can't stop thinking about them.... the brainworms got me y'all

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titsay
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

oozey mess
we're not kids anymore.

if i look back, i am lost
cherry valley forever
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occasionally subtle
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Discoholic 🪩

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@smolreadermadeoftrash
can't stop thinking about them.... the brainworms got me y'all
virtual insanity chapter 8 spoilers:
i have done.... another thing. who needs words when you have funny colors.
i had to SPLIT IT into 6 PARTS because tumblr wanted to MURDER IT. anyway if you want to see the whole thing unsplit go to chapter 8 of the fic
Seeing the world you once wished for in another person's eyes.
like literally
step two in introducing your pets humans
bonus:
PART 1
Rocky is paying close attention, trust.
More progress… :)
<-Part 9 & 10
(Start from the beginning)
People who came across Ryland Grace tended to make two assumptions about who he was as a person. Assumption one: Ryland Grace was kind. Assumption two: Ryland Grace was always kind.
Typically people who believed assumption two were those who were too young or have had yet to see Grace's very public crashout during his academia days (and Ryland dearly wished for the day where is outburst would be forgotten about entirely).
The truth was Ryland Grace had to learn how to be kind. He chose to be kind; Ryland's anger had always gotten him into trouble ever since he was a child. From slapping away hands who hadn't asked permission to touch his belongings to yelling at others whenever they 'weren't doing x activity properly.' Ryland had quickly been labelled as a troubled child, a classroom nusiance, a brat who thought he knew better and refused to accept when he was in the wrong.
In actuality Ryland just had trouble reniforcing boundries and asking others to follow them; instead his brain automatically went to anger because anger was better then drowning in shame and anxiety. Anger was respected. Anger was better than bursting into tears in the middle of the classroom and being accused of being a crybaby.
So yeah. Ryland was angry. Less so since now he had a classroom full of twenty something kids for six hours a day and he would rather eat gum off of the sidewalk than make a kid cry just because he, the adult in the room, couldn't keep his temper in check.
If Ryland Grace was kind, it was because he chose to be kind.
When people met Ryland's partner, Simon, (No last name, that last name was dead and gone for all Simon cared-) they often made two assumptions about him. Assumption one: He was always serious. Assumption two: He was the angry one in the relationship. People who made assumption two insantly changed their attitude upon properly meeting Simon and realizing the man was actually very kind, if a little sensitive, and just had the unfortunate luck of having a very intimidating resting face.
It wasn't always like that. The resting face.
Simon was an expressive child, he wore his heart on his sleeve. His facial expressions and body language always gave away his feelings, his thoughts, his fears. He was the complete opposite of the word 'stoic.'
Eden ate him alive because of that.
Simon quickly learned how to school his expression, how to bite his tongue, how to repress sobs, how to hold himself rigid and always at attention.
Simon learned that anger was respected, anger could be a shield. And so Simon learned to wield anger as both a shield and dagger, he hid beneath anger, he sheltred behind rage.
...It was tiring.
It was performative.
It wasn't real. The anger.
It was because if people thought Simon was angry they'd leave him alone, and he would be safe.
Crying wasn't safe.
When people saw Simon and Ryland together they'd always assume Simon would be the one that needed to be held back during an altercation.
And there were times where that was true, though Simon would always attempt to solve conflicts with words first. (The one time he had hit someone was because they kept putting their arm around Ryland despite being brushed off several times. Stupid Tom Ryder-) and even then Simon had grabbed ice for the jerk celeb afterwards.
Simon's temper didn't hold a candle to Ryland's.
Ryland would soon be getting his wish of his academia crashout being forgotten.
Because now he would be remembered for tackling a Brother Of Eden who had begun harassing Simon. From an outside perspective Simon appeared unaffected, bored even. But Ryland knew his partner.
Ryland knew that when Simon's jaw tightened it was because he was holding back tears (Simon's true anger was always in the form of tears much to the man's chagrin. Ryland would always kiss away the tears if Simon let him (which he did)). Ryland knew that when Simon's shoulder's curled around his ears he was fighting against long honed instincts screaming at him to either run away or hurt the threat before it could hurt him.
(Simon wasn't a violent dog. He didn't want to bite but his body trained him to in order to keep himself safe).
Ryland Grace chose to be kind. He chose -when- to be kind and to whom.
Ryland's kindness was an intentional choice. Not an inherent part of his character.
