and pain between them. No words could repair the damage that had been done, not a single syllable could undo the devastation he had caused.

“Vhenan…” he whispered at last, his voice rough, heavy with all the things left unsaid. It was the only word he could manage, the only truth left to him, spoken as though it held within it all his love and regret. The word hung in the air like a fragile promise.

The harsh and unforgiving hand of grief gripped Lavellan’s heart at the sound of his endearment. It had been so long since she had heard the word leave his lips, and yet it was the same—soft, full of meaning. She placed one foot in front of the other, taking a tentative step forward, her fingers brushing against the jawbone necklace, grounding her in the reality of the moment. The memory of their love flooded her, the fluttering which overwhelmed her belly when he would call her his heart, mingling with the anger that still smouldered in her chest.

“What have you done, Solas?” Her voice cracked through her cutting words, the accusation spilling through her lips before she could bite her tongue. “You stopped coming to me. You were…tearing the Veil apart, and then Varric—” She swallowed hard, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “You didn’t stop. You hurt him, and now… the false gods are free and ready to destroy this world.”

Her words were sharp, biting, but beneath the anger was the raw, unspoken truth: she loved him. She always had. And seeing her proud, cunning love like this—trapped in the cage of his own creation—cut deeper than any wound she had ever known.

Solas’ eyes fluttered closed for a moment, his head bowing beneath the shameful weight of her words. When his eyes found her again, there was a subtle flicker in his gaze—something raw and aching, a depth of emotion she couldn’t quite define. Regret, perhaps, or something far more tangled and broken. 

“It was not supposed to happen this way,” he murmured, voice thin and weary, as if even the admission pained him, the words almost too heavy to continue. “I had a plan. The ritual, I was moving them to another prison. But Varric interfered, he disrupted a dangerous ritual. I did not intend for him to get hurt.”

The flame in Lavellan’s eyes blazed with fury, her voice trembling as the words tumbled out without a second thought. "Varric was our friend, Solas. You’ve gone too far. He wasn’t aware of your intentions. He tried to stop you, tried to make you see reason, and you—" She faltered, the pain caught in her throat reducing her voice to a weak whisper. 

Though Varric still lived, his fate was uncertain, the magic from the lyrium-infused dagger weaving through his veins unpredictably. Her dear friend had only wanted to help—and yet, he had paid the painful price for it. 

The hardened resolve in Solas’ eyes wavered, his brow furrowing with the slightest shake of his head. “I’m sorry,” he uttered, the words quiet, but laden with everything left unspoken. 

“That’s all you have to offer? After everything that’s happened? After all this time?” Lavellan’s words sliced through the air, her voice was low yet biting. Her fingers curled in, hands tense at her sides as her frustration simmered just beneath the surface. 

She was torn between the depth of her love and the hot flame of her anger. She had missed him so achingly—every day without him was a quiet torment—but now, seeing him like this, the one she’d loved so fiercely, all she could feel was the cold sting of his absence, the ache of betrayal. He had left her, and worse, he had hurt Varric in his reckless pursuit. 

And now, after everything he had done, he stood there with regret etched into his sharp features, yet offering nothing more than a simple apology. She could see the remorse in his eyes, he meant it, but it wasn’t enough—not after everything. She longed to reach out to him, to close the distance between them, but the wound was too fresh, too raw. How could she bridge the gap when all he had to offer were those meagre words?

“Nothing can change what I have already done,” Solas sighed, the sound long and weary, as though carrying the burden of centuries. 

“I know,” she replied, her voice trembling with the heaviness of her admission. “You can’t undo what’s been done… but you can still do better. You can still choose differently.”

Solas studied her, his expression unreadable for a moment, though the gravity of her words seemed to hang between them. "Better choices do not erase what has already been set in motion," he spoke quietly, his tone almost resigned, as though he carried the inevitability of his fate like a burden.

“So what, you'll just let the world fall apart because it's already in motion? You think destroying this world will somehow lead to salvation?” Lavellan began, her voice cold and cutting. Her eyes locked onto his, unflinching as she took a hard step forward. “The elven people you’re trying to save? There’ll be nothing left for them if you don’t help us stop this madness now.” 

Her words hit him like a sudden gust, rattling the walls he had built around himself. For a moment, his defences collapsed under the truth of her words. But then, almost instinctively, he pulled them back up, his expression hardening as his gaze held hers.

”'Did you come only to scold me, Vhenan? Or is there more you wish to say?”

Lavellan’s breath quickened at his response, the fire in her eyes dimming for just a moment as his question hung in the air. The silence between the two stretched, filled with all the things that had never been said, all the pain, all the longing in their time apart. She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it, struggling to speak past the heaviness of her own heart. 

"There is plenty I wish to say. But in truth, I came because—" She managed to murmur, the words catching in her throat. Her feet moved before her mind could stop them, stepping slowly towards Solas. "Because I was worried about you. Because I wanted to see you." Her voice was raw, as if speaking the truth aloud burned at her tongue. "Because…even after everything I—"

Solas’ head tilted ever so slightly, his expression softening as his furrowed brows relaxed, and for a fleeting second, something in him seemed to break. The unspoken bond between them, ever-present and undeniable, pulled at him once more. He reached out, almost as if drawn by the force of her words, but stopped himself just short.

He wanted nothing more than to hold her close to him and never let her go again. To let every thought spill from his lips and confess his love for her as if it were the first time. The warmth of her presence was only growing closer as she stepped further in his direction, her beautifully intoxicating scent stirring memories of their past together. He craved her fiercely—the softness of her lips, the feel of her smooth skin beneath his fingertips, her lovely voice whispering words of love that echoed in his heart.

But the shrinking space between them felt like a chasm born not only of time, but of all the hurt and chaos he had left in his wake. He didn’t deserve her. Not after his failure. Not after what he had done.  He couldn't bear to drag her into the darkness of his journey, a path that he believed would only lead to death. She deserved so much more than the ruins of his mistakes. 

He imagined the weight of his choices suffocating her, dimming the light that had always drawn him in. Yet as she drew nearer, he could feel the pull of her more acutely, as though the Fade itself conspired to draw them together. The ache of her absence, the torment of his own regret—none of it could dampen the magnetic force that still lingered between them.

"You should hate me," he spoke quietly, his voice barely more than a breath. "After everything I’ve done. All of the pain I have caused."

Lavellan had closed the never-ending distance between them, the air around them thick with an intensity that took her breath away. Her already racing heart quickened, emboldened by a sudden rush, a defiance against the pain that had lingered for far too long. With a trembling hand, she reached for him, her fingertips brushing against his cheek. The connection was electric, sending shivers through her, reigniting a fire that warmed her very core.

In that moment, all his carefully constructed walls began to crumble, melting away beneath her touch. She could see the tension in his shoulders ease, the weight of his regrets momentarily lifting. Their breaths mingled in the space between them, a fragile intimacy that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

It had been years since they last stood face-to-face, their encounters reduced to her lone whispers in her dreams. Each night, she yearned for the warmth of his presence, the comfort of his touch, imagining the feel of his skin against hers, the sound of his voice calling her name. The ache of separation had clawed at her heart, and she knew he had felt it too—a longing that transcended the boundaries of their worlds. 

"I tried," she confessed, her voice heavy with emotion, barely above a whisper. "I tried to hate you, but I can’t, Vhenan. I could never."

Solas’ resolve crumbled even further, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes undeniable. “I never wanted you to see what I’ve become. I do not deserve your forgiveness,” he pushed further in a weak attempt to suppress the overpowering love that threatened to consume him. 

“I know you cannot change what you have done,” She began through her breath, gently placing her prosthetic hand against his armoured chest and meeting his eyes directly, as though reaching into the depths of his heart. “But I see you, Solas. I see the burden you carry, I’ve seen what you hide in your Lighthouse. It hasn’t changed the way I feel about you.”

Her touch unravelled him completely, cutting through the barriers he had so meticulously built to keep her at a distance and protect her. For all the power that pulsed within him, he was utterly powerless before her. His breath was hitched in his throat, his senses overwhelmed and intoxicated by her nearness. All words escaped him, and instead, he clutched her prosthetic hand to his chest, his knuckles brushing the delicate skin of her cheek, drinking in the moment as if it were the last.

The space between the two vanished, the long-forgotten warmth of each other’s touch easing the ache of a lifetime apart. Starved of the love they had once shared, the air around them grew heavy with anticipation. The energy between them hummed, drawing them closer with each breath, until their eyes flitted shut, surrendering to the inevitable pull of their connection.

“Vhenan…” Solas found his voice once more, before the thread which held him together finally snapped and his lips found hers.

The kiss, at first tentative, quickly deepened as the years of distance, longing, and unspoken words melted between them. It wasn’t gentle; it was desperate, filled with the ache of years apart, with the pain of betrayal and the hope of forgiveness. Lavellan’s hands instinctively reached for him, fingers curling against the cool, textured surface of his armour as if he might slip away again, as if this moment might vanish like a fleeting dream. His hand cradled the back of her head, pulling her closer still, like a drowning man grasping for air.

Solas trembled against her, the control he had so precisely maintained for years finally unravelling in her embrace. Every heartbeat, every breath shared in their kiss spoke of the time they had lost and the memories they had clung to in the dark. 

He clutched at her waist, tugging her impossibly close, as though she might disappear if he allowed any distance open between them. The taste of her lips—familiar and sweet—sent a rush of emotion surging through his mouth and into his heart, blooming with love. It was a taste he had dreamed of, mixed with grief, regret, and the bittersweet recognition of all the time they could never reclaim.

For Lavellan, kissing him felt like breaking the surface after endless years submerged in sorrow. She had imagined this reunion, longed for it in her loneliest moments, but nothing could have prepared her for the rawness of it now, the intensity of feeling his warmth, his breath, after so long. Her lips moved fervently against his, as if she could anchor them both in the present, as if this kiss could hold them together while the world threatened to crumble around them.

Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into eternity as their spirits reached for one another, desperate to bridge the chasm of all that had been lost. The air around them shimmered with the intensity of their emotions, the soft crackle of magic lingering like static electricity. Tears mingled between their lips, and Lavellan found herself unsure if they were born from her own heartache or Solas’ sorrow. 

When at last they reluctantly parted, it was only enough to breathe, their foreheads pressed together and breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. The warmth of Solas’ skin contrasted with the coolness of the Fade around them. His fingers brushed her cheek, wiping away a tear, his eyes searching hers with a mix of reverence and sorrow, as if committing her face to memory all over again.

“I have missed you,” Solas admitted through a trembling breath, his voice fraying at the edges, each syllable thick with longing and vulnerability. “Every moment, I have missed you.”

Lavellan’s heart stilled at his confession, the pain she’d carried for so long softening, giving way to a quiet joy she had scarcely dared to feel. It was real—his yearning, his regret. He had missed her, and in hearing those words, a wave of warmth rushed through her, filling the hollow space his absence had left behind, like sunlight breaking through a dark, heavy cloud.

“As have I,” she whispered, her voice a breath, an ache. “I love you, Solas.”

The distance between them vanished once more as she closed the space with her lips. An electric tangle of desperation and love crackled in the air, as if they could pour every stolen moment of the past ten years into this one kiss. She breathed the words against his lips— Ar lath ma. I love you, I love you, over and over, with each fleeting pause for air. One hand gripped his broad shoulder as though holding onto the thread of the life they might still have together, while the other skimmed gingerly across his sharp jaw, the cool metal of her fingertips shooting a shiver down his spine.

As their lips moved together, she tasted the faint remnants of the Fade on him—like the bittersweet tang of twilight and the warmth of embers long extinguished. The air was thick with unspoken promises, Solas’ scent enveloping her, an earthy blend of ancient forests, fragrant herbs, and a whisper of magic that felt both familiar and achingly distant. Her heart raced, a wild drum echoing in her ears, as she felt the world around them fade into insignificance. In that moment, nothing else mattered—just the two of them, entwined in a dance of love and longing, the taste of their shared past lingering sweetly on their tongues.

Solas drew a tight breath, his lips forming the words in return, “Ar lath ma, I love you,” each confession fragile and tender, as if speaking it aloud made the moment more real. His hands cupped her face with reverence, fingers tracing the contours of her skin as if rediscovering her all over again, as though he needed to believe this wasn’t some fading dream. She was truly here with him, loving him still, despite all that had come between them. And with each kiss, each murmured promise of love, he felt the final crumbling of the walls he had built to protect himself from this—this undeniable truth that she saw him, truly, as he was: Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf. And still, she chose him—Solas.

