#i wish i was a grain of sand on his skin

[wildsaltair]

husband? husband???

[sp4ceboo]

Atonement: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

A/N: fic i wrote with @triluvial 's lovely idea

tw: 18+, smut but pretty soft, oral (f recieving), so so so so much angst, fluff after tho dw, swearing, hints of sa and pedophilia from the baron, baron is also creepy to reader but not explicitly, u gotta bear with my yapping in the beginning but it gets good i promise, inkpie

wc: 3.9k

headcanons for this universe

When you married Feyd-Rautha, you were warned of many things. His cruelty, both in and out of the bedroom, his bloodlust, his uncontrollable rage, his violence, his complete and utter lack of mercy. They told you he was psychotic, he was a cold blooded murderer, he was insatiable and that you’d be lucky to last a year with him, and yet, they never cautioned you of his sheer, unerring indifference.

Before your marriage, you fancied that he’d be like fire; raging, searing to touch. You went as far as to wish to tame his inferno. Late at night, when you could not sleep and doubt wreathed your thoughts, you also considered that he’d be like ice, like the colour of his piercing eyes, glacial and cold, devoid of anything soft or sweet.

As a child, you saw him fight in the arena. There he blazed with passion, his victor’s smile a cruel curve upon his face, his knife blade stained dark with fresh blood: he was mesmerising. At that time you were beginning to understand that your future had been sold to this violent man, and you resented your parents for it - now you realise that it went deeper than that, that it was rooted in generations of religion, of whisperings of the Bene Gesserit. Still, even then, you found the way he burned intriguing, and you were drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

But you were wrong. He turned out to be neither fire nor ice, just stingingly, dismissively apathetic. His eyes slide right over you when he happens to pass you in the corridors, as if you’re lower than a servant, lower than the rare rats that survive Giedi Prime’s conditions. You suspected your marriage would be painful, wedded to a man such as he was, but you didn’t think it would be this damn lonely.

You wished he hated you.

That way, at least you’d mean something to your husband. At least then vehement, savage emotion would rise within his gaze whenever he looked at you, not that horrible, polarising blankness. You wish you disgusted him, because then he’d at least he’d speak his mind - you had learnt that he spoke with brutal honesty, uncaring of the consequences.

Maybe to him, that’s all you are. A consequence of being high born, of being the na-Baron. You mean nothing to him, and he treats you as such; to him, you are less than the speck of dust on the floor, less than a grain of sand in his beloved arena.

It’s not that you wish for him to dote on you, nor love you or devote himself to you. You just wish he would look you in the eye and feel something; you’d rather him stare at you in revulsion and call you names that you can’t even think up yourself than the dead, lifeless detachment that clouds his face when he sees you in your shared chambers.

Feyd-Rautha has never laid a hand on you in violence; in fact he rarely touches you at all. The last, and only time he kissed you was during the wedding day, and he makes no moves to be in bodily contact with you any more than he has to be. You are obliged to produce an heir from him, yet even in these infrequent encounters it seems as if it is a chore for him - he takes no pleasure in your body nor does he try to pleasure you, and he makes no sound when he takes you, staying as long as it takes for his seed to fill your womb before leaving without a word. On those nights, your thighs tremble as you stumble to the bathroom, only allowing your tears to fall once the shower water is searing on your skin.

During the first month of your marriage, you did everything in your power to please him. You thought maybe you weren’t pretty enough for him, maybe you were not desirable as a wife, so you always smiled at him, made an effort to fill the silence that pervaded the air around him, bringing up topics you knew he would enjoy, like the arena, like his love for knives and duels. To even that he would not reply, rebutting your questions with monosyllables or simply ignoring you. You stopped once he began to leave the room while you were mid sentence.

It is now your fourth month locked in this marriage with an uncaring man, and all you feel is bleak, crushing resignation. Somehow, Feyd-Rautha seems to take more interest in conversing with his brother than you.

You wonder if he has forgotten your name. He addresses you simply as ‘wife�� - that, and nothing more, the title leaving his lips like an accusatory curse, reminding you that if you did not serve a purpose to him, and if decorum did not restrain him, he’d have disposed of you by now, either by slitting your throat or simply abandoning you outside the palace grounds, not even bothering to end you himself.

The palace in question is lonely, but you feel the loneliest when you lay awake at night, shivering on your side of the bed as Feyd-Rautha slumbers to your right. Tears always prick your eyes during those moments, but you stifle them, afraid that you’ll rouse him with your crying; you do not know what you’ve done to garner his mistrust, but many times you’ve glimpsed the knife he keeps beneath his pillow, the cold blade glinting in the moonlight.

Often you wonder if he has a secret lover, and that is why he does not bother with you. You wake up sometimes and he is gone, but soon you realised that he would visit his concubines, especially after he had bred you. You would finish your shower, unable to wash off the feel that you were dirty, you were just an animal, a mindless thing to produce an heir for him, and he would be lounging in the antechambers of your quarters, ignoring your presence with the three harpies wrapped around him, whispering in his ears and caressing his moonlight skin. They accompanied him everywhere he wished, even in public, and to begin with, you felt humiliated that he would so explicitly show that you were not to his satisfaction.

Now, it just makes the solitude even worse.

You find solace in no one. More than once, you have walked in on the servants laughing behind your back, and as it became evident your husband was uninterested in you, they did not hide their mocking. The Baron’s other nephew you hardly saw, and the Baron himself terrified you: there was something in the way that he stared at you, his beady eyes glittering from where they were set deep within his putrid flesh, that made you feel more soiled than even after Feyd-Rautha took you.

So you remain isolated, speaking only when spoken to, drifting through the palace’s wide, dark hallways like a ghoul, a mourning spectre. You can barely remember your life before, just wisps and fleeting flashes of colour that ridicule rather than comfort you.

To Feyd, it is obvious who you are. A spy, commanded by his uncle to report every single one of his doings to you; he cannot slip up once around you, cannot reveal his weaknesses, that he is desperate to be loved, to be seen as someone whose only use is not war. He sees the way his uncle looks at you, hungry for information you do not have because he does not impart it, the way the Baron comments on you and the way you flinch at his words, pretending that you do not report to him.

Feyd is determined in his resolve to give nothing away. His uncle has held power over him since he was young, he refuses to give him even an inch over him now. He still has nightmares of it, which he wakes up from with his pale skin sheened in clammy sweat, clammy like the hands of his uncle.

Sometimes, he sees the tears in your eyes after he fucks you. The first time, he almost stopped, almost asked you where it hurt, but you turned away before he could, acting, always acting; acting when you smile graciously at him, acting when you ask him what his favourite type of blade is, what his favourite form of swordsmanship is. You are good at pretending, but of course you are - his uncle is the Baron, a man who bathes in power. No doubt he would get only the best of spies.

Tonight, you are not where you normally are. At this hour, you are usually asleep, or feigning it in the very least, curled up small on your side of the mattress, yet the bed is still made, the sheets unrumpled and smoothed down as they were this morning. Feyd thinks that maybe he might catch you reporting to his uncle, so he strides out of your shared chambers, pausing in the doorway to listen carefully; as a boy, he hunted in forests that have now been chopped down and industrialised, but he has maintained his keen ears long after the last wild plant on Giedi Prime’s surface choked on the fumes of pollution.

There’s a soft noise, barely perceptible, that echoes down the corridor to his right. Silently, he tracks it down the labyrinthine passages of the palace, servants scurrying out of his warpath, bowing their heads to him - he wonders if they too report to his uncle, if they travel now to his quarters to inform him of his beloved nephew’s whereabouts.

Feyd wishes he and Rabban were brothers first before rivals. Then he could have someone to rely on, someone who he trusted in this palace built on lies.

Pausing, Feyd cocks his head. You huddle in a crumpled heap at the end of the corridor, your knees hugged tightly to your chest, head low as if under a crushing weight. It occurs to him that maybe the Baron was displeased with your efforts to gain information and made it known to you - a pang of pity tugs at him, for he knows what his uncle’s wrath is like. At least you have been spared from the sole thing worse than that - the Baron’s thirst.

‘What are you doing, wife?’

Your head snaps up, Feyd-Rautha’s unfeeling voice kindling a rare burst of temper from you. Is it not evident to him what you are doing? Or is he just too blind to see the tears streaking down your cheeks? Your words are injected with venom when you speak, and you hope that it stings him for leaving you alone in this cold, dark place.

‘So now I am of concern to you?’

Feyd is taken aback by the indignant arch of your brows, the resentment displayed in your eyes. It takes him a moment to register the harshness lacing your voice - you have never addressed him in this way - and another to digest your words. There’s a bleakness in your wet, tear stained face as you stare up at him, and shock too, as if you did not expect yourself to speak against him this way.

Something clicks into place.

Feyd recognises that look in your eyes. He recognises it, because he’s seen it in the mirror a hundred times before; haunted, harrowed, lonely. He remembers nights when he trembled beneath the cold sheets of his bed, when he was small enough that he felt like he was drowning in the black satin, his eyes wide as the fabric seemed to wend around his limbs, tying him there as he lay fearful of everyone, fearful that his uncle would summon him. Even young, he was so terribly aware of not knowing who he could trust and who would turn to the Baron, bearing information like knives to split open his childish skin and spill his guts on the freezing stone floor.

It broke him. He is barely a shell of a sentient being, repressed emotions wreathing like ghosts around his frame, his eyes hollow, his heart decaying. In his fear, he was blinded, and he pushed you to the place where he had been all those years ago, so terribly, terribly alone - you are stronger than him, for lasting this long.

Sharp, plunging, dread sinks in his stomach, weighs down his soul; he has done unspeakable things to you, treated you like a dog, like a whore - worse. How can you look at him without hatred in your eyes, spite?

Bile rises in his throat, his heart seized by a dark, burning anger. He has done this to you, he has slashed your skin and left you bleeding, and yet all you did was try to please him. In an effort to save himself, he trampled you under foot; in order to keep you out, he left you surrounded by shadows. Feyd has never hated himself so much, has never despised who he has become with this much furor.

Slowly, he crouches before you. Eyes wide, you shrink away, misreading the direction of his rage, flinching when he reaches out a hand. Pressing your back against the wall behind you, you turn your head away from him, fear causing tears to spill down your cheeks: he sees the way you will the stone to swallow you up, knows the feeling.

‘Please don’t hurt me,’ you choke out, hands trembling uncontrollably.

Something deep within Feyd’s soul withers and dies at your words. Forcing his jaw to unclench, his hands to release the fists they held, he shoves down his anger. The fury is for later, for when he has made things right - for now it is you that is his priority. Too late, a voice whispers in his ears, too late, too late, too late -

Gods, he deserves to burn at the fucking stake for this. He deserves eternal hell for this, he deserves worse. He is a fool: a blind, blundering fool, stuffed to the brim with paranoia and cynicism.

He sucks in a breath. ‘I will not hurt you. You have my word, whatever it is worth to you. I - I have made an irredeemable mistake, I - ’

After his first sentence, you have not heard him. Tears of relief soak your face, and you whisper needless apologies for them; it is an arrow through his heart that you fear him so - yet the pain is where it is due, justifiable for the way he has shamed you, belittled you.

‘May I - may I touch you, my wife?’

You do not know why you nod in reply of your husband’s strange request, but the moment you do, strong arms pull you into a solid chest, and a sob leaves you - he is so warm, warm enough to banish the seeping cold embedded in your bones, warm enough to let your sorrow flow anew, soaking his shirt as your hands bunch in its fabric, so that if he is cruel enough to leave you here, at least he will have to fight to do so. You have not been held in a long time.

Each of your shuddering sobs is a knife blade twisting in Feyd’s spirit. He lets the pain wash over him, clings to the way you burrow into his arms, a kind creature in the embrace of a monster. At one point, in the throes of your crying, you beat at his chest, telling him that you hate him, and he takes it with a bowed head, stroking your hair and holding you tighter once you exhaust yourself; this is only a fraction of his atonement.

You fall asleep in his arms. He carries you back to your quarters, and only once the door is closed behind him does he let his tears mingle with yours. Keeping you cradled to his chest like a child, he pours a glass of water for you to drink in the morning, knowing you will be dehydrated; he sets it on your bedside table before laying you down on the mattress.

You don’t let go of him, even in your sleep. His heart clenches, tight in his chest, and he drops a kiss in your hair before lying down beside you.

He believes he will love you, if you will let him.

Consciousness leaks slowly into your mind, and you blink, squinting through the beam of light that filters in through the curtains. From your months spent here, you’ve realised that Giedi Prime’s atmosphere is normally churned up with violent storms and choked with pollution, so this ray of sun that falls against your pillow, warming your face is far from unwanted - nor is the pale forearm tucked around your waist, firmly so, but not trapping you either.

Your husband’s chest fits snugly against your back, his breath warm and steady against your skin; his fingers splay out across your stomach, gentle, communicating so many things that were left unsaid. Vaguely, you remember falling asleep, nestled against his chest, tears drying on your cheeks.

When you roll over, you’re unsurprised that he’s already awake. With blue eyes softened by the sunlight, he regards you, fingers settled at the small of your waist. Something clouds his gaze, and he shifts, propping himself up on his elbows.

‘I owe you an explanation.’

