#oc: Gwyn | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bearlytolerant · 10 days

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Fandom: Dragon’s Dogma 2

Pairing: Arisen/Phaesus

Chapter Rating: Mature

AO3

Figures spin in an array of silks. Donning masks feathered or scaled or embellished in some format or another. Fancy birds and beasts alike. And her eyes watch from the shadowed corner of the room.

Blonde hair. Braided bun. Blue plumed mask.

Blonde. Braided. Blue.

The description plays on repeat for her target of a delivered letter. A noblewoman—Lady Henrietta—who can be swayed to the side of the arisen. To her side. Not that she cares for her position or any side swaying (unless it’s in reference to a pretty woman) but she cares for Ser Brant and Regentkin Sven and they are the ones pulling all the strings. Someone always is. She’d made an attempt at convincing Brant to let a pawn go in her stead but it failed. Miserably. So she resigns herself to playing puppet. At least she can don a pretty dress, drink and dance. Besides, their hard work on her behalf should be rewarded, no? And it’s not like it’s a difficult assignment. She might even be best suited for it, her whole life spent knowing the subtle details of each of her goats to call them by name. These nobles are just goats.

More masqueraders filter through the doorway and something new plays on the violin, soft and sensual. Half the candles are blown out, casting a warm, moody glow on cheeks unshadowed. Roses in a vast array of pinks and reds fill vases around the room, and the sweet fragrance cannot drown out the scent of sweat and sex that permeates the air.

Gwyn manages to spot a woman matching the description she’s searching for. But the blue of her dress is caught up in a twirl on the dance floor, the same blue plumes of her mask taking flight before she can even peel herself off the pillar. With slumped shoulders, she sighs and mindlessly adjusts her own scaled black mask. Patience is almost too steep a price for paragonal virtue.

A shiver runs up her spine and she averts her gaze from the dancers to scan the dim-lit recesses between the marbled columns nearby. Her eyes land on a tall figure, dressed in black with mask to match, hands clasped behind his back. The gold accents on both mask and robe gleam when the flickering flame catches the metallic just so. His attire is different. Not Vermundian in style but more Battahli, and she wonders what a noble from the neighboring country is doing here. Surely events such as these exist in his own courts and ballrooms. Does he just want to bask in the revelries of Vermundian customs or is he on a mission, much the same as she? A half smirk tugs at those lips, eyes never leaving her and his bearded jawline is accentuated by the candle’s half-light. Like a moth to his flame, she floats over to him.

He’s not quite as tall as her up close. And not everything is black. The habit beneath the robes is a deep shade of purple and a thick, wine red cord is tied about his waist. All of it is luxurious garb, the kind only befitting nobles and she wonders what title he carries back home.

His eyes remain fixated on her. More often her chest than any other feature. She can’t say she wouldn’t do the same if she were him. But isn’t that what these little masquerades are about? They say it’s to celebrate The (false) Sovran but everyone knows what those celebrations entail. Unadulterated lust and stolen moments of forbidden fornication disguised as dancing. She smooths her hands down her corset, his eyes never straying from her body. At least he carries no false pretenses about his desires. She determines she likes him already and closes the small gap between them.

A tilt of his head and his eyes flick back up to hers with a pleased hum. “Why, you’re—”

His voice is like a hypnotic rumble carried on smoke laden clouds. Or velvet sheets caressing the skin just before that first light of dawn peeks through the curtains. A voice she associates with satiated desire coupled with possession and she wants to be his tonight. She just knows with that deep decadent tone and alluring cadence that he’s the type to talk you through an orgasm and if not, she’ll take enjoyment from hearing that voice of his relinquish a moan while threading her fingers through his raven colored locks. Raising a brow in piqued interest, she hopes he continues speaking.

“No, pay me no mind.”

“A senseless request when you have caught my attention and are all that consumes my mind now.”

A small smirk but her bold attempt at flirting is not enough to make him blush. He unfolds his arms from behind his back, dispersing the tension of his haughty posture with a roll of his wrist. “We who are gathered here are naught but nameless nobles. Twould be uncouth to inquire after another’s identity.”

