#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.

[isa-beenme]

This one came waaaay quicker than part 2 hehe

Once I find the correct song all the rest comes easily

This is for the ones that asked for a happy ending 😛✌️

Summary: Prythian saw the way that Rhysand's mate fell into depression but tried her best to get better. They saw the way that Cassian's mate fell into depression and turned it into pure anger and self-destruction. But... what if Azriel's mate simply... doesn't care?

What Was I Made For? (Part. 1)

Maria (Part. 2)

Four Seasons (Part. 3)

Azriel never feared silence in his life. He thrived in it, in the solace of the shadows, in the weight of unspoken words. But the silence you left behind was unbearable. For two years, it echoed in his bones, carved itself into the walls of the room you once shared, pressed into the empty space in the bed where you once laid. And the letter, now creased and worn from how many times he had read it, reminded him of his failure.

"I want to heal. I need to understand what I was made for."

You had been slipping through his fingers like grains of sand, and he hadn’t even noticed. Hadn't seen the way you let life pass you by. Hadn’t realized that the quiet, passive way you moved through the world wasn’t peace, it was emptiness. And it was too late. You are gone.

For the first few months, rage had warred with guilt. He had failed you. As your mate, as the male who was supposed to know your soul. He had been so focused on loving you that he hadn't realized you hadn't yet learned how to love yourself.

Cassian and Rhys tried to help, but there were no words that could fix this. He trained until his muscles burned, until his body ached, but nothing numbed the feeling of your absence. His shadows whispered your name at night, searching for traces of you.

And then, one evening, as he sat on the roof of the House of Wind, staring at the stars, wishing he could listen to the same story over and over again about how each star ended where it was, something inside him shifted. The bond. A door he thought would remain locked forever cracked open.

His breath left him in a harsh exhale, his heart a hammering mess in his chest. The sensation was weak at first, as if you weren't sure you could bear to touch it. But it was there. You were back. And he was flying before he even realized it.

Honestly, you had prepared yourself for this moment. Prepared for the possibility that Azriel might not want you anymore. That you had been gone for too long, had hurt him too deeply.

But you weren't the same person who had left. you had spent two years chasing something — anything — that would make you feel alive. You hadn’t found the grand purpose you had longed for, hadn’t discovered a great passion hidden within yourself. But you had found yourself at peace in the small moments. In the way the ocean breeze felt against your skin while you were traveling, in the warmth of the sun after a cold night you spent outside, in the quiet companionship of strangers who didn’t know your past while you ate at small bakeries.

And somewhere along the way, you had realized something else. You loved Azriel. Not because of the bond, not because it was fate. But because, in all the world, Azriel was the one person who made you want to feel something. You spent so many years without worrying about it, and when Azriel entered your life, it felt like a necessity to understand his emotions and be someone worthy of him. You just didn't realize it at the time.

A gust of wind cut through the clearing, and you turned just as a shadow fell over you. Azriel landed with a force that sent leaves scattering around you. His wings flared wide, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, golden eyes burning with something you couldn’t quite name.

You took a breath. “Az—”

But you didn’t get the chance to finish. He crossed the space between them in two strides, pulling you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. His scent overwhelmed you, shadows curling around your wrists like they had missed you too.

“You came back,” he rasped. His voice was raw. “You came back.”

Your throat tightened. You wrapped your arms around him, holding on, letting yourself feel this moment fully.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His grip tightened. “Don’t. Just—don’t.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, reaching up to touch his face, tracing the dark circles beneath his eyes, the tension in his jaw. “I should have told you what I was feeling. I should have let you in. At least once.”

Azriel’s gaze searched yours, his hands trembling slightly as they cupped your face. “I should have seen it,” he murmured. “I should have—”

You shook your head, pressing your forehead to his. “We can’t change the past.”

He exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before he looked at you again. “Are you staying?”

The question carried the weight of everything. You had been ready to tell him that it was okay if he didn’t want you anymore. That you would understand. But seeing him now, feeling him this way for the first time, it was unbearable to think of leaving again.

“Yes,” you breathed. “If you’ll have me.”

Azriel let out a broken laugh, the ghost of a smile touching his lips before he kissed you. It wasn’t soft. It was desperate, filled with two years of longing, of aching, of everything unsaid. You melted into him, letting yourself feel. For the first time in your life, you wanted to stay. And that was enough. For now, it had to be enough.