So he tackled the Brother Of Eden and verbally tore into him, defending Simon with everthing he had while also denouncing the death cult that Eden was.
(If Ryland were asked if it was worth needing to go into hiding for about a month he'd say yes because it meant he and Simon got to spend more time together.)
Ryland Grace chose kindness and Simon chose to wield anger as a protective shield.
Their choices were not who they inherently were.
Thought the assumptions were always amusing.
if you’re still taking requests i would give my left arm to see simon get to just sink into a hug cause he finally feels comfortable/is offered affection 👀
Give me your left arm
This post by @the-dormant-ocean made me go insane, here’s some doodles
Considering that Simon comes from a world where space travel has been a thing for centuries, he knows his way around a spaceship pretty well.
Since they found him, he's made it his mission to maintain the ship until they make it to Erid. He's been working diligently since his health stabilised. Grace and Rocky tried to tell him to rest more and that it wasn't necessary. But he said working is the only thing preventing him from thinking about what happened to him and keeping him sane. They couldn't really keep arguing with him after that.
He tends to lose track of time while he works, too absorbed in it. It’s like everything around him disappears for a moment. Grace completely understands; he's exactly the same. Though Simon is still recovering, he checks on him often and tries to encourage him to take breaks.
He's been running diagnostics and recalibrating things. Grace often hears him grumble about how ancient this ship is and how unnecessarily complicated everything is. Grace once asked him where he learned to fix spaceships and he paused for a moment before answering. As if he were considering whether to tell him or not.
Waking up is a slow, warm, languid thing. It's emerging from one dream only to find yourself within another, sighing and stretching and pressing into blissful comfort. It's peace in the truest definition of the word.
Grace's return to consciousness feels like floating in warm syrup. Sensation returns gradually, the slip of sheets against Grace's bare skin and the firmness of a body beneath his. There's an arm wrapped around Grace's waist, firm and fast in its possession as Grace sprawls atop the other man.
Grace sighs, pressing his face into Simon's neck and drawing in a slow breath. His lungs are flooded with the scent of iron and shared shampoo, a clean musk that makes the anxious critter in Grace's mind settle every single time. Not that Grace is anxious right now— Grace can think of little other than the rise and fall of the broad chest beneath his, a calloused hand lazily tracing the knobs of Grace's spine.
Neither of them speak. They're both awake, content to simply luxuriate in the undemanding presence of the other. Their bedroom is lit by a sunrise just as sleepy as the pair, reds and oranges falling over blankets deemed favorite enough to earn a place on their bed.
The hand fluttering over Grace's back disappears, an action that begins to earn a protest before Simon is slipping his hand into Grace's hair. Simon drags his nails along Grace's scalp, twisting through soft strands of gold with a practiced ease that makes Grace purr with contentment.
Simon chuckles as Grace drags his cheek along Simon's collarbone, stubble scraping over soft skin in sleepy delight. Simon continues his ministrations, movements sluggish but no less affectionate as the pair gradually wake with the rising sun.
Grace lets one of his hands wander along the side of Simon's ribcage that he can reach, the tips of Grace's fingers trailing over the thin material of a borrowed shirt and finding the dips and divots where flesh softens between bone. Simon grumbles above him, a half-hearted protest pressed to the top of Grace's head.
Grace giggles sleepily, delighting in the reaction of the other man enough to redouble his efforts. Grace is intentionally light with how he skirts his fingers up Simon's side, grinning into Simon's neck when the man jolts beneath him.
"Quit that." Simon mumbles, voice hoarse with disuse. He sounds far from displeased, more of a fond protest for the sake of protestation as his nails dip to scratch at the nape of Grace's neck.
The placation works easily, Grace dropping his hand and humming as he leans into the gentle touch. Simon makes a small, pleased noise, clearly delighting in how pliable Grace became when lavished with enough affection and Grace is far from complaint.
Simon ducks just enough to press his lips to the top of Grace's head. A smile blooms across Grace's face, a delight so pure and simple and raw with affection that it makes Grace feel like his chest is going to burst.
Grace lifts a hand, blindly flailing as he reaches back until his hand knocks against Simon's own. Simon huffs a laugh as Grace's fingers wriggle in demand, obligingly lacing their hands and giving Grace's a soft squeeze before letting them fall to rest against Grace's back. They sigh in mutual contentment, so little said but everything understood.