She wants to laugh. Ask how many times he’s rehearsed such an alliterative line or if he’s the type to succumb to such formalities. But the way he turns each word into goosebumps on her arms has her trading her almost-laugh in for fire running through her veins. She no longer even cares about his name. Would it be uncouth if she skipped banter altogether and went straight to sex in the corridor? Does she care if it was? She surmises she aught to at least dance with him first.

“All such speak of identity aside, might I ask you to dance?”

“I would be a fool to deny you.”

“You would indeed, my lord.” He offers a small bow before taking the lead.

Fingers cool to the touch, hers interlock with his until they find a place amongst the other masked dancers. Somehow her memory serves her for once when she recalls the required four-steps and turn for this particular dance but her mind wanders. One-two steps and he’s too far away. The third and the fourth, brings him back and she wants him closer. Wants him to stay. Desires his fingers skimming along her skin, playing her like the violin, her sighs harmonizing with his.

“You seem distracted,” he says when they rejoin, fingers interlocking with hers, raising their arms into the air as they slowly circle one another. His lips, thin and yet so alluring, are so close. Too close. Not close enough.

“Are you not?”

Though taciturn, the desire that burns behind his own dark eyes, reveals a satisfactory answer.

A catch of breath and his eyes don’t leave her as she steps back, spins and then they trade partners. Another four-steps that she must focus on or else be tripped up, and she loses sight of him with the next twirl. The music comes to an end. The crowd claps, pressed in tight together. She stretches on tip-toes and searches above the crowd. Spies his robe slipping smoothly away toward the fringes and she follows, almost forgetting the whole reason she’s at this masquerade.

A collision. A gasp. And wine is spilled down the front of her bodice but she spots that braided, blonde and blue and remembers the letter. Squeezing past the clumsy, wine-spilling noble, she reroutes herself, trailing after the blue dress.

A hand gently wraps around her wrist from the shadows and she’s pulled away from her pursuit.

“There you are.”

“My lord, I hardly think I was lost. You are the one who left and are in need of searching out.”

“Am I?”

She grants him an easy smile, taking in his form. “Indeed. Though, you are found now.”

A hum of acknowledgment and he folds his arms across his chest.

“I regret that I must leave you for a moment but I have need to speak with a friend. But after, if it would please you, I would relish in the opportunity to share another dance.”

“I was thinking we could share in a moment more—private.”

“I believe there is a storage—”

He interrupts, lips almost against her ear as he says, “let us reconvene when the clock strikes the next hour.”

She nods. Searches out Lady Henrietta. It’s all hush hush and a secret exchange gone well before Gwyn is almost sprinting around the outer hallway, blotting away the wet spot of spilled wine on her black dress with a kerchief she stole from a man in a Beastren mask.

She will definitely be early.

Heart racing as the clock tolls the new hour, Gwyn readjusts her position on a forgotten desk littered with old, dusty books buried in the ballroom's storage closet behind a room divider. Remembering to breathe, she quells her nervous excitement. But it all shatters when the door creaks open and the gentle hum of a spell is cast. She marks down another certainty. But is he a mage or sorcerer? Or some combination of the two? She resigns herself to thinking it doesn’t matter.

“I presume you found your way easily enough?” She hopes it’s her masked tryst and not a guard she’s speaking to.

“Indeed,” he answers and her momentary worry dissipates.

“You did lock the door, yes?” Though, she can make the assumption easily enough if he felt the need to use magic.

Rounding the room divider, she takes in his handsome form and it’s a shame she can’t peel off that mask and those robes to reveal all of what’s underneath. To see what face that growl of a voice comes from. But his mouth will have to do as he inches closer and she tugs the wine colored cord around his waist. He nearly loses balance, but braces himself, palms on either side of her. Cupping his chin in her hand, she captures his dark brown gaze and slowly inches toward him, breath on his lips.

“Yes. And we shall remain uninterrupted for a few hours,” he says.

“Hours?”

He closes the gap between them, lips pressing against hers in a surprisingly gentle way and her fingers crawl along his jawline and slip to the back of his neck where she twirls a dark lock around her finger. Heart thudding wildly, she releases all of her pent up tension with a tug of his hair. A soft, pleasant gasp and she smiles against him. Deepens the kiss with a slant of her lips and flick of her tongue, she yanks him even closer. But he breaks away with a coy smile.

“Time is needed for a fruitful and thorough experience.”

“Thorough hmm?”

“Might I inquire of you?