—

The River House was quiet when Azriel led you inside. He had barely spoken since you both left the clearing, as if afraid that if he broke the silence, you would disappear again. But his hand never left yours. He held on like he was grounding himself in the reality that you were here, real and warm beside him.

Rhys and Feyre had been in the sitting room when you arrived, their eyes widening at the sight of your form. Feyre had reached out, a silent question in her expression, but Rhys had just given a knowing nod and waved them along. They would talk later. For now, Azriel just needed to take you home.

When you finally reached your old house, the sight of it stole your breath. It was exactly as you had left it. You had thought, maybe, that he wouldn’t want to stay here anymore. That it would be too painful. But he hadn’t let it go. The flowers in the window boxes were still alive, the wards still strong. It was lived in, barely, but lived in all the same.

Azriel opened the door, stepping inside first. You followed hesitantly, your heart hammering as you took in the space that had once been yours. It smelled like him. Like shadows and cedar and something distinctly Azriel.

He turned to you, expression unreadable. “It’s yours if you still want it.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “It's ours.”

His eyes shined, something flickering there, but he only nodded and led you inside.

You settled in the living room. Azriel sat on the couch first, tension coiled tight in his body. You hesitated for only a moment before curling up beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. The breath he let out was shaky, but his arm came around you, pulling you closer. And for a moment, you just sat there.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Tell me about it.”

You hummed softly. “About what?”

His fingers traced small patterns on your arm. “Everything.”

So you did. You told him about the places you had seen, the towns and cities and forests you had wandered through, places you studied so many times but never felt the necessity to see. About the mountains that had taken your breath away, the vast oceans that stretched endlessly before you.

“But,” you admitted after a pause, “even in the big things, I didn’t exactly find pleasure in them.”

Azriel tensed. “Then what did you find?”

You smiled softly, thinking of all the quiet moments you had collected. “The best part was the journey. The calm days. Picnics in wildflower fields. Reading books by a quiet river. Sitting under the stars and just… breathing.”

Azriel listened intently, hanging on to every word like they were precious. “You found peace in the small things.”

You nodded. “And in something else.” He waited. He always would. You exhaled shakily, tilting your head to look up at him. “I never really knew what home was. But I think… I think my home was always wherever you were.”

Azriel’s throat bobbed, his fingers tightening around yours. For the first time since you had returned, his walls cracked, his shadows retreating as he let you see him. The pain of your absence. The relief of your return. The love he had never stopped carrying.

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You left to find yourself. And you still found your way back to me.”

You smiled, reaching up to brush his cheek. “I think I always would.”

Azriel closed his eyes for a moment, like he was drinking in the words. When he opened them, his golden gaze burned into yours.

“Tell me about it,” he murmured.

And you told him about the way you had thought of him every single day. About how, even when you were alone in a city where no one knew your name, you had never truly been alone, because the bond had been there, whispering, calling. You had bathed in the feeling of longing for him, let it settle deep in your bones, and realized that it was love. That it had always been love. Azriel listened in silence, his fingers tracing slow circles on your back, grounding himself in your presence.

Then, you turned the question on him. “What about you?” you asked softly.

Azriel hesitated, his jaw tightening. “I stayed at the River House,” he admitted. “Rhys wanted to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid.”

Your heart ached at the thought. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “I trained. I worked. I did everything I could to stop myself from searching for you.” He let out a breath. “And I failed. My shadows searched every night. I just… I needed to know you were alive.”

Your fingers caressed him. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Azriel turned fully to face you, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. “You needed to go.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch. “But I needed to come back, too.”

His lips parted, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Are you staying home?”

It was the second time he had asked you that tonight. And this time, you had no doubts.

You smiled. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

Azriel’s breath hitched. And then he was kissing you. It was soft at first, tentative, as if he was afraid you might disappear again. But when you melted into him, when your hands tangled in his hair, he deepened it, poured two years of longing into the kiss.

You had spent so long trying to find what you were made for. And maybe you still didn’t know. But you knew this. You knew him. And that was enough.

—

The days blended into something soft, something real. You had always thought love had to be grand, had to be overwhelming to be true. But you were learning that love was in the quiet moments. In the warmth of a shared morning, in the soft hum of conversation, in the way Azriel reached for you absentmindedly, as if making sure you were still there.

Your house — your home — had begun to feel like one again.