Warm, fresh tears streamed down his cheeks—tears of relief, not of sorrow, and for the first time in an age, he felt lighter, the burden of millennia softening in her embrace. 

Lavellan’s fingers traced the familiar lines of his face, feeling the tension in his jaw slowly release. She caught her breath, pressing her forehead gently to his once more, letting the moment wrap around them like a fragile cocoon, holding them together.

They no longer needed words. There was no need for promises, no talk of what came next.

For now, they were simply here—together.

Solas’ hands held her tightly against him, as if memorising every curve of her, grounding himself in her presence, in the warmth of her body pressed to his. He drank in every bit of her, enraptured by the way her eyes sparkled with the tears she had shed. There was no one more beautiful, in body and spirit.

The world beyond them faded into the abyss—no ancient gods, no torn Veil, no crumbling ruins. Just the rhythmic sound of their breaths mingling between them, the quiet beat of their hearts within their chests, steady and sure. For so long, he had dreamed of this, and yet the reality of it was more than he could have ever imagined.

Lavellan clutched him closer, as if to say all the things she couldn’t form with her lips, as if to tell him that here, in this moment, she chose him—not Fen’Harel, not the Dread Wolf. Just Solas.

And as they stayed there, lost in each other, neither knew how long the moment would last—only that, for now, it was enough.

[stevie-petey]

i just think that steve would 100% be stitching bug’s initial into his levi’s like tom holland stitches little z’s into his. it’s such loverboy behavior and i don’t think any thing has screamed steve more

steve and bug are so tom and z coded oh my GOD he 100000% does and here is how bug found out <333

enjoy !

"honey, can you pass me the chocolate chips?" your arms strain as you whisk oatmeal raisin batter. "it should be up on the shelf in the pantry."

"on it," steve kisses the base of your neck and quickly goes to find the missing ingredient. the small act of affection warms you, shielding you from the december cold.

its nearing christmas and youve been spent the last three days frantically baking your annual holiday treats. each year your list grows more and more. alex is a new addition, it had taken quite a bit of begging and pleading before he finally told you what dessert he liked (he hadnt wanted to bother you, which you find very endearing yet unneeded).

however, with the addition of alex comes also the loss of the byers. this year youre only baking two batches of oatmeal raisin, not four, and your kitchen lacks the scent of joyces favorite muffins. you miss them terribly, wills latest drawing came in the mail yesterday and you had nearly cried when you realized he drew a silly doodle of you surrounded by a million cookies and sweets. underneath the drawing will had written, save me some cookies!

"where did you say the chocolate chips were?" steve calls from the pantry.

"top shelf," you respond, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. "next to the sugar."

"i cant find them!"

he sounds distressed, you know steves trying his best to help you, and you cant help but laugh at him. he always does whatever he can to dote on you. setting the whisk down, you walk over to the boy. "here, let me show you."

steve is standing on his tip toes, arms stretched above his head as he looks for the sweets. his frame lithe and long, and his sweater rides up slightly as he strains. "i swear, i can find it-"

"whats that?" your eyes land on the hem of steves jeans. hes wearing his usual levis, the denim taut against his lower body. theyre faded from years of use, and theres something stitched onto the waistband of them that you havent seen before.

"whats what?" steve strains his head to look at you, still on his tip toes.

your fingers graze the stitch, warming his waist. he stumbles at the unexpected touch and nearly falls against you, but you dont notice any of it. all you can focus on right now is that there are small, messily sewn initials on his jeans with red string. it stands out harshly against the denims blue. the messy lines are familiar, the letters resemble the S.H. that currently resides on the sleeve of your cardigan.

"did you..." youre breathless, so in love that it threatens to suffocate you. "did you sew my initials onto your jeans?"

steve looks down, eyes widening when he realizes what youre referring to. he clears his throat, his face reddens a soft cherry hue. "oh, that? i-uh. well, you know. i-i mean, yeah."

he stumbles over his words and tries to step away, but his back presses against the shelf and hes cornered. he hadnt meant for you to see the initials, he nearly forgot about them entirely, if hes being honest. he had sewn them onto a few pairs of his jeans one night, missing you and unable to sleep. he had some spare needle and string leftover from when he sewed his own initials into your cardigan last christmas, he wanted everyone to know that he was yours, too.

and yet a small part of him hadnt wanted you to know about it. he had sewn the initials early into your relationship. steve knows youd never be cruel to him for showing so much love for you, but some days the fear of loving too hard still lingers.

seeing his fear, you grab one of steves beltloops and tug him forward, pulling his hips flush against yours. wrapping your arms over his neck, you bring his forehead to yours. "i love you."

"i love you, too." and hes put at ease. the fear dissipates, steve hasnt scared you off quite yet. he clears his throat again, allows himself to be vulnerable with you. his heart resides in the palm of your hands, he knows youll always be gentle with it, but sometimes he needs to breathe you in. steves fingers tug gently at your sleeve. "wanted to match with you."

you laugh, your entire body opens up with pure, unfiltered joy as your chest revibrates happiness. youre so in love with him that it hurts, that it blinds you sometimes. cheeks burning, you kiss the top of steves head. "youre as sweet as honey, have i ever told you that?"

"once or twice," he shrugs, trying to be coy, but his body radiates warmth and his voice drips saccharine.

you bury your face in his neck, inhale everything that he is. nose pressed to his collarbone, your lips find the smooth expanse of his skin and you kiss him softly. steve shivers at the softness, which you smile at. "think you could sew your initials onto some of my jeans?"

"only if i can get some of wheelers brownies."

"deal."

[princessbrunette]

tattooartist!pope was pretty nonchalant at times. you could tell he wasn’t always this way, and occasionally he lets the hyperactive dork in him slip out — but he’d had his heart played with too many times, so decided he was going to be petty just like everyone else. now the two of you had a thing going and you just wanted him to show he cared. you wanted to know things were exclusive.

the two of you were on the couch when you decided to bring it up. you didn’t quite have a clear point to make, but clearly you felt comfortable enough to express a particular emotion.

“i can feel you staring at me, you know?” pope chuckles quietly, eyes not removed from his sketchbook as he draws out a few design ideas. in the low lighting of your apartment, the tattoos that cover his neck cluster into one.

“sorry.” you smile, but making no effort to look away.

“is something wrong?” he converses, and is happy to do so. he liked spending time with you after work, it’s why he was here after all.

“do you like— frequently tattoo other girls?”

you watch his pencil slow and he slides his eyes over to you. “i mean… yeah, of course?” he raises an eyebrow when you say nothing. “its kind of my job.”

“yeah, for sure but like — they probably get tattoos in like… super intimate places, right?” you’re looking at your nails now, already feeling dumb about the whole thing. you just couldn’t help it sometimes, couldn’t help feeding the jealousy beast that festered in the pit of your stomach.

“i mean work is work.” he shrugs, but continues to stare at you through the silence. “any reason you’re asking that?”

“no.”

“okay that’s bullshit.” he puts his sketchbook on his lap and turns to face you a little more. it takes about ten seconds, but you look back up at him — even having the audacity to try and look all casual. “so what are you like jealous or something?” pope is suddenly the one feeling vulnerable. scared, even. jealousy means serious. serious means he gets hurt in the end.

“no.” it comes out even quieter. “just forget it. i was curious—”

“—because we aren’t even really dating, you know that?” he croons, but it comes out a lot snippier than intended. you’re silenced instantly, staring ahead at the TV. you decide no answer is needed, bringing your knees to your chest as you pretend to be engrossed in the show infront of you. his lips part, chest heaving with guilt. why the fuck would he say that? “look, i mean… yet.” he shuffles up to you, “admittedly i have some baggage… but i do like you. i don’t… know why i had to say it like that.” he wraps an arm around you and you sulk, a sucker for it.

“i want to get a tattoo.” you pout. “one right between my tits. a bow or something.”

“no you don’t. you just want it because i’m the one doing it for you. you would literally regret it as soon as you step outside the store. i try and encourage my clients to make the right choice, and plus — you quite literally regret the tattoo i did for you on the inside of your lip where no one can see it.” you hear him smirking warmly, his thumb pulling down your puffy bottom lip in gesture to reveal the ink.

“how’d you know?” you mewl.

“i’ve been in this for a while. i just know.”

you turn and look at him now, and he smiles at you — not that cold, withdrawn version of him that rears its ugly head at times— the warm, kind of dorky version. the one you like.

“sorry for being crazy.”

“hey, stay crazy. the majority of geniuses on this planet are a little crazy.”

[narcissistshandler]

are you still making hobie fics 🙏

ps omg ur stuff is sooo delicious its crazy

req; please make a fic of hobie squirming from the reader's suggestive teasing/touch in a public place (diner, movie theater, school etc.) thanks so much !!!

𝗔𝗧𝗠𝗢���𝗣𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗖𝗔

pairing. hobie brown x gn reader

warnings. dry humping, frottage, cumming in pants, everything happens in public, reader has no gender or genitalia mentioned.

a/n. I don't think you guys have any idea how happy I always am with your compliments, I really hope you like this.

The chaotic, loud and fast symphony reverberated through your ears, the notes that sounded between a mix of rock and hard-hitting singing echoing through the speakers and filling the small local bar that was not much more than a joint where young people gathered to drink, listening to music and criticize the government — everything Hobie liked most, and that's why you had brought him here for a 'date'. Date. This wasn't exactly most people's idea of a date, but seeing the smile that never left Hobie's face as he jumped up and down and sang along to the familiar lyrics of the famous song the band covered, you knew this was exactly the ideal type of date for your boyfriend.

Everything was perfect. The band was a little out of tune, but that was ok, the stage presence made up for it. It was too crowded, and you could barely move without bumping into someone, but people were at least polite. Although, when Hobie was wearing the tightest leather pants, tall boots, and a fishnet top under the jacket that hid absolutely nothing, it was hard to pay much attention to anything else.

You gripped Hobie's hips, fingers against the cold leather hanging right over the protruding bones, tight enough to feel like a second skin. The set of belts purposely left a little loose over his pants and the silver of the thin strap around his neck reflecting under the lights. Hobie's body was warm, sweat running down the back of the neck under the black frizzy curls and you couldn't help but lean in and press your lips there, taking in the cold of the choker and the heat of his dark skin.

It was difficult to talk here and very easy to get lost in the small, lively crowd, which made it convenient for you to stay behind your boyfriend's body, holding him close to prevent you from separating —and from anyone getting the privileged view of Hobie's round ass.

Hobie chuckled, the bass of his laugh vibrating against your chest pressed against his back, otherwise it would have been difficult to notice. "Wanting to mark territory, huh?" he teased, turning his head a little to meet your gaze. The soft lights of the bar reflected in his leering gaze as he continued, "Not that I mind, but we're in public, babe."

You smiled playfully, fingers drawing circles on his hips. "I can't be blamed for wanting to keep the competition at bay. This privileged view is reserved for my eyes only."

Hobie opened his mouth and you leaned in even closer so you could hear what he was saying over the ferocious drums, "Well, in that case, I'm all yours. But let's not make it too obvious, or we might end up stealing the show."

“You’ve never complained about being the star of the show before,” you say, tone heavy with innuendo that precedes your hands inching up the sides of his hips, towards the toned stomach that ripples under your touch.

“Not when you're my only audience,” Hobie says back, but he doesn't pull away when your thumb traces his belly button piercing.

Although it was impossible to ignore the bodies pressing against you from all sides, elbows occasionally finding a target and feet stepping on each other, the atmosphere was dark enough that it was difficult to make out faces and between the euphoria, the alcohol and the music, you knew that something was missing for this date to be the best for Hobie, unforgettable. And he knew it too.

“I’ll still be in the front seat,” you said amused. Your fingers found the hem of his pants and Hobie's body shook, as if an electric shock had coursed through him. "Watching you, adoring you. No one else matters. What if someone sees? I'll still be the only one touching you."

Hobie turned his attention forward, seeming to look to see if anyone was paying attention. “I don’t know,” he said and you almost didn’t hear him, hand already flat against the front of Hobie’s pants. "[name]-" He tensed against you. You felt his erection through the leather, feeling the delicious heat of it radiating through the fabric. The contact made Hobie shudder.

Your lips pressed against his ear, wanting to make sure every word was heard:

"But you're already hard for me. You've been practically since we arrived. Don't think I haven't noticed you rubbing your ass against me."