Good Intentions
Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x f!reader
Summary: Maekar is trying to provide a good life for his new wife by removing himself from her company and offering alternatives. He fails. Warnings: a bit of angst because of pining, a bit of smut.
The morning light cut through the high, narrow windows of Summerhall with a pale, wintry insistence, and Maekar Targaryen, prince of the Seven Kingdoms, found himself staring at the ceiling of a room that was not his own. It was decorated with painted vines, a delicate feminine touch he had never bothered to notice before. The bed linens smelled of lavender and something else, sweet and warm. The weight on his arm was the source of the latter.
You were curled against him like a dormouse seeking warmth, both your hands wrapped around the corded muscle of his forearm as if he were a lifeline in a storm. Your cheek was pressed to his shoulder, lips slightly parted in the ease of deep, trusting sleep. A strand of your hair had escaped your night braid and lay across his tunic.
Maekar did not move.
He was a prince, a warrior, a man who had crushed rebellions beneath his mace and watched men die without flinching. But this, the soft, contented curve of your mouth, the way your breath puffed in tiny, even waves against his sleeve, paralyzed him. He cast his mind back, desperately trying to remember when exactly his careful, honorable plan had crumbled to dust. It was the previous night. It had been a fool's errand, a mission of pure and unparalleled idiocy disguised as magnanimity.
For months, he had constructed a cage for you, gilded and sprawling, and called it a marriage. After the death of his first wife, the mother of his children, the very concept of a new bride had felt like a betrayal, a picking at a wound that had barely scarred over after years. His brother, King Aerys, had insisted. The match was politically sound. You were from a fine lineage, a daughter of a loyal house, and your dowry was a collection of trade agreements and land rights that made the court accountants rub their hands with joy.
And you. You were a pretty thing: young, sweet, blinking up at him at the Sept with your big eyes, he had noted absently, and a slight pout on your mouth. He recognized that pout now, not as petulance, but as a sign of deep concentration, an unconscious expression you wore when you were trying very, very hard to be brave.
At the wedding feast, you had tried to engage him in conversation, your voice a soft, hopeful melody against the droning noise of the hall. He had grunted in response, complaining about the seasoning on the boar. You had blinked, then smiled, a small, tentative thing, and said, "Perhaps the kitchens will do better with the lemon cakes, my prince. Would you like me to ask them to bring some?" Deflecting his rudeness with a kindness so artless and sweet it had made his teeth ache.
He had taken you to Summerhall, the seat of his power and the monument to his own complicated legacy. He gave you servants who curtsied low, spacious rooms filled with sunlight and tapestries you seemed to admire, and a generous allowance that could have purchased a small fleet of ships. He had daughters, Daella and Rhae, who were delighted with you, finding in you a new playmate, a doll who could speak and laugh and teach them new embroidery stitches. His sons were a different matter. Aerion was a burning star of chaos somewhere in Essos, Aemon was at the Citadel, chaining himself to books, and Daeron…Daeron was usually never counted. The thought of his eldest, a dissipated dreamer, brought a familiar, leaden weariness to his gut. But the girls were happy, and you were occupied.
He thought he had it all handled.
Everything was provided, he had reasoned, watching you from across the courtyard one afternoon as you and Rhae chased a butterfly. You were a young maiden. His idea of a comfortable existence was good service, a sturdy roof, a well-stocked armory, and a couple of friends with whom to share a flask of strongwine. He had assumed, in his colossal, self-absorbed ignorance, that your needs were the same.
Until he started to see it. The quiet sigh you suppressed when he answered your sweet inquiry about his wellbeing with a noncommittal grunt at the dinner table. The way your eyes, those big, expressive eyes, would track a young knight in the yard as he laughed with his comrades, not with lust, but with a kind of wistful, academic curiosity. You were studying a creature you had never encountered. Daella, his sweet daughter, was already starting to enter that phase of mooning over singers and sighing at sunsets, a phase he dreaded with every fiber of his being. And you, his wife, a lively girl not much older than his own children, were saddled with a grumpy man whose range of communication with her was limited to tactical assessments of mutton and grunts about the weather. You were drowning in comfort and starved of life.