—

“You’re terrible at this,” Azriel muttered, watching your struggle to chop vegetables evenly.

You scowled at him. “I was traveling for two years, Az, not training under a master chef.”

He smirked, stepping behind you and reaching around to guide your hands. His chest was solid against your back, his breath warm against your ear. “Like this,” he murmured, his hands covering yours as he helped your slice.

You swallowed, your fingers tightening around the knife. “Are you actually trying to teach me, or are you just enjoying this?”

Azriel’s chuckle was low. “Can’t it be both?”

Your cheeks warmed, but you didn’t pull away.

You cooked together most nights, finding comfort in the simple act of creating something. Some meals were disasters — like when you burned an entire tray of bread because you got distracted — but others were quiet successes.

It wasn’t about the food. It was about the time spent together, the way you fit into a rhythm neither had to think too hard about.

—

Azriel had told you the house was still yours, but you wanted to make it about the two of you again. You repainted walls, shifted furniture, filled empty spaces with small touches that made the house feel alive.

“Are you sure about this color?” Azriel asked, skeptical as he stared at the deep blue paint you had chosen for the study.

“Yes,” you said firmly, dipping your brush in the paint and dabbing a streak of blue onto his nose.

Azriel blinked, unmoving for a long moment. Then, slow as a predator, he dipped his fingers into the can and dragged a stripe of blue down your cheek.

Your eyes widened. “Azriel.”

He only smirked. “What? It suits you.”

The complete war that followed left you both covered in paint, breathless with laughter. But the room turned out perfect anyway.

—

The biggest change was the spare room. You had mentioned, once, that reading had been your solace during your time away. You hadn’t realized Azriel had listened so intently until he suggested turning the empty room into a library. The moment the last youlf was filled, you sighed in contentment, running your fingers along the spines of the books.

Azriel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Happy?”

You turned to him, beaming. “Very.”

His expression softened. “Good.”

You walked over, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face into his chest. “Thank you.”

Azriel kissed the top of your head, his hands tracing slow circles on your back. “You don’t have to thank me, love.”

You tilted your head up. “I do. You’ve given me a home.”

Azriel’s gaze glowed with something deep, something endless. “You were always my home.”

Your throat tightened, and you kissed him before you could cry.

—

Azriel knew he couldn’t just stop working for Rhysand, he was the Spymaster of the Night Court. But he also knew he couldn’t let work keep him from the life he was rebuilding with you. Couldn't let work keep him away from noticing the small things in you he had let pass years ago.

So, one evening, he found himself in Rhys’s study. “I need to lighten my workload,” he said bluntly.

Rhys blinked, setting down his glass of wine. “That’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear from you.”

Azriel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I lost her once. I don't want to lose her again.”

Understanding flickered in Rhys’s violet eyes. “You won’t.”

Azriel looked away. “She’s still figuring herself out. I want to be here for that.”

Rhys studied him for a long moment before nodding. “We’ll make it work.”

Relief flooded Azriel’s chest.

Rhys smirked. “And here I thought you’d never take a damn break.”

Azriel huffed a quiet laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”

—

Life didn’t suddenly become perfect. There were still days where you struggled, where you felt like you were still learning how to exist. But you were healing. And you weren't alone. Azriel was there through it all, the small joys, the frustrating days, the laughter and the quiet moments in between. You had spent so much time lost. Now, you are finding your way back. Together.

—

To My Dearest,

I don’t know when you will read this. Maybe when you are young, curious, searching through drawers for secrets. Maybe when you are older, when the weight of the world feels a little too heavy. Maybe never at all.

But just in case — just in case you ever feel the way I once did, the way I spent most of my life feeling — I want you to know this: You can talk to me.

There is nothing shameful in feeling lost. In feeling like life moves around you, like you are watching it all from behind a glass. Like you are there but not present. I know that feeling well, my love. And I know how dangerous silence can be.

For so long, I thought I had to bear it alone. That it was something only I could fix. But I was wrong. I don’t know who decided that we should face our darkness alone, but they were wrong. We are not meant to heal in solitude. We have a family. And family is love.

I want you to learn that — truly learn that. Love is not something that has to be earned. Love isn't something you need to figure out. It is not something that disappears just because you don’t feel full all the time. You are loved because you exist. You are loved because you are you.

And if, one day, you wake up and feel that emptiness creeping in, know that I will be here. That you don’t have to pretend. That you don’t have to carry it alone.