Despite the stiffness in his shoulders from contact, there was still amusement and pride in his tone when he answered you, "I'm sure I wanted you to notice that last part."

"I'm sure you did, dirty boy."

The music pulses and the bass chords dance at the same time as your fingers run down the front of Hobie's pants, tracing the familiar outline of the member that presses against the leather. It felt like touching bare skin. "[name]," Hobie calls again, you don't hear the sound, you just read his full lips moving.

"Yes?" you ask, giving him a chance to stop you even if you don't stop touching him, rubbing the palm of your hand against him and pinching the tip between two fingers. Your other hand holds his hips, feeling the tension that ripples through the muscles. "Come on, Hobie, you know you want this."

His hips snap at the touch, slamming against your hand, then back against your crotch and back into your hand. There's still tension there though, and maybe it's because of the danger of doing this in public, but his every movement feels restrained and hard, like a poorly oiled gear trying to work.

Hobie is all hot against you, pulse racing beneath your open lips over the salty skin of his slender neck. He turns his head back, almost bumping his head against yours and searches for your mouth. "You're wicked, [name], you know I would never say 'no' to you," he pants, drowning the words against your mouth, forcing you to swallow your own name. He kisses you then, desperately, breathless and completely weak to the pleasure coursing through his veins as you slowly run your thumb along the sensitive tip of his member, matching the rhythm of your tongue sliding into his mouth.

One of your hands slides across the smooth leather, dragging your palm against his cock as you kiss him, the lyrics that sought to remind of all the weight and filth of the society clicking in your ears. Your other hand moves up, running over the bumpy fabric of the fishnet until finds a bulge that presses against your finger. The cold metal slides against your touch, pulling with it the pointy brown nipple peeking out from under his top and Hobie moans against your mouth, asking for 'more'. It was as if today, before leaving home, Hobie had chosen his clothes thinking about how you could touch him without difficulties or real barriers.

You drink in the sounds Hobie makes against your mouth, their volume is lost beneath the music, but the vibration of every moan and every utterance of your name reverberates against your lips, right into your mouth, like a song that only you had access.

Hand wrapped awkwardly around Hobie's dick, fingers practically digging into the sides of it, digging into the leather to get enough precision to pull him hard and fast through each thrust. Hobie writhes against you and melts and it's the most beautiful show. He keeps his mouth against yours even when the kiss ends, humming along to the guitar chords, cursing and following the lyrics of the song. He seems lost in his own head, his brown eyes shining with lust and one hand reached back and gripping your hair, using the support to swivel his hips in a sensual circle, the belts slapping against your arm.

"[name]," he sings through the song's lyrics as he moves against your hand, taking what he needs. "That feels good... you are... I need more... can you...? Fuck."

In the low light you doubted anyone could see the vision of the beautiful man coming apart beneath your fingers to the point where tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. It was a good thing not. You didn't want that in the end — soon — when the night reached its climax and Hobie followed, spilling for you in his pants, anyone else could watch his mouth falling open, hips erratic and his entire body shaking as he became unable to say anything other than your name. The most beautiful spectacle of all and that belonged only to your eyes.

[chvnnie]

dunno bout you but i have a thing or two for seungmin's fingers i'm sorry like they look so slender and beautiful and imagine him ruining you with his fingers only while looking at you in the eyes— let me stop here before i combust

i know you sent this a while ago but it’s monday my brain can’t keep up with this—

SMUT — MINORS DNI

It’s just a little habit of his. Hard to break, hard to even recognize unless it’s pointed out. Seungmin’s fingers just seem to move on their own when you’re seated next to him, softly stroking your inner thigh. Sometimes he draws shapes, sometimes it’s just lines. Up and down, up and down. It’s almost soothing.

For him, that is. Sometimes it is for you, but other times it tickles. Then there’s times like tonight, when his cold fingertips are against your warm skin, that it’s doing nothing but building a frustration in your core.

His other hand is holding his chin. Perched on the table, blankly staring at his friend under the guise of listening. He’s checked out a long time ago, distracting himself by touching you.

Perhaps it’s your fault for wearing this dress. It was a little short, but you didn’t think much of it. It’s not like this is a fancy restaurant; a cocktail dress is perfectly in tune with the dark vibes of the ocean side restaurant.

“Oh, Seungmin.” His friend speaks, sparking a light in your boyfriend’s eyes. “Did you hear about—“

Up and down, up and down. Seemingly getting higher as well. Does he notice? Seungmin is tuned back into the conversation, it’s very likely that he has no idea.

His knuckles brush against the opposite thigh, the cold metal of his rings making you shiver. That’s when you catch it; the playful smile that’s tugging on his lips. Then it happens again, confirming your suspicions.

Seungmin knows exactly what he’s doing, and it’s silly of you to assume that he doesn’t.

The restaurant is starting to feel too stuffy. Heat creeping from your belly and making beads of sweat pearl on the back of your neck. No. Nope. Can’t do this anymore.

“I’m going to get some air.” You mumble before standing up, taking your boyfriend’s jacket off the back of your chair in favor of covering your shoulders. It’s the first time Seungmin had looked at you since he started teasing you, and you feel almost nauseous at the look he’s giving you.

It’s only in his eyes, but it’s far more than enough to make your body start to sway. Feral, darker than the sea just outside the large window that spans the restaurant. It’s like the moon is shining in his dark ocean, giving it a little sparkle of mischief.

“Are you alright, darling?”

He’s so frustrating. You’re so frustrated.

“Just a little warm. I won’t be long.”

You don’t give him another chance before you step away from the table, heading towards the door in the corner of the restaurant. The one that leads to a balcony.

The wooden planks creak slightly as you step onto them. It’s too cold to seat customers outside, giving you the privacy you need. At the railing, you groan loudly, head hanging as you try to catch your breath.

This is ridiculous. Should a little touch get you this riled up? You almost want to slap yourself. Get it together. That was nothing, stop acting like it’s something serious.

Waves crash against the beams beneath you. The sound lulling you, easing the pressure that built its way up to your throat. A few more minutes, you tell yourself as the breeze hits your face. Cool, misty. Just what you needed to ground yourself.

When the patio door opens, you decide it’s time to return to the table. It’s been long enough.

All you can do is turn around before familiar hands grip the railing on either side of you. And it doesn’t matter how cold it is, how freezing the breeze is.

When Seungmin is in front of you, looking at you like that, you have no choice but to melt.

“Just wanted to check on you.” He lifts a hand, softly stroking your face with his knuckles. The rings catch the moonlight, sparkling like the heat rapidly climbing up your body yet again. “You were in a rush.”

You pull his jacket tighter around you, trying to avoid his gaze. “It was stuffy in there.”

“You think? The restaurant is almost empty.” He’s getting closer, bodies hardly separated. Just enough space for the cool breeze to squeak by. When he notices you’re not looking his way, his hand flips. Cups your cheek, brings you back to him. “Don’t be shy, baby. It’s just me.”

It’s the cold that’s making your lip tremble. That’s it. Not the overwhelming need for those pretty fingers to be elsewhere.

“Why are you doing this?” You whisper, the sound almost lost to the crashing of the waves.

Seungmin smiles at you, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of your lips. His nose nudges your opposite cheek, other hand now tracing up the outside of your thigh.

“Because I can.”

Some fingers tease your inner thigh, the others stroke your jaw. Push hair behind your ear, draw over the outline of your lips. He doesn’t look away from you once, committing your body to his touch until the fingerprints have burned away and all that’s left is you.

He doesn’t blink, not even as the fingers tucked between your legs reach your clothed core. Pushing the lacy material to the side, the move with ease over you. Collecting slick until he’s satisfied with how it clings them.

“Keep your eyes on me.” He whispers lowly, lining his fingers with your entrance. “Don’t make me stop.”

There isn’t time for a response before he pushes in, almost expressionless as your lips part. Slowly, he goes deeper. Scissoring as he goes, stretching you out to make enough space for a third finger to join the duo.

It’s not an easy fit. You fill full from his fingers alone, head starting to roll as you brokenly cry into the night.

As easily as he gave it to you, it’s taken away. Hand on your face slipping to the back of your head, adjusting it so you’re looking at him once again.

“What did I tell you?” Seungmin looks almost scary in the moonlight, voice a low mumble that’s more chilling than the ocean air. “Eyes. On. Me.”

You whimper, both hands wrapping around the wrist in between your legs. Trying to pull it forward.

“I’ll be g-good.” You earnestly promise, the tears beginning to build. “Just touch me, Minnie.”

He doesn’t touch your cunt again. No, instead he brings his slick covered fingers up. Pushing all three inside your mouth.

“Lick. Clean them.”

Did he really have to ask? Your tongue was already moving around the digits, lapping eagerly at the skin. The rings. Making sure to get every last drop of you off of him.

Seungmin chuckles lowly. “You know, if you would have stayed seated just a little longer,” without warning, his fingers push back, hitting your throat. He smiles when you start to choke, knees buckling at the desperation shoots through your body. “I was going to play with your cunt there. Maybe take you to the bathroom to fill you up.”

Out of your mouth. Untangled from your hair. The hands you’ve been craving all evening rudely taken from you before you could fully enjoy them. When you reach for him, he steps back. Adjusting his tie before giving you a twisted smile.

“What a shame. Impatient little girls never get what they want.”

[sungbeam]

𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 — teaser

nonidol!ji changmin x f!reader

messing around with demonic rituals isn't exactly how you imagined getting bound to changmin's soul. (note to self: salt circles don't work when you draw the pentagram inside it...)

▷ genre, teaser warnings. f2l, technically a college au, demon au (it's different from night terrors i swear.), comedy (it's really not scary), suspense/mystery, low fantasy/supernatural elements, mentions of rituals and pentagrams

▷ estimated word count. 25-30k; teaser word count. 0.8k

▷ projected release date. thurs, oct 31st

a/n: i'm a little FKN TERRIFIED to post this tbh 😭

A change in expression flickered across Changmin's face. It was brief, almost instinctual. You swore it looked like mild irritation, but it was gone before you could be sure. “You should probably answer the door.”

“Answer the what?”

You nearly yelped at the sound of loud knocking at the apartment door. Confusion pummeled you first, then you were swearing. “Chan.” You forgot he was stopping by.

“I'll be right back,” you said, moving toward the bedroom door.

“It’s fine. I need to go looking for answers.” Changmin stopped you before you went out, and you couldn't suppress the violent shudder when the invisible line in your chest pulled taut. “And Yn? Don't do anything stupid.”

You made a face at him from over your shoulder. “I'm already soul-bound to you by accident. How much more stupid can this get?”

He threw his hand up in the air. “Just don't do anything Hyunjae or Shuhua would do. Actually, just don't tell any of them about what I just told you.”

Why not? You were about to ask when you heard Chan's voice at the door calling out to you. Another swear fell from your mouth and you rushed out into the hallway to rip the door off its hinges.

Chan startled as it opened, his eyes going wide like a deer's in the bright hallway lights. There was a loose blue hoodie hanging over his green dinosaur pajama pants. He had his phone in his hands along with a paper bag undoubtedly carrying the legendary banana muffins. “Oh, hi. Sorry, is someone here with you? I thought I heard another voice.”

You braced a hand around the doorframe. Don't tell anyone. “Ah,” you winced, the lie curling up your tongue, “I was just on a call with a friend and he wouldn't shut up. Sorry about the wait.”

“No, it's no worries,” he insisted with a classic, easygoing smile. It made the adrenaline in your veins calm somewhat. Chan had always been a good presence to be around. There was something perpetually warm about his persona that made you want to stay in his orbit. “Oh, right!” He handed you the bag. “These are all yours. Mingyu says to let him know how they taste this time around, as always.”

As you accepted the bag, your face lit up like a Hollywood billboard. “I can guarantee that they will taste as divine as always. Tell him thanks for me” —you glanced up sheepishly from the paper bag— “and also, thanks for stopping by. I wish I was home earlier so you didn't have to drive all the way back.”

You didn't realize your face had contorted into a grimace. If only you had come straight home instead of indulging your friends’ curiosity tonight. Then, you would have been here with the banana muffins and one less soul-bond to worry about; and you would have been none the wiser to the fact that one of your college friends was a demonic entity.

Hadn't Changmin mentioned that you were now emotionally and metaphysically bound? Did that mean he could feel your emotions?

The smile had long since slipped from your face, but now your hands grew cold. When you got your muffins just now, did he know—

“Yn?”

You perked up at the sound of your name. Chan's hand froze midair, then retracted back to his pocket. Concern shone on his face as stark as day.