He could commission solutions. Jewelry? A cascade of sapphires appeared on your vanity. New dresses? Bolts of lace and silks in hues of deep green and amethyst filled your wardrobes. Rare books? He had a first-edition history of the Rhoynar, bound in pale leather, delivered to your solar. You had been effusive in your thanks, your pout melting into a radiant smile, but the smile never quite reached your eyes. The problem, he realized with a cold, hard jolt, was not resources.
The problem was romance. He couldn't morph himself into a handsome young knight with a carefree disposition and light humor, the kind of man who would compose a song for you, who would bring you a wildflower he’d picked on a reckless morning ride, who would whisper sweet, foolish nothings in your ear. He was Maekar Targaryen, a blunt instrument, a man of duty and gristle and a simmering, constant irritation at the world.
His poor wife. You were left to smile and giggle quietly at his dry, caustic remarks about a visiting lord’s speech. And you seemed genuinely amused by them, your laughter a soft, surprised ripple of sound that made him pause, mid-chew, in confusion. You were so deprived of pleasant company that you took what you could get from him, poor sweet thing. The realization had made him want to kick himself.
So, he had formed a plan, a scheme that, at the time, had seemed the pinnacle of rational, self-sacrificing genius. He went through his guards the next day under the guise of a brutal, unforgiving drill. He had them running siege patterns, sparring until their padded armor was dark with sweat, watching them like a hawk. He found the one he was looking for: Ser Elyas, a bastard from the Reach. He was honorable, sharp as a blade, and handsome in that sun-kissed, broad-shouldered way that maidens were supposed to swoon over. His laugh was easy, his temperament unruffled.
"Ser Elyas," Maekar had rumbled, his voice a low thunder. "You are being reassigned. You are now the personal guard to my wife, the princess. You will see to her safety at all times. You will accompany her on walks, attend her in the gardens, and ensure no harm befalls her."
Kinktober Day 10 - Tentacles (Moon Presence)
Kinktober Day 10 - Tentacles, Moon Presence x Reader, Bloodborne
Masterlist
Misc. Tags/Info - Reader is good hunter who takes gehrman's place after the hunt and is Flora's plaything, but is Strangely into it. GN reader - usage of ‘hole’ specifically anal. Angst, actually kinda sad but that is expected of bloodborne, long set up sorry. Flora is referenced as the Moon Presence the whole time and has it/its pronouns, bcuz unfortunately the reader does realize the feminine grace of Flora. Monster fucking ofc, its bloodborne, eldritch horror fucking.
WC - 707
Nsfw under cut
Imagine your fav kissing you like this
Okey, I’m kind of obsessed, so I’m thinking feverishly about how exactly would Bloodborne characters propose. I mean, most of them would probably do it in some extraordinary way, like knee deep in blood with hunter’s weapon on their shoulder or with hands digging into someone's insides. It even seems to me like a classic marriage proposal from the time when one of the partners asked their parents for permission to wed someone (*cough* Alfred *cough*) would be in the middle of the Hunt or something. Hm, also how good are hunters as suitors? So much potential for forbidden marriage, gosh.. I don’t have any suggestions on characters, I’m simply dying to hear your thoughts on anyone! The more the merrier!!
married life ☆ lady maria, valtr, & laurence x gn! reader
wc — 1,763 words
a/n — i apologize for vanishing again </3 this ask was sooo cute btw and i had a ton of fun writing for it :] i've been trying to platinum bloodborne recently so i'd write in between chalice dungeons lol
Maria
She’s been preparing herself to ask for your hand for a very, very long time.
Practices reciting her proposal in the mirror so she can work on that smile of hers, the one you say looks more taunting than cheery
Maria wants to be anything but scary when she asks to be your wife
On nights where the Hunt drags on and the streets are soaked with the blood of felled prey, all will be heavy with silence save for the love-drunk recital of a lone hunter’s proposal
She carries the ring on her at all times, as both a good luck charm and an anticipatory measure
She’s so worried about her proposal going awry, about it not sticking the landing and leaving you more uncertain than excited, that she’ll often be lie awake beside you just imagining everything that could possibly go wrong
… And you’ll be none the wiser. She’s quite the stoic.
But Maria can only take so much
It’s the night of the Hunt, and she hadn’t slept the night before. Or the night before that.
She’s exhausted, a total mess — and you’re being so kind to her.
You’ve brought her treats, made sure she’s drinking enough water, and cuddled her to no end. And when it was finally time for her to get up, you helped her get ready.