I spent years trying to find what I was meant for. And maybe I still don’t have all the answers. Maybe I never will. But I know one thing with certainty. I was meant to love. At least that. And loving you is the easiest thing I have ever done.

Forever,

Your Mother

[barcapix]

Anything for Jan Virgili? Love your workkk<33

✮ Champagne Coast - Jan Virgili

jan virgili x fem!reader

sy: unexpectedly, you run into a group of guys when you lose your ring in the sand, luckily, someone has already retrieved it for you.

a/n: hope this did justice grazie!

warnings: nonoo

summer break finally arrives.

seagulls squawk somewhere below the clouds, the waves crash within the faded background like natures applause, and the flimsy campfire you surprisingly managed to ignite, crackles against the fizz of the ocean.

a game of frisbee had devolved into a clumsy footrace, laughter ringing out as bare feet kicked up the sand. but somewhere between dodging flying tackles and tripping over your two legs, your heart quietly sank.

your hand feels somewhat.. lighter.

“oh no,” you mutter, freezing mid step. “my ring.”

though, it wasn’t just any ring. it had been gifted to you by your late grandmother, the only thing left you had of her in memory.

“did it slip off? one of your friends asks, falling to her knees beside you.

“i don’t know, it was on my hand a second ago.”

you follow, and start combing through the sand, fingers sifting desperately. but the sand is vast, and your panic rises with every passing heartbeat.

just a few feet away, a group of guys are messing around near the volleyball net. loud and carefree.

they are bickering over god knows-what, probably something stupid like, did the ball hit the net rather than the sand.

as your friends scatter over the beach, on a mission to retrieve the jewelled ring, you didn’t even notice how much closer your two groups were drifting, until you hear it.

“go away you jerks. don’t you have something better to attend to? instead of bothering us.”

you rise from your knees, trudging through the thick sand like it’s pulling you back. “what’s going on?”

“these—,” the blonde one of your group jabs a finger to the guys’ chest. “—think we’ve purposely taken hostage of their ‘precious’ ball. apparently, we’re thieves now.”

“hey, hey,” one of them raises both hands with an amused smirk. “i think you’re all overreacting a tiny bit here.”

the same guy subtly tilts his chin to the white ball behind you, half-buried in sand grains.

another boy chimes. “its alright hermano, i got it.”

at the same time, you step backward, allowing your friends to diffuse the heat.

that’s when it happens.

one of the guy’s collide into you, trying to spike the runaway volleyball. you tumble back, brushing solidly against him, almost toppling over.

“whoa, there,” the boy says, steadying your back just in time. “easy chica. you could’ve fell.”

the curly haired guy looks down at you—a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth and his locks messily windswept over his forehead. his sun-bronzed skin is dusted in sand, completely shirtless, which.. really didn’t help.

both of you notice his hand lingering on your back for a little too long and step apart, just slightly flustered.

“uh—were you looking for this?”

his hands rise from his trunks’ pockets, revealing a silver ring bound between his fingers.

your breath caught. the jewel glints in his hand, unmistakably yes—the one you were looking for. relief but also disbelief wash over you.

“my ring. where did you—?”

“you dropped it near the volleyball net,” he chuckles, offering it over. “i thought it was, like, a thorn when i almost stepped on it.”

you took it gently, your fingers brushing his. “ah sorry about that, but thanks. seriously, i was freaking out.”

the guy shrugs, as if it was no big deal.

however, his eyes flick briefly over you—landing on your thin, crocheted cover-up fluttering in the wind. you shiver without meaning to.

“you cold?”

before you could deny, he pulls the hoodie tied around his waist loose. it was sandy and sun-warmed, smelling faintly of saltwater and something vaguely boyish.

citrus maybe?

“i wish i had a better jumper for you,” he ushers a breathy laugh. “it’s not the most cosy but..”

you blink at him, surprised. “wait—are you sure?”

“positive,” he hands it out. “besides, you kind of look like you need it more than i do.”

lazily, you slip it over your head, the sleeves falling past your wrists. what was he on about? it was the softest thing your skin had ever felt.

you fidget at the drawstrings, trying to shake off the sudden flutter in your stomach, pretending not to notice how his eyes were still on you.

the brunette swallows the lump in his throat and rubs the back of his neck, the grin on his face flickering.