“Are you okay? You look like you just forgot you have something due tonight,” he chuckled half-heartedly, but the sheen in his eyes told a different story.

“Oh.” You forced out a laugh. “I'm fine! Yeah, I was just reminded of something. Actually—uhm, I shouldn't hold you up for any longer. It's getting late.”

Chan stared at you for a moment longer, and for that seemingly infinitesimal second, you feared he could see the invisible knot tied to your ribcage. “Right,” he said suddenly while shaking his head. “You should get some sleep.”

Your hand reached for the doorknob. “Thanks for dropping by again.”

“Wait” —his palm pressed against the door to keep you from closing it— “are you sure you're okay?”

It was as if your guilt was written in plain words across your forehead: No! I just became magically handcuffed to one of my demonic friends! And I also sat in a pentagram salt circle less than two hours ago! Please help me!

You channeled all your energy into a convincing smile. “Yes, I promise I'm okay. Have a good night, Chan.”

It was enough. That easygoing beam graced your eyes once more and he took his hand back. “Okay,” he said, “good night.” He waved to you as he turned on the ball of his foot, and you waited until he turned the corner before closing the door.

Your entire body deflated as you let out a rather dramatic sigh. That sigh turned into a loud groan, which eventually escalated into a borderline scream.

Like a woman possessed (would possession have been a better outcome than this?), you slunk back into your bedroom with your treasures in your grasp. “Hey,” you muttered as you kicked the door closed, “I'm… back.”

The room was vacant. Not a trace of the blond demon could be found.

“Son of a gun.”

permanent taglist 1: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @outrologist @rikizm @luumiinaa @lotties-readings @tinkerbell460 @kaaimins @hyunjaespresent-deobi @otterly-fey @gluion @floatingpluto @winterchimez @ethereal-engene @gyulfriend @polarisjisung @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @loveliestfelix @bless-311 @zhaixiaowen @leaz-kpop-life @amourdsr @pxppxrminty @kqyutie @sseastar-main @kxthleen14 @fluorescentloves @mosviqu

[diorcities]

lace teddy (ldh)

♡ pairing: haechan x reader. ♡ genre: fluff. ♡ content: parents au, established relationship, dad!hyuck, sleepy!hyuck. ♡ wc: 0,5 k an: once you enter this state you don't get to leave, huh? find more here

you stir in your dreams as your senses stretch and intertwine in a spiral that lulls you into semi-unconsciousness before the icy touch on your arm pulls you out of the planet of dreams. because there he is, at the foot of your bed, watching you with sleepy eyes.

“mommy.” he whimpers in a whisper, pulling you out of your slumber almost immediately and shooting your body upright. “jisoo, sweetheart...” you murmur, gently removing the placid arm around your waist to take the child in your arms. he's freezing. an alarm goes off in your instinct and you panicked, thinking on repeat to protect him at all costs. “i dreamt bad things,” he confesses, rubbing his eyes as you bring him with you under the covers. “oh, baby...” you try to warm him up by stroking his back and hair. your lips leave a small kiss on the crown of his head. “don't worry, love.”

something shifts behind you as you lull jisoo to sleep. haechan's been dreaming a dream he no longer remembers because he's aware now. something's missing. without the warmth of your embrace he's getting cold, so between dreams, his hands seek for you in the dark. not awake, barely conscious, he mutters your name. is he having a dream about you?

reaching your body and drawing you to him as he gains consciousness, hearing your whispered voice saying something. completely lethargic, he nuzzles into your neck as he wakes up almost automatically; he hears you clearly now. “a monster!” the child whisper in a squeal. “oh my goodness, what makes it a monster?” he's barely awake, yet a smile flourishes on his lips the moment he hears your voices trying to stay quiet as you chuckle.

“he has tremendous teeth and it's hairy.” you patiently hear him explain. “did he harm you?” you wonder, feeling him shaking his head, “well, maybe his only crime is looking terrifying,” you observe. “maybe next time you can ask him if he's scared too.” your head lolls to one side just to see haechan peeking over your shoulder, with his cheek pressed on your skin and his eyes traveling to yours, something like love expands in your chest. “can you stay with jisoo while i check on donghyun?” you ask, watching him nodding as he lazily shakes off his dreams.

you get out of bed and walk down the hall to the half-open room. there is barely a faint light coming from the moon-shaped lamp in the outlet, which allows you to see the figure crouched in its crib. in the gloom, you approach donghyun and make sure he is okay. combing his little caramel curls out of his plump, tanned cheeks. two brown sleepy orbs blink at you. “mom... i was trying to fall asleep to fight jisoo's monster.” you stroke his hair, in awe. “were you?” you say in shock as a laugh escapes your lips. “i'm sorry, love.”

seeing that you are there, you make sure that he is well. “want to come with us?” you take him in your arms. “i'm sure you will, baby,” you assure him as he explains his scheme with slurred and sleepy words, remaking the way to your room. you're about to go inside, but suddenly stop halfway to record the intimate moment that unfolds inside the bedroom. unable to interrupt, you sharpen your ears as donghyun rests his head on your shoulder, dozing.

you barely hear your husband's melodic voice humming a song you vaguely remember hearing. savoring the name on the tip of your tongue, your heart bloom at the familiar lyrics. “the monster's gone, he's on the run. and your daddy's here...” you smile tenderly as your hand caresses donghyun's back, ultimately recognizing what he's singing.

he's there, with his eyes closed as he comforts jisoo into his arms. lyrics slipping from his lips full of love.

“beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. beautiful boy.”

[waynes-multiverse]

hello ! hope your having a great day, wanted to ask your thoughts (maybe a dirty drabble??) on Soldier Boy or Beau having an s/o that is artistic or draws/paints a lot? 👀 Currently working on pieces for my uni and in dire need of motivation to get it done😭 anyways i love all your work !!!! 🖤🖤🖤🖤

A/N: What a fun idea! Couldn't resist to write both of 'em, so I hope those two idiots bring you enough motivation 🎨💪😂

Pairing: Beau Arlen x Artist!Reader // Soldier Boy x Artist!Reader

Warnings: +18/NSFW, super light smut, tons of fluff, SB typical behavior, crack

Word Count: 1.1k

Main Masterlist || Dirty Drabbles Masterlist

French Boys

Beau Arlen:

As his car stopped in front of your house, Beau could see the lights still burning brightly in the garage, knowing you were still hard at work.

“Hey,” he greeted you as he stood by the door, watching you with a warm smile.

Your gaze drifted from your canvas to him with a smile before spying the brown paper bag in his hand.

“Brought you something. Figured you were gonna burn the midnight oil and needed some fuel,” he said with a knowing smile.

“You’re a godsend,” you said with a happy sigh and took the bag from him, inhaling the smell of its delicious contents. “I’m sorry I’ve been locked up here so much. It’s just… I’m really nervous about the gallery opening this weekend, and it’s stressing me the fuck out and–,” you rambled before you were stopped by his large palms on your cheeks.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he soothed you, chuckling, and pecked your hairline sweetly. “I get it. You’re gonna do great, alright? Amazing, in fact.”

You let out a deep, calming breath and smiled up at him. How did you deserve such a good man? And where the hell have you found him?

“I love you,” you said and draped your arms around him, crashing your lips against his and entangling him in a searing kiss that showed your gratitude. But as you pulled back, your eyes widened in shock. You clasped your mouth.

“What?” Beau looked at you confused before he caught your gaze locked on his shoulders and saw the red-painted handprints on his jeans jacket.

“I’m so sorry,” you gasped, embarrassed. You’d been working with paint everywhere all day. Of course it was all over you at this point.

To your surprise, though, Beau broke into loud laughter and shook his head at you. “Honey, it’s okay,” he told you before his freckled face was overtaken by a mischievous look. “In fact…”

He leaned over to one of your paint cans and dipped his finger inside a white one before booping your nose. You could feel a wet, cold blob on your tip as you gaped at him.

“You did not just do that.” You were speechless, but his playful laugh was contagious and intoxicating.

“Oh, it’s so on,” you announced and dunked your hand in a shade of blue, splattering it graciously on him.

“Oh yeah? Hope you’re ready ‘cause this means war, darlin’,” he countered with a wide grin, his hands finding green and yellow.

He chased you through the garage until he caged you in his arms, your mouth erupting with giggles until he filled it with kisses. Paint was everywhere, your clothes soaked and his beard and hair sprinkled like a cupcake.

“We’re never gonna get clean again,” you noted through giggles, looking at the beautiful mess in front of you as you brushed your fingers through his locks.

Beau lifted you up on your workbench, your legs locking around his waist. He kissed you deeply, feeling his excitement growing between your thighs.

“Guess we’ll just have to stay dirty then,” he said with a smirk and claimed your lips.

Soldier Boy:

You were curled up on the couch in your apartment, your eyes flickering between the bowl of fruit on the coffee table and your sketch pad in your hands.

Your concentration, however, was broken when a loud thud echoed off the walls and almost shattered the coffee table in a thousand pieces, sending the bowl of fruit flying across the room.

Your eyes lifted from your sketch pad and to your boyfriend in front of you, propped up with one muscular leg on the small table, elbow resting on his thigh with a bulging biceps and a painfully hard cock.

Annoyed, you huffed a sigh but weren’t surprised. You had been working on your assignment all day and wondered when your needy-ass, attention-seeking supe boyfriend would get bored with watching TV and smoking weed in your room.

“Ben, what the hell are you doing?” You looked up at him and saw the broad and proud smirk on his freckled face.

Cocksure didn’t even do him justice.

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Figured I’d give you something better to draw than a fucking boring-ass banana.”

“Uhm… that is so sweet and considerate of you. But I really need to draw fruit this week. That’s the assignment,” you said wryly before pushing him out of the way.

Well, as best as you could. He was a supe after all, but he budged and bent to your movement.

Pursing his lips, he threw his arms up in upset. “Oh, really? And what the fuck is all this shit, huh?”

Dramatically, he tossed one of your art maps on the table and crossed his arms over his broad chest, waiting for an explanation. As you peeked at the scattered sketches of naked men (and women), you knew what this was about.

You rolled your eyes back with a deep sigh. Of course he snooped through your stuff when you left him unsupervised in your room. “Ben, I told you already. We were drawing human models last month.”

“You never fucking said they were naked!” he argued, his deep voice trembling with jealousy and fury. “So, what? You’re just off, drawing cocks all day at that art school of yours?! I won’t fucking allow it, Y/N!”

You stifled a snort and tried to remain calm. He was honestly cute when he was greener than his suit. “Honey, you don’t have to be jealous. You know I love you... and your giant-ass dick.”

Biting the insides of his cheeks, he blushed slightly as he calmed down. “Yeah, well, you fucking better. ‘Sides, I’m not jealous. My cock’s way better than whatever those crooked-ass dicks are. Can’t even see them without a fucking magnifying glass…”

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” you feigned your agreement and hid your amused smile, nodding heavily. You stood up from the couch and locked your arms around his broad shoulders. You pulled his lips to yours, kissing him passionately until all his worries faded. His dick twitched between your legs. “You know, sometimes I’m surprised how you don’t explode with that giant ego of yours, welling from every pore.”

“Oh, you want me to explode?” Ben looked challengingly at you, smirking. “I can arrange that. In fact, how about I make you my fucking canvas and splatter my paint all over you, huh?”

“Ben, what–…” You burst into laughter, which was swiftly turned into a giggling shriek of protest as he grabbed you and threw you over his shoulder, carrying you to the bedroom.

What do you guys think? Which mess was harder to clean in the aftermath? 😂💚

TAGS:

Everything Jensen:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey @deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies @agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @imsapphine @globetrotter28

[joannasteez]

almost blue (1)

pairing: cody rhodes x black reader warning: explicit descriptions of violence and sexual activity. minors please do not interact. readers eighteen and older interact only please. descriptions of alcohol consumption and the use of deadly weapons. authors note: JOHN WICK AU!!! so excited to share this! i had this sorta kinda in my back pocket for a while, while trying to build up tanks of blood, which you can find to read here. not everything in this is super true to the world of john wick but the most im using as inspo is the aesthetic anyways. also a one off mention of john wick lol. that and some of the names for certain things. italics in the beginning represent flashback perspective music inspo: almost blue by chet baker word count: 4800 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae

new york. the continental hotel and it's flatiron shape. september 2019. the rain, this soft unsteady pitter patter. a gentle gray coloring the sky. the air cold and biting. the city filling its brim with a sleepless droning. 