You even pretended not to notice when she lowered her hat, flustered by your sweet words and warm touch
So when she’s finally headed out the door, she can’t help but do away with formalities and propose to you right then and there
And she does it in the most Maria-like way, too. She’s intense, monotone, speaking at a volume only you can hear …
She doesn’t even bother with that rehearsed smile
But you don’t mind it. Of course you don’t
She pulls her hat down over her eyes again once she’s done, embarrassed by how unprofessional she’d just been
But her spirit is quickly lifted after hearing your excited, affirming chirps
When she returns she’ll try to be more suave, pull you tight to her and ask if you really meant it. You did, obviously. Then maybe she can convince you to give her the ring back so she can have a more proper “do-over”
Maria is an absolutely stellar spouse
Her love is unconditional, she remembers every little thing you tell her, helps you out any chance she gets, buys you a whole bunch of pretty little things …
Maria treats you like royalty, and she’s your most loyal knight
The changes in her demeanor are very subtle, but her fellow hunters can tell just how much your relationship has impacted her
Her movements seem much more purposeful and she oozes a confidence that your unyielding admiration no doubt plays a part in
Gehrman’s pretty down in the dumps about the whole thing, something Maria notices but doesn’t understand. She’ll try and get him to crack a grin, but honestly it just makes him worse
Very amusing for the other hunters to watch
She holds your hand everywhere you go. It doesn’t matter if she’s leading or lagging behind you, your hand is always in hers. She’ll even swing them together sometimes if she’s feeling playful
Definitely made some sort of gift for you out of a blood gem (brooch, bracelet bead, ring, little decoration on top of a ribbon), maybe even started the trend of doing so.
Valtr
It’s very unlikely you’ll get a traditional proposal out of this guy
You’ll be beside him, cutting down vermin in a fleshy frenzy until all that's left is viscera and a tension
He’s all worked up, bubbling with courage and excitement, and decides right then and there to turn on his heel and vomit out the most suave, on-the-spot proposal ever uttered
You’ve been together long enough for him to constantly joke about the two of you being espoused, so asking feels all too natural to him and not at all like some sort of heavy, life-changing question
His clothes are still slick with blood and he’s very obviously trying to kick whatever creature you’ve just killed out of your line of sight with his boot.
It’s messy, unorthodox and very, very Valtr
He didn’t even buy a ring
Fret not, he’ll let you pick one out later!
There likely won’t even be a ceremony unless you request one, and even then it’ll probably be quite small — in some itty bitty chapel, crammed with close friends and loved ones
But again, adjustments will be made in accordance with whatever his darling beloved wants
The honeymoon phase never ended with him
He’s always going to be infatuated with you — awe-inspired, even
He still flirts with you like how he would when you’d first met; maybe even more than before. This sort of non-stop playfulness is in his nature
He may be a tease, but he’s also a gentleman. He’ll reign himself in if he ever feels as though he’s gone too far. He knows when he’s in the doghouse, and he’ll stay there until you’re ready to deal with him again.
He’s showy. Offers his arm to you when you go out, makes a huge fuss about how he absolutely must buy you whatever it is you’ve so much as blinked at, etc …
His fellows all know just how obsessed he is with you. He had them make introductions early on into your relationship; ensure you’re all friendly with each other
It’s not at all uncommon for him to get drunk while he’s out with them and ramble about you till he’s being carried out the door
Valtr is a lot to handle, but what you’re willing to take will most certainly be worth it
Laurence
Childhood friends to lovers … walk with me …
Staying over at each other’s houses to read together, having picnics and stargazing together, sitting on opposite ends of church pews and peeking over at each other, being each other’s greatest supporter…
Laurence has always envisioned a future where you’re both by each other’s side forever and ever – he’s just too naive to realize the future he’s thinking of is one where you’re married
It’ll click with him later, after some incessant teasing from your shared neighbors (“If you like them so much, why don’t you just marry them?” and the like)
One realization comes after another, and he realizes (quite ashamedly) how much he really likes you
From then on he’s much more bashful and awkward with you, though he remains the same friend you’ve known for so many years
It’s right before he leaves for Byrgenwerth that he decides to change all that. There’s no way he’s moving out and leaving you for gods know how long before telling you how he feels
He arranges a meeting with your parents, baring his heart and asking their permission for him to court you. He’s a nice young man – lots of potential – and your best friend, so of course they permit it
His confesses to you in earnest, a hymn of total adoration that would put the greatest of poets to shame
He speaks with a mild desperation and a strain in his voice that harkens back to a time when he’d tug on your sleeve, eager for your attention
He looks so relieved when you accept; shoulders dropping and eyes softening as he promises to write you every day
His devotion is unwavering, even when he’s off at Byrgenwerth
Poor guy’s diary is filled to the brim with love poetry and sappy musings
Being apart from you just makes him think of you more, and how badly he wishes that future he’s envisioned since childhood was real
It will be, he knows that, just not yet. He wants to be something first, accomplish something
So yeah, he’s making you wait. He promises to himself it’ll be the last time he ever does.