“it looks better on you too,” he mumbles, almost too quiet to catch. you grin, “well, thank you.”

the pair of you stand there, caught in a serene moment neither wants to break. that is, until his friends call, impossibly loud.

“i guess that’s my cue,” he sighs with a crooked smile, starting to turn. “by the way,” he gestures to the ring on your hand. “you might wanna tighten the fit for that.”

“i’d hate for you to lose it again.”

and just like that, the boy offers you a distinct nod—the one that men give when they’re trying to seem cooler than they are.

except, he totally is.

you stand there, the wind tossing your damp hair over your eyes, watching him shuffle away with his hands buried in his pockets.

from the distance, his friend group exclaim multiple: “what took you so long?” and other, “we aren’t here to start falling in love with the enemies, hermano!”

jan only laughs, glancing half-hidden over his shoulder with a barely-there smirk—the same one he greeted you with.

jan.

you’ll remember that next time you lose your ring.

🔖🏷️: @n0vazsq @hearzdiarx @paucubarsisimp @diarieeeelils @joaosnovia @httpsdana @universefcb @madamsoulette @mariejuli

[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."

[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.

[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.

[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.”

[mamaqknowu]

Believers ⭑.ᐟ ˚

⤷ 　　 ﹒ 　　 ♡⠀⠀BO SAIDONG X READER 　

Rating : PG

Words : 1K

warnning : no

version : eng / th

Synopsis : A humble spirit master's prayers on Sea God Island reach the heart of the mighty Poseidon, awakening emotions long buried. Drawn to their pure devotion, he defies divine laws to reveal himself, risking the wrath of the gods for a love that defies fate itself.

Waves crashed against the rocky cliffs, their thunderous roar echoing across the vast bay. The ivory sands of Sea God Island shimmered under the moonlight, each grain catching the pale glow of the distant celestial sphere.

The ocean’s surface rippled gently, reflecting starlight like scattered gemstones against a darkened canvas, while the night sky stretched endlessly above, painted with countless stars.

The salty scent of the sea mingled with the earthy fragrance of coastal blooms, their petals unfurling in the cool, whispering breeze. It felt as though the entire island pulsed with an ancient, mysterious energy, as if the sea itself was alive — murmuring secrets known only to its eternal guardian.

You paused before the great stone throne, a towering structure carved with swirling wave patterns, each crest and trough an unending testament to the mysteries of the ocean.

At its peak sat the statue of the mighty Sea God, Poseidon, his powerful hands grasping a golden trident, his stone-carved eyes gazing down with an ageless calm, a silent observer over all who entered this sacred domain.

Despite the serenity, the air around the throne thrummed with the latent power of the deity it represented, a reminder of the awe-inspiring force that governed these waters.

Slowly, you knelt before the altar, heart pounding with a mixture of reverence and devotion.

“Great Sea God... please hear my prayer. Protect those I hold dear from harm and guide them safely through the tides of fate.”

Your voice, though quiet, carried a deep sincerity, each word flowing from your heart as your hands clasped together against your chest.

The cool sea breeze brushed against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine as though the ocean itself whispered back in response, the crashing waves echoing the rhythm of your own heartbeat.

Yet, what you could not know was that each of your heartfelt prayers, whispered into the night, did not simply vanish into the wind or dissolve into the rolling tides.

No — they reached far beyond the physical realm, touching the very heart of the Sea God himself, high within the divine plane.

Poseidon’s eyes slowly opened upon his golden throne in the realm of the gods.

His deep sea-green gaze, sharp and penetrating, looked out over the cloud-streaked sky, yet his thoughts were far from this tranquil scene. Instead, they lingered on the image of you, kneeling humbly before his altar, your voice — filled with faith and unwavering loyalty — resonating within his immortal heart.

For millennia, countless oceanic spirit masters had offered their prayers to him, but none had ever stirred his ancient soul quite like you.

“Again...” he whispered to himself, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. Despite the centuries that separated him from the mortal world.

He found himself anticipating your every visit to his sacred island — counting each step you took within his temple, each whisper of devotion that reached his ears like a gentle tide caressing the shore.

Months passed, and you continued to visit Sea God Island without fail. This time, you brought a single light blue flower — a Tweedia — its delicate, five-petaled bloom as soft as the seafoam that crowned the waves.

You laid the flower carefully at the base of the altar, a gentle smile gracing your lips as you whispered,

“Great Sea God, I have heard of your boundless mercy and unmatched strength... I only wish that one day, I might see you with my own eyes.”