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—gold trim and blood red carpet floors—bath water disturbs till its sloshing to overtake the tub. a messy spill against the floor. his lips working over yours. fingers kneading deep enough into skin that it stains with the print of his touch. nails tender in his hair and your body melting in till the heat of him breaks over your skin. his everything settled into the wisp and charm of your voice as his pleasure becomes whole. too great.

—but his memory tires from old moments like these, a shell of itself as it attempts in vain to restore to it's former glory. has been in a perpetual state of exhaustion for sometime. but this straining is singular. a throbbing at the forefront of his skull. a tight pulling pain at the nape of his neck till it's creeping wild at the tip of his spine. forcing him to grow ill as he works to reminisce. body wistfully undone. and what words do the men of our time say about insanity? to be in a perpetual state of trying, doing, in hopes of something new. and so on he went, flirting with this disaster, this run of nostalgia, so much so that memory has forsaken him, taking these little complexities —the new york rain and the taste of your lips— along with it. 

but cody can handle the load and reload of a glock 26 as fast as he does it well. a deft maneuvering before the barrel raises and he pulls the trigger, the recoil driving sharp. a bullet through the skull and the splattering of blood. whoever meant to kill him, now dead in his wake. 

but what cruelty this is. a traitor to his own body. living with nothing but the means to kill and tattered memory. with him still, only, all of the things left unsaid—

you'd smelt of vanilla. the yearning about his tongue deep and yet to be settled. his lips a shadow as they feathered against yours. his questions overdone with a frightening passion. "where are you ten years from now?" 

your fingers slipped over his skin, as easy as they would over porcelain. a delicate taking over wet soapy muscle till it clawed over his shoulders and against the heat of his cheeks. "somewhere warm and comfortable. retired".

where ever you were, is where he wanted to be. "am i with you?"

a reversion, just barely perceptible, but there all the same. something like fear, like hesitation, pushing against a situational sort of tenderness in your eyes. the warmth slowly but forcibly outdone by the cold. lukewarm. just like the fate of too old bath water. not enough of either extreme. lukewarm. 

"seems more like a question for you to answer".

"answer it anyways".

and he couldn't feel your lips anymore. too much air, too much distance. caution thick. woven about your words. the tones. the inflections. "ten years from now, you'll be somewhere as warm, as comfortable and retired too".

"am i with you?" 

to draw such a long length of need into the air. passions and hopes and dreams. cody knew. it would've been easier to take the sear of a bullet, the ripping tear in of a knife or the crack of something blunt and unforgiving to his skull. those things easier than the down trod of such a silence. your eyes having gained more and more distance. fear peaking soft and brown before the quick slip over of indifference. like you didn't care for his whispered words sounding too much like forever. and recovery from bullets and knives and blunt force was tedious. sewn up skin and the reformation of fine motor skill. but this. the way you suffered him to feel the drift away of your body and the simple, delicate, eager push in of your touch. something in his heart—amongst the lukewarm water—failed. this low dropping into a less lively place. 

new york. the continental hotel and its flatiron shape. june 2024. a peak of the sun amidst more grayish than white clouds against an icy pale blue sky. the air breezy with a teasing smell of rain. like a stray tendril before some great unraveling. the city as sleepless as it's ever been. 

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—scarlet sage in bloom and the ever present air of readymade violence—cody sips at a short glass of brandy. an edgy spike to his tongue as it settles. everything of the continental he possessed now lost to time and the overwork of his sore tired memory. lost to a bout of corrosion done by words left unsaid. because he did not remember your answer after the persistence of his "am i with you?” all thats left, this great blurring. of words and the finer littler complexities. your lips and your eyes and the soft ways of your touch. and maybe it came to be this way for good reason. using such a burn to his ego to fuel the fire of his rage. revenge for memories unforgettable. around the glass of brandy, his hands feel stronger. less careful in how they hold. caution be damned. he sips again to finish. his finger buttoning his suit jacket, making way from the bar and across the communal space of the hotel. 

warmth at his ear and a twitch in his trigger finger. something like eyes resting over him. watching him.

he continues to a connecting hallway. elevators and mosaic floors. maybe the brandy wasn't the best idea, but neither was coming to such sacredly awful ground. lovers trauma and all that bullshit jazz. 

the fourteenth floor is quiet. his steps carpeted by soft wool. a second twitch in his trigger finger that leads into the sharp driving heat reminiscent of staggering gun recoil. a sweet burning in his arm, the muscles knowing, remembering. but he has nothing of use on him. nothing to snuff out and quiet that vicious call of death. his hotel room styled with a modernistic flare to it's luxury. clean and unadorned. a simple reflection of his own style thankfully, but nothing extravagant to weaponize. he would have to, if needed, to make due. a slim ball point pen, sleek and multifunctional, rests next to a complimentary bottle of wine. "enjoy your stay", in cursive. cody feels the warmth at the tip of his ear again, something greater than a simple bout of paranoia. his fingers slip the pen into his pocket, a reversing in his steps to triple check the locking function of the room doors.

and he shouldn't be so wound up should he? conducting business was, is, has always been forbidden on hotel grounds. 

his fight or flight saying otherwise. breathing over his skin overwhelmingly warm. lingering wearily. intuition always a nagging son of a bitch but never wrong. it's never failed him. 

cody showers, stands amidst the icy rain of too cold water. cody showers, because warm baths terrify something in his body. the possibility of turning stale and lukewarm. too distant and uninviting to be either extreme. like eyes and soft lips he can barely form well enough to reimagine. 

and the bed sheets are welcoming. slipping along his skin with a delicate relief. but still, something feels wrong. a heaviness to the air that precedes this faithful old tryst with life. with death. the ring of his phone working to unburden him suddenly, but for only some seconds. the number blocked. he answers, rushing to fish that ball point pen from his dress pants. sleek and multifunctional in his grip. but the urgency in his maneuvering cuts short with the slip in of something dangerously angelic. memory sore and exhausted no more, but now rushing back to him fervid and unrelenting. a tender charming tone in his ear that disrupts the stalwart build of his resolve. september 2019. june 2024. five years of an almost complete pain. icy feeling wind with the teasing of a torrential down pour. almost there but not quite. the anger and the pain never red enough. the sadness almost blue. 

"the loft in tribeca" you start. cody commits it all to memory. the words, the tones, the inflections. shuffling to rough his pants on. pen in his pocket. phone wedged to his ear as his fingers rip off the casing of a pillow. body easy as it maneuvers to protect his six o'clock, leaning against the wall. his eyes scope along the room. an over examination. waiting. "if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there". 

the call drops. 

the slow unlocking click of his hotel room door. his muscles burn with remembrance. eyes sharp. his ears attune. the shells of them warm. cautioned steps approach the entry way of the bedroom but they fail to go unnoticed. thudding against the soft carpet. and if not for the possibility of his demise, cody would laugh. surely this was amateur hour. boots and inconspicuous were no more suited together than suede in the rain. and he'd made that rookie mistake before. back when he was a rookie. but the high table were no idiots, sending rookies to bring his head in, unless they hated him that much and felt he should feel the brunt of that hatred with some disrespect. and disrespect it was. 

cody's breath holds. his head thumping against the wall before he makes a swift crouch to his knees. a gun rounding the corner, and a bullet flying aimed for where his head had knocked in. a simple quick diversion. nothing special or particularly extravagant, but enough to give him seconds to maneuver. and oh this is disrespect in deed. dominik mysterio the source of his current heavy breathed, adrenaline rushing circumstance. cody knuckling the hold of the still upward pointed gun with a punch before another sinks into domink's abdomen. a short grunt breaking from the scrappy, ill-sophisticated, mullet wearing piece of shit. and surely dominik is more of a piece of shit when his heavy boot toughs into cody's jaw. racing for the gun. 

but cody is quick. has felt and faced harsher things. if anything, its more of an irritation he feels than a full measure of pain. it was hard maintaining good skin considering the life he led. he spits against the carpet. iron on his tongue. red staining the clean line designs. he reaches for dominik's leg just before he's in reach of the gun. pulling him near and flipping him over quickly. a rough hand in the silk of domink's mullet as he rains down punches with the other.  cody ill satisfied as he hears the sloppy singing of grunts from the younger mysterio. and as his frustration mounts, swindled by the audacity of the high table, dominik gains an advantage. his hips shifting up to propel cody, his arms lean and tight and trapping over cody's and rolling. 

"you three piece suit, hugo boss wannabe wearing motherfucker", dominik's face bloody and angry. his fists balled and quick as he comes down against cody's face. 

the impression of the pen presses into cody's thigh. memory and dexterity working like a trained muscle. amidst the  barrage of fists, cody reaches for the sleek ball point pen. clicking the tip and rushing it into dominik's side. harsh vicious stabs till the pain takes hold enough for him to hesitate. plunging the inky tip into his neck, where blood flows to gush. breaking up out of his skin. choking on air and the pain of a slow to come death. 

"bulletproof three piece suits asshole", cody roughs out. kicking dominik for satisfaction. 

if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there

the loft is the same. unadorned by that uncanny but natural weathering of time and neglect. warm homely autumn inspired tones with splashes of green and hand carved wooden furniture. cody ever the horrendous sucker for hand carved shit. an intimate union of labor and passion. ever the reflection of a once lively relationship. carefully cultivated, ending poorer than a bastard dying with his eyes wide open. because when you go that way, you deserve it. but cody? his passions didn't deserve that violent abrupt end. and yet here he is, creeping past the entrance. a painful stuttering of footfalls as he goes. muscles sore and his skin on fire. 

dominik mysterio was a warm up. a warning even. the call must've went out. a bounty worth enough for people to try him. the train ride to tribeca interestingly violent. a woman with a knife, a man with a gun and another thinking his bare hands were some great unstoppable force. and no, cody did not make quick work of them. not as quickly as he would've liked. but he managed. and at the very least, he'd suffered a slitting cut to his cheek and a laceration to his chest. that piece of shit running the blade right through his tattoo. some maybe secondary bruising and a bad headache. but he's not dead. not like the idiots that tried and failed to kill him. 

the loft, much like the continental hotel, is agreed upon neutral ground. a place for trysts and the sharing of information. or rather, thats what it used to be. now, cody isn't so sure. 

and his limping is pathetically loud. shoes a heavy clack against the floor. makes him bristle annoyed. you stand just behind the kitchen island. wine bottle opened. a glass in hand as you sip. more beautiful than he remembers. soft looking still, your eyes casting over the rim as you sip, undeniably deceptive. 

a gun lays easy on the coffee table sat between two couches. too easy. but his displeasure gets the best of him. he shifts for it quickly. a swift up of his hands positioned about the gun, aiming for your face. 

you knew his whereabouts. so much so that you knew the whereabouts of the people trying to kill him. taking the chance to trust could cost him his life. and cody quite likes his life. 

"you had me scared a little bit". a gentle float of words. a finger dancing along the rim of the wine glass. a daring stare down the barrel of the gun. "i thought you got bested by a second rate mysterio". and when cody doesn't move, captured by pain, caution and the mystique of your presence, your eyes roll. his form fixed and perfected. trigger finger cool, but his heart unsure. "cut the melodrama. put the gun down cody". 

"you knew i was being followed", he clips. jaw tight. 

"i mean...duh...", you give. dry and teasing. finishing your wine. "half of that was me, and lets not be silly", covering the length of distance between your bodies slowly. a stalking patience. a fierce feline approach. "you shot a bullet through the skull of one of thee most important men. finding out don't come cheap when you fuck with the high table". 

"everybody seems to forget I had to bury my father", the barrel of the gun kept high with perfect aim as you near closer. "killing that sack of shit was just me evening the score". 

"i didn't kill your father cody". 

was that sincerity? empathy? a sudden waft in of warmth after years in the cold. it felt unreal. true but unreal. and he was sure it wouldn't last. 

"obviously", cody bites out. 

your forehead nestles against the barrel of the gun. his memory overwrought. his senses in a frenzy. a horrible mixture in his skin of pain and elation. steeped with the fear of having to endure another sudden vanishing. angry that such an endurance was his portion in the first place. 

"so then why is the gun still pointed at me?"

his fixed form eases. your hand slipping the gun from his hold gently. fire over his skin as you touch him for the first time in five years. a deft maneuvering about the cold heavy metal to expose the contents of the magazine. amusement coloring your eyes and spreading over your mouth for a teasing little smile. 