You wait silently, unperturbed by the way he clenches his jaw. He vowed to you last night that he would not hurt you, and you trust that. Wordlessly, his lips open, then close, and you patiently watch him, far too well acquainted with how this man struggles to let down his guard - even now, you cannot read the twisting of his features, the way his eyes squint as he looks at you.

‘I - I thought you were a spy sent by my uncle,’ he finally confesses. ‘My uncle… when I was younger, he,’

Reaching out, you cup his jaw in your hand, running your thumb along his cheekbone until he relaxes. You see the battle in his eyes, to let go, to tell you the knowledge that he thinks you deserve, but you see with it the years of hurt, of solitude. Something hopeful, something beautiful blossoms within you - the realisation that this wounded beast before you is someone that you could grow to love; you want him to bare his scars to you, those that are long healed and those that still seep with blood.

‘All in good time, Feyd,’ you assure him quietly.

He sighs, touches his lips against your palm. ‘I am sorry, my wife.’

Slipping your hand down to grip his shoulder, you lean closer towards him so you can kiss him. An anguished sound leaves him, and you see clearly how he realises that he has wronged you, how it pains him, and yet how the taste of you awakens something tender within him - you marvel at it, that it has survived, buried within him for so long. Perhaps he will let you love him.

Feyd is neither forward nor insatiable in the way he kisses you. In fact, he pulls away first, moving to get up from the bed despite the way your hands grip his shoulders, and you almost doubt that he wants you before you glimpse the longing in his eyes that lingers before he pushes it down. You wonder if this man knows how to make love or if he just knows how to fuck, you wonder if he feels the same molten feeling in his stomach that you feel and that is why his movements are tinged with nerves as he gently escapes your grasp. It is clear to you: he does not want to scare you.

‘Must you go?’ You ask, tugging at his fingers.

He tilts his head. ‘I don’t know if you want me here, after what I have inflicted upon you.’

A streak of bravery takes ahold of you. ‘Please, Feyd, I want you.’

You delight at the fire that ignites in his eyes upon your words. He wastes no time in returning to your side, dropping a sweet tasting kiss to your lips before taking your chin in his hand, eyes searching yours as he sits between your thighs.

‘Tell me if you want to stop,’ he says. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ you echo, blood heating your cheeks.

Feyd kisses you again, giving you time to rescind your reply if you want, but you just tug at the hem of his shirt, drinking in his sculpted chest when he pulls the black cloth over his head. Delicately, he trails his lips down your skin as he undresses you, his broad hands warm where they encircle your waist, holding you flush to him as his calloused palms explore your body, skimming over your spine and caressing your breasts before settling on your thighs and pulling them open.

You’re terribly aware of how wet you are when his eyes settle on your pussy. Instinctively, your knees tip inwards, your face growing hot at the hunger in his gaze, but his broad shoulders block your legs from closing, followed closely by his hands which gently push them back open. He smiles at the blush high on your cheeks, rubbing his thumb over your ankle in order to put you at ease.

The sound you make when he pushes his fingers into your cunt and curls them almost makes Feyd moan. You tremble for him, bashful, and he can feel himself rock hard against the mattress, aching for the tight clamp of your velvet walls. He wants to bury himself between your thighs, and so he does, your sweet slick exquisite on his tongue - he presses kisses like butterflies to your thighs, your hips, worshipping you as his fingers pump in and out of you to the same pace as your heaving chest.

You look beautiful, gilded by the sunlight, lower lip trapped between your teeth, but he doesn’t miss the way you grip the sheets with one hand, the other clapped over your mouth, panting as he pleases you. Stroking your thigh, he pauses, licking your slick off his lips.

‘Let me hear you,’ he bids.

You blush again but obey him, tremors wracking your body as he sucks on your clit, laving his tongue over it until you throw your head back, eyes rolling as you come, your honeyed moans and hot release exquisite upon his senses. He wants more, needs more of the taste of you, but you tug at his shoulders, whining for his cock, and he’d rather die than deny you.

The way you say his name when he buries himself inside you sets his soul on fire. You look beautiful beneath him, shaking and whimpering from the hot pulse of his length, clawing at his shoulders until he wears red marks that he’s proud to bear, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you. It seems you cannot get enough of him, and Feyd is more than fine with that because he finds himself addicted to the feel of you under his hands, begging him for more.

Feyd remains entranced long after he comes inside you, with you, your cunt spasming around him. You draw close to him, intertwining your legs with his as he kisses your face, your neck, your chest, making sure he has not hurt you, making sure you are sated. Curling your fingers under his jaw, stopping him, you look him in the eye and smile before kissing him, and he finds himself mesmerised again by you.

He is certain you will let him love you. He is yours.

[gladiatorcunt]

Feral feral Anakin fucking you every second of the day because he can’t get enough of you and is overly obsessed

send me coryo, luke castellan, or anakin asks (this is a threat)

implied canon compliant prequels and childhood friend afab royalty reader (basically in padme's place) based on an upcoming fic

This is canon Anakin behavior actually, he's like a big dog with his favorite chew toy. The dog obviously loves the toy a lot but it's because of his love that the toy becomes well used. No matter how tattered it becomes, the dog will still curl around it and spend its days licking the hell out of it until it withers away.

I think that because of how he grew up, just a little boy on some ball of sand whose life really didn't belong to him, as soon as he's free from that he just unravels. I love Anakin being written as more unhinged or even slightly like an eldritch horror, because suddenly he has this big destiny laid out in front of him and the tethers holding his soul together inevitably come unhooked. I think that he's wired like that from the beginning, very passionate but without a means to express it.

So, when he meets you, little royal heir with all the stars of the galaxy in your eyes, he tells a familiar story about an angel and from then on, it's over for him. Every moment of his life orbits around the sun in his solar system, you.

The first think he thinks when he sees you again, is how your moans would echo off the windows when he eats you out on one of the couches. Then he imagines your perfectly manicured hands clawing delicious ribbons down his back while he rabidly pounds your sopping wet pussy against the wall of your huge walk-in closet in your apartment. He'd have to hold a hand over your mouth, but he wouldn't do a thing to clean up the slicks that drips out of your pussy onto the floor. You'd pout as you'd rush to get ready before Obi-Wan came back, and all he'd be able to do in response is hook his chin over your shoulder and smile.

"No, it's because I'm so in love with you."

You're leaning against a balcony overlooking a lake in Naboo and all he can think about as he strokes a shy finger down your back is hiking your dress up and bending you over it. You're chained to a pillar in between him and Obi-Wan, and when all is said and done, he wishes he killed everybody that was relishing in your suffering in that arena and fucked you with their blood coating his body. He could go on forever until the last grain of sand on Tatooine flies away. He'd have gotten you barefoot and pregnant immediately if the leash around his neck was any looser.

No matter the fantasy or the moment, you always have at least one mark on you. He's not patient enough for hickies and his fingers move too quickly for any serious bruises to form on your body. He favors bite marks, near perfect impressions of his teeth etched in your soft skin. He doesn't bite to tear, just does his repeated 'chomp!'s without a single thought in his head; your thighs bear the brunt of it. Anakin likes when drops of blood bead at the surface of the bites, because then he can lick the bites soothingly. You usually have to run your fingers through his hair to get him to come back to himself when he starts doing it on autopilot with his eyes rolled back.

"Yes, yes, yessssss.... love fucking my cunt, missed making love to my sloppy pussy. Taking my dick so well, keep breathing with me, my love. That's it, just like that."

His way of saying good morning is languid strokes deep in your guts. His way of saying good night is crazed thrusts that have him putting it back it when his frenzied pace causes his length to slip out. He has is so hard sometimes, determined to carry the entire galaxy on his shoulders with you on top of it. You can the rising anger that builds within him when everything he does to prove himself goes unrecognized. The best way he has to ignore all of that outside responsibility is knocking your sweaty body up the bed while you're clutching the headboard for dear life.

Anakin's emotions bleed from him so openly, and all you have to do is drink them in. Because even though he wasn't free when he met you, you owned him them with his gift around your neck. You own him now, your cervix kissing his mushroom tip in its own display of affection. He is supposed to live his life with the intention to be the force's son, but he is burning to ash faster than he is fulfilling his destiny; at least he can keep you and your future children warm.

[barbieaemond]

The order of things

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: mild angst, masturbation, oral sex (m receiving), grinding

Word count: 3k

Taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee @credulouskhaleesi @bunbunbl0gs @alphard-hydraes-blog

MASTERLIST

There is a raven that flies towards the rookery as soon as the sun is high enough to bathe the Keep in orange. It always comes at the same split minute, Aemond sees it every day, because it is the same split minute in which his training ends. Sometimes he even manages to get the better of the bird, then looks up as he sheathes his sword and awaits him. As soon as it crosses the sky he leaves the courtyard.

His day is like a prayer, devoutly tenacious and unchanging. A bath, breakfast, a flight on dragonback, a book. A visit to Helaena and the twins if the reading bores him.

Someone might say that even his walk is always the same. Rigour and order, to be everything Aegon is not.

This time, he disarms Ser Criston well in advance, so much that the raven has yet to show itself, and when it does, Aemond will be blind to his passing.

"Mother," he says curtly as the Queen passes by. She goes to pray as she does every morning, always at the same time. She too is a creature devoted to rigour, and duty; she has seized her days and clutched them in her fist to prevent them from floating through her.

She pauses to greet him, her voice as mellifluous as ever and her eyes just as warm, and then suddenly, he turns to look at her as if he is looking at a stranger, as if she is speaking a language he does not know. "I wanted to tell you that I'm going to see some girls today, to choose your new maid."

"What's wrong with my maid?"

"Well, I figured she might ask for a leave as the wedding approaches."

He blinks, he stalls, he bogs, unnaturally, the sand stops in the hourglass. The raven glides over the towers, unnoticed.

"Yes, of course." he says, sheathing his sword, and the sand flows again, grain by grain; the funnel shrunk.

Everything in his life is part of that rigour, even people, even her.

She has been in his service long enough to know without asking when the scar pulls to the point of requiring medication. She has been in his service long enough to know that a slight frown in his eyebrows is enough to make her close the curtains and prevent the light from worsening the pain in his head, to know that he likes his venison rather raw, that he hates that doublet because the sleeves are puffed and he feels like a court jester. And she tacitly made it disappear.

She does everything without uttering a word. She doesn't need to ask, she moves when he moves, she has adapted to him like a second skin, and she doesn't seem harmed by the edges.

Yet he is harmed by something, as she pulls off his boots in front of the fireplace. He sees a flat sea where he would like to see a storm. He sees grains flowing and wishes to crash the glass.

"Do you need anything else my Prince?" she has a seraphic expression on her face, and he sees deception. She speaks in a firm, devoted voice, and he hears betrayal.

He stares at her with the eye that looks like a needle, feels like it, then shifts his gaze to the fire and says "I will be in need of your assistance tomorrow, for the whole day."

"The whole day?"

"Yes. Why? Do you have something better to do than the duties you are paid for?"

She is no novice to his bitter tongue; somehow, stupidly, naively and recklessly, she is able to imbue it with treacle when it enters her head. It doesn't matter anyway, her foolishness will end as soon as she takes her vows.

"No. Of course not. I'll be at your service, my Prince."

"Hmm, until?"

"Until?"

"You should be the one to tell me. When is the wedding due?"

Her eyes widen like two large moons and she seems to crumple in on herself, on the floor she is kneeling on, under the Prince's unwavering, iron eye. She feels her throat tighten and yet his hands are steady along the armrests. She feels her lungs crackle against her ribcage. "I—"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Why didn't she?

"My prince, I thought your Grace should not be bothered with such trivial matters."

"I decide what to be bothered about." He says in an imperative tone. "When would you have bothered to inform me? Is this how you show loyalty to your prince? Keeping things from me?"

She glues her eyes to the floor, she cannot hold the Prince's gaze, not when he is like this, even though he has never been like this. He looks angry, he looks outraged? As if he has been wronged. That look makes her blood run cold, and then it melts in red down her cheeks and neck. It would be too easy to blame the chimney behind her back, easy but necessary, to keep things in order. Prince and servant, nothing more. What else is there?

There are heavy sighs falling in the dark, stranded between the sheets as his bones boil and tense at the climax, desire spilled, wasted. But that's fine. To not be all that Aegon is. This too has become rigour, part of the order of things.

It is the order of things to watch her kneel at his feet and wish to spill his desire into her mouth. As is seeing her nails always neat and tidy scratching the floor as her back arches against him, as is seeing the blood reddening her cheeks and neck, and wanting to lick it as far as it goes. 

Someone else will do it. An ordinary man of no consequence in the order of things, the real one.

"You may go." he says coldly, hoping the frost of his tongue will cool the feverish blood under his skin.

She rises from the floor with a bowed, desolate head. "I bid you good night, my Prince."

The next morning he asks her to change the sheets, and he turns his back on her, ashamed, as if she knows she is in those sheets.

He takes a bath while she does her chores, finishing exactly when he does, because she moves when he moves. She helps him put on a dark green robe, unperturbed by his nudity, because that is her duty and it no longer makes her blush.

There's never been clumsiness in her hands, but there is today. Aemond feels her hands heavy as boulders when she prepares the ointment for his eye, when she leans over him to remove his eyepatch. She doesn't speak to him as she always does, oozing that glimmer of amusement when she brings up the servants' petty feuds and wars.