Suddenly, the waters beneath the temple stirred, the ocean itself seeming to respond to your plea. Waves twisted and rose, the sea churning as if reflecting the tumult within its master’s heart.

Then, in a burst of frothing, swirling seawater, a tall, imposing figure emerged from the depths, each step he took sending ripples across the water that trembled beneath his power.

His long, dark teal hair flowed like ocean currents behind him, and his deep, sea-green eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that sent a shock through your very core.

He stepped onto the stone steps leading to his throne, the power of the sea radiating from his every movement, a living embodiment of the ocean’s majesty.

Your eyes widened in shock, your legs nearly giving way beneath you as a sudden, crushing pressure filled the air, like the depths of the sea pressing down upon your mortal frame.

Your heart raced wildly, its frantic beats threatening to burst from your chest.

“A-Are you... the Sea God?” you stammered, barely able to force the words past your trembling lips.

Poseidon gazed down at you, a faint smile curving his lips. “Yes... I am the Sea God. And you, human, are the first mortal to move my heart enough for me to choose to reveal myself.”

You found yourself frozen in place, unable to breathe, your pulse thundering in your ears. His deep, all-seeing eyes regarded you with an intensity that felt like the ocean’s unfathomable depths, drawing you in, threatening to drown you in his gaze.

“Why do you come to my temple again and again?” he asked, his voice as steady and powerful as the tide, yet tinged with a warmth you had never imagined.

“I-I only seek to honor you... to ask for your blessing and the safety of those I cherish,” you replied, your voice trembling, your every nerve alive with the overwhelming pressure of his divine presence.

He smiled then, the slight curve of his lips carrying a hint of satisfaction. “Humans... always driven by such simple desires.”

You felt your cheeks heat, and you averted your eyes, unable to bear the weight of his gaze. Yet even as the ocean’s roar began to fade, the wild turmoil in your heart only grew, a tempest of emotions you could neither name nor control.

Back in the grand halls of the divine realm, Poseidon returned to his throne, seawater still dripping from his long, teal hair. The faint scent of salt clung to him, the cool mist lingering in the air around his imposing figure.

Footsteps echoed through the hall, firm and unyielding. The powerful presence of Shura, the stern god of judgment and war, filled the space. His crimson eyes locked onto Poseidon with a hint of reproach.

“Poseidon,” he intoned, his voice cold as a blade. “You dare break the laws of the divine realm by reaching out to a mere mortal?”

Poseidon merely smiled, his sea-green gaze calm yet piercing. “I simply extended my divine consciousness, Shura. I did not interfere with the mortal’s fate, nor did I alter the course of their destiny. Unless you have proof that I have done otherwise, I see no fault in my actions.”

Shura’s jaw tightened, but no retort came. The divine judge met Poseidon’s calm, unyielding stare for a moment longer before turning sharply, his dark cloak swirling around him as he vanished into the mist of the divine halls.

“Foolish as ever,” Poseidon whispered to himself, the faintest hint of a chuckle escaping his lips.

“A god who has never loved can never understand.”

[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.

[eridanidreams]

WIP Wednesday

tagging: @bearlytolerant, @silurisanguine, @aro-pancake, @fangbangerghoul, @atonalginger, @aislingdmdt, @fshenkoescape, @ninjaofnaps, @lisa-and-shadow, @a-cosmic-elf, @thatsgoodsquishy0, @hockeydemon42, @fomagranfalloon, @violenceandviolets, @therealgchu, @staticpallour, @artemis-crimson, @genesisarclite and @constellation2330

I am currently writing four chapters and a one-shot in parallel right now for stars through my fingers like grains of sand. It makes it a little difficult to decide what to share... but here's something sweet from the WIP Chapter 29...

"We're here for a couple days," Sam reminded Cora, "so you can have a good long visit with your grandfather."

"And Sinclair's?" Cora's eyes sparkled with happiness. Sam was glad to see that she'd recovered from last night's bad mood. They still needed to have a talk, but there wasn't any reason she couldn't enjoy her day first while the adults did what they needed to do.

"Oh, god," he groaned—he didn't really mean it, but it was the game. "How much is this going to hurt?"

"It's not, silly," Cora chortled. "Cait pays me in books, remember? There's still credit from the last time she topped it up."

