[8:16pm] Today had been long enough. Not that anything much happened, though — today was just long, uneventful, painfully silent, and unbearable. The only thing barely keeping you alive was a random track from an indie band you like blasting from your speakers.
Donghyuck had his eyes closed as he napped on top of you. You felt comfortably snug against his weight and the plush couch, counting the time with his breaths.
"Hey," his voice was raspy from not speaking for hours. You move his hair so that you can see his eyes, just as he mutters, "I love you."
A small smile breaks into your face. You're way too tired to say it back, but Hyuck moves up to level with your eyes. He kisses your cheek obnoxiously, before taking your hand and pressing your wrist to his face, kissing over it too.
"Your heart's racing," he breathes against the skin right above your pulse.
You barely crack a smile. "Yeah?"
He nods. "Mine too."
You can't help but close your eyes with a little laugh when he nudges his nose against yours.
The rest of the day might actually be slightly bearable.
Here's the promised Cullen fluff of the day :D It's basically the continuation of this one here and its just pretty pointless fluffyness. I am just jumping on the bandwagon with everyone doing 'Inquisitor + LI + bathtub' fic, and I insisted that Cullen has a nose scar in that concept art so there it is. Enjoy!
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Cullen carried the Inquisitor to the bath chamber next to their shared bedroom and had hot water filled into the large tub. Enriched with scented oils, the steam filled the room quickly and he returned to her, helped her out of her armour. It was crusted in dirt and blood – mostly that of her enemies. A large bruise spread blue and green at her side, she flinched a little when he put his hand on it, her skin burning feverish. Alarm spread on his face, but she shook her head.
“Solas already checked on it. He stopped the internal bleeding, I’ll be fine. It’s just... unpleasant…” Róisín explained. Cullen nodded quietly. Careful not to cause her more discomfort, he helped her out of her smallclothes. She shivered a little, so naked against the chill of the Keep. So he quickly took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. He pressed his lips to her forehead and felt her sigh, part exhausted, part relieved. He took her hands. Her short fingernails were dirty, her hands rough from wielding her staff. He led her to the bath, where he took his coat from her and helped her climb into the tub. She moved like her limbs were aching, like she was much older than her spirited 25 years, and when the hot water wrapped around her, she moaned in relaxation.
“Oh Maker… this is wonderful…”
“I missed you…” he whispered, his nose softly brushing her cheek.
“I missed you too. I can barely sleep when you’re not next to me…” she whispered back. Cullen pressed his lips to her cheek, but did not reply. They both knew he rarely slept when she was not there. Nightmares kept him awake and he only felt safe enough to sleep when he had her next to him, her breath tickling on his skin, the weight of her body, her warmth.
Róisín turned in his embrace to find his lips with hers, gentle kisses pressed on his chin, the corners of his mouth. Her slender hands were on his cheeks, thumbs caressed his temples as his hands slowly stroked up and down her back. The tip of her nose brushed his, yet a moment of hesitation made her pull away. Her fingertips brushed over the small, crusted cut on the bridge of his nose, just healing up. “When did that happen?”
“Blackwall. A sparring accident…” Cullen replied with a soft chuckle. She looked worried.
“You’re supposed to do friendly sparring, not beat each other bloody,” she warned.
“We’ll try.”
She scooted closer and gently pressed her lips to the small cut. They lingered so, for a long moment, he lost count of the heartbeats that passed before he looked up and claimed her lips with his. He could feel a small cut on her lip, the faint taste of blood mixed with the sweetness her lips usually tasted of. Her hands caressed his shoulders and neck, his thumbs held her hips gently. Their kiss was slow, patient, a kiss to remind them what they loved about each other. There was nothing of the usual hunger they felt when they had been apart for a long time. This was quieter, this was all about holding on to each other, breathing each other in.
He was not sure how long they kissed but when her lips finally left his, the water had noticeably cooled down. She leaned down and pressed a long kiss on the nape of his neck while he brushed back her damp hair, and finally, she stood up. He watched the water trickle down her naked skin, trace the form of her, and he felt that hunger stir up in him after all, that need to feel her against him. When he stood up, his arms came around her again and they had barely climbed out of the tub when she pulled his lips onto hers, fiercer this time. She sighed against his mouth when he reached around her thighs to pull her up against him. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her next door. Without even taking the time to dry the bathwater off their skin, they fall onto their bed, lost in each other.
Sorry again for all these sad headcanons. Here, have some fluff to make up for it!
Alistair pushed the heavy crown around on his head, tried to find a position where it looked most ‘regal’ – how Eamon had said it should look – but was still comfortable. The fur coat was stuffy and heavy, the boots sweaty, the tunic under the chainmail was itching against his skin and yes, just generally everything about this was genuinely unpleasant. He would be terrible at this. He would mess up. He would stumble and fall, or make a fool of himself otherwise. Why?!
“Why did you do this? Why make me King? I’m terrible at this!” he called out. A pair of hands appeared in the reflection in the mirror and he glanced to his side, where Zura had appeared. She was draped in a magnificent robe, blue and purple and green, with silver embroidery and her new crest as Lady Enchanter of the Denerim court and Lady Commander of the Grey Wardens. Her black hair was woven with a fine silver circlet that dipped into her forehead with drops of sapphires and amethyst, matching earrings and a necklace. And tucked behind her ear she wore his rose, preserved with magic to stay forever in lush, lovely bloom. She reached up brushed over the tips of his ears with a chuckle and gently set his crown right. She got to the tips of her toes and placed a soft, small kiss on his lips.