"You're rather quiet today." He asserts later, as she buttons his doublet "Has the armistice been reached in the kitchens?"

She opens in a brief smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I don't know, Your Grace. I find myself spending a lot more time outside the Keep these days."

"Is that so?” He retorts, narrowing his eye “Hmm, is that why my books are still on the desk?"

She finishes her buttoning and ties her hands on her modest skirt. "I am sorry, Your Grace. I will see to it that they are put in order at once."

"I have no use for your apology. Why didn't you do it when I told you to?"

"Your mother gave me a leave for a few hours yesterday."

"And why did you ask my mother and not me? You are in my service, not hers."

She keeps looking down like a suspect on trial and swallows. "I went to Flea Bottom to buy some fabric for my wedding dress. I was ashamed to ask you for a leave for something so frivolous. As a woman, I thought your mother would understand."

"You will do no such thing in the future. Hide things from me and leave the Keep without my permission, or I'll have you punished. Am I being clear?"

"Your Grace, I…” she pauses, she looks down, she swallows, but it’s now or never. “You should know that I will no longer be here after the wedding. I am going to formally resign my position. Your Mother has already-"

His eye goes wide, and wild, and he breathes loudly until he is snarling. "Are you deaf or dense? Did you not hear me? You will not leave my service."

The moons in her eyes are full now. She looks at him, begging him to let her go, because that is the natural course of things. She will marry a common man, give him a couple of children and live a quiet life in the country, where her groom has a smallholding of land, their only source of wealth if they do not want a life of misery in Flea Bottom. And she is fine with that. She has accepted it. She is like any other common girl, she cannot dream, her blood is only red, there's no castle nor crown waiting for her.

She has accepted her fate with the calmness of a stream that lets itself be carried along by its current. She is happy like this, because as far as she could, in that silly way in which all ordinary girls dream, she dreamed, even though her dream is made of flesh and blood.

She had shivered when he had leaned over her when he taught her to read. She had breathed in deeply to know what he smelled like. She had felt ice in her stomach under his gaze when she read a few pages to him. And that is more than dreaming.

She cannot remain in his service, because she is an ordinary girl and more than dream, she cannot want.

"Your Grace..." she begs, going down to the floor "I beg you. Let me go my way. I believe I have always served you to the best of my ability and if I’ve ever failed you in something, name it. I will do anything to make it right."

Aemond bogs again, but in something far more paralysing and at the same time overwhelming than all his rigour. Perhaps it is the sight of her on her knees again, her head bowed and devoted, and the fact that he wants to touch that devotion, wants to taste it and swallow it.

Slowly, he lifts her chin with two fingers, eye blind to everything else; his thumb moves over her lower lip as if to know its edges, as if he has wanted to do this all his life.

"Anything?" he asks in the voice of another, the one stranded in the sheets.

She nods slowly, and the movement rubs his thumb against her teeth for a moment, forcing him to swallow, to give himself control, not to push his finger in. He is not Aegon, He is not Aegon, he is not Aegon.

"Would you be willing to please me?" he asks, and his question reaches some remote place in her, that place where a girl can dream and want freely. In that place, if he had asked once, twice, a hundred times, she would have bent to his will, not to the duty of the servant who must please her lord. Sure, that too. But first of all to her will. It is a question that need not be asked, for there is but one answer.

"Yes..."

Blood flows into her cheeks, breathing out fire from her lips. "How...? How do you want me to please you, my Prince?"

"With this..." he replies, pushing his thumb over her lip.

Her hands move fluidly over the belt and buttons of his breechers as if she had done this countless times before. She helps him dress, she knows his body even though she has never touched him. She has never touched a man in her life, not like this. Aemond reads the embarrassment on her cheeks and he basks in it with a glimmer of pride, because he will be the first.

Gently, he places a hand behind her head, tilting it a little, and looks at her with his heavy, clouded eye, enthralled. "Open your mouth..."

He knows she's never done this before, but the hot alcove of her mouth is enough to make him open his mouth and let out air in a broken cadence. She raises her eyes as if to ask if she is doing something wrong, and the sight, real and not the outcome of some delusion hidden in the dark, smothers his breath. He begins to thrust into her mouth slowly, hardening quickly as she continues to look at him and welcome him into her mouth with the devotion with which one kneels to the Seven.

"Gevie..." he pants hoarsely, brushing his fingers through her hair "You look more beautiful than I thought like this..."

His hand in her hair never tightens, though his hips move faster and the wet sound is the only one that keeps his panting company.

"Your cheeks..." he instructs her "Hollow your cheeks..."

And just as when he was teaching her to read, she listens , sucking agonisingly slowly. “Fuck—” he curses, threading his long fingers through her hair and pulling at the roots; he thrusts faster so that she has to grip his waist with her hands but when he senses she can’t breathe, he lets of her head and slips out of her scorching lips, hissing at feeling the cold air of the room.

She’s panting hard, with her mouth open and slick with him. But she has little time to catch a puff of air. He thrashes her on the carpet, with a rough kiss full of teeth and growls, and his hands move like talons, pulling her modest skirts up to her waist.

“No—My Prince—” she muffles on his mouth, pleading but desperate all together “We can’t—”

“I won’t ruin you, I promise.” he says rummaging through her garments “Just let me feel you this once—”

He finds her core with his large hand, hot and slick, and she whimpers loudly in his open mouth. “Do you get this wet for your groom, hmm? Or just for your Prince?” 

She unconsciously bucks her hips against his hand and he smiles, delightfully, against her neck, licking a stripe down her throat. “I’m in need of an answer, my sweet girl…” he says raising his head, the leather piece is about to fall behind his disheveled hair. “Have you touched yourself thinking of me?”

Shame washes over her as well as pride does him. “You did, didn’t you?”

His retrieves his hand and licks her off his fingers as if he was waiting for nothing else, staring at her with his eye pitch black.

“Do it.”

“M-my Prince?”

“Touch yourself. Now.”

She looks away, reddening even more, but he grasps her chin and forces her to look at him. “Do you want that permission to leave my service?”

It takes her a minute to swallow her shame, and then her hands is slipping between them. He pulls himself up on one arm to give her space to spread her legs some more, to watch closely as she starts to move her little hand on her bundle of nerves. “Look at me.” He commands, and she flutters her eyes with a bit of prudery before obliging.

Her breathing becomes heavy, just as his, slowly touching himself to mimic her, as he has done countless of times before but this is different. This is like the first time. He can watch her chasing her pleasure because of him, with him. He can watch the sweat beading her neck, her lip trembling. He can hear the sweet lewd sounds she makes for him.

She grows more desperate by the moment, swaying her hips on the carpet, grabbing his shoulder and neck until he falls on her. He groans upon feeling her cunt against his cock and by now they’re both too close to need hands anymore. He starts to grind against her, his hard flesh slicking ever so easily on her wetness, swallowing her whimpers and moans as he pants and rasps on her lips “Go on, sweet one. Come for me, hm?”

She does so, gripping his shoulders until digging her nails on the fabric, moaning with her mouth slack open.

He keeps grinding against her, frantic, panting, the eyepatch is somewhere on the ground and she watches him in the stupor of pleasure, like she’s experiencing a vivid dream, but the weight of the prince on her is real, his cock rubbing against her core making it twitch for more, his coarse voice as he rasps “Gods—‘M so close…” and then the jolt of warm seed on her belly.

He falls on her breathing hard, making her wince, but she can't find the strength to slip away, to pull down her skirt or move the long silvery lock that has gone into her mouth. She must leave everything as it is, and then leave it to be the ordinary girl without dreams.

For two days, her presence around the Keep is rather scarce, barely traceable in the Prince’s chambers. But his breakfast is always ready on his desk, his clothes always clean and well folded on the chair.

Aemond does not send for her nor does he seem to care where she is. He returns to his rigour, to his books, to his training as soon as dawn breaks.

One of the Kingsguard shows up in the courtyard and stands there to watch, waiting for the Prince to finish his duel.

"My Prince, I've done some research after our last conversation."

"Well?"

"Just as you said, your Grace. A modest cottage and a piece of land near Duskendale."

"Good." He says, sheathing his sword and glancing up upon hearing a distant caw. "I want you to send two city guards there, and burn it all down."

The guard blinks, widening his eyes. "My Prince?"

"You heard me."

The guard leaves and Aemond hears cawing again, closer this time. He glances up and the raven greets him, flapping his wings in the newborn sun.

Everything is in order.

[earth4angels]

𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥

modern jacaerys velaryon

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when love is at its final meeting, are you willing to suffer through it or cowardly pretend it is not real to feel nothing?

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: angst. heart break, slice of life kinda? this is all in jacaerys pov. inspired by the song cry — cas.

𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬: this story does have little personal significance to me. i wrote it as a request, noonie wanted something very angst from jace and currently my friend is going through a breakup. so this came to be. when there isn’t love anymore, please don’t stay, don’t fight for something that is already dead. theres someone out there searching for the love you’re willing to give. ps: thank you em for reading this for me and approving the msg 💌

word count: 2k — drabble.

Time. That was all Jacaerys thought of, how every second slipped through his fingers, elusive and relentless like grains of sand in an hourglass.

He sighed once again, his pale fingers danced through the scattered thread that entangled from its perfect pattern of his sweater. He knew he should have given his voice a chance to say something. Yet he sat there with no words and his heart in a complete disarray.

He looked up slowly, the curls of his hair hiding the way his eyes betrayed his stoic expression. He was hiding pain, and regret. Regret of letting his heart play tricks on him, thinking this time it would be different.

She sat there quietly, looking straight into his eyes that became a transparent window into his soul. Jacaerys knew she had already sensed his conflicting emotions, she was just that good at reading him.

“I-,” he started before she released what seemed like a scoff. Whatever it was it had his heartstrings flickering, making a odd sound that only he heard. He paused, his heart shattering once again, this is one of the reasons why he could not bring himself to ever be this vulnerable again. He wanted to avoid ever feeling this way again.

“You’re breaking up with me? Is that what you will say Jacaerys?”

His voice is was caught in a twist, he had nothing to say yet his heart told him it was better this way. There was nothing in common anymore, she was far, distant and cold. Jacaerys no longer felt the need to reach for her as she was entertained with arms that loved her better than he did.

Jacaerys loved her, he truly did. He held his heart on his sleeve just how he was holding the thin thread from his sweater, his fingers pushing it into the pattern that no longer accepted it.

She was beautiful, smart and sweet. Jacaerys fell in love with her eyes, the way she spoke and how she moved, she spoke with her heart and never from a sense of need. He just could not come to terms with what changed.

“You know what dear? Life is simply hard to understand, but love is a complicated thing, some people get lucky and some don’t — and that’s okay! If one love doesn’t work, there will be another to heal you and maybe then, that will the one.”

He recalled the advice his mother gave him, and he believed it as she was now happily married with her second marriage. Her smile was brighter and her skin glowed, she was not the same as before where her eyes did not have the shine he loved to see.

Her eyes reminded him of the same way she looked at him now. As he locked eyes with the girl he once loved with his entire being, his heart no longer throbbed the way it did when he kissed her, or when he held her hand, his skin did not tingle anymore. She was just another girl.

For a second, he did want to cry. Inside a cave, he wanted to curl himself and cry loudly at how much he wished life was different. He had plans and damn he just wanted to love her forever.

She was his world, the center that held him grounded. As he kept looking at her he realized everything he ever felt was gone, he felt absolutely nothing. He was empty, he was sucked out of a possibility that was no longer possible. He was holding onto a fantasy for over a month with thoughts that maybe — just maybe it was all in his head. He would stay to go back to how they started and later laugh together again. He knew better however.

Cregan saw it before he did, Aegon freaking Targaryen, his uncle that had more experience than him and claimed love only existed in movies — saw it. He denied the truth, an excuse pooling on his lips whenever they asked why he was alone majority of the time. His mouth opened and the words became a empty void that only had his relatives and close friends shake their heads with full sympathies.

There was no cheating involved, that Jacaerys knew for sure. She was simply always entertained with her friends that she enjoyed spending more time with than him. The end to their story was simply a regrettable loss. There was no more love to give.

A couple that no longer had anything to provide, no connection and no reason to continue going on with the idea of two souls being together.

Jacaerys knew the hard slap of the truth when he kissed her. When she stayed over one night and he pulled her on top of him, he kissed her cherry flavored lips that he loved tasting and instead of feeling the need to shower her with love he felt… empty. His lips no longer tingled, no longer did he feel his feet curling or how his hands wanted to desperately hold every inch of her body to mark his love. That night as she slept soundlessly beside him, curled a few inches away from him he laid quietly with his heart painfully tugging at his chest — he had fallen out of love with her.

Perhaps, it was him that started to show less reasons to stay, or maybe it was her. Nobody knew who was the one that started breaking apart the chains that held their hearts together. All Jacaerys wanted to do was run and hide into the safety of his home, cry and shout at the Gods for punishing him, for taking away the closest thing he felt to magic.

As she looked at him with no emotions, he began to feel anger or maybe it was disappointment, he could not grab a hold of his emotions. A relationship of a year and a half down the drain, but he knew it taught him one thing — to never lose or change yourself for anyone.