"they're blanks anyways", emptying the magazine as the faux bullets fall to the floor. your hand settling down the gun and its magazine on the coffee table. leaving him in an exasperated awe as you head toward the kitchen. "just wanted to see how thin your patience has worn". 

your chin jutting over to the couch. hands full of medical supplies as you pad over to him softly. his body aching and slow as it rests into the tender leather seating, but moving without delay still. always under the gentle charm of your voice, his being falling under this servile sort of subjection. making him bristle silently within himself. all that time and distance amounting to nothing for his resolve. 

cody surrenders. mind over matter no longer needed. succumbing to the full weight of his pain. hair messy with red droppings of other peoples blood. his muscles sore and the hammering about his skull diligent and taunting. 

"my pain has always been a funny little joke to you". 

you pull the coffee table closer to the wide spread of cody's legs. your own slipping over to straddle the strength of one of his thighs. your body warm and comforting against his skin. an old feeling blooming in his chest. you were doing this on purpose. he's sure of it. to see him waver and yield to the charm of your presence. gentle touch dabbing to rid his cheek of dried blood before you went about cleaning the wound. his fingers itching to form to your body, desperate to push dull nails into your skin again. to form in and caress with the intent to renew his memory. 

your eyes flit to his crotch. "its a lot more than little. give yourself some credit", you muse. applying butterfly stitches. 

the air is thick. forces him to maintain a steady breath. memory overwrought once more. a mighty rushing in that heats him whole. your hands working his button up open. the lax take of your palm to his belly forcing a throb to the crux of his thighs. the closing in of the distance makes for easy intimacy. a registration of the lesser noticeable, more complex things. the prick of your nails telling familiar stories, as they work to rid him of the shirt all together. tender and caring, similar to how they used to be. your eyes roaming and thinly glazed over. he spares a glance at the wine bottle. halfway done. your ministrations functional but indulgent of the moment. of his skin.

a quicksand sort of state of affairs. if he doesn't pull himself together now, he would fall into you. full consumption. and he can't possibly risk his life because he's half hard and overdone with sentiment. 

"how long have you been following me?"

you apply something like a salve after cleaning the nasty chest wound. an anesthetic. how sweet of you. to suddenly take his pain into consideration.

"a few months". 

"why am i not dead?"

your body adjusts a top of him. somehow closer. your knee nearly running into his crotch. "yet", you give. beginning the process of suturing. "the question everyone wants to know is why is cody rhodes not dead yet". breaking shortly to peer over him. a full examination it seems. heat rising in his cheeks. "cause he's no john fuckin wick. so why is he still here". pressure of the needle feeding into his skin. your lip tucking under your teeth in full concentration. "people don't know resilience is the bane of even your own existence. a little meat puppet made to take push pins". 

he scoffs. "this doesn't feel like a compliment if it is". 

you finish off the suture. a hesitant but delicate maneuvering off his thigh to rid of the medical supplies. the heat of you gone in an instant. "its an observation". the uncorking pop of that half drunken wine bottle. a generous crimson pour that you sip at. 

"on what basis exactly?" 

a whipping swing of kitchen cabinet doors. a bottle of brandy and a short glass. for him it seems. and the pained parts of him grow excited at the possibility of a simple taste. anything for a temporary fix. something to numb the burn in his bones. 

"very close encounters".

and no you don't dip into the leather to sit beside him when you return. you assume a much more compromising position. a full straddle of his legs as you gift him his little amber colored remedy. and if at any moment he ever thought he needed it and actually didn't, let this be the moment where that edgy spike to his tongue becomes essential. something to help him as he searches for a secure hold at control. and of course he drinks it all. an easy burning slip against the back of his throat as he feels the heat of you settling back into him. once dormant urges awakening in his fingers. supple thighs lined up over his kevlar woven dress pants. the baggy button up you'd decided was good enough for his visit thin and something like revealing. the other details left to his imagination. and God was that prone to running at any moment. tripping and falling away from him well enough till his crotch became to uncomfortable to bare the perfect fit of his pants. your empty hand returning to where it'd been. roaming tenderly against slow but steady bruising skin. his nose picking up the sweet wine on your breath. the glaze about your eyes. thighs over him, clenching slightly. 

"you were always a little too indulgent with the wine", cody gives. 

your eyes flitting to his crotch again. bulge more prominent. the teasing of your nails inching over past his navel. your throat humming. "and you with me". 

"don't think much of it". an attempt made in vain he thinks. feeling the hard throb of himself as soon as the words leave him. "it tends to happen. adrenaline from almost dying multiple times", his thigh knocking up into yours to grab at your attention. tipsy eyes drifting to the cold blue of his. "now spill. why am i still breathing?"

"because the number isn't high enough yet". another sip of wine before turning to rest it at the table. your hands free to run over the muscle of him. about his shoulders till your thumbs are caressing at his nape and the hard cut of his jaw. and that nearly drives him to insanity. the weight of you resting right where he pulses with life. "i take your head now, i'd be settling. and the game of it all ain't that fun right now anyways. its too amateur hour-ish for me. i wanna battle it out with the adults". 

"im flattered", cody deadpans. 

you smile. thumb soothing over his lip. "as you should be". 

"why else", the pulse about his blood wild. an unadulterated beating that coaxes to life the run off of his imagination. his touch a staggering grip at your jaw. pulling your eyes to him. lowly sat pretty brown eyes with a penchant for doing him inexplicably dirty. but they draw him in all the same. his stomach empty. filled with nothing but the slosh of brandy. cody feeds into the daze of it. the possibility of a buzz. your lips a breath from his. desire on your tongue by way of the sweet smell of wine. "talk".

your hips shift over him. a rut into the fabric. friction to appease the ache, he's sure of it. thin panties and the desperate curl in of your nails. running into his scalp. trying to persuade him with tender touches and the charm of such wanton need. and its working. fuck, itsworking well. had worked some time ago and doing well now just the same. because cody, despite such deadly skill, was not immune to this type of torture. could not battle it with stalwart patience or dapper precision. and as you rut against him again, mind clouded by wine and your own intent, his fingers burn to touch you more. not so simple and plain but disgustingly greedy. his lips smooth against the seam of yours. amber brandy and red wine a near perfect melding together. 

"fuck", you relent. your nose knocking soft into his. laughing with a wry sort of amusement. "it would stroke your ego to a nice little finish if i did say it wouldn't it?"

cody hums. slips his hold till its anchored about your neck. measured in its pressure. his tongue licking to wet his lips. the slight of it forcing a tremble into your body. 

maybe his suffering isn't a lonely one after all. 

you whimper. taking a hard swallow. 

"vindicate me", cody rasps. 

your struggle is apparent. surfaces with a tear that stains your cheek. body undone by the defeat of such an intimate admission. 

"i miss you", fragile and nearly unclear. 

he smiles mirthless against the soft ways of your skin. his nose buried into the dip of your neck. "i don't trust your sentiment".

"it's true cody". 

"she says, after admitting she wants to kill me".

"better me than someone else". your fingers abandoning him to grip into the leather of the couch. a tight take to it that fastens your body into him. your mouth lax as your lips slip over his. the tease of a kiss filled with too much tension to bare. "touch me", you give. a plea and a command all the same. 

his fingers working in swiftly, a firm obedience, cupping your cheeks to steady the wild go of your tongue as it snakes to slip at his. a frail whimper singing from your chest and the return of your sharp nails. digging against his scalp to bring him impossibly closer. nearly suckling his tongue whole as your hips rut at him again. a less cautious shifting as you look for harsher friction. the pain of a murderous sort of labor and the pleasure of touching you again warring over the tenderness of his skin. coaxing him to groan and wince. strong, tired fingers forcing your hips to rock over him. an easy, stable grind along the hard bulge of his cock that leaves you living without the proper brilliance of words. reduced to the struggle of too pleasured moans. 

your teeth prickling and sharp as they snag against his lip. fingers deft, undoing his zipper. the heat of him hard and throbbing dangerous. his headache out done by more pressing matters, hazy and his senses going numb with lust. palms persistent, sinking into supple flesh. and fuck does it feel good. even better when his patience thins. fingers stretching the fabric of your panties till they tear. the slick way of your arousal making for an easier pace. a sweet teasing slip through your slit. his imagination wild and unfettered. even the thought of slipping in to have his full way with you enough to twist the base of his belly. groaning into your mouth.  

fire in his fingers as they pull against the fat of your ass. sweltered skin sweet in his palms. forming with every push and spread and pry that he gives. 

your mouths depart. a hesitant slipping away. breaths heavy. your face hiding in the dip of his neck. your pussy messy. bewitching even as you grind mindless into him. an undulating heat over his skin. "cody", a mantra as it travels to slight the beating of his pulse. 

the tell tale trembling in your body. a breath away from bliss. and he can feel the build in his bones. the return of an ache thats been transformed. throbbing and restless. an urgency he works to relieve. and with it so does your mouth. less desperate to consume him. melting to linger at his lips. breathy and stuttered. 

"right there angel", he gives. a whisper against your lips. corralling the last bits of resolve to break. your hips stuttering but caressing faithful still. coming undone. rutting greedily to grasp at the last bits of pleasure.

and here he finds that charming sort of relief. an unfurling warmth about his skin. snatching your body into him as he strokes against you and throbs, coming undone. release pooling and spurting against the baggy button up you'd worn to tease him with. 

your lips finding his again. needy still. and he accepts without wait. ready and willing. your moaning along his tongue delicate and wispy. reminiscent of a memory once forgotten. new york. september 2019. cody cups your face again. thumbs dusting over the apple of your cheeks. on a mission to stain himself with this moment. sweet red wine mixed with aged brandy. 

she was getting to be a lil too long so i had to break her up! but how do we feel about our little hitman?

[gildedkrone]

meine Sonne

“Why do you keep waiting for him?”

The sunsets are the colours of violet on the metropolis and the drink in your hand has long gone cold. Winters in London are brutal; rainy days and grey skies overcast with the doubts in the heart—forlornly watching the future become present.

“Schatz, I want to know.” The Austrian flag on his arm, with some of its thread loose from the physicality of his job, never once replaced as the man held your patchwork on his uniform as always. He always said, it’s from you—that’s what makes it special.

The patch had been with him through heaven and hell and now, it brings him to the Sky Garden dome in London. The poignant stares are nothing to him as he rests a palm on yours between plates of half finished meals.

His heart is twisting so painfully and pulling into dead knots when he spots the glisten near your eyes and the restraint it takes to hold back, knowing that he hasn’t yet earned the right to wipe away those tears of someone else’s making.  

“I don’t know.” He moves closer and you finish the drink in one go and gloved hands take the glass away from you before it could fall through your fingers and go smashing into the marble flooring.

“I guess I thought I had a chance with him. I—hic—I-He told me I was worth it, once. Back during the mission in Siberia, he came back for me. Even if everyone told him not to, he still came back and I—I just thought we had something.”

König listens.

“I keep waiting for him, because one day, I don’t fucking know, I wish he would just see me—see that I’m here. That I am here, waiting for him. All of his extra duties, I take them. I do everything to show him that I-I care about him and he—”

“He never acknowledges them. He knows I am the one doing all of this for him and yet …”

König grasp on your palm tightens and he offers a napkin.

“Y-you shouldn’t have to hear about this. I’m sorry, König.” The bellow in his throat is building to a fervour; all the words he wanted to say, locked away behind a wall he’s built with his own hands.

For once, König wishes to live without the social anxiety that’s come to shadow his existence.

“It’s not right”—he speaks with such conviction and the mask around his face shifts with the rippling flesh underneath—“it’s not right, what he’s doing to you.”

“I just … keep waiting for him and he never looks back. Not since his sergeant met his death two months ago.”

John MacTavish. König has heard of him before, in passing comment.

“I keep holding out for hope; hope that he would at the very least, tell me, if he isn’t interested at all. His glances make me stay, even if he shows it to others. A few months ago, he even made a toast during a Christmas party. He said my name, you know? I thought I was dreaming, but it was my name he spoke.”

I thought we had something, unspoken.

It’s the hope that destroys us all—König knows this, knows this all too well.

“He gives you just enough attention to keep you wanting him, but never enough to make a move.”

You grimace is sardonic and you agree with him.

“Yeah. I … Is it so much to ask for to be loved?”

No, it’s not, schatz.

“This relationship? It’s not healthy and you … you don’t deserve this. Not you, you deserve far better. Far better than a man who would lead you on, and never give you anything in return.”

“Who else could love me, König?”

Me.