"Right," he agreed. "Your 'novel compensation'." Cora giggled at the pun. "Then, yes, Sinclair's too." She didn't quite vibrate through the deck, but it was a near thing. "All right, sweet pea, you know the drill. Straight to the manor."

"Yes, Dad, I know," she groaned, in the put-upon tones of every teen ever oppressed by a parent in the history of mankind.

"All right. Off with you." He waved her on; she darted out the open hatch, waved at the nearby ship tech, and quickly disappeared through the gate. His eyes lingered on her; when had his little girl turned into this gangly almost-teen? Oh, his babygirl was still there in the roundness of Cora's cheeks, the sweetness of her smile, but he could see the edges of impending adulthood starting to peek out. He remembered his own teen years: he had swung wildly between anger and grief and sullen resentment. They had been a lot of skipped school, parental arguments, bad skin and wretched fashion choices, and he wished he could spare his Cora that.

At least he could try to be a better dad than his own had been…

"Credit for your thoughts," Cait's soft voice jarred him from his musing.

Sam gave her a half-hearted smile. "Why pay for 'em when you can have them free? Just… Cora growing up." He pulled his jacket on. "Too fast for me. Not fast enough, she thinks." He let out a sigh. "What's that Vlad says about time dancing forward? Kinda wish it would slow down the steps for awhile."

"The moving finger writes," Cait sounded like she was quoting something again. "And having writ, moves on / nor all thy piety nor wit / can lure it back to cancel half a line / nor all thy tears wash out a word of it."

He thought about it. "Huh. Pretty. What's it from?" He wasn't bad at Old Earth quotes—he could usually top Barrett, anyway—but Cait was in a league all her own.

"The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám," she replied. "From a nineteenth-century translation—a very loose translation—of an eleventh-century Persian poet who probably didn't write most of the verses attributed to his name."

"How many books have you read?" Sam asked curiously as they headed out the hatch. "'Cause I've never seen anyone as much of a fiend for the written word as you."

"I…" she tilted her head in thought. "I've lost count." A faint amusement leaked into her voice. "I think we can safely say 'lots' and leave it there."

"You remember all of 'em?" Wasn't often Cait said that much about herself—even to him—and though he understood her reticence, he couldn't help being greedy for more.

"Stars, no," she replied. "I'd hardly have room to think if I did. Most things stick around for a short while, but if they aren't important to me, I can generally forget them." After a moment, she added, "Books were—for a long time, they were—" She paused, giving him a sidewise look like she was considering what to say, before concluding, "—my only friends."

Without looking, Sam stretched his arm toward her; his fingertips caught hers, and he gently tugged her hand until he could lace their fingers together. "Those days are over, Cait," he said firmly, swinging her arm in emphasis. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shy smile flit across her face. "Over and done with."

[a-bit-of-writing]

20/30 - Patient

Fandom: House of the Dragon

Character: Rhaenyra Targaryen

Words: 1,049

Summary: They mistook her silence for shattered spirit never realizing it was only the hush before dragons descended.

30 days of fanfiction challenge

Note: This takes place a couple of nights after Lucerys's death

The torches spat and guttered, lending the war-room a restless glow, but Rhaenyra did not so much as blink. She sat in the high-backed oaken chair at the head of the Painted Table, hands folded neatly in her lap, as statuesque as a carving in black marble. Except for the faint rise and fall of her breathing, she might have been a death‐mask laid upon a living woman.

Across the grain-dark map her father had loved, the tide-lines of Westeros shimmered crimson where the firelight touched fresh pools of molten wax. Each blob marked a keep sworn to her cause. Between them, pale rivulets of candle-fat crawled like veins, reminding her that kingdoms bled slowly but inevitably.

Patience, she told herself. Patience is not surrender. Patience is the arrow drawn back before the kill.

Her knuckles whitened anyway.

A soft rustle of skirts. Baela, solemn as ever, approached with a covered tray that smelled faintly of stewed crab and ginger. “My queen, you have not eaten since the Black Council convened.”

Rhaenyra kept her gaze fixed on the table. “I will.” The words came out even, sanded smooth by sheer will, but both women knew them for a lie.

Baela set the tray down, lingering. Candlelight caught the silver in the girl’s hair, eyes wide with concern that bordered on fear. Dragonstone’s halls had begun to echo at night - half from the wind off the Narrow Sea, half from whispers of what Lucerys’s death would unleash.