It’s agony. He has tea with you twice a month and he has to keep himself in check, try not to bring up the concept of marriage to you until he feels deserving enough to do so
You don’t press him on the subject, but there is some light teasing here and there – nothing Laurence can’t handle
Skipping ahead a bit, after finally getting the Healing Church off the ground his first priority is to wed you
Again he’d ask your parents for permission and again he’d receive it – swiftly, might I add
The clergy all know of their Vicar’s beloved and are absolutely buzzing with excitement the day they expect him to propose
As traditional as it gets. Probably brought you to some pretty, scenic area. Some high up balcony in Cathedral Ward so you can watch the city turn gold when the sun begins to set on it … There’s also definitely some nice gazebos in Yharnam, so maybe there, too.. Either way it’ll be somewhere just as private as it is beautiful.
He’ll be down on one knee, waxing poetic, promising you a wonderful life, the whole thing. Maybe the engagement ring holds the same stone as the cosmic eye watcher badge, signifying how you’re just as much his duty now as the rest of his work is
Gods forbid you ever catch a cold; you’ll have 15 different doctors looking after you
The wedding is held in the Grand Cathedral, obviously. The public one is, anyway. The two of you got married in a much more private setting about a week before this, accompanied by friends and family instead of a whole bunch of clerical strangers. While the second time around is mostly for appearances, it’s still greatly enjoyable. Laurence seems less nervous and stiff; much more used to the role of being your husband than he was the week prior. Much more smiley.
There’s a lot more eyes on you now that you’re married to a man of such importance, but Laurence is more than happy to accommodate you. He’s good at keeping things under wraps, and will gladly help shield you from the public eye as best he can
Honestly he’d be a good 9/10 spouse if it wasn’t for all his secrecy. What the Choir is up to and the more negative effects of the good blood are things he refrains from telling you until maybe a day or two before he goes the way of the beasts
But he’s erected a statue or two of you around Cathedral Ward so maybe he can be forgiven
adieu
how they say goodnight ☆ lady maria, alfred, eileen, djura x gn! reader
wc — 905 words
a/n — whats a 'talking stage'? go harvest blood echoes and get sent to the nightmare!!!
Maria
She’s shockingly quiet as she prepares for the Hunt, determined to give you no cause for concern. Her strong silence, she’s sure, will reassure you more than any amount of comforting blabber could
She instructs you to take care of yourself while she’s away; squeezing your hand and having you promise your own safety
How disappointed she feels, to have to charge you with a responsibility that should be her own
Such feelings dissipate the moment you kiss her — on the cheek, as usual — and bid her a sweet farewell
Warmth floods her, and she sets out with a newly invigorated spirit, stirred solely by her beloved
Maria doesn’t bother to wash up before she sees you again. Beast hunting, it seems, brings to her a surprising increase in impulsivity
She rushes home, flirts with you incessantly, buttering you up as you squeal and swat at her blood-soaked form …
Maria’s typically stern countenance is easily eclipsed by your cheery giggling, and soon enough she’s snickering through kisses; breathless in her revelry
Alfred
Nearly sets your home on fire with how much incense he lights for you
He’s certainly one of the most confident in your safety on this list, believing his work to aid in it above all else, but he can never be too careful
Rushes in and out of every room as he prepares to set out on the Hunt, gleefully yapping as he does
Tucks you in before he leaves if you plan on sleeping, resting on his knees and praying by your bedside to his sovereign master for a fruitful Hunt
If you insist on bidding him farewell at the door, he’ll muss your hair and land a merry kiss on your forehead before heading out
Washes off before seeing you again; wishing to spare you the fright of seeing him splattered with blood and viscera
Once he does reunite with you, you can be sure he’ll have you swept off your feet in his embrace before you can even utter a “welcome home”
Eileen
Not as nervous about the beasts causing you trouble as she is about the Hunters
tells you time and time again to not answer to anyone who happens upon your shared home during the Hunt, no matter how kindly or familiar
Tries to stay as optimistic about the oncoming night as she can — for your sake.