“Don’t say that. I … you are worthy of someone better. You are.” He wishes for the strength to say he could.

The crackle and burst of tangerine and purple across the space draws your attention to the fireworks outside. Cold whips across your jacket and König settles beside you and the night sky lights up with fireworks showering London in splendour you once felt seeing Ghost.

Not anymore. Not ever since that day when he took everything away with him into the afterlife.

Fur tickles your face and a heavy weight settles on your shoulders and it’s warm. König pulls the jacket tighter around you and streaks of gold fireworks echo in his eyes in trails of comet dust of longing.

“You always did love the gold ones. Remember in university? In Norway on new year’s eve, how our friends made fun of us for our awful pronunciation and you said something like … ish leeber dick?”

“Ich liebe dich.”

“Yeah, that one. Could never understand what it meant.”

“It … it means I love you.”

His eyes widen and hope—hope is a firecracker in his hands lit and burning with a fuse to no return; time to detonation is nigh.

“What?”

“Verdammt … I—I … fuck …”

He looks anywhere but at you and when he makes a move, his hands are with yours and his eyes are overwhelmed with emotion in depths of blue seas.

“I … schatz, I … I know it’s not my place to comment on your relationship with Ghost but he isn’t a good partner. You deserve more, more than what he gives you and with the sincerity of someone who wants, loves you.”

He presses on, afraid if he stopped he would never start again.

“Your love is not second rate, second class or anything.” He drops your hands to grasp your arms. “I … I can’t stand watching your throw your love away like that. Not when I’m here.”

His jacket is warm with more than just the heat of the man.

“It’s not fair to make you compete with a dead man for love. It’s not right and Stärke, I—I am here. And … I want to show you what love can be.”

“What love can be?”

“If you let me, liebling.”

Impossibly soft and brimming with yearning, the fuse burns through and the world explodes into colour. Of tears and light overpowering the shadows following him since youth into oblivion, König’s scarred lips are pressed against yours in repressed longing and you are pulled in close by his arm around your back.

Finally, he wipes away the tears and love tastes like the chap stick König uses and more. It’s indescribable, with it depth and intangible strings and he holds on tightly with all of his being.

“Your patch is fraying, König.”

“I’ve got you to fix it up for me.”

Ich liebe dich so sehr, meine Liebe. Du strahlst mit den Farben der Sonne. Ich bin so glücklich, dich in meinem Leben zu haben.

Sei mein und nur mein, Liebling.

Do not edit, reupload or translate my works without prior consent || masterlist

[blossom-hwa]

in the absence of heartbeats | k.th

pairing: Taehyun x gender neutral!reader genre: angst, fluff, vampire!taehyun, medium!reader warnings: violence word count: 4.8k notes: — been thinking of this idea for a while but the idea of writing a whole fic for it is very tiring so I decided to just write out this scene lol — for some clarification, my definition of a "medium" is just someone who can see and speak to ghosts! nothing more than that :) After a harrowing night, you find comfort in the cold arms of one with no heartbeat, but much warmth in his heart. 

TXT Masterlist

It's close to two in the morning when you finally decide to leave the library. Your eyes are burning from the light of your computer and there's an ache in your neck from hunching over a desk for way too long, so even though you're not quite done with your essay you end up calling it quits. You haven't written anything substantial in the last half hour anyway. 

All the while you're packing up, a prickle of unease won't stop rippling up and down your spine. It doesn't stop when you leave the room, footsteps echoing loudly in the halls, nor does it stop when you actually exit the library and step into the cool night air. A light wind breezes past your face, but it doesn't soothe you like it normally does after hours spent cramped in one of the quiet study rooms. You find yourself tensing up instead.

Experience tells you not to ignore the feeling. If the hair on your neck is standing up, it means something. What it could mean right now, you aren't sure—you've left the library late and made the short trek back to your apartment many times without issue—but something is wrong. 

You look out at your dark campus, its sidewalks lit only by lamps and the moon. You look back at the library and its windows full of warm light. Almost unconsciously, you find yourself drawing the silver knife you always keep tucked away. You feel a little safer with the blade in your hand, but the prickle of unease doesn't fade away.

It's just so...empty. So quiet. Which shouldn't be that weird—it's nearly two in the morning, of course campus is going to be empty and quiet—but something about tonight's silence still feels unsettling. You glance around the expanse of campus again, and then it hits you. 

There are no ghosts. 

Instantly all of your exhaustion disappears, replaced by a heightened wariness at the situation. There aren't many ghosts who linger at your university—not compared to other places, at least—but there are usually a few hanging around. In fact, you've never been in an open place where there no ghosts, period. As you scan the campus perimeter again, your heart begins to race when you confirm that there are indeed no ghosts around, not even one trailing morosely over the quad.

Ghosts go where they wish. They usually tend to linger around their place of death or somewhere important to them when they were alive, but that's by their own choice. They're not bound to any one place like so many people believe. For them all to be avoiding your campus...

What—or who—could have chased them all away?

You swallow. Whoever they are, whatever they are, you don't want to meet them. Which means you need to get out of here as soon as possible.

So you hurry down the library steps, then start speed walking back to your apartment as fast as you can. It's just fifteen minutes away. You'll be fine. 

Except, five minutes in, you realize that you haven't left the strange absence of ghosts behind. 

In fact, it might just be following you. 

You fight the urge to look back. Someone or something must be following you, but who the fuck would follow you from the library back to your apartment? Why the fuck would anyone want to? As far as anyone except a select group of people knows, you're just a regular college student struggling through finals week like the rest of them. The people who know you can see ghosts, or who at least know that something about you is linked to the supernatural, have no reason to follow you home. 

Except...

Except one.

Your heart drops. Sanya. The guy who's been pestering you for weeks—the guy who asked you once if you could see ghosts, and who kept trying to catch you unawares to ask over and over and over again. Each time you said no. Each time you asked if he was feeling alright in the head. You're a good actor and you know it, but he just wasn't buying it for whatever reason until a couple weeks ago when you finally blew up on him and told him to stop invading your damn space. He hasn't bothered you since then, so you thought he finally believed you, or at least got the message to leave you alone.

Maybe not, though. You didn't think he was unhinged enough to have chased away all ghosts by virtue of his presence, but right now you have to consider all possibilities. Desperation can make people do crazy things. Talking to ghosts...you should know that.

You should've stayed back at the library with its warm glow and well-lit rooms. At least there was a security guard there. But you didn't know, and it's too late to go back. All you can do is keep going and hope you make it back to your apartment before Sanya—or whatever it is that's following you—gets you first.

...The streets are really quiet right now.

The sick taste of fear rises in your throat. You're already walking as fast as you can but you try to go a little faster, all the while clenching your knife so tightly your knuckles feel like they might split. With shaking hands, you also pull out your phone and dial a number as fast as you can with numb fingers. Answer, you pray. Please answer, please, please please—

The call goes through. 

"Hey, Kai," you say as normally as you can. Thank god, thank god, thank god—Kai won't ask questions, and he'll catch on easily. "Where are you? I'm just ten minutes away—"

"Y/N?"

That's not Kai. 

That's Taehyun. Taehyun who always felt a little strange to you, a bit like a ghost but physical and solid and real. Taehyun who has no heartbeat. Taehyun who laughed when you confronted him about it, and challenged you to figure out what kind of supernatural creature he is without him telling you. Taehyun who found you talking to a ghost and asked what kind of supernatural ties you have, which birthed the stupid little bet between you two about who would figure out the other's identity first. Taehyun who is infuriating. Taehyun who is kind.

Taehyun, who is a friend and can still help.

"Oh, hey Taehyun," you say, praying your voice stays steady. "Kai's not there?"

"He went to the convenience store and left his phone," Taehyun replies. "Did you need him? He'll be back in a few."

"No, I—just letting you all know that I'll be at his place in ten minutes," you say. "I'm at 117th, was just heading back from the library. Sorry—" And here your voice catches, like an idiot—"Sorry I'm so late, I just got caught up with an essay."

Taehyun remains silent for a second. Then—

"Y/N, are you okay?"

A sob almost bursts out of your mouth, catching you by surprise. You're so scared—your heart is racing faster with every street you pass that is still devoid of ghosts—you hadn't realized it until he asked that simple question, are you okay, but you're scared. So scared. 

"No," you say lowly. "I think someone, or something, is following me." You swallow hard around the fear rising in your throat. "There—there aren't any ghosts."

"Ghosts?"

"I'll explain later," you say, panic creeping into your voice. "I don't know who or what is fucked up enough to have them all avoiding the area, but I think it's following me and I'm still like ten minutes away from the apartment and I'm freaking out—"

All the hairs on your neck stand up. 

MOVE.

You don't even think before flinging yourself to the side just as something—someone—barrels into the space you just occupied. 

You're back on your feet in a second but so is the figure that jumped out at you. Adrenaline rushes through your veins and you start sprinting, clutching your knife like a lifeline—and all the while Taehyun's yelling into the phone, asking what's going on, but between the running and the adrenaline you don't have enough breath to answer except with sharp gasps—

Something lands heavily on your back. You go tumbling down and your knee explodes in pain. Your phone skitters onto the street but you still have your knife, which you swing wildly until it connects with flesh and the mass pinning you down lets go, if only slightly, with a sharp yell. Kicking out your good leg, you manage to pull yourself free, ignoring the sick squelch of flesh as you drag the knife out with you. 

You force yourself to stand. A streetlamp illuminates an unpleasantly familiar face contorted in pain as he also rises, blood flowing freely down one arm. 

"Y/N," Sanya says, and you take a step backward even as your knee screams. "Y/N, I just wanted to talk to you—"

"What the fuck?" you snarl. Your hands are shaking so much you wonder how the knife hasn't fallen to the ground yet. "You want to talk, so you follow me home from the library and try to attack me—"

"You wouldn't talk to me otherwise!"

"Because you keep asking me about ghosts, ghost, fucking ghosts—where the fuck did you get the idea that I can talk to them? Where did you even get the idea that they were real?" You point your knife at him, praying that he doesn't see how badly you're shaking. "I've told you so many times to just leave me the fuck alone—"

"I saw you talking to one," he interrupts, lips curling in a snarl. "I saw you—don't deny it! You were talking to one after class, I heard you call it by name. Lilia." Sanya takes a deep breath. "Lilia Taylor. Committed suicide almost thirty years ago. She's dead, and you were talking to her. Don't fucking deny it!"

You can't say anything. Your voice isn't working. You can only stand there in horror, because there is a ghost named Lilia and you've definitely spoken to her before, even if you can't quite remember the specific occasion he's talking about. 

You're fucked. So fucked. In the past ten years, you've only made the mistake of being caught talking to a ghost twice. You learned that lesson from childhood. Taehyun thankfully ended up being harmless. But Sanya—

He must take your silence for affirmation, because his voice turns desperate, more pleading than anything, and it breaks your heart. "Please, Y/N," he begs. "I just—I just want to talk to my mother. One more time. I didn't—didn't get to say goodbye before she died, it was too fast, I just want to talk to her one more time—"

You shake your head. "I can't do that," you say roughly. "That's—that's not how it works. I only see ghosts. I can speak to them but I can't command them to talk to me. I can't even speak to a specific one if I don't know where to find them first, and that's assuming they're here. That they haven't passed on." You swallow. "I'm sorry. I couldn't speak to your mother for you even if I tried."

For a long moment, Sanya remains silent, his head bowed. You hold your breath. He'll understand. He has to. He can't—can't force you to do something you can't do in the first place. Right?

Slowly, he lifts his head. You take a deep breath, ready to continue soothing, until you see the glimmer of menace in his eyes. 

"You're lying," he snarls. "You're lying."

"I am not lying," you snap, anger and adrenaline powering your voice. "I can't do it. If there even is a way, which I doubt, I don't know it—"

"YOU'RE LYING!"

This time you don't manage to dodge. Your fucked up knee buckles and the full force of his weight knocks you straight to the ground. Your knife clatters on concrete. Your head smacks the sidewalk and pain explodes in your skull but Sanya doesn't even seem to register the blood running down your face as he jerks your head back up. "You're lying," he hisses, staring straight into your eyes. "You fucking liar. You know you can, you have to—"

"I can't," you snarl back through the pain. "I can't! And no matter how much you fuck me up, you can't make me do something I do not know how to do!"

"You can see ghosts!" His voice is rising, hysteria coating every word. "You can talk to them! You have to be able to do this, you have to—"

"I can't!" you scream. "I can't fucking do it! What else do you want me to say, Sanya, what the fuck else?"