“No, you’re not. You’re scared, and that’s alright. You’d be a fool not to be. But I know there’s greatness in you, Alistair. You’ll be a great King.”
He sighed in frustration. His hands came to her shoulders, soft and delicate under the fine fabric. He wandered along her arms, over her elbows, down to her hands and took them both, brought them to his lips to kiss them. His lips pressed to her knuckles repeatedly. Her skin smelled of rose oil and milk, was soft against his lips and scruff.
He reached for her face with one hand, and she leaned into the touch.
“Fighting darkspawn, that’s easy. You know. I see the enemy, they come at me with swords and all. But this... this is hard!”
She chuckled.
“You’d rather have the Blight back?”
“No! Maker no... just... all these nobles, silently judging me... I’m mortified!”
“Oh Alistair. Don’t be. You’re not alone. I’ll always be here, by your side, until we shall both be called into the darkness.”
“Is that a vow?” he asked with a soft tease in his voice. She smiled.
“That is a vow.”
“Good! Because I have a vow prepared as well!”
She blinked confused at his grin. The King of Ferelden stepped away from the mirror and the woman. He rushed to the bedside and pulled open a drawer, from it he produced a small case, ordained with gold and jewels. He came back to her, almost skipping, a joyous spring in his step and his face beaming.
“A-Alistair?”
He put a finger to her lips.
“Don’t kill me with reason, my love,” he begged. And he went to one knee before her. She gasped, hands clutched over her lips at the sight of the King of Ferelden on his knee before her. He looked up at her, deepest devotion in his amber eyes when he presented the small case and opened it. The ring inside was so unbelievably simple, it barely qualified as an engagement ring. A simple, golden band, but even from where she stood she could see something had been engraved inside it. “I know we can never have a grand reception, we can never have the beautiful day you deserve your wedding day to be. I’ll never really see you walk down the aisle, never have a priestess officiate our bond. But I will promise you this, Zura Amell. I will love you until my last breath, and I will be your family, as you are mine, and I will make you smile everyday – probably laugh out loud most days, and I will never be the cause of a single tear for you. And when we are called into the darkness, I will be by your side, and I will hold your hand, and every memory we will share as we pass will be a good one.”
She gasped a sob and he saw tears stream down her face. Alarm spread on his features and he jumped up. “Oh! Oh, no, no, my love, I didn’t mean to make you cry, I vowed not to cause you tears.”
She laughed and gently punched him in the side, then pulled him close into her arms.
“I love you, Alistair. I love you more than you know.”
“Um… d-does that mean you’ll be my wife?”
“Of course, you big fool!” she said and punched him in the arm again. He laughed, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. He pressed his lips to her hair, then turned her so her back was against his chest. His lips lingered by her temple when he took the ring from its case. She caught a glimpse of the engraved letter: Until the dark may call us. He slipped it onto her slender finger while she watched them both in the mirror.
“Zura Theirin…” he whispered. She gasped playfully scandalised.
“Excuse me? Alistair Amell.”
They both burst out laughing, his arms wrapped around her tightly, his heart beating against her back. They knew neither of them would be able to change their name for the other. He had to be a Theirin to keep that crown. She could not be a Theirin because truly, she was nothing, no one, not even truly an Amell. But within the walls of their chambers, they could be whoever they wanted to be.
There are very few things that Killian Jones has ever found himself completely enthralled by. Very little has ever so deeply captured his attention, despite the fact that he considers himself a rather simple man. He's rarely captured by something, taken by it to the point of the deepest admiration.
And yet, here he is, completely and utterly entranced by something so simple as a head of hair.
He's running his fingers through Emma's golden locks as her head rests on his lap, her eyes fixed on the television screen in front of them despite the fact that her eyes have been getting heavier.
He figures the sensation of his hands running through her hair must feel nice, and it's not like he's planning on stopping.
Her hair is just so damn soft.
He can't help wondering how she gets it that way. Maybe it's one of those eternal mysteries he's never supposed to solve.
He's alright with that.
She takes a deep breath and he sees her eyes finally drift closed. He busies himself toying with the ends of her hair for a moment before resuming his full sweeps, from her scalp to the very tips.
"That feels so good," she whispers, and her voice is scratchy. "You're putting me to sleep."
He chuckles, looking down at her in time to see one eye pop open. She grins at him, and he tucks a stray lock behind her ear. "I can't really help it, love. I may just be in love with your hair."
She smiles and opens both eyes this time, sitting up and looking at him, a teasing glint in her eye. "And here, all this time, I thought you were in love with me. Boy, I sure was mistaken."
He lifts his hand slowly, letting his fingers gently graze over her cheek before closing the distance between them and kissing her. "Make no mistake, darling," he says against her lips, "I am very, very much in love with you."
She bites her lip as if trying to hold in a smile, but she breaks into a grin anyway, giving him another quick kiss. "Ah, but you're having a love affair with my hair."
He pecks her lips once more, a small laugh escaping him. "How do you get it so bloody soft?"
She shrugs, lying back down and putting her head once again in his lap. "If you keep playing with it, maybe one day I'll tell you."