He slowly nodded, his eyes closed slightly before he bit into the tip of his tongue to refuse throwing up.

She slightly moved her head in a quick nod, “I’m glad you are. You are amazing Jace, kind and the sweetest man to exist but you are not the one for me. I just don’t…” she took a deep breath, every word stabbing his heart more, he felt nothing for her anymore but it still hurt to finally say good bye, “You deserve more than what I gave you and I know you feel the same.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He said, his eyes blazing with mixed feelings, he just wanted the way his heart painfully tugged to stop, “When you just stopped loving me, why couldn’t you just lea—“

“Leave? Jacaerys. This is as hard as it is already. I saw how you loved me, you still loved me when I was already five feet out the door ready to run from you.”

Ah. His breath took a sharp inhale. His fingernails was now pressing deep into the palm of his hands. The answer came to him like a bucket of cold water in an instant. She was the one that began the tearing.

“I couldn’t…” she shook her head in regret, “I couldn’t bare to look into your eyes that held so much spark and love for me. You deserved so much at that time and I am so sorry Jace.”

He licked his lips, once and twice. The world felt fuzzy, empty and weird. If he shouted, it could have bounced back like an echo. If he cried, his tears would have trailed out of his sockets like air. He had nothing to give anymore.

“I see,” he said finally after minutes of silence from his part. The center of his world, once upon a time only sat in front of him as tears pooled down her face. If one met him a month ago, they would have cooed how quick he was to wipe those tears. Yet, he only stared quiet and empty.

His fingers relaxed, his skin now tethered. He took a deep breath before opening his mouth. The freckles on his cheeks was more prominent as his face began to grow red. She stopped for a second to admire his beauty. She was seconds away from losing him completely and she began to think that maybe time will tell.

His hands slowly pulled back his curls as he leaned down, his movements looked ragged, it felt almost like his body was only held by gravity, yet he pushed forward. He carefully, with more to say yet no energy to speak, gently pushed a box towards her. The final statement of a good bye, his wishes, his ideas and his heart all in a box.

“I packed everything you left at my apartment, if I missed anything, let the lobby’s receptionist know.”

His voice had no emotion, it came from a place of emptiness. He had no more energy, only simply wanting to forget this current event never happened.

“Jac—“ she reached out towards him with eyes wide, her voice sounding shaken.

He stopped her. This was it — the moment he dreaded yet longed for. He was finally going to be given a chance to start new, to let his mind and heart heal at its pace.

His hands burned at the touch of hers. Slowly he pushed her hands away, “You know what? I wish that this was different, that you cheated on me so I can easily forget you quicker and that this would hurt less. But the fact that we are simply on other pages is harder to grasp. I really loved you. You were the most beautiful angel in the universe and God I wanted to do so much with you…” He shook his head as a scoff fell from his lips, “but now, I blame myself for letting you get away from me, I begin to think if it was me that pushed you, or if I missed anything that you needed or craved for. I truly, began to blame myself. I denied the truth for so long, I kissed you and touched you like you were everything. How many times did I loved you and you only accepted it? When I whispered how much I loved you as I held you deep at nights, did you just laid there accepting it? I think of these things and it’s like a knife going through my heart over and over again. I wish that on nobody, not even you. I wish things were different — that maybe you could’ve been honest so we can avoid this pain.”

He blinked to turn away the burn that his eyes began to feel, he was tired. Sighing in complete disbelief and defeat he continued, watching as she bit into her lips to avoid cries, he did not understand why she was, “If we see each other in the future, I hope we look at each other with a smile. We did share beautiful moments together, and we learned so much about ourselves. But as for now, I do hope to never see you again.”

She released a choked sob that sounded like gasp, “Jacaerys plea—“

He stood up from the bench, grabbing his umbrella he stepped out the gazebo welcoming the slight breeze and the quiet rain that fell on his face. He slowly turned to face her one last time, “Thank you for loving me in a short amount of time, take care of yourself.”

His umbrella covered the rain that fell on him, as he walked further away he focused on the sound of the wind that blew against his cheeks and not at the sobs that came from the girl he believed to have a future with.

Perhaps, in another time, someday, he would not cry for love again.

fav friends aka the slut cult: @benjinotes @hxtd @bucksplum @ellewod @eldrith @swordgrace @vee-mage @divinesolas @housetargaryenloyalist @astrxq @manhandlememando @bryscorner @princessbellecerise @xxselenite @v3lary0ns

natties angel list (open!): @aemondvelaryon @fleurbies @yohanseyebrowmole

jace nation tag list (open): @smurfelle @vividxpages @number-0-iz @writtenapoiogy @thenotesapppoet @agqrtz @girlthatislost

[koishua]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐋 — cyj.

━━━━━━ 𝗖𝗛𝗢𝗜 𝗬𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗝𝗨𝗡 | 0.962k words. heavy angst, semi fluff ending. fear of abandonment. themes of lacking self worth.

━━━━━━ burned and hurt before, yeonjun had decided to break up with you and save himself from the pain he believed would inevitably come (as it always does), only to be welcomed again in a feat of unconditional love. (heavily inspire by the smile has left your eyes!)

! © 𝗞𝗢𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗨𝗔 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰, 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧𝗦 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗩𝗘𝗗. reblog/feedback <3

when the birds cease their serenade, time begins to slow down. seconds trickle down the glass in individual grains of sand, one by one when he locks eyes with the painting of heartbreak he'd left behind. when the subject of his dreams (when you—) look at him through the curtain of your lashes, darkened and damp, yeonjun wishes he dies a slow and agonizing death.

the light in his eyes had vanished into the depths of his sinking stomach, far too out of reach to ever return. not now, not after succumbing into his own fears and letting your hand go. an unnerving moment of silence floats by, the clouds casting a dark grey over the world as far as your eyes can perceive. yeonjun dares not weep in your presence, shame returning in folds when he remembers the words he'd left you with days ago in an attempt to save himself from what he believed would have been an impending pain anyway somewhere down the line. if not soon, then later (and in larger, monstrous waves).

"you told me to never return."

was that the murderous clap of a thunder or the sound of his crushed heart echoing in his ears? choi yeonjun is a man in sorrow. regret seeps out of him in almost visible rivers, down onto the floor and reaching the tips of your shoes. a beat goes by and he sighs, defeated.

"i did."

you take a tentative step forward and he catches the hesitation through the mess of strands over his eyes, blocking you once again. his knees almost crumble underneath him. he doesn't deserve another chance, and yet you're at his broken doorstep offering him one.

through the blur in your vision, your trembling hands reach for his slender and beautiful fingers (a memory resurges of him lulling you to sleep on the piano, his bed a safe haven despite the empty grey walls in shambles and the apparent lack of anything making a space liveable other than where you lay on and the miscellaneous small objects not belonging to a place someone calls a home).

the rain had stopped pouring just minutes ago, his clothes soaked through and skin ice cold. the warmth of your skin feels ugly to yeonjun. it's too inviting (too familiar, too kind, too easy to melt back into, too good to be true after every mistake he's ever made—) and he feels his lungs constrict inside their cage, refusing to breathe enough air as if to punish himself for ever believing he'd be loved.

but he is.

unconditionally.

"don't leave me," the words clumsily part from his purple lips. yeonjun feels a tender hand against the back of his head pulling him into an embrace he'd prayed he'd be able to forget after running away from the life of peace that had terrified him.

you don't see his glazed, wide open eyes from your position, an arm around his neck and a hand running through his hair still dripping water on the nape of his neck, nevermind the shiver that runs down your spine from the cold sleeping through your shirt. a fist harshly squeezes your heart thinking about the man at your mercy.

there is no rain to blame the tears you feel collecting under your chin. a haggard breath of air inhaled, shoulders tense and trembling, a tug on the fabric of your shirt is enough to let you know that choi yeonjun is a man destroyed.

he's a man broken in more ways than one and one who is terrified of being held so compassionately, so fondly. petrified of being hurt again and yet so desperate for a semblance of affection. the weight of feeling unloved and fearing it at the same time weighed him down and chained him to the ground.

"i'll stay," your reassuring words reach his ears like a prayer answered, allowing him to collapse safely into your embrace like never before. once strong arms wrap around your waist as though he is bound to you for eternity, never to let go.

you sway together to the sound of the cars passing down below, unable to see them, standing so far away from the rooftop's railings and in a corner tucked away under the light above his doorway. your bodies mould into one synchronous being, complete like pieces of a puzzle.

yeonjun tightens his hold on you when you reach for the handle bar, pushing the creaky metal door open and into the safety of his small hideaway. finding it difficult to maneuver safely, he lifts you up and lets you wrap your legs around his torso to move you towards his bed, gently placing you down on the edge, letting you regain your bearings.

"please don't leave."

finally able to look into his eyes, yeonjun studies the expression on your face and the way your lips quiver. you bring your palm to cup his face, not needing to reach far as he crouches in front of you, his own hand wrapping over yours to bring you closer and lean further into your touch. his eyes flutter shut, feeling your soft lips press against his forehead, strands of hair brushed away.

"i love you."

"don't ever leave me, please."

"i love you."

"stay."

"i love you, yeonjun."

"i never meant to hurt you."

"i love you."

"i was just scared. i never meant any of it."

"i know, i love you."

"please believe me."

"i do, i love you."

"i love you, too."

"i know."

"how?"

"you always protect me even when i'm not looking."

"but i hurt you. i left."

"but you loved me then too."

"i did— i do. please forgive me. i'm so sorry."

"i love you, yeonjun."

[bits-and-babs]

𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐌 — 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍 ‘𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓’ 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘

↳ summary: prompt: “That’s so fucking hot.” — Paired with Ghost on a 'drill' mission, you get to witness his sniping prowess first hand.

↳ pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x f!Reader (Delta)

↳ [1k] content: 18+ MDNI. Utterly self-indulgent. Shy reader (because I fancied something different), firing guns, very vague power play, very light degradation (barely there but it’s there), fingering, cum eating (don’t know if this counts but I’ll put it anyway), Ghost is very skilled with a gun.

ghost masterlist I| main masterlist |I join taglist

Easterly winds trace the curve of your cheek and gently waft your hair across your forehead. The pitch blackness that hangs in the nighttime desert air swallows you whole, your defensive spot illuminated only by the waning crescent moon. It's fucking freezing, you're tired, and you'd been staring down a sniper's scope for over six hours.

You’d already decided that whoever thought a sniper drill was a good idea was going to face your wrath in the morning.

Settled into the sand grains beside you is Ghost's hulking frame. His patience is remarkable, settled on his front with his finger fixed on the hairpin trigger of the HDR. He's not moved once since getting into position, the vaguest sign he was even alive being the blink of his eyelids. He doesn’t even need to practise, and you’re convinced he’s been paired with you simply because he pities you being a shit shot. 

"Do you not have pins and needles?" You grumble, the crosshair in your field of vision blurring into a shapeless mush after gazing at it for so long, "I swear I've got a dead leg."

"No." Simon's answer is definitive. You're unsure if you believe him at first, but he squeezes the trigger without warning. The gun cracks, firing its round, and you almost jump out of your skin at the sudden break of silence. "What the fuck, Simo-"

Disbelief stalls your loud complaint, the image of a body-shaped target with a bullet hole dead centre of the cross in the inner circle's fixed point making your jaw drop. 

Simon settles back, shedding the shell casing from the HDR and effortlessly loading a second round. It's like breathing for him, the sniper rifle like a body part that worked as seamlessly as his arms or legs. 

It slips out, your inner dialogue somehow managing to worm its way out of your lips before you can swallow down the mortifying comment. 

"That's so fucking hot..."

Simon doesn't seem to respond at first, but your cheeks are already heating up in embarrassment as you try to backpedal. "I mean- I mean, I'm sure most girls at home would find that really hot! You must have so many girls asking you out when you go home- Half of Manchester, I bet!" 

You laugh awkwardly, holding your own sniper weapon in a death grip. You wish the sand would sink beneath you, dropping you into the depths below. 

"Not really," Simon's rumbling voice cuts through the desert silence. It makes your humiliation even worse, and you squeeze your eyes shut and plan to request a transfer with Captain Price the moment you return to base. Or even hand in your resignation letter. You'd never have to fear running into Simon on another team that way—

"Delta," Ghost's gruff voice cuts through your downward spiral. You open your eyes and glance over at him apprehensively. He's still staring down the scope of his rifle, mask concealing his expression from you. Undoubtedly he was enjoying making you feel stupid.

A heavy hand settles on the back of your thigh, and you suddenly exhale the oxygen in your lungs as though someone has popped the membrane with a pin. Ghost doesn't look up from the scope; his attention is focused on the target over seven-hundred meters away. 

"G-Ghost-" Your voice tremors, and you wish you could blame it on the chill in the desert air. Instead, it's Simon's palm slowly tracing up your thigh, palm squeezing gently at the globe of your ass. 

"Quiet," he orders, and you nod quickly, falling in line at the sound of his authoritative 'lieutenant voice'. He continues his advance, pushing his fingertips under the waistband of your khaki cargos at the small of your back. 

Simon hesitates. He offers you a chance to wave him off, but you can't think of anything worse— he's touching you, sparking your skin hot beneath his slow, deliberate touches. 