“Go on.”

“How well,” he reaches down, hooking his fingers under the hem of her dress, thumbs sliding across her thighs, as he slowly shuffles the fabric upward, bunching it around her hips, “do you follow instruction?”

She expects a grin but only seriousness lingers in his gaze. “I suppose it depends upon who is instructing and if they are worthy of my obedience or not.”

“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully, inching to his knees. A press of his lips against her inner thigh and his eyes flick back up to hers. “I shall make myself worthy then.”

#bear writes #dd2 fanfic #dragon’s dogma 2 fanfic #dd2 #dragon’s dogma 2 #phaesus x arisen #ascension #chapter 1 #oc: gwyn #eyyy it’s out 😅

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oliviajdjarin · 1 year

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Azriel Shadowsinger: Inertia

Pairing: Azriel x fem!reader (she/her; afab)

Request: "Hello, I just finished reading your most recent Az work & it was so wonderful ❤️ & I was wondering if you are still taking requests? If so, I was thinking maybe one where reader is helping Az into his leathers and like tying all his armor into place and stuff before he goes off to the war (or just a dangerous mission) and then after he comes back reader also helps him take it all off & just go to bed🥺❤️ If you have time or feel inspired to write this, I would appreciate it."

Warnings: blood, descriptions of gore, knives, cuts, vivid descriptions of anxiety, descriptions of scars, nudity, nightmares, bruises, kissing, very much off canon, pretty much just hurt comfort.

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: Thank you very much to the person who requested this to me. I am so sorry I cannot find your username anymore, but I hope I have done justice to your idea. And of course thank you to my readers for all the love on my recent fics :)

If you'd like to leave a like, comment, ask, or reblog, it would be much appreciated <3

SJM Masterlist

(pic credit to pinterest)

The Spymaster of the Night Court liked to think he was split in half. Two persons in one body.

The first, the Shadowsinger. Carynthian. One of the most powerful Illyrian warriors to ever exist. Member of the most powerful High Lord's inner circle. Servant of his shadows and infamous throughout all of Prythian.

The second, completely, utterly, entirely owned by the female in his arms.

Your breaths spanned across his chest like waves on sand, spreading across his skin like water, leaving trails of chills in their wake. Your nude body was warm, silky, and serene, rested completely on top of him as if you were holding him down against his will.

In reality, Azriel prayed he died like this. Fully encapsulated by you and only you.

Your body rose as he inhaled and lowered as he exhaled. Your tiny squeaks of breath were a rush of blood to his head. He continually ran his scarred hands across your back and down your spine as you slept, soaking in the feeling of your skin and the storm within his chest at bay. He knew it wouldn't be for long.

He seemed to always be running out of time.

As the minutes ticked on, made apparent by the wooden clock next to his bed, he could feel the first half of his self slowly taking over the second. He could feel the blood lust, the cool rage, the hardening of his heart already beginning to take place. With his mate in his arms, it felt wrong, like he was holding glass his body was itching to drop.

Because of this, he kissed you.

"Y/N," he mumbled against your lips, kissing you again. "Y/N."

He was met with a lucid groan deep within your throat, and he kissed you again.

"I have to go."

With those words your eyes opened, and Az was blinded by their radiance, as he is every day. The area around your eyes was slightly puffed from sleep, adding to the intimacy and mundanity of simply waking up together. Azriel wished he could drink it. Pour it into a glass to perhaps sip on later, when the half of himself he was becoming less and less proud of as the years went on became too much.

You rubbed at said eyes, your body heat against his warming at your increasing blood flow. You leaned forward, propping yourself up and away from him. He sat up with you and wrapped an arm around your waist.

He was desolate without your touch, desperate for as much of it as he could have before having to leave it.

"I'm up," you whispered, yawning. "I'm up."

He chuckled and tucked his mouth against your neck, kissing just underneath your jaw. The softest, most favorite area of his to kiss on you. Your pulse thumping against his lips. Your very life against his mouth.

He was going to fucking miss you.

You pulled him away from you to give his lips a peck before scooting down to the edge of the bed, standing completely up, and stretching your spine and shoulders. Rolling them backwards and forwards, side to side. The line down your back was accentuated as you did this, as well as the shade of your skin in the rising sun.

