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does anyone want to see a fic of charon's tarot skin being lusted over by eberhard or

[mixed-kester]

i knoooow nobody gives a fuck here but i completed my multichapter ebercharon fic yay

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Accidentally discovered you had a twitter by which I then discovered you had a tumblr so now I can adjacent extend my compliments for your absolutely peek eberpaul fics!!

WOAH HOLY SHIT IM SORRY I DIDNT SEE THIS EARLIER

thank you so much AHHHHHH

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OH MY FUCKING GOD WHAT

[s9iji1ne1]

reup eberpaul with their adopt daughter

[11xbullets-deactivated20251216]

jerkin my shit to polaroids and the scent of her perfume like a drafted ww2 soldier

[mixed-kester]

eberhard braun

[virenvi]

[fourraccoonsinacoat]

*Me sitting down to write smut.*

But first! We must thoroughly understand this man's fractured and devastated sense of self. Only then can we truly appreciate how connected he feels to her while finger-banging the soul from her body.

[fanfiction-addiction9]

the high after someone comments on my fics is unparalleled

[elleldoe]

absolutely love abusing the power that comes with 3rd person limited pov and just ignoring things and being vague sometimes. does the character know all the details? no? then I don't have to either.

[mixed-kester]

The river’s surface break just as Charon is about to rush forward. It was a man, yes, and one he knows; but Paul described his body so differently.

What the journal described as ‘lanky’ is now defined and chiseled; what it called ‘boyish’ has been hardened by war. He is not averse to such display of nudity- quite the contrary, in fact, as he has been repeatedly ordered to strip down bodies so their clothing can benefit the next batch of soldiers who will surely die.

Yet as Eberhard Braun, his commander, dried his hair off with a towel, his sight follows the droplets splashing around; how some of it drips past his angled shoulders and to his defined arms once hidden by the uniform. His arm hid most of his face from him, but from his vantage spot, he can tell his eyes are shut; cascades of droplets pour yet still from his hair and fall from his sharp jaw.

The old buttons draw taut on his chest, and the poppies growing from himself begs to be let out. His grip on the notebook tightens, but it can't hide the veil's stillness; not once did he even breathe. He stares, transfixed.

[ilikecheddarpopcorn]

i don't have more than one draft. I write what I want, re-read it, change what I want & fix what I want, then say its done once I'm satisfied.

If i say its done, ITS.DONE. I'm not re-writing all that shit.

[mixed-kester]

he's a cigarette holder kinda person to me idk

[put-a-keep-are-you-foo-dell]

[pngblog]

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‎‎‎‎‎Charon hears a thump; Eberhard slips through his palms and rests on his chest. He takes a moment to react, his hands grasping nothing. Actions take a while to him, sensations take even longer. He feels the major watering the grass on his chest like rain, yet he makes no sound as if have done this a thousand times. Then it comes; a frenzied rumbling sensation, threatening to tear him apart. The cracks on his chest split; the noise echoes against the void. He feels something press up and unfurl. Then another, and another, yet another. He looks down; blades of grass grow sprightly, trying to cover his sight of him. Poppies hasten to meet the major heaving on his trench coat; some of it grows past Charon and anchors to him instead. His arms, cuffed with stark white gloves, are now littered with green, streaming veins of poppies, constantly blooming, as if the space on his chest isn’t enough. His cowl almost tears open from the torrent of crimson, and his white veil threatens to lift with it; he quickly pulls it down, feeling the stamens press on his palm. A sound echoes through Charon’s body from Eberhard; the grass shivers because of it. He feels him grasp tighter.

[stickyspeckledlightt]

you ever just write 2k words like you're on crack