Breaching the waistband of your pants, he ensures that he inches his hand below your panties, too, fingertips tracing the naked curve of your ass as they continue their descent. You whimper softly, impatient, but the sound dies in your throat when you see Ghost's irises flick to you in a warning. 

Quiet, I said. 

Swallowing back any more noises of complaint, you spread your legs ever so slightly for him. A rumble of content sound from his chest, and Simon aims his sight down the scope of his rifle again. 

Simon's fingers sink into your fluttering cunt from behind. The stretch alone has you biting down on your knuckles in an attempt to smother the yelp that threatens to breach your mouth. 

What makes it worse is Simon's blatant nonchalance. He adjusts the positioning of his Sniper to mitigate the desert breeze with one hand. Meanwhile, his fingers sink deeper into you, easing in and out until you hear the slick sounds of your cunt swallowing his digits. 

It's pathetic. Ghost'll probably taunt you relentlessly for it, but you rock back onto his hand as his fingers tease your spasming walls. 

"O-Oh, fuck-" you choke out, breathless, as you lower your head and brace against the rising bliss in your abdomen. Again, Ghost's eyes flick over, cautioning you. 

"I'm tryin'a focus," he scolds you flatly, pushing his thumb into your clit harshly. You yelp at the sudden pressure, the arc of pleasure that whips up your spine. 

"W-What can you possibly be fo-ohh-" you moan out, losing your sentence as he slowly begins to circle your clit with his battle-calloused thumb. 

"On this," Simon hums, and again the crack of his sniper rifle jolts your body in shock. Fuck- but he keeps rubbing at your clit, sinking his fingers deeper into you as he searches for your g-spot. 

Your head whips up as your cunt flutters around his digits, looking down the scope. Again, Ghost has hit the target perfectly— slap bang in the middle of its forehead. 

Honestly, you could have cum from that alone, but Ghost's fingers are retreating just as your orgasm surges. You whine loudly, looking over your shoulder to see him remove his hands from your pants despite your protests and use his thumb to push the bottom of his ski mask over his mouth. 

Sinking his fingers into his mouth, he groans as he tastes you. It's the most sordid sound you've ever heard, the noise settling deep into your abdomen as you watch him lick his fingers clean. 

Simon knows what he's doing, knows he has you on the edge of a mind-shattering orgasm, but ignores your heavy breathing and desperate gaze to nod his head at the target. 

"Your turn. Best stop your hands from shaking, love. Get him between the eyes, and I might let you cum."

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[balrogballs]

For the I wish you would write meme, I wish you would write Feanor at the moment before he makes the oath or speech! You’re so good at cinematic scenes, I would love to see this

ok this one was a CHALLENGE because Fëanor is one of those characters I’m terrified to write, simply because he is just THAT incredibly multifaceted so I love and hate you for suggesting this! have done my best:

It is not the theft, but the emptiness after. It had torn something loose in him to see Finwe sprawled across the marble threshold like a bolt rattled free, a hinge twisted just so. And it is this rupture, really, his father wrenched out like an unready tooth, that makes it so that Fëanor’s thoughts no longer aligned neatly but veered off-course, colliding like beaten oxen. Vendettas hawk their wares louder than reason in his mind, drown out caution and mercy. Nothing, Fëanor. Loss and theft and extraction and greed and there will be nothing left! Nothing!

He can feel the war build inside him, troops gathering in an instant, not a slow boil but a sublimation. He can feel the weight of Finwe’s bones shifting beneath the skin, as if they’re growing heavier in death, filling with stone. Formenos closes in, the world reduced to his father’s sunken chest and slackened jaw, instruments of his former booming laugh now trapped in the body’s collapsed architecture. Horror struck, he pushes Finwe off his lap and stands. His father’s weight still presses on his thighs, as heavy as ever.

The dead weigh no more than a grain of sand. They are vessels emptied of purpose. He knows this. Fëanor has always known this. But still, his Atya feels unbearably heavy, bearing down on him like a fallen tree, roots wrapping around his ribs. His mind twists in on itself, then begins a slow unravelling: what if this weight isn’t his body? What if it is mine? Loss and theft! What if I am the one crumbling under the weight of what I had him guard? Who next? How many holes will I carry? My boys? My seven boys? Loss and theft and extraction and greed! How much would they weigh, seven boys at once?

His knees buckle at the thought and he moves to catch himself, only to slip on the slick, bloodstained marble stairs, crash to the ground. Fëanor looks up at his bootprint in his father’s blood. Something within him gives way.

[shidouryusm]

Ghost town of youth - Suguru x reader

w/c -> 1.2k

contents -> bittersweet, angst, lots of metaphor and sea references, ig that's all

a/n -> idk man I just had a random wave of sadness about suguru and my tears wrote it. If y'all like it please support me via reblogs and comments :) also first time wrote geto idk whether I did a good job or not but I do love the lil sea metaphors here teehee. not proofread

The air brushes past you, little beads of salt sticking to your face and the skin of your lips. The sand below dips your heels deep into their abyss while the pull of the saltwater sweeps the particles back and forth in that white bed of grains. You feel the briney air kiss the strands of your hair as each of the thread dances to the unheard song of the dusk. 

The sound of waves are muted, almost too quiet to hear as they break against your ankles, resembling foams of soaps clinging to your feet submerged right where the shore begins. The ambience was scenic; the scent of the sea alluring to bask in, but there laid something that amplified the beauty of this nature more. 

Before you, was a sight that could only be called righteous – unadulterated and wholesome. Pure and tranquil. Far from any darkness that looms out there. 

The girls were silhouetted by the dying sun, their little figures prancing around the darkening sea, their pigtails dances along the motion. And behind them, you see him – arms outstretched, chasing the girls as they squeal and run and run further away from him. Their laughter doubles in pitch and happiness as he makes some kind of gurgling sound, imitating a monster. 

The chuckles of the two girls mixes with the breeze, creating a song even more melodious to tune into. Your lips curl into a comforting smile as their giggles mends your heart a little more than the day before. 

Suguru has left his monk attire at home, rather donning himself in a blue hawaiian shirt. He sends a glance across your way, eyes crinkled shut and a smile that translates to save me from this. You smile back, daring yourself to not show the inner turmoil creeping up on your face while you admire them from afar. 

It has been four years ever since Mimiko-Nanako stepped into your life and even though the aftermath of their entrance has been ugly, their simple presence and smiles were like bandaids on the scarred wounds. Like anchors holding both of your boats in an unrestrained sea.

But as much as they are a blessing, a hidden, fragmented part of your heart dares to speak out – wishing Suguru had never accepted that mission. That way he wouldn’t have to see their helpless faces smushed against each other, looking up at him in horror, with their little bodies trembling. Maybe that would have saved Suguru from the apocalypse he set into motion himself. 

Maybe today under the setting embers of the sun, you would be laughing with Satoru, Shoko and Nanami. 

Maybe then, Suguru wouldn’t have to creep up to you, farway in Sendai during your mission, offering you a portal to a completely different life– a life facing against the very people you once called home. 

You were ordered for immediate report on the sight of this man but seeing him in flesh had left your body to stand where it was. Eyes drinking him from head to toe. 

Was it your body that responded or the thrumming heart of yours that was branded by his name forever? You never questioned it. You never felt the need to because from that day onwards, Mimiko-Nanako had found another parent and jujutsu world lost another one. 

You missed Satoru. His obnoxious laughter, his lame but unnecessary sunglass collections that he possessed. Was he still this haughty or the loss of his dearests had left him in a loophole. Forced him to take responsibilty and raise a generation of strongest sorceres? You missed Shoko and the stench of the cigarettes she pulled out at the most random places, attracting glares of surprise and offence. Does she still smoke just like Iori drinks in secrecy? Heck you even missed Mei’s random bets with alarming amounts of yen and Nanami’s exasperated sighs. You missed everything. You missed everyone. 

And most of it all, you missed your Suguru. You missed the way his eyes used to twinkle at your random dates across Shinjuku. You missed his smile before he executed on planning devious pranks on you, with Satoru, only to later coax you with sweet words, kisses and hugs. 

You missed the genuinity of his smile. A smile that was robbed by the world. A smile robbed from you. You failed to protect him in your heart and now he has crumbled to pieces, along with the walls of your heart that promised his security. 

Slammed himself into a realm of extreme ideology that you still can’t bring yourself to accept. You don’t speak about it. Your blind acceptance was a testament of your loyalty to him. Your love that continued to grow only, swallowing you like a boa constrictor. You know his path is wrong. It is bloody and it’s killing every last bit of light in him, along with you. You clutch your chest as if holding your heart physically could help it from shattering apart.

You haven’t used jujutsu technique ever since that day. Suguru has accepted it. Upon enduring the death of his closed ones, your death would make him lose every resolve that is holding him by the thread to not go on a rampage. 

But how much of this can you tolerate? How many sleepless nights would it take on your end to finally stand on the line Suguru started his journey?

Your closed eyes didn’t sense his presence near you until large frame of his hands cages you in his hold, his mild scent wafting in your nose along with the oceany smell. 

“Anything on your mind?” his soft voice reaches your ear and the knife in your heart twists a little bit more. His head rests against your shoulder, little tufts your hair tickling your skin and suddenly you are teleported to the blue youthful days. Summer beach dates and hidden makeout sessions.

Only if you could have been saved.

You shake your head, leaning more into his touch while both of you watch your girls play, like a family promised of happiness. His embrace was the embodiment of chalk and cheese– with the warmth that served like a blanket in the chilly air yet the bloody coldness feeling like hugging a teddy bear fashioned with shards of glass. He holds you a little bit tighter, and you wonder whether he knows the dirty game of predicament your heart plays on you everyday. 

He probably does. your silent sobs never goes unheard in his ears. his heart aches for you but he knows where your love lies. Where your heart lies.  Anchored right against him. the only thing he can wait for is to let it rust. To let you strengthen yourself on your own in this doomed world. Even without your gallantry, your abandonment from jujutsu, he is assured about your support. Your love for Mimiko-Nanako and for him is what he may fight and die for. 

You watch Suguru drag his feet against the wet sand, absentmindedly trailing a path that you followed suit, your feet behind him on the white trail. He chuckles at your doing while you chime in, both of you indulging in a silly act of your own while your bodies flush against each other. Minds racing with thoughts but reaching one common destination - each other.

The sunset is beautiful and you wish time stalled here, you wished for the water to be this calm and you wished this little bubble of family remained as it is – playing in the ebbing waves under the twilight sky painted in the lightest pink. You know you haven’t caught up to him. Still following him just like the trails of the sand you both created. Maybe you never will. But moments like these where your heart aches for him and you are sent into the ghostown of his past, you can snuck in the happiness you had felt in the long lost youth. 

Who knows? Maybe Suguru will too.

comments, likes and reblogs are appreciated

dividers from @/cafekitsune

[wrenaspun]

Just wanted to tell you that I love your writing so much — I reread “one way or another” like once a month at least. And any fic where you write from Laurent’s perspective is automatically incredible showstopping never been done before etc. in my eyes. Nobody gets the depths of his horniness for Damen quite like you :)

Anyway for the prompt, how about Laurent and Damen trying to figure out the best way to tell Auguste (alive) about their relationship

Aw anon, thank you, that's very kind!! I'm so glad you enjoy the fic(s) enough to return to them <3 For the prompt, this ficlet ended up taking place in the same 'verse as burst the sky in my head, but it should also stand alone just fine! -

“You could hire a skywriter,” Damen suggested lazily. He had one arm behind his head and was staring drowsily up at the clear Ios sky, his sun-browned skin glistening in the sunlight, looking like some artist’s wet dream of a classical painting.

Laurent scooped up a handful of sand and threw it at him.

None of it landed above his shoulder, but Damen’s face scrunched up anyway, and he brought his free hand up to brush fussily at a few nonexistent grains on his nose. Then he reached out and took Laurent’s hand and brought it to his lips. “You could have one of those parties,” he said, while Laurent tried not to melt under the combined force of the sun and Damen’s sheer charm. “With the glitter, and the announcements — what do they call them?”

“Gender reveal parties?”

“That,” said Damen. He mimed a balloon popping. “Congratulations, it’s a boyfriend.”

“That is not what Auguste would say if I burst a blue glitter balloon in his face,” said Laurent, but he spent a few minutes thinking about doing it anyway, just for the look they would get.

The problem was, there was no good way to tell one’s older brother that one was seeing his nemesis-turned-friend. More — that one was in love with said friend, wanted everything that came with that, to get married, to spend their lives together. Laurent curled his toes into the sand.

Not for the first time, he wished Auguste was a little less straightforward. But that was unfair, because he loved his brother’s unflappable straightforwardness, his easy candidness. It wasn’t really his fault that it made things difficult for Laurent, who had come out to his mother at the age of fourteen by saying well… in a delicately sceptical tone when she talked about his bringing girlfriends home. The next week she’d said the same thing but about boyfriends and he hadn’t corrected her and they’d understood each other quite perfectly ever since.

Auguste, good-natured and oblivious, would not pick up on such a hint. He was quite useless at picking up any hints at all, as a childhood full of poorly-coordinated cover stories for Laurent’s attempts at mischief would attest.