If Azriel had the choice, he would have kept you in that bedroom all day, and all night, and for all of eternity.

You then made your way across the room to a cushioned chair, draped with every piece of his leathers laid out and ready. He hated the look of it - these agents of carnage on such delicate fabric. It felt absurd, almost sinister.

What was worse was the image of you walking towards them and lifting his tunic into your arms. You faced him, holding it at the ready, and he got up from bed with a sigh. It was deep, bottomless.

He stayed standing anyway.

He walked to you, also nude, and held eye-contact as he did. Your eyes were sunken and sad, but in a way that was not vibrant or pungent. It was in a way that showed you were used to this sadness and fear, that you and your body knew how to handle it.

Always running out of time.

He held up his arms and you slid the tunic over his head. You then turned back around and retrieved his pants, allowing him to step into them. As you buttoned them securely, making sure they were tight enough for his comfort, you began to speak.

"Where to today?" you asked, and despite the dread growing in his stomach, he smiled.

You always asked him for details of his missions before he left for them, desperate for any and every characteristic of them. He always wondered why you did this. He didn't know if you wanted an image of everything that could go wrong, everything that could go right, or even a bit of both.

Part of him wanted to know, but most of him did not.

"Rhys is worried," Azriel replied. "Beron is getting worse, according to Eris anyway, and plans on meeting with the mortal queens in the Autumn Court tonight at dusk. Eris is meant to sneak me in so I can get a read on what they're planning."

You hummed, finishing off his pants and reaching behind you to add his vest. You then began adding his padding, and your eyes remained focused on his body.

"You don't like that?"

You shrugged. "I don't trust Eris."

He nodded, helping you smooth the vest down comfortably to his body. "I wish I could disagree with you."

You looked up at him then, leaving your hands on his pecks. "You shouldn't be going alone."

"I have to," he replied. "Cassian can't be incognito for shit."

You smiled faintly, but the dull fear remained.

"Besides, I'm never alone," he said, gesturing behind him. "My shadows will keep me safe, alert me if something is going wrong, and protect me."

Your breath was warm against his face as you said, "And you will get out of there if they tell you to, if your gut is telling you to."

He held your face in his hands. "I will get out of there, and I will come back home."

You nodded, still unconvinced, but kissed him anyway.

You then added his pauldrons to his legs and thighs, smoothing them against his pants and assisting him with his boots, before finally latching on his shoulder and stomach spaulder. He could feel some tension relieve on your shoulders as you did this, allowing the knowledge that despite entering enemy territory, he was still protected. His heart and vital organs were protected by the best Rhysand could get.

He could see a little bit of his mate come back into herself as you processed that knowledge. It wasn't enough, he knew that, but it helped you, and that was more than enough for him.

You gave the covering a quick jab, both to test the strength and cut the tension, sending Az staggering back a few steps. You both smiled at each other as he found his footing.

"How does a warning sound for next time?" he chuckled.

"Tell that to your fancy shadows," you countered, and he shook his head, his eyes a glowing gold.

Never enough time.

You then picked up his gloves from the cushioned chair, and held the pair of them in one hand while taking his left hand in the other. You rubbed a thumb down his scars, tracing each divot and crease, before pressing a swift kiss to his palm. You then pulled the matching glove on over the skin, and repeated the process with his right hand.

That act, that simple kiss and touch, was more intimate and profound than any act of sex the two of you had ever and would ever share to him. It showed him that you acknowledged it for what it was - painful, foreign, damaged - but also saw it for its beauty. Its symbolism of survival and strength. Its necessity for him to become the male he was today.

It's safe to say he cried like a true Illyrian baby when you kissed him like that the first time, and teared up every time after that.

After his gloves were on him comfortably, you put on the finishing touches of his leathers before taking a few steps back, you admiring him, and him admiring you. Him wrapped in wealth and power, shadow and danger, death and cool, icy focus on his objective. You, bare to him, soft, vulnerable, pure, stripped clean of anything and everything except for who you truly were.

On Azriel's dark days, he believed that in that moment, you both were who you truly were.

You looked him up and down, the playfulness and peace from a few moments before slowly dissipating from the air, and he pulled you back to him when he saw the fear enter your eyes again. The rough leather against your soft skin made him feel dirty, nauseous even at the thought of you getting anywhere close to the person he became when he wore them, but he pushed the feeling to the side as best as he could.