“Mother…” Baela rarely used the title; tonight it trembled between deference and pleading. “Your grief is a wound we all share, but wounds fester when starved.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers twitched. She almost reached for her daughter’s hand - almost. Instead, she closed them tighter in her lap, feeling the crescent moons of her nails bite skin.

“Tell the kitchens I will eat at dawn,” she said. “And see that the ravens are readied.”

Baela bowed, masking the hurt in her eyes, and withdrew.

Silence settled, thick and mineral. From somewhere deep below, the guttural rumble of a dragon turning in its pit rolled up the stone, vibrating in Rhaenyra’s ribs. Syrax mourned as she did - quiet, bereft, but smouldering.

I will not be cinder, Rhaenyra thought. I will be the flame that chooses where to burn.

She rose, the motion slow enough to disguise the stiffness in her joints. Sleepless nights stole color from her cheeks, but they could not dull the polished steel of her posture. The queen crossed to the narrow window-slit overlooking Blackwater Bay. The sea glimmered with a shard-thin moon; tidepools of starlight quivered on obsidian waves. Somewhere beyond that horizon, the men who called her usurper slept with full bellies and quiet consciences.

Let them dream, she thought. Dreams make sweeter tinder.

A shuffle behind her. This time, it was Maester Gerardys, parchment scrolls clutched to his chest. He cleared his throat. “Your Grace, word from the Stepstones. Prince Daemon’s fleet is two days out-”

“Let him land,” Rhaenyra said without turning. “He will wish to see the sky his banners now fly in.”

Gerardys hesitated. “The prince sent assurances of vengeance, but he counsels haste. He says blood answers only to blood.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth curved - not a smile, but a thin crescent of something colder. “And I counsel that the brightest fires are those tended, not flung raw upon the hearth.” She turned, eyes hard as smoked glass. “Tell him that.”

The maester bowed, relieved to retreat. The door closed, leaving Rhaenyra alone with the weight of her crown or rather, with its absence. The circlet of black steel and rubies lay on the table beside a sealed raven-letter addressed to Cregan Stark. She regarded both objects: one symbol, one blade-point disguised as ink.

She thought of Luke. Of the salt-sprayed laugh he gave when he managed a tight bank on Arrax; of the way his curls stuck to his brow after sparring; of how he once asked if storms were dragons arguing with the sea. 

Grief roared inside her, a beast with talons. But Rhaenyra had learned, across a lifetime of courtly pits, that to bare your throat was to invite the strike. So she fed the beast iron instead of tears, locking sorrow behind her ribs until it glowed white-hot and disciplined.

She slipped on the crown. Its weight aligned her spine, anchored every fractured shard of herself. In the warped reflection of a polished shield, she thought she saw Visenya - cold, unstoppable - but the eyes staring back were warmer, wetter, and human. Hers.

The door opened again, timidly. It was Joffrey, cheeks blotched from crying he’d pretended not to do. “Mother?” His voice cracked. “Is it true we’ll send ravens north and south?”

“Yes.” She knelt so their heights met, fingertips brushing his shoulder. “Some blades are drawn in fire, my love, others in silence. We will wield both.”

Joffrey sniffed, fierce in miniature. “Luke hated the cold. Promise Winterfell will be kind to him.”

“I promise,” she whispered, tasting salt at last, but she blinked it back. “Now sleep. Tomorrow we write a colder history.”

When he left, she straightened, shoulders squared against the tremor of almost-tears. She reached for the sealed letter, tracing the wax dragon coiled round its stamp.

Patience is my mercy, she thought as she carried the letter to the brazier. What comes after will be justice.

The flames licked the wax until it bled red down folded vellum. She turned, and with the brazier behind her, her shadow stretched long across the Painted Table - swallowing kings, castles, coastlines. A cautionary eclipse.

Outside, the night tide pulled back from Dragonstone’s black shore, baring rocks slick and glistening like dragon-scales. The wind rose at last, rattling the window-slit. Far below, Syrax answered with a low, molten bellow.

Soon, Rhaenyra promised her. Soon the sky would crack open with wings and fire, and the Greens would learn that a queen’s patience was not passivity - it was the pressure of the sea before a tidal wave.

She placed the letter among others bound for Storm’s End, Winterfell, the Eyrie. Each a silent oath forged in loss. When dawn bled pale over the horizon, ravens would leap into mist carrying her stillness north, south, east, west.

And when they returned, they would bring her war.