But if Laurent couldn’t hint, the only alternative then was to say it aloud: Auguste, I’m in love with Damen. I want to spend the rest of my life with him. Laurent wanted it so much that it became impossible to say. His desire was so ravenously enormous that it looped back around to being mortifying. He felt as though he had a very large, very poorly behaved dog behind him all the time, trying to get at Damen. He’d never felt like this before about anyone.

“You could hire a musician,” said Damen. And opened one deep brown eye to peek up at him, his merriment poorly disguised. “To sing it at him.”

“Will you please take this seriously,” Laurent grumbled, but even his voice was conspiring against him, refusing to sound sharp. He sounded disgustingly smitten.

Damen sat up, brushed off his torso, and then in a single graceful movement of rippling muscle he manoeuvred himself onto Laurent, pushed him down into the warm sand, pinned him bodily in place. “Believe me,” he said; Laurent’s whole body was flushed and thrilled, “I’m taking this very seriously.” He drew his nose over Laurent’s jaw, and even that minute touch sent sparks down Laurent’s spine. He turned his head and pressed a vicious kiss to Damen’s neck, applying his teeth, revelling in the laughing groan this wrung from Damen’s chest.

“Laurent,” he said breathlessly. Laurent hummed, and Damen said his name again, his smile audible. “I have another idea.”

Laurent broke reluctantly away. “Tell me.”

“Auguste texted me ten minutes ago asking where we were.”

“He what?” Alarmed.

“Well, he’s on break too,” said Damen, in an eminently reasonable tone.

“Is he coming down to join us?”

“He said something along those lines,” said Damen. “I didn’t want to interrupt your lecture on Professor Euandros’ shortcomings.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Laurent muttered. Teaching Professor Euandros’s third-year course on classical poetry had been a nightmare that he would need the whole summer break to recover from. The man hadn’t met an organisational system he didn’t hate with a violent passion. “So Auguste — but what was your idea?”

“Oh,” said Damen. He rolled off Laurent and sat up — a poor start. Laurent said so and watched as Damen’s teeth showed in a dazzling grin. “Here, sweetheart,” Damen said, tugging Laurent closer to him. “Let him find us like this, and you won’t have to say a word. I’ll do all the talking.”

“Like this?” They were both sitting up now, leaning against each other, skin to skin. Intimate, but very innocent. Damen made an affirmative noise. Laurent hummed thoughtfully, then let himself slide down until his head was in Damen’s lap.

“Or like this,” Damen agreed, stroking his warm fingers through Laurent’s hair.

Laurent hummed again. Then, teasing, he turned his face and nuzzled in a certain direction. Damen jolted. Laurent bit down on a smile.

“Not like that,” said Damen. The beach was empty aside from them — it was small and relatively unpopular, and the vast majority of people had gone back to work last week — but there was still the little thrill of exposure. “Fucking hell, Laurent.”

“You said ten minutes ago,” said Laurent. Desire was swelling in his chest, as wild and as wide as the sea.

Damen said, “Yes,” very carefully. A man who knew exactly the kind of trap that was being sprung on him.

Laurent said, “It takes thirty to get down here from the university.”

[tinyfishtits]

Join Me?

Micah Bell / Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: Reader stumbles upon Micah skinny dipping. Word Count: 2,973 Rating: Teen and Up ~ for foul language and suggestive themes Author's Note: More fluff! This is Ch. 2 of 'Need a Haircut, Doll?' ★ Chapter 1 ☆ Read on AO3 ★ Masterlist

Life in camp finally seemed to settle and find its rhythm over the next few weeks in Clemons Point. The men were out most days diddling around Rhodes playing cops and robbers and stirring up trouble… I tried to keep out of it for the most part. In fact, I was so on edge being in Lemoyne Raider territory I hadn’t left camp at all since the move, I was starting to go stir crazy. 

Since joining the gang back in Colter, I'd established myself as a pretty proficient hunter. I was good with a bow and even better with my knives. I gave Charles and Arthur a run for their money when it came to clean kills and high quality pelts. I wasn’t used to being so cooped up and Grimshaw was really taking advantage of all my time loitering in camp. She knew I was an easy target for the chores everyone else seemed to avoid, and now I understood why. After weeks of scraping up horse crap, Karen's vomit, and cleaning dog piss out of bedrolls and blankets that the new camp mutt seemed intent on marking as his territory, I both smelt and felt like shit. 

All this was just compounded by the fact that I couldn’t seem to get a good night's sleep. And so I found myself, for the fifth night in a row, tossing and turning restlessly for hours until I finally gave up the fight and decided to go on a walk. Bundling up in my wool blanket, I made my way down to the lake. It was still dark out, probably just nearing four in the morning. The sun wouldn’t paint the sky for at least another hour. I walked barefoot across the rocky shore, treading slowly over the uneven terrain until the pebbles tapered off to finer grains of sand and I finally felt the warm relief of water at my feet. 

Listening to the soft, rhythmic lapping of the waves, I let my mind wander as I walked. I thought of what I would do when I left camp next. Perhaps I would convince Charles to go hunting with me, or maybe Keiren would finally take me up on my offer to teach him how to throw a knife if he’d show me how to fish. Being surrounded by so many beautiful and bountiful lakes, rivers and swamps in Scarlett Meadows alone, it seemed a shame that was one of the few skills I never even attempted, having written it off early in life as a needlessly boring activity. After all the chaos of the last year, though… I’d grown to cherish those simpler, quiet moments. What was once dull, was now peaceful. 

A few yards out in the water I heard a faint splashing, like a large fish breaking the surface. Straining my eyes in the darkness, I could see something shiny and dark floating on the water. The longer I looked, the bigger it got, slowly emerging from the depths and coming toward where I stood on the shore. The moment the moonlight caught his skin I gasped and turned away, almost falling on my face as my foot caught the edge of my blanket. 

“Jesus! Christ, I- I didn’t-” I stuttered, frozen in embarrassment as I realized what exactly I’d stumbled on to. Micah Bell was half submerged in the lake, a few yards behind me, completely naked. “I didn’t… see… anything.” I said sheepishly. It was mostly truthful. I didn’t see anything, below his waist at least… But I had seen more of him than I ever had before. My cheeks burned hot at the image cemented in my head. Micah, glistening wet in the moonlight, toned arms reaching up to wipe the long hair from his face, freshly trimmed mustache dripping water onto his chest and falling down his soft stomach, the golden hair that trailed down it to what lay just below the water's surface.

The silence following my accidental peeping was painful and I found myself desperately wanting to escape, wishing I had just sat by the fire like every other cold, restless night. Was this what he did? Where he disappeared to after everyone else was asleep?  I had been surprised before when I never ran across him on my midnight walks around camp. Part of me always hoped I would…

“I- I’m sorry. I’ll go.” I said, starting back off in the direction of camp. I’d only made it a few clumsy steps before I heard my name, soft and velvety on the wind at my back. I stopped dead in my tracks, still too red in the face to dare turning to look at him just yet. 

“Wait.” Was all he said, the silence that followed filled only by the subtle splashing of water as he moved through it. “Join me?” His voice rang out from the darkness. The water at my feet, once warm against my skin, now felt ice cold in comparison to the fire raging through me. I’d never heard him so… serious . He always had such a cocky air about him, laced every word in sleazy armor as to not give too much of himself away. The rawness of this one small request, just two simple words… it hung between us like a lightning bolt on the edge of a knife. 

The pure shock of it had me turning to face him, embarrassment over my red face overpowered by curiosity. “What?” I gawked back at him. Even if he couldn’t see my flushed cheeks, it was obvious by the way my voice rose two octaves how flustered I was. Only his head bobbed above the water now and he met my wide eyes with a sly smirk. The moonlight shimmered off the water and reflected in his light blue eyes, igniting them like the fluorescent irises of a predator stalking its prey. It sent a shiver down my spine. 

“I-” I started, feeling the need to speak when he let the silence drag on, but had no clue what to say or do. The thought of going for a much needed soak in the pleasantly warm water was all too enticing… Would he think me a prude if I waded into the water in my clothes? Or even more so if I walked away? If it were anyone else, Charles, Arthur, Bill… I wouldn’t have cared what they would think. But something in me desperately wanted to be vulnerable in this moment, not to turn away or hide myself in fear this chance would not come around again. 

“Turn around.” I said, my voice much steadier than I felt. His eyebrows shot up at first, then his lips twitched with a smile and he turned away to face the horizon. I shuffled out of my clothes, setting them beside where his were, to my surprise, neatly folded on the pebbly ground. Another facet of his personality suddenly fell into place. The gruff, grimey outlaw valued order and care when it came to his possessions. It was clear in the way he tended to his weapons, his horse, his facial hair, and now, his clothes. 

The water felt incredible. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone swimming, or even had a proper soak in a tub. It’d been long enough I forgot how light it made your body, how, when the water was the perfect temperature as it was tonight, it felt close to flying. If it weren’t for the light of the moon flickering off the water's surface it’d be hard to think otherwise, the darkness of night and water were practically one in the same. Once the water met my chin and the lakebed disappeared beneath my feet, I couldn't help the laugh that escaped me. 

Micah turned to face me then, “What’s so funny?” He asked, a gleaming smile painting his face as he examined my own elated expression. 

“It just-” I giggled, feeling the water flow through my toes and fingers so softly it was almost ticklish. “I really needed this.” I admitted. 

His smile softened and he hummed in acknowledgement. “Yer workin’ too hard. I don’t know why you let that old bat order you around so much.” 

I wasn’t overly fond of Grimshaw, but I understood at the very least where she was coming from. The camp would fall to pieces overnight if it weren't for her. “She only has me do what needs to be done, I don’t see you pitchin’ in on chores.” 

Micah scoffed. “I bring in cash, sweetheart, I already got a job.” He was just a few feet away from me now, effortlessly paddling his arms and legs. I wasn’t as skilled of a swimmer and could already feel my limbs growing tired at the energy I was exerting just to keep my head above water. Micah noticed my struggle and positioned himself behind me. “Lean back” His gravely whisper brushed against my ear. I did as he ordered and found myself supported by two strong hands on my back as I let my body relax against his hold. 

I let out a content sigh and heard his chuckle ring out above me. “Thank you” I whispered back, my eyes closed as I enjoyed the bliss of feeling as though I truly was floating, suspended in air. 

“Least I could do, darlin’.” He replied, his voice soft and soothing. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to give in completely to his hold on me. As I began to drift off, I could have sworn I heard Micah hum to me, gentle, sweet tunes. One I even recognized as a lullaby from my childhood. I wondered briefly if his mother sang to him as a boy, if he’d ever had a moment as peaceful as the one he was gifting me tonight. He held me like that for so long that by the time I opened my eyes, the sun was rising at my feet, the sky a beautiful deep tangerine.

He slowly released me from his hold once I began to stir awake in his arms. “Mornin’” He whispered, so close I could have sworn I felt his mustache scratch my ear. I turned to face him and he made no effort to move away, our bodies just a foot away from each other. As the sun lit the sky and the water, I became acutely aware of how naked we were. My cheeks reddened in an instant, it took more willpower than I was willing to admit, not to look down. As if he could read my thoughts, though I’m sure they were clearly written on my face, Micah waved a hand toward the shore, splashing the water with his gesture. “Go get dressed doll, I ain’t lookin’.” 

I waded to the shore, my legs a bit wobbly as I readjusted to the weight of my body. The bite of the morning chill prickled at the soft hairs on my body and I shivered against it. Quickly pulling on my clothes, I watched as Micah dove under water. I was surprised how long he could hold his breath, staying submerged for over a minute before his golden head broke the surface again. Fully dressed and bundled once more in my blanket, I yelled for him. “You comin’ cowboy?” 

Diving once more, Micah resurfaced just a few feet away from the shore, shaking his head and flinging the water from his hair like a dog. I yelped as droplets showered my bare legs and jumped back, much to his amusement. Chuckling, he rose from the water, giving me no warning as his bare body came into view. His tanned, toned, glistening body… My mouth went dry and I stumbled once more to turn around in time, giving him the same privacy he allotted me.

I walked over to one of the many large boulders scattered across the shore and took a seat, staring at my hands as he dressed. The faint rustling of fabric and Micah’s soft grunts as he pulled his clothes over damp skin filled the silence between us. The strike of a match and the subtle crackling burn that followed caught my attention and I looked up to find Micah watching me, a cigarette lazily perched between his lips, dressed except for his shirt which he left completely unbuttoned, his chest on full display. 

I opened my blanket and patted the space beside me, a silent invitation. He sauntered over and joined me without a word. His body was so warm , like he had his own fire burning under skin. Micah stiffened as I cuddled up to his side, my arms automatically wrapping around his bicep, pulling him closer. Another shiver wracked my body at our temperature difference and he relaxed, snaking his arm out of my grip to wrap around my waist and bring me deeper into his embrace, pulling the blanket around us both. 

We sat in companionable silence and watched the sun rise, basking in each other's warmth. That faint lakey musk clung to us both, but Micah scent was… deeper, more complex. The ashy burn of salt tingled at my nose, melded delectably with the tobacco smoke and a greener, fresher aroma, like prairie grass. I didn’t realize I was nuzzling his neck until he let out the faintest moan, just barely more than a sigh. But the vibration of it through his throat tickled at my nose and I shot up, suddenly aware how tangled up I was with him. He peeked sidelong at me, taking the cigarette from his lips and blowing a puff of smoke from the side of his mouth, away from me. “Why’d ya stop?” He asked, his voice so low it was barely more than a whisper. 