"I will come home," he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours. "I will come home."

You nodded, eyes slowly lining with tears, and he elected to console you with touch. Bestowing kisses against your hairline, down your temples, across your cheeks, down your nose, and nearly against your lips.

Never to your lips. It was his silent promise that he would be back, and he would kiss you well.

He pressed one last kiss against your mouth before departing from the room, not looking back, the first half of his personhood taking control, and the cool focus of the Spymaster and Shadowsinger of the Night Court overtook his being completely.

~*~

Azriel's wish came true. He could disagree with you about not trusting Eris, because he was the only reason Azriel got out of there undetected, unscathed, and uninjured.

Azriel did not, however, trust him to keep his fucking mouth shut. The entire way there and back, constantly vague, rogue comments about Mor never telling anyone the full story of what happened between her and him, how Rhys was too much unchecked power, and how Nesta would be much happier elsewhere.

Azriel's heart went out to the male, knowing how he was treated at home and the abuse he had endured from his father, but that didn't mean he never wanted to clock his teeth in.

Despite the fact that Azriel was coated in sweat and mud, exhausted beyond belief, his inertia that was fueled by adrenaline was slowly fading, and that he desperate to be horizontal, when Eris suggested stopping at an Inn until morning, Azriel would not budge.

"I'm going home," he responded, "with or without you, I'm going home."

Eris was smart enough to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the journey.

After days that felt like weeks, Azriel was at your doorstep - sore, tired, but so fucking happy he could barely contain himself. He knocked, a pattern of one-two-one, but the door nearly flew off its hinges before his second beat. He was met with only a flash of your face through his hazed, swollen eyes, before you wrapped yourself around him, colliding with him in an embrace unique to lovers. One of complete surrender and relief, and he met you head on, holding you so tight to him he raised you off the ground and could feel your ribs squeezing against him so harshly it was painful for the both of you.

Neither of you felt any pain, only relief, and true completeness.

He tucked his head in your neck, listening to your pulse and kissing that spot he loved so much, as you ran your hands through his hair.

"Azriel," you whispered against him, "Azriel."

He put you down and looked into your eyes. "What?"

You smiled, only mischief, play, and knowing written on your face. A look that said, "pay up."

He gladly obliged.

He didn't kiss you softly, or slowly, or reverently. He kissed you like he had been wanting to for days - hungrily. He was starving, aching for you in a way that he was unable to describe. It was down to his bones, the tether in his chest clamoring to connect with its other half.

He felt whole again, and he wanted the feeling forever.

His kisses slowed down as he pushed you into the house, shutting and locking the door behind him without leaving your lips. The two of you could not stop fucking smiling as you moved into the bedroom, and he sat himself down on the cushioned chair. You climbed onto his lap, kissing him with only love, only passion.

You slowly pulled away after a few more short kisses to frame his face with your hands, caressing his skin, looking into his eyes, reaffirming what you already knew.

The most beautiful male you had ever known was completely, utterly, entirely yours.

You could not deny, however, that his under-eyes were a dark shade of violet, as well as the area around them puffy and red.

He was tired.

"Come on," you whispered, climbing off of him. "Stand up."

You pulled him to his feet, his stance unsteady and weak, and began to pull his leathers off, piece by piece. You set them back onto the chair behind you delicately, but quickly, as the male standing before was practically sleeping standing up.

He couldn't help it. His chest was warm. His heart was full. His love was back in his arms.

After removing every inch down to his tunic and boots, he pulled you back up to his mouth, and you kissed him softly. Your fingertips lined his jaw while his gripped your waist.

You kissed him once, twice, three times before pulling away. "You need to sleep."

He blinked, then blinked again. Like he was trying to wake up from a dream. "You're right."

You chuckled and led him to bed, helping him to lay down. You then stripped yourself of all your clothing and tucked yourself in beside him. His eyes were already closed, his breaths were already evening, but with one last burst of energy, he pulled you into his chest, laying you on top of him the same way he did on your final morning together. He kissed you one last time, and you could have sworn he was asleep already when he mumbled against your mouth.

"Told you I'd come home."

You smiled against his neck, listening to the sounds of him in sleep and whispered, "I missed you."

For once, the two of you had all the time in the world.

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