Often jokes about her position, keeping up a playful attitude until she’s finally out the door
You’re well aware, however, how much her job wears on her
You remedy her weariness as best you can, taking care of her and showering her with affection as the Hunt nears
She’s appreciative of this of course, lends some more thought into the idea of finally marrying you; keep things how they already are …
Leaves you with her usual words of caution and a bittersweet kiss on the cheek
Returns bloody as usual, though hardly a drop is her own
She’ll greet you before washing up, wanting nothing more than to envelope herself in your loving presence as soon as possible
Only bothers to clean off once she realizes how much blood she’s tracked in
She retires to the washroom once she’s done soaking in your embrace, her mind made up
Her next Hunt, she’s sure now, will be for a wedding band
Djura
Doesn’t have to say goodnight each night, if you accompany him on the tower
While he may prefer you staying inside so you don’t catch cold, he does greatly enjoy your company
Either way, the both of you make little meals for each other. You exchange food at the door if you’re staying inside, or atop the tower if you happen to convince him to let you tag along
While Djura does worry for your health and safety when you’re up there with him, all his concern seems to melt away once your moonlit picnic begins
He’s pretty on edge when he’s up there, so once you’re both done dining he’ll stiffen up quick. He’ll still hold conversation with you as long as you want him to, but it won’t be as pleasant as your idle sun-up chats
He understands that he’s not one for talking during the Hunt, and will make up for it by spending time with you during the day
The two of you will spend time together doing whatever it is you feel like, so long as it brings you joy
If you’re fine with his silence while up on the tower, you can enjoy yourself to a full night of stargazing and quality time — as long as no pesky Hunters show up, of course
Should you instead choose to stay indoors (or your persuasion wasn’t enough to allow you to accompany him), the next time you’ll see Djura is in the morning, slumped over on the dining table asleep.
He’s absolutely exhausted at the end of the night, and would rather pass out somewhere discreet than risk waking you up
Give him a few hours and by sometime in the afternoon he’ll be your beloved djura again, mumbling a hoarse 'good morning' as he stumbles into your arms
Time in the Fade.
Rook is trapped in the Fade for longer than she thought.
Pairing: Rook x Lucanis / Rook x Spite
Genre: Angst
Words: 2.7k
Read it here on ao3!
Chapter 1 (Chapter 2 will be Lucanis’ pov <3)
How long has it been since she had stepped out of reality and into the Fade? Rook lay on her back, atop of the stairs by the ritual site the Fade handcrafted for her to admire and feel regret for how she failed to stop Solas’ ritual and let Varric die out here, in the cold. This is the last place of her prison the Fade has not transformed and reshaped yet, this is the only constant in her new reality, despite being here for a very long time.
How long, Rook was not sure. She can’t count how many moons risen and fallen, how many times the sun came to shine on her face and encourage her to start her day, nor did she possess the feeling to tell the time anymore. At some point, all of her senses mush together into one pile of confusion, loneliness and emptiness.
***
During the first few months, at least she thought those were months, Rook still had Varric to talk to.
She knew he wasn’t really there, but it was nice to have someone here with her. They talked about past jobs they did together, Rook’s royal fuck-up with the Antaam that caused Viago to send her away, how hurt she felt at the time and how much she missed Antiva, her home. She’d punch herself how she’d hate listening to Viago’s endless lectures and scoldings, only to miss them now so much it hurts.
At times, Rook and Varric argued, even if it was rather one sided. She screamed at him, cried into his shoulder, threw rocks and whatever else she got into her hands against walls or into the endless voids, while he let her. He never yelled back, never tried to stop or calm her, rather just let her be and do this until she was tired of it. That’s when he spoke to her again.
"I don’t know, kid. They should’ve gotten to you by now, but what do I know? I’m no mage." Varric fiddled with Bianca on his lap, leaning against the rock pillar behind him. Rook sat silently across him, her body and hands aching from punching and clawing at the statues of her companions, crying and yelling at them, asking the statues to speak to her again, show her a way out of this, but no answer ever came.