Instead of searching for an answer I reached for the cigarette in his hand and brought it to my lips, drawing a deep puff before returning it to his still outstretched fingers. I could feel his eyes on me as I gazed out at the brightening horizon. “You been havin’ bad dreams?” He asked suddenly. I turned to look at him, surprise and confusion painting my expression. “I- um.” He stuttered, clearing his throat before continuing, “You haven't been sleeping…” 

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and sighed as I sunk back against his warmth. “I’ve just been going a little stir crazy is all.” And when he didn’t reply added, “And it’s cold as hell here at night. I don't know how anyone gets any sleep.”

“Well go into town today, let Grimshaw do her own damn chores for once.” He said, as if it were that simple, and for him I’m sure it was. I didn’t want to admit the real reason I’d confined myself to camp the past few weeks… couldn’t bring myself to say the word, scared. I was scared. I’d made it my mission the last year to improve my knife and bow skills so I’d never feel helpless again, and I’d done a damn good job of it. But the memory of the raiders, the trauma I'd endured at their hands… It wasn’t easily forgotten. And although I could effortlessly take down an Elk, a dozen men with nothing but malice coursing through their veins was a different story entirely. 

When my silence dragged on Micah added, “I can come with ya, if you want.” I perked up, my heart fluttering at the idea of spending a day with him. 

“Would- Would you go hunting with me?” I asked, suddenly excited for what the day ahead of me held. Finally, I thought, something other than chores! Micah let out a breathy laugh and flicked the butt of his cigarette to the ground. 

“Animals?” He said with a theatrical sigh, “It’s not really my… area of expertise.” But after a moment relented, “Alright..." He drawled, "What are we huntin’?” A wide smile spread across my face as I looked up at him, “Yotes!” I said, the excitement clear in my voice. I’d been dying to get some pelts to make myself a propper, warm bed. 

Micah laughed, a genuine, deep laugh that shook me. “Coyote's it is then.” And pulled me in closer to his chest with a sigh. “Maybe I-” He started, a hand idly playing with a strand of my hair as he searched for what to say. “Could I teach you how to shoot?” He whispered into my brow. 

“I know how to shoot.” I said and he quickly retorted, “A gun darlin’.”

I hummed, feigning that I had to think it over. I’d wanted to ask him to teach me to shoot the first time I saw him twirl his revolvers around his fingers. “Sure.” I said finally, “But I don’t have a gun.” 

“I can fix that.” He said, getting up and stretching a hand out to me. The smile he gave me was soft and sweet, his silver-blue eyes alight. He looked like he’d emerged from a painting. The sun behind him gave the appearance that he glowed with golden light, beckoning me toward him like some rugged, gunslinging siren. I took his hand and let him pull me up, our hands lingering in each others for a moment longer than need be. 

He leaned down then, picking up his hat and dusting the sand from it before placing it on my head. “Looks better on you.” He said quickly, his voice a bit rough, and turned back toward camp. Blush burned at my cheeks as I watched him walk off, my eyes lingering on his broad back, his hips… “Comin’?” He yelled back at me, and I jolted, hurrying to catch up with him.

[lowkeyrobin]

JJ MAYBANK ; i remember everything

summary ; after returning home, you & jj get in a fight after you try and ignore the presence of john b and sarah ; a part two to replacement

warnings ; language, physical fighting, 2nd person pov is omniscient and reveals that reader blames themselves / they're in the wrong

disclaimers ; never finished s3 bc it was so boring and idk what's going on w s4, so they're back home safe and without any gold I guess. the story will be that they're all waiting for court dates or smthn lol

track ; i remember everything, zach bryan & kacey musgraves

word count ; 1.6k

masterlist ; part one

You sit on the sand, the water creeping up on your sneakers as you're fully dressed and just out of school. You think in silence, your eyes glazed over as you stare out at the horizon. You'd texted your friends that you were coming down here. You had a rough day, you just needed some alone time for a while to sit with your thoughts.

You think back to your real friends, the ones who didn't like you just because you were a walking yes button.

You remember how Kie and Pope clearly wanted to talk to you, but JJ always needed to step up and be an ass. You wished you could've just tried to speak to them, you didn't realize that they'd be leaving for good, apparently.

It'd been four months, you'd become more worried than ever. Your texts and calls were always left sent and unanswered, any attempt of constact futile. Kie's and Pope's parents were obviously the most worried as their children had run off with no trace.

They'd interrogated you over and over to no avail, as you didn't know anything. They just kinda left without you.

You wished you would've just for a second believed that maybe John B and Sarah were okay, but no, you had to start a fight. It was your fault, who were you kidding?

You remember the beat-down basement couch at JJ's that you all lounged on the few times when his dad wasn't around. You remember the time when you sang love songs to JJ as practice while he'd tell you about how his mom ran off and pawned her ring.

You remember that last smile, he only smiled like that when he was drinking.

Every time you thought of him, though, you smelt CrazyArt crayons, the ones that didn't even draw, you saw the same brown carpet that needed replacing years ago. Vertical wood in the hallway to paint the walls, it was engraved in your mind. You remember the dead flowers resting over the sink in the little windowsill above it, having been dead for months at least. They were completely wilted, most of the petals having fallen off, the glass vase stained with a little brown line across where the water sat still.

He probably didn't feel anything about it now, but you felt like you were driving through a hurricane. You felt like those dead flowers on JJ's kitchen windowsill, dead yet still not thrown away yet.

You lay back on the sand, your limbs sprawled out like a sad starfish. You pull your knees up, solidifying your spot in the sand. The grain knots itself into your hair, which wouldn't come out completely for a solid week since you learned the hard way long ago.

After twenty or so minutes of staring into the afternoon sky, you sit back up, attempt to shake any loose sand out of your hair, and stand up, gathering your thoughts in the process. You walk up the beach, returning to the road where your bike is perched on the curb. You hop on and peddle your way back home, cutting through town to do so.

You hoped a cold shower on this hot day would relieve you of the burning sensation on your skin, or at least help with your overwhelming, guilty thoughts. As you ride, you notice a few people walking down the sidewalk in front of you, thankfully leaving you some room to go past them.

As you grow closer, you notice their faces belong to those of your friends and an extra, for some reason. You smoothly swerve to the right, past Kie, not paying them any mind.

JJ minded, though, having tried to send a smile your way, for whatever reason. Kie did as well, as she opened her mouth to say hello.

"Hey, Y/n!" She defeatedly waves, letting her hand rest at her side as she watches you ride away.

You, out of fear and surprise, hide the sight away in your mind, because they were definitely your friends, or used to be your friends. Either way, they were home.

The next day, you had your headphones on while riding around town on your bike. You decided to enjoy some Zach Bryan and the heat, considering it was Saturday. You didn't end up going to that party with your friends, you just felt too groggy and gross after seeing them again.

You stop for a minute at Twist & Shake, wanting to get some French fries and some of that pineapple Dole Whip ice cream you'd been craving. You pull into the little parking lot and lean your bike against the building's right wall, not wanting to fight with the stand at the moment. You grab your wallet out of your back pocket and pull your headphones down around your neck, walking up to the order window.

You place your order and stand off to the side of the pickup window, hoping that no one was actively stealing your bike since it wasn't in view. You see a group of teens your age walk up to the window, of course, your old friends. You quickly turn your head away after getting a glance of them, tapping your foot on the pavement impatiently as you wait for your food.

"Y/n, oh my God, hi!" Sarah smiles, waving at you.

Her smile falters as you stare down at your feet, arms crossed as you wait. Her blonde hair frames her saddened face as she looks over at John B and Kie with a confused look. She looks hurt, she'd never left anything off on horrible terms with you, even if, lightly bad. She thought you were friends now.

Kie shrugs, pulling a twenty from her pocket as John B turns to JJ and Pope. Kie and Cleo lean against the sill against the ordering window as they order for themselves and their friends.

JJ rolls his eyes. "I told you, they replaced us"

"What do you mean?" Sarah asks, "I- They aren't here with anyone? What happened? Did we do something?-"

"No, they did something," JJ clarifies, "We got in a fight, and now they won't talk to any of us, like I said."

Pope shakes his head, "You got in a fight with them," He corrects, "They had a right to be suspicious about if they were really alive. They've been through enough, JJ. If you even cared, you'd notice that, but you had to put yourself first-"

"I didn't put myself first, I put John B and Sarah first!-"

John B rests a hand on JJ's shoulder, silently telling him to back off and calm down. The blonde stops himself, taking a breath.

"Try speaking up, maybe they didn't hear you" Pope hopefully says to Sarah, seeing her desperation to talk to you again.

"Y/n?" Sarah calls, making sure she's loud enough for you to hear. "Hey, it's me, Sarah?"

You continue to ignore her, feeling guilty as you do so. You just weren't ready to speak to them yet, you already felt awful but you didn't realize you were only making it worse.

JJ, now upset, walks up to you, shoving your shoulder. You look up at him, nearly glaring at him.

"Fuck is your problem?" He asks, "John B and Sarah are alive and you're gonna ignore them? You're gonna ignore us?"

"I'm not ignoring you. I don't want anything to do with you" You mumble, "Leave me alone"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" JJ asks, "You're seriously still doing this shit? You really never cared, did you?"

"Shut up, JJ. It's almost like I don't wanna fucking talk to you right now-"

"Yeah, cause you replaced your actual friends, you peace of shit." He spits, "Shows how much you care"

You push him away, not wanting to interact. Kie turns her head as the employee hands her change back, seeing you push the blonde away from you.

"Guys?-"

JJ pushes you back with a snarky comment. You push him back, cursing him out for some blind sighted reason.

He responds with a punch to your face, urging Pope, Kie, and John B to try and pull him away from you as you hit him back. Cleo and Sarah rush to your side, trying to pull you away as well, both parties unsuccessful.

Shouting, gasps, and yells fill the air as you two hit each other over and over, yelling profanities back and forth. You end up tackling him to the ground somehow, the three behind him stepping back as he falls. You straddle him, landing blow after blow on him, like revenge for that fight months ago.

His face is bloodied, and in that moment, you pull yourself away, realizing that look in his eyes. You'd become his father. In some alternate universe, you were the abuser all along. You stand up, falling into Sarah's and Cleo's open arms. Shit, you didn't even know Cleo, but here she was, letting you fall into her.

JJ glares at you, wiping the blood pouring from his nose.

Pope shares a look with John B, then you, an apologetic and slightly scared expression in your eyes. You didn't even know why you did it, you couldn't even feel yourself when you did it.

"What the fuck?" Kie nearly shouts, looking between you and the blonde. "It is never that serious to fight in a parking lot of Twist & Shake"

"Apparently, it is." You spit, walking away to grab your food before you're kicked off the property. "I didn't replace you. I don't wanna die trying to save some gold, that's it. See you later, " you grumble, walking away with a sore eye and knuckles.

The group, minus JJ, share confused and worried looks, watching you glide away on your bicycle.

"Jesus Christ..."

[heartmaddie]

charm | t.oikawa - 06 terrapin

by m454d1e warnings mentions toxic relationship , manipulation , bruises , mentions of violence.

it’s around 11:20 am when she’s finally hears the doorbell ring, much to osamu and kei’s surprise when they see her exiting the comfort of her bedroom and walking to the front door to slip her shoes on.

“where ya goin’?” osamu asks, peeking over the wall separating the main hallway from the dining room, “need a ride?”

“beach with tooru, i think he’s driving, i’m not sure” she replies, looking back at him with a small smile, “thank you though.”

“oh, i didn’t know you messaged him back” osamu hums, coming up to her and sitting next to her. “i’m worried about you” he sighs.

“i’m okay ‘samu, i promise,” she looks up at him, bumping her forehead against his upper bicep, “we’ll talk another time.” osamu looks down at her with an uncertain expression.

“you always say that.”

“i mean it this time.” he chuckles lightly at her response, messing up her clean hair with his fingers,

“okay, text me if anything goes wrong.” he stands up, letting out a small stretch before wishing her goodbye and walking back to his lunch.

she opens the door to oikawa’s lean figure with his arms crossed in a white jumper, looking at her expectantly.

“are you ready to go?” he asks, his voice smooth and gentle as he grinned.

“yeah, i’m ready” she confirms, letting him take her arm and pulling her towards his car. she leans against the passenger seat, watching as he pulled out of his spot and typed in the address into the gps, letting yn choose the music.

she smiled to herself as she admired him, the slight slope of his nose and the swell of his lips, how his eyes were purely focused on the road, not noticing the moments when his chocolate brown eyes would fall on her while she’s distracted herself. it’s sort of tranquil, the way their breaths would sync up, or how tooru’s hand would reach for hers and he’d wrap his slender fingers around hers.

they sat in silence for most of the ride, until yn gently pulls the sleeve of his jumper upwards, looking at the bruises which anointed his skin. she gently traced the purple splotches,

“are you okay?” she asked, looking up at him curiously.