"I want you to STOP LYING!"

For a moment, there's just the night air, the silence, your heavy breaths snarling through the air. You blink blood out of your eyes, silver flashing in the corner of your vision. Your knife. If you stretch just a little, maybe you can get to it.

You try to focus on Sanya, even though two of him are starting to swim in your vision. "You're crazy," you say quietly, stretching out your fingers. "You're crazy—crazy enough that even ghosts avoid you. You can't force me to do something that I just can't do. You can't bring your mother back." Almost there—you can feel the handle at your fingertips. "You don't even know if she's still here! She's probably already passed on!"

"Shut up!" he screams, and your head hits the sidewalk again with a sickening crunch that echoes in your ears. There goes the knife, you think vaguely. "Shut up, shut up—you're lying, you're fucking lying—"

He raises your head again, and you brace yourself for another hit. But just as you feel yourself going down again, all of Sanya's weight leaves you at once. 

Body numb, vision blurring, you manage to lift yourself up just enough to see Sanya splayed out on the street, a familiar figure standing over him. Your hands aren't cooperating much so you can't wipe the blood out of your eyes, but from this angle it looks like...

Taehyun?

The figure turns just enough for lamplight to fall on its face and your breath catches in your throat. It's Taehyun, but it—it's not. Taehyun doesn't have gold eyes that glimmer in the moonlight. Taehyun doesn't have fangs that extend past his lips, shimmering white against the night. Taehyun doesn't move that fast, doesn't have nails that shred right through skin, doesn't have a voice that could produce that deep snarl from his chest as he stands over Sanya's prone body like a predator in the night.

Out of the muddled mess of your mind, one word emerges. Vampire. 

Of all the times to figure it out, why now?

Your weak lungs heave out something like a laugh. Taehyun's head jerks towards you and then all in a second, you're being gathered up in strong, familiar arms. The fangs have disappeared but his eyes remain a glittering gold, mesmerizing, and your aching head just wants you to sink into them forever but Taehyun's talking and he keeps on talking and it's really hard to just let your eyes close and relax when his voice is so distracting—

"Y/N. Y/N!" He's shaking you now, and fuck that hurts. You must make some sound of protest because he stops, thankfully, but then those gold eyes are suddenly so close to yours and he's talking again. "Y/N, stay awake. You can't go to sleep. Stay awake, don't close your eyes—"

Thinking is so hard right now. So is keeping your eyes open, especially when the world keeps blinking in and out of sight. Why can't you just sleep? You're trying to keep them open, you really are, but it's so easy to just not, and when your eyes flutter shut yet again you hear what sounds like a panicked curse before suddenly you're being lifted up and then you're moving. The night air is cold and so is Taehyun but with the last vestiges of your energy you burrow into his chest, chasing a comfort you never thought you'd find in the absence of a heartbeat.

No heartbeat. That stirs something in the depths of your mind, and then you remember something that, to your muddled brain, is very, very important.

"Taehyun."

Your name comes out in a panicked gasp. "Y/N?"  

You blink again with immense difficulty. Gold eyes, fangs, no heartbeat. "Vampire," you get out.

He snorts, though you don't miss the panicked edge to it. "That's what you're worried about?"

Worried? Why would you be worried? Taehyun would never hurt you. But that train of thought is too difficult to chase down, so instead you focus on what you were going to say in the first place. "...Did I win?" you mumble into his shirt.

"Stop talking," he hisses, something like a half-hysterical laugh rising in his throat. "Stop fucking talking, and don't close your eyes—"

Of course, that's when your eyelids decide to fall shut, and you hear no more.

. . . . .

Your dreams are filled with ghosts, pain, and mesmerizing gold eyes. You're woken up several times and each time is just as annoying as the last—lots of hushed voices telling you to keep your eyes open, things poking you in different places, and at some point someone is shoving something at your mouth and you think it might be someone's wrist? Which is stupid, because why would anyone be shoving their wrist at you, but then something tangy and metallic starts entering your mouth and even though the taste is terrible a voice that sounds a lot like Taehyun's is whispering for you to swallow, please, please, please so you do, even though it's fucking gross. 

When you finally wake up for good, it's to a dim room, lit only by a small lamp in the corner. Your head feels like it's been filled with cotton, your eyes are crusty, and your mouth tastes like something died in it. You try to speak but all that comes out of your parched throat is a dry croak. 

"Y/N?"

You turn your head to the sound of the voice and come to three conclusions.

One: Moving your head hurts a lot less than you thought it would. 

Two: Someone is sitting by your bed. 

Three: Taehyun is sitting by your bed, holding your hand. 

"...Taehyun?"

Relief cracks across his face. "Oh, thank god, you're awake." He turns to a nearby nightstand that holds a pitcher and an empty glass. "Are you thirsty?"

You do your best to nod. The glass of water that Taehyun pours you tastes like heaven. 

Several glasses later, you aren't so thirsty anymore, and your mind feels a little more focused. You look around the little room, then at Taehyun. 

"...Your eyes aren't gold anymore."

"What? Oh." He blinks. "Yeah. That only happens when I'm...in my other form."

"As a vampire."

He nods, a little smile curving his lips. "Yeah. And before you ask again, yes, you did win our bet."

Fuck yeah. You beam up at him. "Sick." Then you frown. "Wait, have you not figured out what I am? I thought the ghosts gave it away."

"There were still a few options, even with that hint," he says, taking your hand again almost absentmindedly. You glance down but decide not to say anything. It feels nice, anyway. "Necromancer. Medium. Witch, maybe."

It would be funny to keep him in the dark, but that's also a little cruel. "I'm a medium," you admit. "I talk to ghosts. Can't really do much else, though."

"So you weren't just talking to yourself the day I caught you," he says with a little snicker. You snort, but he's not done. "Did that guy find out? That's why he was after you, wasn't it?"

The room suddenly feels cold. You shiver underneath your blanket, hand squeezing Taehyun's almost involuntarily. His skin is also cold, but the pressure of his palm against yours comforts you more than the thin warmth of the blanket. 

"Yeah," you get out. "Yeah, he...he'd been bothering me for a while. Asking if I could see ghosts and whatever. I lied, obviously, and at some point I thought he got the message to leave me alone. But he saw me talking to one of them. I didn't know." You take a deep breath. "He thought I'd be able to help him talk to his mom. I told him I don't know how to summon specific ghosts. I don't even know if it's possible, at least for me. But, uh." You try to smile, but it fails. "He didn't really like that."

Something like a snarl sounds in the back of Taehyun's throat. "I could tell," he says, and there's no mirth in that statement. 

A blurry memory comes to the forefront of your mind. Sanya lying in the street, arms and legs splayed at strange angles, Taehyun standing over him. "He's...is he dead?" you ask, mouth dry. You're not sure if you want to hear the answer. 

"No." Taehyun spits out the word bitterly, like he almost wishes the opposite were true. "No, he's not. I didn't kill him." He looks at you almost hopefully. "But if you want me to, I can finish it."

You swallow. Relief and fear do a strange little dance in your chest. "No, I don't think I want him to be," you reply, and Taehyun nods, albeit a little disappointedly. "But I don't really want him coming after me again, either."

"Don't worry. Kai said he would take care of that, if you decided you wanted him alive." Taehyun gives you a half smile. "One of our friends is a witch. Memory alteration spells can go a long way."

Most of the fear dissipates, and you let out a sigh of relief. "That's...good." You stare at the blanket. "He just wanted to talk to his mother. Grief can drive even the sanest of people mad."

"...I know."

A little silence falls. "Where am I, by the way?" you finally ask. "Your apartment?"

"Yeah. It was closer." Taehyun shrugs. "Also, I hope you don't mind, but I called my witch friend over to take a look at you earlier. His name's Soobin."

Hm. You vaguely recognize that name from your intermittent wakings. Which brings back the memory of something else, a tangy and metallic liquid in your mouth. Instinctively you wrinkle your nose. 

"Is something wrong?"

"Oh, I just remembered a dream I had." You shake your head. "I was drinking something really weird. It tasted bad."

Taehyun's face turns a little sheepish. 

"...Not a dream, I guess," you get out. Right, in dreams you can't taste anything. How did you forget? "What was it?"

Taehyun raises his wrist, revealing two fading marks against his skin. "Vampire blood has healing properties," he says guiltily. "It was the only thing we could think of without sending you to the hospital. You had a major concussion and your knee was pretty busted, too."

You stare at his wrist, at the marks that seem to be fading before your eyes. "I drank blood. From your wrist."

"...Sorry?"

"No, no, don't be sorry." You pinch the bridge of your nose for a second. "I...appreciate it? It kept me alive. I'm just trying to process things." Then you realize something. "God, I haven't even thanked you for saving me." All at once you remember the fear, the terror, the pain, and then it hits you, really hits you, just how close to death you came. "Thank you, Taehyun," you say in a much smaller voice. "I...I really owe you my life."

Taehyun clasps your hand between both of his and looks at you, his dark eyes deep and serious. "You don't owe me anything, Y/N," he says quietly. "I came because I was worried. Because I didn't know what was happening, and I was scared for you. It was my choice to come," he says, voice brooking no argument. "I don't believe in exchanging lives. I'm just glad that you were okay, in the end."

That does it. Just like his simple question when you were walking home—Y/N, are you okay? His words release the floodgates and all the tears start falling, the full terror of the moment hitting you like a truck—but he's holding you, cradling you close, and you're curling into him again as you soak his shirt with tears, finding comfort in his voice, in his arms, in the absence of a heartbeat in his broad chest. 

By the time you're cried out, you're exhausted again, but you don't really want to go to sleep just yet. So instead you stay curled up against Taehyun, his arms holding you close, and take in shaky breaths until you feel a little steadier. "Sorry for crying," you mumble, even though you make no effort to pull away. "Your shirt's going to be gross."

"I don't care about the shirt," Taehyun says sharply, though his voice softens when you look up, startled. "Sorry. I just meant that...I can replace the shirt, Y/N." He takes a breath, and you notice he looks a little nervous. "But I can't replace you."

His words strike a chord deep within your heart, bringing a sort of funny feeling to the front of your chest. "Damn right you can't," you try to joke, but it falls a little flat. 

"I'm serious." And then he's pushing you away a little, but only so that you have the space to look him in the eyes. "I'm serious," he repeats, large eyes dark and somber. "You almost died, Y/N. And if you...if you did die..." He swallows. "You know why I agreed to that stupid bet?"

You blink. "...For fun?"

"No. Well, yes." He huffs a little. "Y/N, I wanted an excuse to talk to you more."

A little warmth curls in your chest, spreading slowly outwards to the rest of your body. You don't say anything, though.

"You're a fun person to be around, Y/N," Taehyun says, and he's smiling a little in a way that's more mesmerizing than his golden eyes. "I liked you. I wanted to be around you more, and talk to you more. I'll admit, I was definitely curious about what exactly you were, but I didn't care about that as much as I pretended to." He leans in a little, and you don't flinch away. "I like you a lot, Y/N. And before you have—I don't know, some other near death experience—I wanted to tell you that." The smile slips away. "If you died, I never would have told you. And I would have regretted not telling you for a very long time."

He's looking at you in a way that warms you, even though his hands are cold, even though there's no heartbeat in his chest. So you let the quiet warmth of his gaze spread through your body, let yourself lean into him a little more before you press your lips softly to his. 

Taehyun kisses back firmly but gently, never pushing, never yielding, as steady as his arms holding you against him. You don't kiss for very long, but when you do break away, you're warm all over, and you can't stop smiling even with eyes still sticky from crying. 

"I'll tell you that I absolutely cared about this bet as much as you thought I did," you say, and his laugh only makes you smile more. "But I can't lie, Taehyun, I liked you a lot too. I tried to dislike you on principle. You were so fucking annoying about it," you emphasize, eliciting another lovely laugh from his lips. "But I couldn't, because you were sweet, and kind, and even though you teased me all the time, you were still always there. Even when I almost died."

His eyes on yours, dark and sweet. Like the lamp glowing softly in the corner, gentle and quiet. 

"You may not have a heartbeat, but mine can beat for both of us," you say quietly. "If you'll let it. If you'll let me."

Taehyun kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips. All feather soft, like butterflies lighting on your skin. "Is that answer enough?" he asks.

You smile back in reply and curl back into his chest. Taehyun's arms close around you again, his head coming to rest on top of yours, and there you sit, and breathe. 

One heart beating for two, two breaths sounding as one.

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