“i’ll be okay.” he confirms, “semi’s not that strong” he’ll play it off as a joke, smirking down at her. “keep holding my hand” so she does, and they spent the rest of the ride in complete silence.

oikawa hops out of his car to open the door for her, the gentle spring breeze flowing through her hair and fabric as he’s pulling yn towards the warm, wet sand. tooru laughs as he runs ahead, stretching out his bones before looking back at her, gesturing for her to come over to him. she smiles as she sits next to him, letting him drape his arm over her shoulder and keeping her close to his torso.

yn takes a deep sigh as she leans back on the sand, feeling each grain tangle into her hair and clothes as oikawa leans his head near hers.

“you’re very cold” he observes, gently pushing some sand off her face, “do you feel cold?” he asks,

“not really, just a bit chilly but the sun makes it better.” he agrees, the sun does make it better. the warm glow which projected on her face from the sun itself made sharp shadows against her features, letting him appreciate every eyelash, her eyes in the sunshine, shining amber from the yellow glow, the way her silky hair flowed gracefully in the wind, he was quite enamoured with her, really.

this feeling is somewhat familiar to yn, the way oikawa would gaze into her eyes, it felt somewhat fleeting, like she couldn’t count on him. their interactions felt transient, and she couldn’t recognize it as a bodily response, protecting her from the eventual hurt, or if it was true, if he had the same intentions as others before. she let out a deep sigh as she pressed her forehead against his, making him laugh softly.

“what’re you thinking about?” he asks, whispering it in her ear like a secret, dedicated to the both of them.

“nothing” she lies, smiling softly at him.

“is it overbearing to ask about him?” oikawa asks, suddenly a bit more serious as he sits up.

“about who? semi?” yn replies, sitting up alongside him as her face morphed into an expression of thought, “i mean, i guess you deserve to understand why we’re not particularly fond of him”

tooru nods, taking her soft hand into his dry and calloused on, rubbing her palm gently, “just take your time.”

“well we were dating at the end of 1st year to around the middle of 3rd year, so quite a while for a highschool couple” she starts, sighing occasionally, “and he was a good boyfriend, you know, like, he has this really captivating way of making someone feel special even when they’re not, and i guess i got lost in that”

oikawa listened attentively, soaking in every word that she told him. his heart twisted occasionally from each experience that she’d share with him. he wanted to feel her pain, but he knew he couldn’t. this was something else entirely, and the distant nature she developed over the course of their last year in high school made sense to him now.

“i knew semi was a dickhead, but i didn’t think it was that bad” oikawa mutters when she’s finished, pulling her close to his warm chest, “you’re so resilient for putting up with that for so long.”

“resilient or pathetic” she’d chuckle awkwardly, letting him hold her. “i guess i didn’t realise how bad it was until the end, even still i miss him sometimes.” she nods, her eyes narrowing. “it’s hard”

“yeah it really sounds like it would be,” oikawa looked at her with sympathetic eyes as he leant his forehead against her cheek in an almost affectionate manner.

for hours, the two of them shared endless stories, until in the mid afternoon where they both set off to go back to the apartment, it was already an hour or two drive away and the afternoon traffic would slow them down.

yn’s sleeping soundly in the car while oikawa would rhythmically tap his fingers against the wheel, taking his time to look over and admire her welcoming features. he had to stop himself from reaching out and stroking his fingers through her fine hair, or letting her lean on his shoulder as she rested, but that was too much and too soon, so he opted to just admiring her in the afternoon glow.

“hey, yn, wake up!” he whisper-shouts at her, trying to shake her awake carefully as he’s parked outside her dorm building, “are you ready to go in?”

“mpph” she nods sleepily, making him chuckle as he helps her out of the car, offering an arm to lean on as he rests her bag on his shoulder. he takes her up each flight of stairs slowly, ensuring that she'll get up safely until he’s finally at her door. she stuffs the keys into the keyhole with lazy movements, earning another chuckle from him as he helps her guide it into the door properly.

“hey, i’m gonna go back home now, okay?” tooru whispers as he watches her slip off her shoes, her roommates watching a documentary in the room next. she looks up at him and nods,

“okay, bye tooru.” it warms his heart hearing his name fall from her lips like that.

“okay, night yn” and with a final smile, he walks out the door and shuts it quietly.

prev | masterlist | next

please make sure to like , reblog or follow if you enjoyed! queued post !

౨ৎ my tummy hurted while i did this

౨ৎ oikawa was really hesitant to ask her to hang out but he did it anyways and was surprised when she agreed

౨ৎ i am actually very proud of this chapter for the first time ever.

౨ৎ i feel so early with this being posted on thursday and me writing it on monday

౨ৎ hmmm

౨ৎ sometimes i feel like yn and oikawa r pushing too fast but idrc

౨ৎ i have limited chapters ok..

౨ৎ also my hair is more brown now and i do like it more than the red.

taglist : @meosq , @jtaimeurmom , @strawbeariesei if you'd like to join - don't be afraid to ask !

[searchingforserendipity25]

Plentiful as Sand is Plentiful. LoTR. on ao3.

There was for many years an hourglass upon Elrond’s desk, a tall ivory-and-glass thing from sunken Númenor. 

As a little child Estel liked to turn it and turn it, and would sit for hours upon his foster father’s lap following the mother-of-pearl etchings on the handle with his fingertips and watching the sand shift softly. 

For a time it was too heavy for his small wrists to turn; but Elrond with his keen hearing would know when the last grains came with an end, and knew when to turn it without lifting his eyes from his papers.

 Elrond had given it for him to hold, when he told him the truth of his name: Aragon, son of Arathorn, heir to Isildur’s line and Isildur’s grim failure. 

“Yet also to the courage of his people, and their skill,” Elrond told him. “Your forefather it was who made this time piece as a gift to me. From the glass-rooms of Armenelos it came, the last of Isildur’s works of beauty. It has been of good use to me, and good memory; I give it to you, that you should remember him with gratitude, as well as bitterness.”

“Yet bitter is it what you say to me,” said Estel, who was Aragorn. He was startled still, and yet not surprised entirely; for the blood of kings ran in him, and had at times left an uneasy premonition upon him. 

Still he would have remained been Estel, and no lost kingdom’s wayward heir; least of all in this century, this Age of the world, with an evil reckoning brewing in the distance. 

He turned the hourglass in his hands; a Mannish means of counting time, not to be found in other elvish kingdoms, but common enough in the house of Elrond Peredhel. “Keep it, Master Elrond. I cannot have it as my own, ere I am Isildur’s heir truly. These hurrying moments that are my lifetime shall be a heavy load to carry, I judge, and my course too rough for such a delicate thing.”

“Then keep it I shall, until you wish to reclaim it, or your score of years are run to their course,” said Elrond; and laid upon Estel’s shoulder the heavy comfort of his healer’s hands, which he felt for a time like a yoke as well as a kindness. 

It rested between a tall orchid Celebrían had found once in her expeditions in the wilds of Ennor, a narrow and tall and very orange creature, the last of its kind on these shore - and on the other side was his pile of used quills, which he tended to keep until they were worn through into stumps, too blunt to be sharpened.

He used it little, after that day; but at times Arwen his daughter came, and stood by the chair where Aragorn had sat with bent shoulders to her his name. 

Her fingers, long broideress fingers, touched the waves and leviathans Isildur had carved, with careful deliberation, in the last days of his youth, the dying of his empire. Her eyes grew clouded, then; not with the memory of the past, but her own designs, a future seen with the force of her want. Her own lord of man, his dear face not like any other’s; her own cities crowded with the smell of stone dust and salt.

She left it there, warmed by her skin, and went away from it but for rare and secret visits; but Elrond at times looked heavily upon it, as once he had not. 

That was another Age of the world. There is now an hourglass amidst Tar-Elessar’s instruments - behind the inkwell of Gondorin silver, besides the whittling of an eagle in flight his eldest daughter has wrought him. 

Many gifts have been to him, the king well-returned; but none quite as ancient. Elessar turns it in his hands, when a heavy ruling keeps him at work long into the night; Isildur’s hourglass, grown light with the strength of his manhood, feels always a little terrible to hold.

[kenobster]

Bribe me sempai

[link to original post for context]

bahahahhaha, be BRIBED:

The attacks after point rain swept Obi-Wan’s face, armor, robes in fine grains of Geonosian sand—sand that could come right off with a few good wipes, always leaving the cloth dirtier than the man.  In a desert, water is a luxury. Obi-Wan ensured that every active soldier on Geonosis received enough water for hydration as well as a nightly spongebath, and he and Cody were no exceptions. But it was always their eyes on the requisition requests, their eyes on the remaining supplies, their eyes on the casualty reports whenever the medics ran out of clean gauze and resorted to soil-stained cloth. For he and Cody, hydration and sponge baths were luxuries, too. They made a contest out of it—in using the fewest drops from their canteens to dampen the least dusty sections of their sleeves. Afterward, they sat together and took turns nursing the mud out of each other’s sweat-damp hair.  When the war is over, Cody once said, I think I’ll find the sandiest rock out there. Buy a couple of sandwraps and a good healthy dewback. Set up camp somewhere out there. In love with the weather that much, are you? Beats getting drenched in rain. Because that was Kamino—a desert of saltwater dunes as blue as the sweltering sky that Obi-Wan stands under now.  Tatooine sand isn’t like the sand of Geonosis. Sponge baths leave only crusty caked-up rings around the ankles, wrists, and neck. Hosing things down clogs up equipment with thick layers of mud. Even the atmosphere—heavy and dry—peels flakes of skin from hardened, calloused knuckles.  The sandiest rock in the galaxy, here, beneath his feet, and Obi-Wan wishes there’d been an ending to the war, purely so that his Commander could have seen it.

Thank you for the vote and the fun time!! XD

Note: I'll be doing the corresponding Obikin drabbles and the drabbles for other ships after the poll concludes.

[angeart]

hmtb quotes i'm collecting on my reread (pt 1??)

chapter 7 - Lighthouse In The Storm:

He feels off-balance. He feels like he’s standing at the ruins of a desert castle and their lives have a set countdown and he has to try to make sure nobody can hurt them.

chapter 8 - Relying On You:

Maybe it was Grian’s touch and presence that finally made him doze off—the knowledge that he’s close-by and safe and that, if necessary, Scar can jump up and protect him. He’s not even fully aware of how similar that feels to Monopoly Mountain, when they slept near each other, ready to face any threat together. All he knows is that it’s familiar and comforting and easy to slip into.

chapter 8 - Relying On You:

Why did he think Mumbo might be a threat to Grian? Mumbo cares so much about him, and Scar knows it, he does, he just, he—he—

His thoughts fail to spin up a reasonable explanation. 

Maybe it was this room? The red? The light purple? The scent of flowers and sand—

No, no, there is no sand here. It is all made out of wood and copper and right out the window, there are lush green trees and mountains, nothing akin to sandstone and desert in sight.

chapter 9 - Safety Is But A Feather, And Feathers Burn So Easily

He turns to look and he sees Scar’s face, relaxed in a way he just doesn’t see when Scar is awake. He’s glad to see him calm and at peace, because he’s haunted by the look he gave him when he said Grian, please, no—back at the top of Mumbo’s mountain—the way he tipped backwards in the way Grian’s hands dictated, the look he gave him falling over the edge… That’s the thought his mind kept going back to while Scar avoided him. And now here he is, so close, so calm, so unafraid, and Grian’s heart hurts.

chapter 10 - Fever Dreams And Diamond Swords I

He can feel it again, crawling across his skin—that urgent need to push all threats away from Grian, to make it just the two of them against everyone else, to not rely on anyone’s false promises and tricks and—his head is full of a sprawling, cacti-outlined desert and life countdowns and TNT covered by grains of sand.

chapter 10 - Fever Dreams And Diamond Swords I

“You know, he’s kinda unhinged lately.”

“Mm.” Grian’s fist curls into bedsheets where Scar was, the fabric still warm. He closes his eyes. “It feels familiar,” he mumbles sleepily. 

“Familiar?” Mumbo raises his eyebrows. “You make it sound like a good thing.”

Even with fever and exhaustion, pain and vulnerability, Grian’s lips curl into a cheshire smile, and he opens one eye to look at Mumbo. “It feels like hot sun and sand and the edge of a guillotine.”

chapter 11 - Fever Dreams And Diamond Swords II

“You have a fever,” Scar explains to him gently, “so things might not make sense now. But you’re safe. Okay? Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

With trembling hands, Grian points the sword at him.

Scar lets the tip touch his chest. “Grian, if you hit me once, I’ll die,” he tells him in that same, gentle tone.

He isn’t afraid. He isn’t thinking about the impending pain of respawn, with all its horrendous consequences—no, the only thing he’s thinking of is Grian, and making him feel safe, and if Grian doesn’t feel safe with him there, he allows him to remove him.

Grian blinks the tears from his eyes. He isn’t moving.

“You can kill me, if you want,” Scar offers like he has a death wish.

Something flashes in Grian’s eyes at those words. And in that instant, they're not on the hardwood floor surrounded by petals anymore. Water laps at their legs and their eyes are red and Grian’s sword points at Scar and—with absolute intensity and clarity, Grian knows he doesn’t want to kill him, but then—but then there is the ring of cacti and the blood on his knuckles and—

The sword clatters out of his hands and he’s pressing his palms into his eyes, breathing raggedly at air that refuses to fill his lungs.